Gospel Story Finder

My brother gave me his old cell phone. It was red and shiny. A few days later my mom said that my sister who was going to college had just called. She had forgotten to take her cell phone out of her pocket and ran it through the wash. It wasn’t working, and she couldn’t afford a new one. I wrapped up my cell phone and we went to see her. I will never forget her face when she opened it. I know Heavenly Father was happy with me because of the good feeling I had inside.

As the only Latter-day Saint student at my high school in Anglesey, North Wales, I knew that my peers found my religion a bit strange. But as time went by, most of them seemed to accept me and my religion.
By the time I was in my last couple of years at school, I noticed that some of my peers not only accepted but respected my lifestyle. This became even more evident during my advanced English classes.
Much of the literature we studied fueled discussions about religious and moral issues. One of the last books we read was Paradise Lost. It was my first exposure to John Milton’s work, and I was amazed by his insights. I was twice amazed, however, by the doubts and lack of scriptural knowledge my classmates showed. Often I found that I was the only student willing to venture an opinion in class. I bore testimony of the reality of the premortal existence, of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, and of Their divine roles in our lives.
Our teacher, Mr. Brown, was rather a cynic, and he rarely let me have the last word. But I had no way of knowing how my ideas were being taken by the rest of the class, whose silence left me feeling a little lonely in my convictions.
Then one day Mr. Brown walked into our classroom wearing a glower that signaled he was having a bad day. He asked us to turn to Milton and opened the discussion with a question on yet another moral issue. I slowly raised my hand. Mr. Brown looked up, rolled his eyes, then sneered, “And what does our goody-goody Mormon girl have to say this time?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I couldn’t believe it. I felt tears coming as I lowered my head, bit my lip hard, and tried to gain some control over my emotions.
Suddenly all around me I heard chairs being scooted back and angry voices. I looked up. Several of the students were on their feet.
“Hey, you take that back,” yelled Andrew.
“That was unfair,” echoed David.
“You have no right to say that to her,” came another cry.
I started to tremble. I looked up at a couple of my classmates. Andrew leaned over and gave my shoulder a thump. I smiled gratefully, then turned to Mr. Brown. His face was alternating between beet red and sheet white. He raised his hand to try to bring order back to the room and said, “All right! All right! That’s enough!”
Gradually everyone sat down, and Mr. Brown turned to me. “Siân, my comment was out of line. I apologize.” My hands were shaking, but my heart sang with gratitude for my loyal classmates. Quietly I accepted his apology. The lesson continued, but I made no more comments that day.
As we exited the classroom, Mr. Brown pulled me aside and apologized once more. “I don’t know what came over me,” he said, “but I do want you to continue to comment in class. I think we’ve all learned a lot from you. Many of us wish we had the peace of mind you have.” He sounded unhappy, and my heart went out to him.
“If you really want to know what I know,” I suggested, “I’ll bring you a Book of Mormon tomorrow.”
Mr. Brown groaned. “Oh, brother. I guess I asked for that, didn’t I?”
“You most certainly did,” I agreed with a smile.

I would like to share an incident which took place during the Vietnam War. There were some who were convinced that the United States was engaged in a noble and justifiable war. However, public opinion was changing, and there was opposition which argued that the U.S. should pull out of Vietnam.
President Harold B. Lee was the President of the Church at the time. While at an area conference in another country he was interviewed by reporters from the international news services. One reporter asked President Lee, “What is your church’s position on the Vietnam War?” Some recognized the question as a trap—one which could not be answered without a very real risk of being misunderstood or misinterpreted. If the prophet answered, “We are against the war,” the international media could state, “How strange—a religious leader who is against the position of the country he is obliged to sustain in his own church’s Articles of Faith.” On the other hand, if President Lee answered, “We are in favor of the war,” the media could question, “How strange—a religious leader in favor of war?” Either way, the answer could result in serious problems regarding public opinion both inside and outside the Church.
President Lee, with great inspiration and wisdom, answered as would a man who knows the Savior: “We, together with the whole Christian world, abhor war. But the Savior said, ‘In me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation’” (John 16:33). President Lee then explained, “The Savior was not talking about the peace that can be achieved between nations, by military force or by negotiation in the halls of parliaments. Rather, he was speaking of the peace we can each have in our own lives when we live the commandments and come unto Christ with broken hearts and contrite spirits” (see Ensign, Nov. 1982, p. 70).

I raced down the highway, keeping pace with the cars surrounding me. I was on my way back from watching a high school basketball tournament, and my heart still thumped from the excitement of the games.
Because of the tournament, the traffic was heavy and full of erratic teenage drivers. To my right, a car full of teenage boys sped past me trying to find space ahead of me in my lane. I put on a burst of speed, leaving no room for my opponent to slide in ahead of me.
This tactic made the boys in the car mad, and they yelled at me through the window.
I pretended to ignore them, but secretly I enjoyed goading them. I slowed down just long enough to let them almost get ahead of me, but then I sped up at the last moment to keep them from changing lanes.
As we jockeyed back and forth, pride overcame us as the battle continued. We drove aggressively only to try to upset each other.
Finally the driver of the other car darted into a small space ahead of me, cutting me off. This time it was my turn to be infuriated. I laid on the car horn for a solid 10 seconds and sped up to the point of nearly rear-ending the car.
But my honking and tailgating didn’t have a calming effect on me. My anger had built to the point where I would do anything to get back at them. I looked around in my car for something to throw out my window at the other car. I found a small green rubber ball in my cup holder. It would be the perfect thing to throw at them.
I rolled my window down, again speeding up until my bumper was close to the other car. I hurled the ball with all my might, but because I had only an elementary knowledge of kinetic motion, I didn’t understand that the ball would not have enough force to catch up to the car in front of me.
Instead the ball hit the asphalt of the road in front of me and bounced up, smacking right into my windshield. I jumped back in fright. As I regained control of my car I noticed a small chip in the windshield where the ball had hit so violently.
I pulled over to the side of the road and inspected the window. Other than the chip, everything was all right. I was not hurt, and the chip was small enough that there was no danger my windshield would crack. But I felt foolish and ashamed at what I had done. Why had I been so angry? I was the one at fault. I had put myself and others in danger just to get even with someone I had goaded into cutting me off. What was I thinking?
My anger didn’t do anything to the kids in front of me. Instead it bounced back and hit me square in the face—or windshield, in this case. In that moment I decided to try and let a cool, calm temperament rule my actions, not a hot and angry one.
Since then, I have had opportunities to have the windshield fixed. I declined each time, however, deciding to keep the chip as a reminder that being angry won’t solve my problems. Anger only bounces back.

