Gospel Story Finder

When Lawrence was 13 we were expecting our seventh child, and again I was concerned for my wife’s well-being. I tried not to alarm my family. However, I had told Lawrence about some of the difficulties connected with his birth, and this affected him greatly.
When I took Merlene to the hospital I told the family I would call them and let them know how their mother was and whether they had a little brother or sister. After Paul was born, I called home and Lawrence answered. I told him the good news and said I would be home in a little while. When I went home I told them all about their new baby brother and that their mother was doing well. That evening as I left the house to go to the hospital, Lawrence handed me a letter to give to his mother. When I arrived, I gave her a kiss, then handed her the letter. Her eyes moistened as she read it; then she handed it to me. It said:
“To my favorite and most loved Mother. Congratulations. When Dad phoned us and told us we had a little brother I just about freaked. After you left to go to the hospital I went in Dad’s den and knelt down to have prayer to ask Heavenly Father to bless you that you would be all right. Well my prayer was answered. After Dad came home he told how just before the baby was born you gritted your teeth and tears flowed down your cheeks but you wouldn’t cry out. I kind of got this unstuckable lump in my throat.
“I’m working on my hiking merit badge.
“Love, Lawrence”

It seemed perfectly normal when Karen Monahan grabbed the hero’s arm. Then, right on cue, he began his solo performance. But instead of singing the words, he was signing them, telling his part of the story through deaf sign language. No one in the audience knew that Karen had squeezed firmly on Scott’s arm to let him know when to begin. No one needed to know. He performed his actions smoothly, as the other actors had throughout the show, without saying a word.
Then the curtains rushed together, but no one on stage spoke. When the curtains opened again, the cast bowed politely. Although the audience thundered its applause, 30 of the 45 performers couldn’t hear it because they are deaf. But they had communicated so effectively with the audience that nearly everyone watching cheered when the awards were announced. The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf had won the Los Angeles California Stake roadshow competition, with awards for best acting, best costumes and set, best script, and of course, outstanding roadshow of the year.
It was the culmination of months of effort that had begun when the stake president, Rodney H. Brady, sent a letter inviting the ward to participate in the annual contest for the first time. Initially, the challenge seemed insurmountable. “I had my doubts about how good it would be,” Wayne Bennett, a counselor in the bishopric said, speaking in Ameslan (American Sign Language, a means of communication employed by many deaf people). “But a few months of practice made of lot of difference. When I saw the roadshow in performance, I said, ‘Hey, that’s no roadshow; that’s a miracle!’”
The audience seemed to agree. Carol Mears, a professional comedy sketch writer, said she was “thrilled. I honestly forgot it was being done by the deaf.” Other performers, sometimes from other ward’s roadshows, sometimes children of ward members, provided voices to narrate the story. They spoke through microphones in the orchestra pit and were unseen by the audience. But their narration helped those who could hear to follow the actions of the deaf actors and actresses on stage.
The show, entitled “Under the Apple Tree,” adhered closely to the stake theme, “Once upon an Apple Tree,” and followed the trials of Red Delicious, an apple tree torn from his home by a tornado. He was soon joined by Yellow Delicious, another uproot in search of a place she could call her own. The two castaways discovered a new orchard presided over by Mother Apple, and finally felt confident to sink their roots into the community. Red Delicious eventually saved his fellow trees from a nefarious attack by bugs and aphids (including two members of the bishopric), and the apple trees lived happily ever after.
One of the highlights of the production was the “ABC Song,” during which the Apple Cuties taught audience members the manual alphabet. Another well-remembered scene found Mother Apple unable to get the attention of Red and Yellow Delicious, so she threw an apple at them and complained, “They must be deaf.” The joke appeared to put the audience at ease as they realized the deaf knew how to laugh at themselves.
Making the roadshow a success was not an easy task. There were many unusual problems. For example, when 23-year-old director Dave McKay began thinking about writing a script, he encountered the difficulty of writing one that would never be spoken. “We wrote it with our hands,” he said. Once a skeletal plot outline was chosen, directors and cast members worked together from improvised possibilities to a finalized sequence of actions. Long after rehearsals had begun, voice director Kareena Heath decided on words to be read by the unseen voices in the orchestra pit.
Another difficulty was synchronization of music and action. The entr’acte, for example, was an interpretive dance, and the dancers were required to perform to music they could not hear. Brother McKay solved the problem by casting one hearing dancer, who was responsible to keep the others in time with the beat. Once again, this was accomplished by means of hidden signals undetectable to the audience. Scott Duge (Red Delicious) and Birdie Herrick (Mother Apple) were kept on cue by Karen, a hearing interpreter for the deaf who took the role of Yellow Delicious. In other sections, actors and dancers maintained correct timing by memorizing counts and order of appearance.
Staging had to be carefully arranged so that actors could not only be seen, but also so that their hand signals were clearly visible at all times.
And, of course, butterflies in the stomach aren’t limited only to those who hear. Bill Andrews, who played Washington, the oldest of Mother Apple’s children, explained that stage fright manifested itself in an unusual way. “You could literally say we had a case of arthritis,” he said. “Our fingers were frozen. When hearing people get scared, their voices shake, but in our case, it’s our hands. They stiffen up and we can’t make the signs.”
Birdie was supposed to keep everyone backstage quiet. “But the deaf signed to each other anyway,” she remembered, smiling. “I told them to cut it out, because their hands would crack and make noise.”
The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf is a unique organization. Those in the ward are either deaf themselves or members of a family in which someone is deaf. Although it is under jurisdiction of the Los Angeles California Stake, its members come from a broad geographical area. But the roadshow brought them all together.
Homer Thexton explained how participation in the event strengthened family unity. He is deaf, his wife is hard of hearing, and his children hear normally, yet all participated. “It helped our family,” he explained. “There was more cooperation and communication at home. We really taught and helped each other in our parts.”
That type of reaction extended throughout the stake. For example, members of the University of Southern California Branch roadshow cast (which, incidentally, placed second in the competition) stayed behind after their own performance long enough to provide the voices for the deaf show. Noting that support, President Brady said he felt the roadshow experience had unified the entire stake. Since the performance, a variety of activities have helped to bring members of the ward for the deaf and other wards in the stake into closer contact on a more regular basis. (See FYI for Feb. 1978 and May 1978.)
The roadshow is over. But excitement and pride remain. Already ward members are talking about future productions and looking forward to another roadshow next year.
Editor’s Note: The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf was recently divided to form two new wards, the San Fernando Valley Ward for the Deaf in the Los Angeles California Chatsworth Stake, and the Torrance North Ward for the Deaf, located in the Torrance California North Stake. The Fullerton Branch for the Deaf of the Fullerton California Stake was created in 1971, and continues to serve the needs of the deaf in that area.

1. Integrity is the foundation of our character and all other virtues. In 1853 the Saints commenced the construction of the Salt Lake Temple. For the better part of two long, hard years the Saints dug the excavations and laid the foundation: over eight feet (2.4 m) deep, made of sandstone. One day the foreman came to President Brigham Young with this devastating news: there were cracks in the blocks of sandstone. Brigham Young was faced with this dilemma: (1) do the best they could to patch up the cracks and build a temple of much less weight and grandeur than anticipated or (2) rip out two years of work and replace it with a granite foundation that could support the magnificent temple God envisioned for them. Fortunately, President Young chose the latter course.3
Integrity is the foundation upon which character and a Christlike life are built. If there are cracks in that foundation, then it will not support the weight of other Christlike attributes that must be built upon it. How can we be humble if we lack the integrity to acknowledge our own weaknesses? How can we develop charity for others if we are not totally honest in our dealings with them? How can we repent and be clean if we only partially disclose the truth to our bishop? At the root of every virtue is integrity.
Christian author C. S. Lewis noted that once we make a mistake in a mathematical equation, we cannot just keep on going: “When I have started a sum the wrong way, the sooner I admit this and go back and start over again, the faster I shall get on.”4
Likewise, we cannot continue to fully acquire other Christlike virtues until we first make integrity the granite foundation of our lives. In some cases this may require us to go through the painful process of ripping out an existing foundation built upon deceit and replacing it stone by stone with a foundation of integrity. But it can be done.