Summers in San Antonio, Texas, can get hot, very hot. But this particular Saturday in July, the temperature was record breaking, well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. And best of all—yes, best of all—most of the teens in the San Antonio Texas Stake were lost.
They had forgotten themselves, their own aches and pains, their own problems and worries, and even the heat. They were lost in service to a group of children they would never meet face to face. They were refurbishing the play areas, grounds, and buildings of Providence House, a day-care facility devoted to children with life-threatening illnesses. Because of the children’s illnesses, the group would not be allowed to meet those who would benefit directly from their work.
For these teens, their youth conference was devoted to service, the true kind of service that is given with no thought of reward, even the reward that comes from seeing the smiling faces of children. They had chosen to dress modestly, even though temperatures had virtually never been higher. They chose to work outside or inside until every job was finished. And they chose to work with an attitude that they hoped would please their Heavenly Father.
The adult leaders took every precaution. They made sure teens had plenty to drink and were taking rest breaks in the shade or inside in the air conditioning. They even broke out a shaved-ice machine to serve plenty of cooling, flavored ice. They had also worked carefully with the director of Providence House in identifying exactly what needed to be done so the correct materials and tools were on hand.
Carol Bova-Rice, the executive director of Providence Home and Family Services, said, “I cannot find the words to express our appreciation. Other groups have offered to help, but they didn’t want to do big things. With this group, we planned what really needed to be done in advance, no matter how big. It’s wonderful.”
Taking their theme from the scriptures, the stake youth council agreed on the title “Mission Possible.” They liked the idea that individually they could not accomplish much but “with God all things are possible” (Matt. 19:26). They were particularly excited about combining the usual youth conference dances and barbecues with an outstanding service project. They wanted something substantial so the teens could really pull together to accomplish something big, something that would be memorable, and something that would teach a great lesson of Christlike service.
Hannah Clark, one of the teen co-chairs of the youth conference, explained, “There are some people that need our help. That’s where we need to come in and be like Christ. We need to serve. That is the pure love of Christ. It’s charity. That is the way to do it, by serving, even if we can’t see them and even if we don’t even know who they are. We are becoming more the way that we should be when we do those things.”
“We’ll have to visualize the children coming in,” said Chris Weirich, another youth co-chair, “and seeing the new things in a room, the new murals, all the new materials, the repainted play equipment, the new grow boxes; you just have to visualize it. You won’t see them, but you can still feel their excitement.”
On youth conference Saturday, Providence House was bustling. Everyone was assigned a group, and each group was assigned a job. Because of the red T-shirts issued for youth conference, the scene was literally a sea of moving, shifting colors. Everyone had a cleaning rag, a paintbrush, a broom, a vacuum, a hammer, or a rake in hand. Every spot that needed cleaning was cleaned. Everything that needed a new coat of paint was painted. Every weed was pulled. Every toy was sterilized. Every shelf in the storage closets was stacked with donated food or supplies. The San Antonio Stake youth had indeed taken on the big things.
Even as hot and tired as they were, by early afternoon nearly everything had been finished. The group returned to the stake center for a testimony meeting. One after another, they spoke about the things close to their hearts, about giving service without complaint, about how positive they were about the truthfulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Sandra Clark summed up how she felt, saying, “I’ve never been so sore and so happy with everything that’s going on around me. So many things were done with the right spirit this weekend.”
There were some nice, unexpected moments. Brant Ellsworth mentioned one. “When we first got there, we were digging the holes for the grow boxes. Some girls were weeding along the fence, and they started singing. It was so beautiful. They were doing a hard job and singing as they were doing it. It made me think of the pioneers. They didn’t know how their actions would affect other people. They didn’t see us or know how much we appreciate the things they did for us. I felt that same spirit while we were working.”
Two girls, working in the building that houses the nursery and the offices, paused to look at some small metal stars engraved with first names and attached to the wall.
“What are these for?” they asked.
These represent the children at the center who have died from their illnesses, they were told. Suddenly, all the work and effort in such extreme conditions seemed like such a small thing. They had found those that the scripture speaks of when it says, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25:40).
While planning things that needed to be done at Providence House, several items on the list became good ideas for one person to take on as a Laurel project or as part of an Eagle Scout project.
Steven Ellsworth took on the canned-food drive. Checking with the center about its specific needs, Steven set a goal to collect 750 cans. He also created a Web site to keep stake members informed about youth conference and about what specifically was needed for the food drive.
Amy Kreiger accepted the assignment to create school boxes suitable for the children at the center. She organized painting and assembling the boxes and arranging for the school supplies to go inside.
Megan Baillio was excited to take on the redecorating of several rooms used for children who stay overnight. She worked with her mother in learning to sew quilt tops and curtains for the rooms. She organized groups at the youth conference to tie the quilts.
Esther Crandall accepted the assignment to make baby-sized blankets for the center. She worked with her mother to learn to make blankets with decorative edgings.

“We do try to have some fun with it. The other day, Sonny told me to go say hi to a man because he looked like a former member of our branch. When I walked up to him, I discovered that Sonny was teasing me. The man was a stranger. There was this awkward moment, and then I just said, ‘You look like a friend I once knew. He was a member of my church. Have you ever heard of the Mormon Church?’ It turns out he used to be a member. We got into a discussion about faith, and I invited him to church. And then he said, ‘You know, I just got out of the hospital, and here you are, this angel, inviting me back to church.’ If I hadn’t opened my mouth, I wouldn’t have known he’d been in the hospital and needed to reconnect with the Church.”

Take Lem Harsh, chairman of the Venturer Officers Association here at camp. He’s at ease at the microphone and leading a meeting. He makes decisions, gives instructions, teaches, and it looks like it comes naturally. But that’s because he’s been here before. He definitely did not see himself as leadership material his first time at camp.
“I remember coming up and feeling like I had no reason to be here. I wasn’t a leader at all, and I just kind of followed my crew around for a while,” Lem says. “Then I stepped it up because they made you want to be a leader, and they gave you the tools.”
Joe Hiller says he attended the first time mostly because his mom wanted him to. “I don’t think I wanted to see myself as a leader.”
Neal Cook has had some leadership callings, but, he says, “I would look to my adviser and just do what he said. When I came up here and learned what a real leader does, it really opened my eyes.”
So, what does a real leader do?
Andrew Hiller, Joe’s brother, says, “One of the best things you can do as a leader is be the example for others. You may not always know it, but you are being looked to as the example for the group.”
Lem gives an example of example. “You have to make decisions, even if they are not popular decisions—like cleaning assignments. It really helps others to know that you have been willing to do the same thing yourself. The first day here, we were the ones who cleaned the latrines.” When others saw that their leaders were willing to do it, they were more willing to accept the assignment.
One of the most important examples a leader can give is attitude. As Joe points out, “When they see you with a good attitude, then they will have a good attitude.”
Fine. But how do you get a good attitude if, say, your group gets an assignment that sounds anything but fun? Ross says reading the scriptures—especially stories about people like Nephi—helps him have a good attitude. “I think when you trust in the Lord, praying to Him and reading the scriptures, you will have a good attitude because the Spirit will be with you and will be guiding you. And once you have that good attitude, be a good example, and show others it works. You have to decide to have a good attitude.”
One of the coolest things about the young men at this camp is how readily they refer to the scriptures as they talk about leadership. Joe refers to D&C 35:13 and how the Lord uses the “weak things of the world” as His instruments—a reassuring thought for all of us who feel inadequate. And Ross points out D&C 82:18, which says that those who improve on their talents will gain other talents, “even an hundred fold,” all “for the benefit of the church.”
In the end, Lem sums it up. “Whenever I’ve had a question about leadership and what to do, I’ve thought, ‘What would Christ do? How has Christ shown an example of this certain leadership skill?’ And He has. He’s done it, and He’s shown us how best to go about it. Mostly it’s loving each other. If you have any questions, you go to the scriptures, and you find that out.”
In less than a week, the guys at camp learned a lot about leadership and about themselves. Those who thought they knew a lot realized they could still improve. Those who thought they didn’t have what it takes learned they did. Everyone has gifts and talents that can be applied to leadership. And everyone can learn the skills they lack—especially if they are willing to learn from the Spirit and if they are willing to move ahead as Nephi did. The Lord doesn’t call anyone to fail.
Neal Cook: “You don’t have to be some popular stereotype. Just reach inside and be yourself.”
Joe Hiller: “There are different strengths in our group that help the whole group work well together. Same with the crews here. All together we’re a great leadership machine.”
Dave Shepard: “As a leader, you have to be humble. The strengths you have come from God. He has given you those talents to develop.”
Ross Quigley: “God won’t call you to something you can’t handle. He knows you have the capability to do it. But you can’t do it all by yourself. You have to know and use your resources.”
Cameron Swain: “Take an interest in the people you are in charge of. Being a leader is helping them and having them help you. They can teach you as much as you teach them.”