For some of the youth, the mere mention of the word genealogy used to conjure up images of endlessly searching through dusty manuscripts that led nowhere.

“I wasn’t too excited at first,” says Tyson Thacker, 15. The term family history seems more inviting, but still there are challenges.

“I just wondered how I would find names,” adds Tyson’s sister Miriam, a Laurel. “I knew a lot of work had already been done in our family.”

But with four young people in the program and lots of help from their mother, they had plenty of support. And support was needed when they didn’t find any names from February until July, despite lots of looking.

Things were getting pretty discouraging until one night when three of the Thacker youth and their mother ventured down to the library again.

“We were all looking on different films and would say to each other, ‘Go look here and go look over there,’” says Sister Thacker. “Everyone was running around getting names and checking them. We accomplished much more than one person could have done alone, and that was the night we finally found someone! It’s hard to describe how exciting that was. After that it seemed like everything opened up and we just kept finding names.”

My family was flying from Buenos Aires, Argentina, to a town in the north of that country called Posadas. I was 15, and although I had been on airplanes before, I was not used to flying in a plane as small as that one was. It held about 50 people and must have been about 50 years old. I got a shiver down my back at the thought of crashing but dismissed the idea. The plane was a little shaky, like me at that moment, but I was not terrified because I was with my family
As we began to cross over a large body of water, the plane started to tremble and shake a lot. The terror I had been keeping at bay suddenly overwhelmed me. I closed my eyes and, almost instinctively, said a prayer. I had learned to always pray when in trouble.
As I was asking my Heavenly Father for protection, I felt a calm assurance that everything would be all right. I opened my eyes and looked out my window. It was early morning, and while I had been saying my prayer the sunlight and the lake had merged to make the sky and water a deep blue—both foaming with puffs of heavenly white. It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever beheld.
My fear left, and the clouds that once caused the plane to tremble now seemed like Heavenly Father’s loving arms,
Feeling safe, I began to study the water and the sky, imagining the raging storms that must occur in both. I thought about my own life, with all of the daily problems, or storms, that I am constantly getting caught in.
Though I had heen a member of the Church all my life, I had never realized before the great influence Heavenly Father can have. I knew then that he truly has provided an escape from the storms of the world. I realized that by praying and by holding to the iron rod, I could rise above the storms and reach spiritual heights where I could feel his love.
I have prayed every day since I was old enough to know how to without ever knowing my prayers were heard. But that day in the sky over Argentina, a simple prayer opened my eyes. That new awareness was only a starting point, but it helped me understand how much love Heavenly Father has for me. That’s one of the many ways I kow that he lives and that I should always call on him in prayer.

Girls in the Walnut Creek California East Stake shared a faith-promoting experience when they were asked to participate in the search for a three-year-old boy lost not far from their stake girls’ camp.
The girls divided into teams and searched until dark, but the boy was not found. Searchers did fin his footprints, however, and the girls fasted and prayed throughout the night that the boy would be found. They felt their prayers were answered when the night remained warm and clear and searchers found the boy the next morning.
Afterward, 150 girls and leaders tied and signed a quilt for the boy and reflected on the test of faith they had endured. All agreed that they had learned a lot about relying on an already full reservoir of faith rather than trying to develop faith in a time of crisis. They won’t forget that girls’ camp or that lesson very soon.

I can sincerely say that Jennifer and I had a blast together. We used to run down the church halls, laughing as hard as we could, our main goal to see who could make the most noise. Even when we were scolded, we couldn’t stop laughing.
The other people in the ward probably didn’t appreciate the friendship as much as we did. But it certainly helped me. When I was 12 years old, my mother told me she had decided not to go to church anymore, but I still could if I wanted to. I never did like getting up on Sunday mornings and listening to lessons, so I decided not to go anymore either.
When I told Jennifer of my mom’s decision, she offered to have her mom start swinging by my house to pick me up for church. I loved the fellowship and fun, and their family picked me up faithfully. I was sorely disappointed a few years later when they moved away.