At the end of 2020, I was finding it difficult to feel the spirit of Christmas, so I listened to John Bytheway’s book, Born This Happy Morning1, for ideas. In one chapter, he shares an experience where he purchased tyres for a woman he had just met.
That joy and satisfaction was exactly what was missing in my life. That Christmas, I believed this feeling would help me focus more on my Saviour, so in December, I fasted to become an instrument in Heavenly Father’s hands. I wanted to help someone—spontaneously or unexpectedly—so they would know He cares for them, and also that I might feel the peace and joy of the season. As I tried to explain to Heavenly Father what I was fasting for, I ultimately said the words: “You know, like John Bytheway and the tyres”.
I spent the following days actively looking for opportunities to serve, then, while I was enjoying a night out with a dear friend, she briefly mentioned she needed new tyres!
My jaw dropped and my heart swelled as I heard the Spirit clearly speak to me: “Sarah, here are your tyres and the answer to your fast.”
I maneuvered the conversation back to the tyres and discovered that while my friend and her husband knew their tyres had to be replaced soon, in recent days, they both felt an even more urgent need for new tyres.
I told her about my fast and that I felt that this was Heavenly Father’s answer to my prayers. I then asked if I could pay for their tyres.
My friend went silent for some time, and then she nodded. After several more emotional moments, she explained that she and her husband could not currently afford the tyres they needed, but they still followed the promptings they both had received and organised the new set. It turned out, the exact day that I was fasting for an experience, ‘you know, like John Bytheway and the tyres’, they were fasting for a way to be able to pay for theirs.
I can assure you I was not expecting the answer to my fast to be so literal! But how perfectly timed and miraculously specific was the Lord’s response to each of our prayers.
If this miracle ended here, it would still be a favourite hear-Him moment in my life. However, just two days after this beautiful family got new tyres, my friend called. I was unable to take her call, which I love, because it means I still have her voicemail on my phone explaining that earlier that day, as she was driving with her young children, in torrential rain, a car with no brake lights pulled dangerously into the traffic ahead and she had to slam on the brakes. They safely came to a halt, and she knew immediately that if they still had their old tyres, they would have run right into the car in front. She said it was a miracle and ended the call with, “So, thank you”.

As our family grew in the gospel, the sales management position I held became more and more demanding, often requiring me to be away from home two or three nights a week. I also had found some new friends not of our faith who caused me to start to have doubts about some aspects of Church doctrine.
I enjoyed discussions with these new intellectual friends. They tried to use the scriptures to prove that the Church was not following some basic concepts given as commandments since the time of Adam. I should have borne testimony of the restored gospel and turned away. Instead, I began to listen to them, and my little doubts about doctrine started to grow. Soon I stopped paying tithing and going to the temple. When I stopped attending church, my wife protested, as did our daughters when we ceased holding family home evening.
During this time, two people from the Church never gave up on me. Our home teachers invited me to church every Sunday, sometimes in person and other times by a phone call. They visited our home at least once and sometimes twice each month. They even knew when we needed something. I especially remember the time I ordered a garden shed that was delivered unassembled during my absence. Upon returning home, I found our home teachers had already assembled the shed.
I particularly admired our senior home teacher, Des Gorman, an Irish Canadian. He was a genuine person who truly cared for people. To me he represented the Church, and I felt the Church must be a good organization, even if I wasn’t attending.
Eventually we were blessed with a baby boy. Our home teachers reminded me that it is a priesthood practice to name and bless a baby at fast and testimony meeting. I did not want to participate, though I finally agreed to allow our baby to be blessed by others.
Brother Gorman stood in my place and was the mouthpiece for a beautiful blessing on our son, Ronan. As I listened I received a powerful witness from the Spirit. I had been proud. I had made some big mistakes. I had nearly lost my testimony of the truthfulness of the restored gospel. I still had my family, but I had almost lost the sweet peace the gospel brings. Many tears flowed while my wife, Brother Gorman, and the bishopric supported me as I repented.
From that time on I have been active in the Church. Our home teachers have continued to support me. Our baby boy is now a returned missionary, married in the temple, and raising a family of his own. I feel his life is a tribute to the man who gave him a name and a blessing.

When Mom read Grandma’s letter, my twin brother, Bryce, and I looked at each other and cringed. “How can Grandma take care of a garden?” I asked, reaching for my milk.
“Grandma has always had a garden, Peg,” Mom answered, smiling and pushing the plate of cookies toward us.
“But before, Grandpa was there to do the hard work,” Bryce pointed out. “Since he died, Grandma’s been alone. She shouldn’t be out working in the garden.”
“But Grandma loves having a garden,” Mom said. “I don’t think anybody could talk her out of it.”
“Then we ought to help her,” I said. “Bryce and I could help. We help Dad in the garden all the time. We could do the hard stuff that Grandma shouldn’t do.”
“She lives a long way from us—almost seven hundred miles. We can’t drive there every time she needs help.”
“So what are we going to do?” Bryce asked. “We can’t just let her do it alone.”
Mom thought for a long time. “You can remember her in your prayers. Maybe Heavenly Father will send someone over to help her when she needs it most. That’s probably all we can do right now. We’ll visit her this summer. You can help then.”
“But that will be after most of the hard work.”
Bryce and I couldn’t stop worrying about Grandma. The summer before, we had spent three weeks with her and Grandpa and had worked with him in the garden. We knew how hard it was to hoe weeds, keep the ditches clean, and water every week. The sun had burned down, making the sweat pour down our faces. We didn’t think it was fair for Grandma to have to do all that hard work herself. When we said our prayers, we always remembered her and her garden, but we still felt there was something else we ought to do. We just weren’t sure what it was.
The next Saturday Mom sent us to the store for some milk. On our way home, we passed Sister Rogers working in her yard. She was on her hands and knees, digging in her flower bed. She greeted us with her usual big smile. “Out running errands?”
We nodded. “Isn’t it too hot for you to be out working, Sister Rogers?” Bryce asked.
“It is warm, but someone has to do the work. Since Brother Rogers had his operation, he hasn’t been able to do much. In a month or so, he should be well enough to help some. But right now there’s work to do, and I’m the only one who can do it.”
Bryce and I started home. “I don’t think she’s the only one who can do that work,” Bryce muttered. “Maybe we should help her out.”
A few minutes later we were back at the Rogers’s place. “We came to help,” I announced. “What can we do?”
Sister Rogers was surprised. “I haven’t ever had young people stop by to help out. What would you like to do?”
“Anything you need. You tell us what to do, and we’ll get it done.”
Usually working in a garden or a yard is hard, boring work, but that Saturday Bryce and I had the best time. The sun was hot, and the sweat ran down our faces and into our eyes, and our backs ached after we’d pulled the weeds from the flower beds. I wore a blister on my hand, and Bryce ended up with two when we hoed the vegetable garden. But there was something fun about working with Sister Rogers.
It was late afternoon when we finally quit. She tried to pay us each five dollars. “No way!” I told her. “We didn’t do this for money. Taking money would ruin everything. We just wanted to help you out.”
Before she let us go, though, she fixed a huge pitcher of ice-cold lemonade and put a pile of soft, chewy brownies on a plate for us. We rested and feasted on the goodies.
“This reminds me of working with our grandma,” I told her. “She always gave us a treat after we worked in her garden.”
Sister Rogers laughed—a happy, fun laugh. “Did your Grandma ever feed you brownies?”
“No, but she makes the best molasses cookies I’ve ever tasted,” Bryce said. “After we worked, she gave us all the molasses cookies we could eat.”
“Well, Bryce, if you and your sister come back another time, I’ll have a plate of molasses cookies. I don’t know if they’ll be as good as your grandma’s, but I have some grandkids who think they’re good enough to put into a person’s mouth.”
For the next three weeks Bryce and I stopped by the Rogers’s place often. Sometimes the only thing Sister Rogers had for us to do was carry the trash out to the curb, but we still checked on her. We kept her flower bed and garden weeded, mowed the lawn, and helped trim the shrubs along the front of the house. And we found out that she made molasses cookies almost as good as Grandma’s.
“I don’t know what we would have done without your help this summer,” Brother Rogers said one afternoon as we were getting ready to leave. He had hobbled out into the front yard and sat in a lawn chair. “After my operation, I told Sister Rogers that we ought to just forget the garden and yard this year.” He shook his head and smiled. “She wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Usually we’re not crazy about working in the yard and stuff,” Bryce admitted, shrugging, “but this reminds us of working for our grandma.”
That evening as we were finishing dinner, Mom announced, “A letter came from Grandma today.”
“What did she say?” I asked, excited.
“How’s her garden?” Bryce wanted to know.
Mom smiled. “I think your prayers have been answered.”
“How?” I questioned.
“An LDS family down the street from her knew that she needed help, so they decided to make that a family project. At least once a week they go there and lend her a hand.”
Bryce looked across the table at me and grinned. “Maybe we prayed that family over to Grandma’s garden.”
“You could be right,” Mom said, nodding. “And I think that maybe someone someplace else has been praying for their Grandpa and Grandma Rogers. They probably prayed the two of you over to the Rogers’s garden—and you didn’t even know it.”
“Is that how Heavenly Father works?” I asked.
Mom smiled. “When he has work to do, he may use people like the two of you to do it. Even though you wanted to go help Grandma, you couldn’t go there, so Heavenly Father sent someone closer by. Maybe the Rogers’s grandkids would have loved to help them but couldn’t, so Heavenly Father sent the two of you. Doesn’t it make you feel good to know that you could be his answer to a prayer?”
Bryce and I thought about that. “Well, Peg,” Bryce said with a grin, “we’d better get to bed early tonight so that maybe we can help someone else tomorrow.”

Finally, a covenant leader is one who is familiar with the character of Christ. They study His words, they pray in His name, and they follow Him. They listen to His voice, and they act, and above all they love others. Charity, which is the pure love of Jesus Christ, [15] is one of the greatest powers we can possess as covenant leaders. Recently, our son Jess related his experience with covenant leadership to me. In his words, he said,
One late Friday afternoon, I found myself rushing to the airport in Houston, Texas. I had been delayed in meetings and was running really late and racing to catch the last plane to Arizona before a busy family-filled weekend. I was driving a rental car and knew that I had to make a very quick stop at a gas station on the way in order to return the car filled with gas. I didn’t have time to stop but had to comply with the company policy and refuel the car.
Jess continues:
As I pulled into the gas station, I caught a slight glimpse of a man experiencing homelessness, sitting on the step at the entrance of the convenience store. I immediately dismissed this glimpse and the prompting of the Spirit. I convinced myself that I had to make this last flight and that this was my highest priority. So I filled the tank with gas, but when I pressed print receipt, the printer was not working. I could not believe my misfortune. I raced inside the store, passing this man again, and the prompting came with it. I asked the clerk for a receipt and raced out of the store and caught another glimpse of the gentleman. I caught myself saying in my mind; I can’t, I can’t stop, and I can’t engage with him at this time. I have to make this flight. So I got in my car to go but felt an undeniable prompting, and so to hold true to my covenant promise I had made to myself and God, I slowly walked out of my car and sat down next to this man.
I started by introducing myself and extending my hand, much to his surprise. He looked at me in astonishment. He never took his brown eyes off mine. I asked if he was safe and if there was anything I could do for him, and he told me his story. He had lost his employment, his identity, his source of fatherly pride and turned to drinking. Consequently, his wife left him and told him he was not welcome in their home. He found himself here at the convenience store sleeping under the bushes at night. He sobbed, his eyes never leaving mine. I asked, “Is there anything I can do to help you?” It was then he confided that he felt his life was no longer worth living. He continued, “Last night I resolved to end my life and then I was able to close my eyes but while sleeping, I had a dream. In my dream I found myself in the presence of God. He looked upon me and he knew my heart. And as he came toward me, he held open his arms, and he embraced me and he said; “Carlos, tomorrow I will send you a sign. And by this sign you will know that I love you, that you are my precious child, that your life is worth living and that I will be by your side.” In the dream, Carlos asked; “How will I know the sign when I see it?” And he replied, “I will send you a man with blue eyes and he will sit with you and he will listen to you and when you see him you will know. And then this dear man looked deeply into Jess’s eyes and said, “You are the man with the blue eyes.”
And they cried and they hugged and both felt the presence of the Savior.

A story about a newly married couple in South America has touched my heart. They lived thousands of miles from a temple. Their income was meager, but their faith was great.

They promised the Lord and each other to first pay a full tithe out of their income. Then they would spend modestly for a small apartment without any furniture, not even a chair or table. What was left over, after their food expenses, went into a temple travel fund.