Several years ago a severe storm hit the area in which we were living. It began with a torrential downpour, followed by a devastating easterly wind. When the storm was over, damages were assessed—power lines were down, property had been damaged, and many of the beautiful trees that grew in the area had been uprooted. A few days later I was talking to a friend who had lost several of the trees in his yard. The trees on one side of his home were standing straight and tall. They had weathered the storm well, while the trees that were in what I considered the prime spot on his property had not been able to withstand the heavy winds. He pointed out to me that the trees that survived the storm were planted on firm ground; their roots had to sink deep into the soil to receive nourishment. The trees he had lost were planted near a small stream, where nourishment was readily available. The roots were shallow. They were not anchored deeply enough to protect them from the storm.

There is a silver-haired Argentine sister who knows the Shepherd. She has given a long life of service to the Lord, his Church, and her fellowmen.
The first time Sister Mellor attended a Mormon church service, she was brought by the missionaries. They felt that she was the most sophisticated, cultured, and best-educated investigator they had ever met. They held a few meetings in her lovely home, and when they invited her to accompany them to a Sunday church meeting, she readily agreed. The service was being held in an old building. The members attending were of somewhat humble circumstances compared to the new investigator.
The service did not go well by the standards of the two missionaries hoping to impress their guest. The branch leaders had just been recently called, and they were still learning their duties. There was some confusion at the pulpit. There was an interruption at the sacrament table at the most sacred moment. The sermons seemed to be less interesting than those desired by the eager missionaries. The reverence was threatened from time to time by children moving or crying. There was no organ to provide deep, religious sounds. The missionaries agonizingly thought of the negative impressions their elegant investigator must be receiving. They knew she normally worshiped in a very fashionable cathedral where everything would have been highly professional and the congregation would have been of the highest stratum of local society.
On the way home, one of the missionaries began to reflect his embarrassment. He explained: “Please excuse our present building. Some day we will build a lovely new chapel.” Then he added: “Please excuse our new leaders. We have a lay priesthood, so we take turns conducting, and the new leaders are still learning how to conduct services.” He was just about to give another excuse when Sister Herta Mellor turned to him and said: “Elder, you don’t need to apologize. It must have been like this at the time of Christ!”
With her spiritual eyes and her knowledge of the Shepherd acquired through studying the holy scriptures, she saw through centuries of tradition. She saw past cathedrals and organs. She saw back through the corridors of time to the Shepherd meeting with his humble fishermen-Apostles, with some sinners, and even with leper outcasts. She saw the early Saints meeting in a small, rented, upstairs room. She saw children, with the Savior smiling at them lovingly. Because she knew the Shepherd, she could say with profound and deep insight, “It must have been like this at the time of Christ.”
She exemplifies to me the admonition which many have followed: “Fill your mind with thoughts of Christ, your heart with love of Christ, and your life with service to Christ.”