Over a year went by. They kept their tithing promise to the Lord and their objective to go to the temple. The young man’s brother, a nonmember, watched their humble faithfulness. One day, like a ministering angel, he came with two airplane tickets so they could fulfill their dreams and go to their beloved temple.

They went to the temple and were sealed. And another great blessing came to them when their brother was baptized. He gained a testimony from their example and his own sacrifice. His sacrifice for others opened the door of salvation to his soul.

The same wonderful result comes when I pray for it before I give a priesthood blessing to someone who is ill or in a time of need. It happened once in a hospital when impatient doctors urged me—more than urged me—ordered me—to hurry and get out of the way so they could do their work, rather than giving me an opportunity to give the priesthood blessing. I stayed, and I did give the blessing. And that little girl I blessed that day, who the doctors had thought would die, lived. I am grateful at this moment that that day, I didn’t let my own feelings get in the way but felt that the Lord wanted that little girl to have a blessing. And I knew what the blessing was: I blessed her to be healed. And she was.

Roberto frowned. This was only his second time at Primary since he had moved from Chile to America, and already his teacher was telling the class she loved him.
How can she say such a thing? Roberto wondered. She does not even know me. And besides, why should anyone love a chubby boy who doesn’t have nice clothes to wear? Tears threatened to fill his eyes as he thought of the many relatives and friends he had left behind in South America. He had been so lonely since his father had died. He and his mother had come to Utah so that she could learn English and attend Brigham Young University.
“I have made each of you a special valentine,” Sister Porter said, handing each child a shiny foil heart on which she had written “I love you.” Roberto took his but shrugged off the hug his teacher tried to give him. Later, when he got home, he tore up the card and threw it in the garbage.
All that week, Roberto felt very sad. During class, he looked out the window and daydreamed about moving back to Chile. He was never going to fit in here.
On Thursday afternoon, Roberto walked home from school. He forgot all about locking the door behind him when he saw a note from his mother taped to the refrigerator: “I’m taking a test. I’ll be back at 5:30. Read the Friends Sister Porter dropped off for you.”
After fixing himself a snack, Roberto began to leaf through the magazines.
First he looked at the pictures. Then he started to read a few stories. After a while he noticed that the sad and lonely feelings were starting to go away.
Then he remembered the unkind things some children had said on the school bus that morning when they thought that he couldn’t hear. One of the children had been in his Primary class! Hurt and anger began to build up inside him again until he looked down at the magazine in his hands. There was a picture of the Savior with little children all around Him. Roberto was surprised to find tears of happiness in his eyes. It was almost as if a voice was saying to him, “Jesus loves you, Roberto.”
A feeling of warmth and love surrounded him, and he knew somehow that the Savior truly did know him and love him. He was filled with hope and an overwhelming assurance that in time he would have many friends in his new school and ward.
Roberto thought back to Sunday and how Sister Porter must have felt when he pulled away from her hug. I will make her a valentine, he decided, jumping up and gathering paper and crayons. Then he remembered the new colored markers his mother had bought for her college classes. They were on top of the highest shelf in the kitchen, and he climbed onto the counter to get them.
Stretching as far as he could, he couldn’t quite reach them. He jumped just a little but lost his balance and fell. Twisting awkwardly, he plunged to the floor and heard an ugly cracking noise as he landed on his left arm.
Never had he felt such pain! His arm felt as if it was on fire. He knew that he should telephone his mother, but as soon as he tried to stand, waves of nausea and dizziness washed over him, forcing him back to the floor.
The clock on the wall read ten to four. Swallowing back the tears, Roberto began a silent prayer, asking Heavenly Father to send someone to help. As he worked up his courage to crawl to the phone, a car pulled into the driveway. His mother! Heavenly Father had sent her home early! But then he heard a knock, and after several moments, a familiar voice called his name.
“Help me!” Roberto yelled. “I’m hurt!”
The door opened and Sister Porter looked in. “What happened?” she asked, hurrying to his side.
“My arm—I think I broke it.” Roberto was embarrassed by his tears, but his teacher didn’t say anything about them as she gently helped him up and made him as comfortable as possible on the couch in the living room.
“Where’s your mother?” she asked him then. “Your arm will need to be X-rayed.” After leaving a message at the university for his mother, Sister Porter sat beside him. “I see you’ve been reading the magazines I sent over. Did you find any stories you really liked?”
Roberto felt a little shy, but talking helped keep his mind off the pain. “I read a lot of the stories, but the best part was finding this picture of Jesus with the little children. I have never seen it before.”
Sister Porter studied the picture, and a very peaceful look came to her face. “I think that this is a special picture, too, Roberto. Whenever I look at it, I feel how much love Jesus has for all children.”
Roberto found himself telling his teacher about his feelings on Sunday and all during the week. Then, somewhat sheepishly, he admitted that he had torn up the valentine he had received in class. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I was going to use my mom’s special markers to make you a valentine. They were up high, and when I climbed up to get them, I fell.”
Sister Porter smiled as she gently patted his cheek. “Crayons will do fine.”
Just then Roberto’s mother came in. “Roberto! Oh Roberto!” She knelt beside him, very tenderly feeling the large lump on his arm. “It must be broken. We will go to the hospital right away.” She looked at Sister Porter with worry and pleading in her eyes. “There will be many insurance papers. My English is not very good. …”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” Sister Porter said. “I’ll call my children and have them fix supper. I’ll go with you to the hospital and help you with the papers.”
That evening was a long one. Many people were waiting in the emergency room, and it seemed forever before a nurse called Roberto’s name and he was examined and X-rayed. Never having had a cast before, Roberto felt a bit nervous. But Sister Porter stayed with him the whole time, entertaining him with a story about the time her oldest son had fallen from the backyard swing set and had broken his wrist.
Roberto lay on the examining table after the cast was applied. He was surprised to see that it was almost nine o’clock. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked his teacher. “Doesn’t your family need you?”
“They’ll be fine,” Sister Porter said, producing a granola bar from the depths of her purse. “Feel up to sharing this?”
They ate and talked while they waited for Roberto’s mother. Sister Porter had found a Spanish-speaking nurse to help his mother fill out the insurance forms.
“Do you know why I came to your house this afternoon?” Sister Porter asked.
Roberto shook his head.
“I was on my way home from running errands, and I felt prompted to stop my van. I think you must have been praying for help. Were you?”
“I was! I asked Heavenly Father to send someone. I am very glad He sent you.” Roberto smiled at his teacher.
Sister Porter asked to borrow a red marking pen from one of the nurses passing by.
“What do you need a marker for?” Roberto asked.
Sister Porter winked and uncapped the pen. “In this country, we have a tradition,” she said. “If someone gets a cast, we write nice messages on it. May I be the first to write on yours?”
Roberto nodded, curious and pleased.
Sister Porter drew a large red heart, then wrote I • U in the middle of it. She grinned mischievously. “This one you can’t rip up and throw away!”
“Don’t worry,” Roberto said, his eyes twinkling. “Today I have learned that you really do love me!”

I have a very good friend who sends me a new tie to wear during the session I speak at each general conference. He has excellent taste, don’t you think?
My young friend has some difficult challenges. They limit him in some ways, but in other ways he is extraordinary. For example, his boldness as a missionary rivals the sons of Mosiah. The simplicity of his beliefs makes his convictions incredibly firm and steady. I believe that in Scott’s mind it’s unimaginable that everyone isn’t a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and that everyone hasn’t read the Book of Mormon and doesn’t have a testimony of its truthfulness.
Let me tell you of an event in Scott’s life when he was making his first airplane flight alone to visit his brother. A neighbor who was seated nearby overheard Scott’s conversation with the person next to him:
“Hello, my name is Scott. What is yours?”
His seatmate shared his name.
“What do you do?”
“I am an engineer.”
“That’s nice. Where do you live?”
“In Las Vegas.”
“We have a temple there. Do you know where the Mormon temple is?”
“Yes. It is a beautiful building.”
“Are you a Mormon?”
“No.”
“Well, you should be. It is a great religion. Have you read the Book of Mormon?”
“No.”
“Well, you should. It’s a great book.”
I agree wholeheartedly with Scott—the Book of Mormon is a great book. The words of the Prophet Joseph Smith cited on the introduction page of the Book of Mormon have always resonated with me: “I told the brethren that the Book of Mormon was the most correct of any book on earth, and the keystone of our religion, and a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book.”
This year in our Sunday School classes, we are studying the Book of Mormon. As we prepare and participate, may we be motivated to follow Scott’s bold example to share our love of this special scripture with others not of our faith.
A dominant theme of the Book of Mormon is expressed in the final verse of the first chapter of 1 Nephi. Nephi writes, “But behold, I, Nephi, will show unto you that the tender mercies of the Lord are over all those whom he hath chosen, because of their faith, to make them mighty even unto the power of deliverance” (1 Nephi 1:20).
I wish to speak about how the Book of Mormon, which is a tender mercy of the Lord preserved for these latter days, delivers us by teaching us in a pure and “most correct” way the doctrine of Christ.
Many of the stories of the Book of Mormon are stories of deliverance. Lehi’s departure into the wilderness with his family was about deliverance from the destruction of Jerusalem. The story of the Jaredites is a story of deliverance, as is the story of the Mulekites. Alma the Younger was delivered from sin. Helaman’s stripling warriors were delivered in battle. Nephi and Lehi were delivered from prison. The theme of deliverance is evident throughout the entire Book of Mormon.
There are two stories in the Book of Mormon which are very similar and teach an important lesson. The first is from the book of Mosiah, starting with the 19th chapter. Here we learn of King Limhi living in the land of Nephi. The Lamanites had waged war against the people of Limhi. The result of the war was that the Lamanites would allow King Limhi to rule over his own people, but they would be in bondage to them. It was a very uneasy peace. (See Mosiah 19–20.)
When Limhi’s people had their fill of Lamanite abuses, they convinced their king to go against the Lamanites in battle. Three times Limhi’s people were defeated. Heavy burdens were laid upon them. Finally they humbled themselves and cried mightily unto the Lord that He would deliver them. (See Mosiah 21:1–14.) Verse 15 of chapter 21 tells us of the Lord’s response: “And now the Lord was slow to hear their cry because of their iniquities; nevertheless the Lord did hear their cries, and began to soften the hearts of the Lamanites that they began to ease their burdens; yet the Lord did not see fit to deliver them out of bondage.”
Soon after, Ammon and a small band of men from Zarahemla arrived, and with Gideon—one of the leaders of Limhi’s people—they worked out a plan which was successful, and they escaped from the Lamanite abuses. The Lord was slow to hear their cries. Why? Because of their iniquities.
The second story is similar in many respects but also different. The account is recorded in Mosiah 24.
Alma and his people had settled in the land of Helam, when an army of the Lamanites came into the borders of the land. They met and worked out a peaceful solution. (See Mosiah 23:25–29.) Soon the leaders of the Lamanites began to impose their will on the people of Alma and placed heavy burdens on them to bear (see Mosiah 24:8). In verse 13 we read, “And it came to pass that the voice of the Lord came to them in their afflictions, saying: Lift up your heads and be of good comfort, for I know of the covenant which ye have made unto me; and I will covenant with my people and deliver them out of bondage.”
The people of Alma were delivered from the hands of the Lamanites and safely made their way back to be united with the people of Zarahemla.
What was the difference between the people of Alma and the people of King Limhi? Obviously, there were several differences: the people of Alma were peaceful and more righteous; they had already been baptized and entered into a covenant with the Lord; they humbled themselves before the Lord even before their tribulations started. All these differences made it appropriate and fair that the Lord would deliver them quickly in a miraculous way from the hand which kept them in bondage. These scriptures teach us of the Lord’s power of deliverance.
Prophecies foretelling the life and mission of Jesus Christ promise us the deliverance that He will provide. His Atonement and Resurrection provide all of us an escape from physical death and, if we repent, an escape from spiritual death, bringing with it the blessings of eternal life. The promises of the Atonement and Resurrection, the promises of deliverance from physical and spiritual death, were declared by God to Moses when He said, “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man” (Moses 1:39).
In contrast to the beautifully designed beliefs for us in the holy scriptures, we find the opposing forces of secularism engaged in challenging the long-standing beliefs in the holy writings—writings which have given us guidance through these many centuries in defining the eternal values and standards for our conduct through life. They declare that the teachings in the Bible are false and the teachings of the Master out of date. Their voices cry that each person must have the freedom to set his or her own standards; they attempt to alter the rights of the believers, contrary to that which is taught in the scriptures and in the words of the prophets.
What a blessing it is to have the account of the mission of our Lord and Savior declared in the Book of Mormon to add a second witness to the doctrine declared in the Bible. Why is it important for the world to have both the Bible and the Book of Mormon? I believe the answer is found in the 13th chapter of 1 Nephi. Nephi records: “And the angel spake unto me, saying: These last records, which thou hast seen among the Gentiles [the Book of Mormon], shall establish the truth of the first [the Bible], which are of the twelve apostles of the Lamb, and shall make known the plain and precious things which have been taken away from them; and shall make known to all kindreds, tongues, and people, that the Lamb of God is the Son of the Eternal Father, and the Savior of the world; and that all men must come unto him, or they cannot be saved” (verse 40).
Neither the Bible nor the Book of Mormon in and of itself is sufficient. Both are necessary for us to teach and learn about the full and complete doctrine of Christ. The need for the other does not diminish either one of them. Both the Bible and the Book of Mormon are necessary for our salvation and exaltation. As President Ezra Taft Benson so powerfully taught, “When used together, the Bible and the Book of Mormon confound false doctrines” (“A New Witness for Christ,” Ensign, Nov. 1984, 8).
I want to close by noting two stories—one from the Old Testament, the other from the Book of Mormon—to show how the books work harmoniously together.
The story of Abraham begins with his deliverance from the idol-worshipping Chaldeans (see Genesis 11:27–31; Abraham 2:1–4). He and his wife Sarah were later delivered from their sorrow and promised that through their posterity all the nations of the earth would be blessed (see Genesis 18:18).
The Old Testament contains the account of Abraham taking Lot, his nephew, with him out of Egypt. Given a choice of land, Lot chose the plain of Jordan, and he pitched his tent facing Sodom, a city of great wickedness. (See Genesis 13:1–12.) Most of the problems that Lot later encountered in his life, and there were several, can be traced back to his early decision to position the door of his tent to look upon Sodom.
Abraham, the father of the faithful, experienced life differently. Certainly there were many challenges, but it was to be a blessed life. We do not know which way Abraham’s tent door faced, but there’s a strong hint in the last verse of the 13th chapter of Genesis. It reports, “Then Abram [or Abraham] removed his tent, and came and dwelt in the plain of Mamre, which is in Hebron, and built there an altar unto the Lord” (Genesis 13:18).
While I do not know, I personally believe the door of Abraham’s tent faced the altar he built unto the Lord. How do I draw this conclusion? It is because I know the Book of Mormon story about King Benjamin’s instructions to his people when they gathered to hear his final address. King Benjamin instructed them to position the doors of their tents facing the temple (see Mosiah 2:1–6).
We can be delivered from the ways of evil and wickedness by turning to the teachings of the holy scriptures. The Savior is the Great Deliverer, for He delivers us from death and from sin (see Romans 11:26; 2 Nephi 9:12).
I declare that Jesus is the Christ and that we can draw close to Him by reading the Book of Mormon. The Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ. The first testaments of our Savior are the Old and New Testaments—or the Bible.
Again, let’s remember my friend Scott’s description of the Book of Mormon: “It’s a great book.” I testify to you that much of the Book of Mormon’s greatness stems from its harmony with the Holy Bible, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Father told me the story of Grandfather Durham, who had been inspired to compose a melody called “The Nephite Lamentation.” Thomas Durham had been promised in a patriarchal blessing that he would hear music as it was sung in the heavens. My father related how one night my grandfather had a dream. In it he saw twenty-four men by a stream. They looked very sad. Their leader arose and addressed them. Then he heard a melody played on what sounded like a trumpet. The impression came to him that it was a dream concerning Moroni and the last twenty-four Nephites. He awoke. In the late hours of the night he went to his little organ and played the tune he had heard and wrote it down. Later, a choir in southern Utah sang the tune to the words of “O My Father,” (Hymns no. 139) and it was published in modified form in the Primary songbook.