“Sarah,” Mom called, “Janeen is here.” As Sarah started down the stairs, she ticked off plans in her mind. First I’ll show Janeen my new soccer ball, and then we’ll make jewelry with her bead set. Later we can watch that new video Mom bought. And tomorrow, Janeen will help me learn a new kick shot. It was going to be the best weekend ever!
Sarah paused. What if Janeen doesn’t like staying over at my house? Everyone wanted to be Janeen’s friend. She was really nice, and she was one of the best soccer players on the team.
Sarah forgot her worries as Janeen waved to her from the bottom of the stairs. “Come on up!” Sarah called.
The two girls laughed and chattered while they rearranged Sarah’s basket collection and strung beads. Then Mom put on the movie, which was even better than Sarah had expected it to be. Janeen laughed so hard that she spilled her popcorn.
When the movie was over, they went to the kitchen while Sarah’s mom fixed them ice-cream floats. Janeen gazed at the top cupboard and admired the elegant bowls and glasses that sat on the shelves. The most beautiful piece was a large pitcher.
“That crystal pitcher has been in my family for many years,” Mom explained. “My mother gave it to me on my wedding day.”
“We only use it for special occasions,” Sarah added.
When the girls finished their ice cream, it was time for bed. After Mom said good night and the girls went upstairs, Sarah whispered, “Janeen, are you sleepy?”
“Not at all!”
“Mom said she doesn’t mind if we talk until we get sleepy, as long as we’re quiet.”
“Great!” Janeen whispered. “Did I ever tell you the joke I heard from my big sister’s friend?”
As Janeen spoke, Sarah’s eyes grew large and her stomach started to feel strange, as if something she had eaten didn’t agree with her. The joke wasn’t really funny, and Janeen used words that Sarah knew were wrong to say. What should I do? she wondered. If I ask Janeen to stop talking like this, she might think I’m acting like a baby.
When Janeen finished her joke, she started to tell Sarah a story she’d heard at school. She had forgotten about being quiet and was talking right out loud, and Sarah knew that Heavenly Father didn’t want her to hear this story, either.
Her face grew hot, and by this time, there was a gigantic lump in her stomach. If I tell Janeen I don’t want to hear any more, she might get mad at me. Maybe she’ll even want to go home. After a few more words, though, Sarah couldn’t listen any longer.
“Janeen,” she interrupted, “I think we should stop talking about this kind of stuff, OK?”
Janeen grew quiet.
Sarah took a deep breath and rushed on, “My parents have told me I shouldn’t listen to that kind of story or use those words. And they don’t make me feel very good inside.”
Janeen was silent for a while. Then she said, “OK. They don’t make me feel good inside, either, really. You know, I think it’s neat that you talk about this kind of stuff with your mom and dad.”
Sarah let out her breath, and the lump in her stomach started to shrink.
The next morning after breakfast, Sarah’s mom suggested, “Why don’t you go outside for a game of soccer?”
With a whoop, the girls scrambled for the ball. They played hard. The sun was hot, and there were lots of tumbles as they practiced blocking shots. Finally Sarah stopped under a shade tree at the edge of the yard. “Whew! Time for a break!”
They raced for the back door.
“Mom, is there anything to drink?” Sarah called as the girls washed their hands.
“How about lemonade?”
Sarah and Janeen grinned at each other and opened the refrigerator.
They froze in place, their eyes glued to the second shelf.