A few weeks later I was at a lake with my family. Still not knowing how to swim, I waded around in the shallow water. I was there about 10 minutes when I saw one of my friends coming into the lake. I was horrified. “What if Stephanie finds out I can’t swim?” I thought. I’d be so embarrassed. So I quickly dropped to my knees and began to pretend to swim—I walked on my arms while kicking my feet. Stephanie jumped in the water and began swimming for real. This only added to my embarrassment. After a while she came over and talked to me. Then she dived off in another direction, leaving me in the wake caused by her perfect, coordinated strokes. I resumed my fake swimming, feeling foolish.
After a few minutes I decided to stop being so scared and try to swim. I was in shallow water, so I lifted my arms from the ground and started dog paddling. It worked. I floated. It was only for a few seconds, but I floated. I did it again and again throughout the evening. By the time we left, I could dog paddle across the entire lake.

Please forgive the personal nature of this story, but I think it highlights a message that I would like to leave with you. The business I own today was founded by my father, Ted Lansing, some 57 years ago. He died in 1980 from a terrible illness, ALS, better known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease, at the age of 57. I was the only family member involved in the business. At the young age of 30 I was probably not ready to take the helm of the company. The country was in a recession. In those early years, situations would come up that required me to make decisions which could affect the future existence of our frail business. In those years I worked hard to act as my father would have acted, and I spent a great deal of time on my knees, trying to discern his will. In all those decisions, I never once felt his calming influence or any direction one way or another. I would ultimately do what I thought was best and move on. But I confess that I was a little disappointed that I had not been able to get any confirmation of my actions.

One night my father came to me in a dream. It certainly wasn’t a vision or anything like that; he was just in my dreams. When I saw him, I first told him how good he looked and how peaceful and happy he appeared. But then I began to chide him for his insensitivity to me when I had needed him most. My father said he was aware of the situation, but that he was too busy with his responsibilities where he was and that he didn’t have time. This wasn’t the answer I had wanted. I told him that I had been afraid for the business and had really needed his help. His answer to my criticism was what President Hinckley would have called a “soft answer.” He said that where he was, the business was not terribly important and that he had assignments elsewhere. Again I asked him how he could be so insensitive. Finally, he said, “Chris, we really don’t care about the business up here. What we care about very much is what you become because of your business.” What a great lesson for me, one that I hope I never forget.

My sister’s name is Buster.
There’s no need to adjust your glasses or blink your eyes. You read correctly. My sister’s name is Buster. Actually, her name is Anne Marie, but when she was five years old, she announced at dinner one night that she preferred to be called Buster because it was a good boy’s name.
“But you’re a girl!” my mother pointed out.
“That isn’t my fault,” retorted Anne Marie, now Buster.
“I rather like girls,” my father said.
“Sure, you can say that because you’re not a girl!” she pouted. “I want to be tough!”
“We are not calling you Buster and that’s that. Anne Marie is a perfectly lovely name. It was my great-grandmother’s name.” Mother thought the issue was closed.
It wasn’t.
My father gave in first. Frankly, he’s a sucker where daughters are concerned, and if Anne Marie wanted to be called Buster, he would call her Buster.
She wore me down next. She wouldn’t talk to me at all unless forced to: “Go ask Susan if she’s finished with the scissors,” mother would say to her. She would stare at me in the left ear and ask coldly if I had the scissors. I got tired of the snub. The day I began calling her Buster she beamed at me and said, “Thanks, kid.” I just about fell on my face laughing.
Mother was more determined. She thought the name Buster was a travesty. If Buster didn’t answer when mother called “Anne Marie,” mother would make her sit in her room for half an hour and then demand an apology. Buster apologized this way: “I’m sorry I disobeyed.”
“Next time will you come when I call?” mother would ask.
“Will you call me Buster?” Buster was brazen. I have seen my mother shake her fists at the air and in a strangled voice say, “What have I done to deserve this?”
After a long while, mother also succumbed and called her Buster. At first she hissed it to show her disapproval, but later she said it quite naturally as if she herself had chosen the name.
So it was that my mother, who grew up with ballet lessons and felt most at home with chintz draperies and delicate Queen Anne furnishings, had to raise Buster, who sat mostly in trees or on garage rooftops. Mother collected recipes. Buster collected bottlecaps and baseball cards. Mother wanted to own a hundred antique dolls. Buster said it would be nice to have eleventy Tonka trucks like Billy Weinberg.
One of the more unnerving events of the following few years was when Buster, unilaterally, cut off her two pigtails that had grown to her waist. I thought we’d have to give mother mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But mother learned patience and long-suffering and, like Job, waited for the right moment, hoping yet to instill in her daughter Buster some kind of feminine identity, however modest.
The “moment” came when Buster was 13. The bishop asked her to give a five-minute talk in sacrament meeting on one of her ancestors. Buster was disgusted.
“What a can of worms!” she exclaimed after telling my parents about the assignment. They were eating ice cream in the kitchen.
“Who are you going to talk about?” asked my father.
Buster shrugged and rolled her eyes back in her head as only she could do.
“Why don’t you talk about my Great-Grandfather Wheatley? He was a real pioneer and went on three missions for the Church. I don’t like looking at the whites of your eyes, Buster,” he said somewhat irritably.
“Sorry,” she returned laconically and clanked her spoon into her dish. “Everyone in the ward already knows about old Ezra Wheatly. You’ve talked about him before, and besides he’s a …”
Bore is, I believe, what she had in mind there but she evidently thought better of it and after a pause said, “He’s a pioneer. Everybody talks about his old pioneer ancestors. Don’t we have any ancestors who weren’t pioneering it all the time?”
I thought my father was going to roll his eyes back in his head, but he restrained himself.
Tactfully, my mother handed my father a plate of cookies and turning to Buster said, “Why don’t you tell them about your Great-Great-Grandmother Anne Marie McIlhenny. She wasn’t a pioneer.”
“She was a wrestler!” My father lost all cool.
“Was she? Was she really?” Buster was ecstatic.
“Not exactly,” corrected my mother, giving my father a try-not-to-help-me-look. “But she did set up an athletic program for the girls in her town. They competed in track events, arm wrestling,” she eyed my father, “and soccer.”
“Did she live around here?” Buster remained interested.
“No, in Nova Scotia, outside a city called Yarmouth.”
“Was she a professional athlete?”
“No, she taught school.”
Buster’s face fell.
“But she loved sports!” my mother continued anxiously. “She thought girls should be allowed to enjoy and participate in sports as much as boys. Wait a minute and I’ll get the book of remembrance. There’s a picture of her in there and a story of her life written by her daughter.” Mother left the room and returned shortly with a large black volume opened up to the picture of Anne Marie McIlhenny. She was a pretty woman wearing a lace dress.
“She doesn’t look like any athlete there!” complained Buster.
“Oh she was feminine, but she was strong.” My mother made a ridiculous looking fist. “Read her story,” she urged. “She did all kinds of amazing things, yet she remained feminine too!” Mother had to have her nickel’s worth of preaching. Her face reddened with excitement. Here, at last, was the opportunity to teach Buster that one could be feminine and enjoy tree climbing too. Maybe she would even drop the name Buster!
My father winked at me.
“You were named after her, you know,” my mother was saying to Buster. “Of course, we didn’t know you would be so much like her then—when you were a baby, I mean. See, you even look like her. If you had a lace collar like that, you’d look exactly like her!” There was a remarkable resemblance.
Buster was skeptical but took the book of remembrance to her bedroom.
On Saturday morning mother, armed with pen and pencil, went into Buster’s bedroom to help her with her talk. To her surprise, Buster didn’t want help.
“Are you sure?” mother asked.
“Positive,” Buster replied. “I know what I want to say. I can write it myself. Did you know,” she raised her eyebrows, “that Anne Marie McIlhenny finished building a barn with her own two hands after her husband broke both his legs?”
“Yes, I know.”
“She was sensational,” Buster muttered, forgetting mother was there. “Simply sensational.”
“She doesn’t want any help,” mother told father and me in the kitchen, “and she thinks Anne Marie McIlhenny was sensational!” She clapped her hands. “Maybe she’ll want us to call her Anne Marie again. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
My father laughed and shook his head. “Don’t count on it,” he grinned.
Mother went downtown to celebrate Buster’s “growth into womanhood” as she dramatically put it. Her celebration took the form of buying Buster a new dress to wear for her talk. Buster hated dresses, especially new ones.
“Did you know,” Buster began as mother unwrapped the box, “that Anne Marie McIlhenny had her own horse and rode bareback whenever she could? And she loved the wind.”
“I’d forgotten that,” said my mother. “How do you like this dress?” She held it up. It was, every inch, white eyelet. I kid you not.
I thought of Anne Marie McIlhenny in her lace dress.
Buster stared at the dress for what seemed an hour and a half.
“It’s okay,” she said finally.
Mother knew good luck when it clobbered her on the head like that and quickly hung the dress in the closed before Buster changed her mind. She hummed steadily through dinner. She was victorious. Here was Buster giving a talk all by herself and about her own great-great-grandmother and not her usual favorite—Goliath. And she was going to wear white eyelet doing it. Mother was sure that any moment now Buster would demand that we call her Anne Marie!
That evening Buster did not want to rehearse her talk for us. She said she could do it herself. She sat on the garage roof and practiced. I could see her lips moving from the kitchen window.
“Do you think it’s safe to let Buster give a talk without our hearing it first?” my father asked.
“I think she can handle it.” murmured my mother. “After all, she’s Anne Marie McIlhenny’s great-great-granddaughter.”
On Sunday I sat with my parents in sacrament meeting. Buster sat on the stand dressed in white eyelet, as feminine as orange blossoms, and looking for all the world like our great-great-grandmother. I noticed my mother’s foot swing back and forth in nervous rhythm. My father’s face was deadpan, but he swallowed frequently. Finally, the bishop introduced Buster as one of the prettiest Scouts in the ward. My mother winced slightly.
Buster stood behind the pulpit without any notes and in a clear voice began to speak. “I would like to tell you about my great-great-grandmother, Buster McIlhenny!” Then she looked down at my mother’s stricken face and said to her alone, “A lady as strong and fine as Great-Great-Grandmother McIlhenny deserves a good name like Buster, and since she shared her name with me, I want to share my name with her. And one day,” she added softly, “maybe I’ll even be as neat a lady as she was.”

A Church history story illustrates the difference.
A small six-year-old boy wandered away from his handcart company during a storm and was lost. When the storm subsided, Robert and Ann Parker realized their boy was missing and began searching. For two days an organized search was unsuccessful. The decision was made that the company must move on because of the approaching winter.
A pioneer journal records the following:
“Ann Parker pinned a bright [red] shawl about the thin shoulders of her husband and sent him back alone on the trail to search again for their child. If he found him dead he was to wrap him in the shawl; if alive, the shawl would be a flag to signal her. Ann and her children took up their load and struggled on with the company, while Robert retraced the miles of … trail, calling, and searching and praying for his helpless little son.”
One suspects that he did not just casually look behind a few trees or leisurely walk along the trail, but that he vigorously investigated every thicket, every clump of trees and gully or wash.
“At last he reached a … trading station where he learned that his child had been found and cared for by a woodsman and his wife. [The boy] had been ill from exposure and fright. [But] God had heard the prayers of his people.
“Out on the trail each night Ann and her children kept watch and, when, on the third night the rays of the setting sun caught the glimmer of a bright red shawl [above her husband’s head], the brave little mother sank in a pitiful heap in the sand. … [She] slept for the first time in six … days.”