Instead of ice-cold lemonade, Mom’s beautiful crystal pitcher was filled to the brim with smelly, black mud!
The girls turned around to find Mom standing behind them. Chuckling at the expression on their faces, she invited, “Sit down for a minute.”
As they sat at the table, Mom continued, “Girls, I’d like to talk to you about something. I guess you didn’t hear me coming upstairs last night. As I passed your bedroom, I heard you talking.”
Sarah stared at her mom, then glanced at Janeen, who was studying the floor. Janeen’s face was red, and Sarah knew that hers was too.
“Just as I was about to knock, you decided to stop, so I thought I’d speak to you this morning, instead.”
Seeing their stricken faces, Mom added gently, “Don’t worry—I’m not angry with you. But I would like to explain why Heavenly Father doesn’t want you to say or hear things like what you were talking about last night.
“Imagine yourself on a sizzling hot day in the summertime. You’ve been outside playing for a long time, and you’re thirsty.”
The girls nodded—that’s what had just happened!
“Now, you’ve come into the house and opened the refrigerator. A tall pitcher of cold lemonade is waiting for you, and you know that it’s going to taste great.” She smiled and brought out a frosty container of real lemonade and some glasses. “Did you know that, in a way, our minds are like a pitcher?”
Sarah and Janeen gave each other a puzzled look.
“First, remember that whenever we see or hear something, it goes into our minds, and it’s there for keeps. Now, when you saw the crystal pitcher last night, how did it look?”
“Beautiful!” Janeen exclaimed. “It was clean and sparkling.”
“If we allow ourselves to see or hear only good things, then our minds stay clean and pure, like lovely crystal. Our thoughts and ideas are uplifting to others around us, just like icy lemonade makes everyone happy on a hot day.
“Now,” Mom asked, her eyes twinkling, “what would you think if you opened the refrigerator and instead of lemonade, found the pitcher with mud?” She placed the pitcher in front of Janeen and Sarah.
“Yuck!” they chorused.
“Right!” Mom said, smiling. “Yuck is the word.” Then her face grew serious. “You know, if we put wrong messages and bad language into our minds, it’s like filling this container with mud—pretty soon we feel sick.”
Sarah remembered last night’s lump in her stomach and nodded.
Mom reached over to wipe a smudge of dust from Janeen’s face. “And if the ‘mud’ is on the inside, we can’t just take a cloth and scrub ourselves clean.”
The girls were silent awhile, thinking and staring at the now-not-so-pretty pitcher in front of them.
“So, if we fill our minds with good words and ideas, we’ll think about them and be happy. We can help our friends feel good, too, right?” Janeen asked, hesitantly.
“We won’t stay healthy inside if the things in our minds are harmful, just like we wouldn’t feel too great if we ate some mud!” Sarah added.
“That’s right.” Sarah’s mother agreed. “I think you understand very well.” She smiled again and poured each girl a big glass of the real lemonade before taking the other pitcher to clean it.
Soon Sarah and Janeen went outside to continue their game. As she was closing in to score a goal, Janeen stopped suddenly. “You know, the pitcher-of-mud idea your mom showed us is really cool. I never thought about why listening to some jokes makes me feel bad inside. I’m going to explain it to Kim the next time she tells me that kind of story.”
When it was almost time to take Janeen home, Mom called, “Girls, it’s a long ride to Janeen’s house. Would you like a drink before you leave?”
Sarah and Janeen looked at each other and grinned. “Lemonade, please,” they giggled, “and hold the mud!”

Sisters!
“We’re going to get sisters!” 13-year-old Lara Bisgaard thought excitedly as she put the letter back down on the counter where she found it. “Just wait till I tell Christopher!”
“No way!” 15-year-old Christopher said when Lara told him about the letter saying her parents were trying to adopt four sisters whose parents had died in Mexico. After all, Lara was always bugging their parents for more kids. Four at once, though? That sounded crazy. “It’s just not true,” Christopher said.
But Lara was insistent. She’d seen a letter talking about adoption. She’d read it with her own eyes—held it in her own hands. So Christopher and Lara decided to confront their parents with it one night when they were eating dinner in a fast-food restaurant.
“Well, as a matter of fact, it is true,” their parents told them. “At least, we’re thinking about putting the wheels in motion. We didn’t want to get your hopes up until we knew how much of a chance we had.”
Chris and Sharon Bisgaard had written the letter after reading an article in the Los Angeles Times. It told how the wife of the American ambassador in Mexico had come across four young sisters whose mother had been killed in the earthquake in 1985. Now their father lay dying of leukemia, and he begged the woman to see that his daughters would be taken care of.
The article struck a chord within the Bisgaards. They had been unable to have more than two children, and they thought this might be the ideal opportunity to expand their family. But there must have been hundreds of people who read the article and wanted to adopt the girls. The Bisgaard’s initial letter just asked if they’d even be considered.
That night, over hamburgers and french fries, as the family discussed the project, they began to realize just how important this could be to all of them. Enthusiasm was kindled, and grew and grew. They decided they’d do all they could to bring the Torres Mendoza sisters to La Cañada, California, where they would be adopted into the family.
Applications were filled out, letters were written, interviews were conducted. Question after question was answered, and many prayers were offered, until finally, the non-LDS organization responsible for the sisters decided that the Bisgaards were the most qualified candidates for the adoption.
That was only the beginning. They still had miles of red tape to untangle to make certain that everything was absolutely legal. In the meantime, the family tried to prepare for the adjustments they’d have to make when the family doubled overnight. Lara would have to move out of her room into the guest room. Five people would have to share a bathroom. Their parents wouldn’t be able to spend as much individual time with them as they had before, and big family vacations would be curtailed.
There was also a degree of racial prejudice to cope with. “It’s funny,” said Lara. “When my friends at school heard I was going to get four sisters from Mexico, they thought it was pretty neat and decided they’d have to stop telling Mexican jokes. That’s good for them.”
On top of all that, they would be responsible for helping acclimate four Catholic Mexican girls who spoke very little English to their LDS, California culture. Would Christopher and Lara be able to handle it?
Handle it? They couldn’t wait! The sisters were allowed to come visit the Bisgaards for Christmas, and the family members all fell in love. They were frustrated to learn that it would take several months longer before the girls were able to come back and stay for good. “We were so excited about having them come, and the waiting hurt so bad,” said Lara. “We needed them to be with us, and they needed to be here.”
Meanwhile down in Mexico, Claudia, 13, Sandra, 10, Yvonne, 7, and Jennifer, 3, were waiting at an all-girls boarding school. They were happy that they’d be able to stay together, and while they weren’t exactly sure what it would be like in a new family, they were anxious for the paperwork to clear. They exchanged letters with the Bisgaards and lived on hope.
Family and personal prayers were especially intent during that waiting period.
At last the big day arrived. The Bisgaards drove to the airport in the van, dubbed “The Mormon Mobile” by Christopher and Lara, that they’d recently purchased to accommodate everyone. The girls arrived in the late spring and would have the whole summer to learn English so they could attend public schools in the fall.
The first week was hectic, to say the least. A lot of tears were shed, a lot of frustrations vented. In the beginning it was a great challenge to communicate, since the Bisgaards knew only schoolroom Spanish, and the girls’ English was limited to a few words and phrases.
There were eating habits to adjust to—scrambled eggs became the common ground. There were bathing habits to adjust to—at first the girls were wary of all the water, and then found it so much fun they wanted to bathe three or four times a day. Even dressing habits were different—the girls were shocked when they were asked to put on nothing more than a bathing suit and swim in public.
Religious habits weren’t similar either. “We found the Mormon church to be very different at first,” said Claudia. “In our church in Mexico, there were Saints and statues and things all over, but in the Mormon church there’s none of that. We liked it, though. Family home evening and family prayer are all very nice.”
It’s amazing how adaptable a family can be when they work together. Within a few weeks, Christopher and Lara knew that getting A’s in Spanish would be a breeze from then on, and their new sisters learned how to communicate in English with ease. Christopher hit on a universal form of communication—teasing. “Oh Christopher!” his sisters squeal as they roll their eyes in mock disgust after he’s told them some outrageous story. But the teasing sessions usually end up in hugs and smiles.
They all learned from each other. Christopher added stroller pushing to his sports repertoire, while his new sisters added American football to theirs. When they went to see Christopher play JV quarterback on his high school team, Claudia commented, “It’s a very strange sport.”
Lara had given up dolls for basketballs and volleyballs quite some time ago, but suddenly she found herself combing and braiding hair, dressing and helping feed her younger sisters. And she loved every minute of it. Well, almost every minute of it. It was only natural for her to occasionally miss the status of being the only daughter in the house.
But one of the best adaptations of all came when Claudia and Sandra announced, out of the blue, that they wanted to be baptized. The Bisgaards had not been pushing their religion on the new family members. After all, they had enough to adjust to at first. But they were always included when they wanted to be. The Spanish-speaking sister missionaries came by now and then, but they were there to translate more than proselyte.
“One day the missionaries told us they were going to a baptism, so we asked them about it,” explained Claudia. “When they told us that in this church they baptize children when they’re eight so they understand everything, we decided that we needed to be baptized now too. We wanted to be members of the Church.”
Their new parents made certain that they understood what they were doing before they were baptized. The girls took the missionary discussions and attended many Church meetings prior to their baptismal date. Brother and Sister Bisgaard wanted to assure that their new daughters didn’t feel pressured into their decision and had sincere testimonies of the truthfulness of the gospel.
As time goes on, more and more adjustments are made and the family becomes more unified. They’re not yet perfect. What family is? There are still occasional tears, but there’s also a lot of laughter. As far as the kids are concerned, the pros far outweigh the cons. “Four new sisters mean four times as much joy,” Christopher concludes, tugging Jennifer’s ponytail as she toddles by.

My parents have served in the temple for more than 30 years—Dad as a sealer, Mom as an ordinance worker. They also served five full-time missions together—in Riverside, California; Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia; Nairobi, Kenya; the Nauvoo Illinois Temple; and the Monterrey Mexico Temple. In Mexico they worked hard to learn a new language, which wasn’t easy at 80 years of age. But they sought to do the will of the Lord rather than to pursue their own desires in life.

Rhett Wyatt, 18, of the Gresham Oregon Stake is involved in drama at his high school, jogs daily, maintains a B-minus average, and has started his own business. He is also blind.
Rhett lost his sight when he was eight. He was hit by a car, which left him in a coma for six months, damaged his leg, and cost him his sight. He hasn’t let his accident stop him.
Although limited in his participation in sports, Rhett still runs daily and works out on a trampoline thanks to an invention of his brother’s. Rhett has become interested in drama. He has been in two school plays, including playing the part of a sighted character. He memorized steps in order to dance in the plays. His entertaining abilities include stand-up comedy routines.
He and his mother founded a small business called “Out of Sight Industries.” They sell T-shirts and backpacks for the blind.
Rhett plans to attend college where he hopes to study counseling or drama.

Many years ago, in 1899, there was a terrible drought in southern Utah. For more than two years there was no rain. The streams, and even the wells, around the town of St. George had dried up. There was no water for the crops, so they withered up and died. Thousands of cattle died of thirst. Many people began moving away because of the lack of food and water.
Nell was a little girl living in St. George at that time. Her father told her that things were so bad that they would also have to move away soon.
In June, Nell and her mother went to a Church conference in St. George. The prophet, President Lorenzo Snow, was going to speak. Nell’s father stayed home to pack the family’s things for their move. Nell listened carefully to what the prophet said. After the conference, she could hardly wait to tell her father about it. As soon as she arrived home, she ran to find him. She told him that President Snow had promised that if the people would pay their tithing and plant their crops, it would rain and they would have food for the coming year.
At first, Nell’s father was reluctant. He explained that their family couldn’t survive another year if the crops didn’t grow. Nell reminded him that her grandfather had told her about how the people in his day were blessed by doing exactly what President Young asked them to do. Nell had wished that she could have lived then and followed President Young. Grandfather had smiled at her and had reminded her that President Snow was the prophet now and he was the one Nell needed to follow. Her grandfather said that if she followed the living prophet, she would be blessed. She believed her grandfather, and she believed that President Snow’s promises would all be fulfilled. She even offered to give her father the money she had saved to help pay their family’s tithing.
The next morning, Nell saw her father out plowing, getting ready to plant their fields. Her family stayed in St. George and did exactly what the prophet asked them to do. During the hot, dry weeks that followed, the people of St. George paid their tithing, planted their fields, prayed, and watched the cloudless sky for rain. Neither Nell nor her father was surprised when two months after the conference, it began to rain. The crops grew in abundance that year!

When I was 16 years old, I met and befriended a lady with three children. We became trusted friends, although she was ten years older than me. She was having discussions with the missionaries, but at that time I was not interested. I was very frightened and stayed in the kitchen when they arrived.
One evening, when I was making food for the children, I overheard the missionaries speaking about life before birth and after death, and how we choose to have an earthly experience, just as Jesus chose to come to die for us. I felt overwhelmed on hearing this, because in my heart I always felt that we had been around forever.
Later that night I queried my friend for more information, and she told me about Joseph Smith. His story really captured my attention and I felt that it was true. I didn’t rush into anything, but weeks later when I was invited to a sports event at the Church, I decided to go to see the children having fun in the sun. And I really wanted to meet people and find out more about the teachings of the Church.
It was a beautiful day, and many people were there with their children. I was introduced to a few families and was asked if I wanted to meet the bishop. I entered the chapel and I remember the aroma to this day: it was the fresh smell of lovely, polished wood, old wood, and the smell of cakes baking in the oven. I’m not even sure if they were baking cakes that day, but that is what I smelt. It was lovely and clean and smelt homely.
When I walked through the building towards the bishop’s office, I had this overwhelming feeling of pure love and protection. I was very nervous, yet I felt such a strong sense of belonging. I will always remember the big beautiful smile on the bishop’s face, as if he was waiting for me to return home. I felt emotional and frightened at the same time because I didn’t know what to expect. These feelings were all new to me, but I felt this was a major part in my journey, my destiny, while not knowing at that time how my life would turn out. I was only 16 but I remember exactly how I felt that day. My dad had told me about these dangerous religious organisations, but there was no danger here. I only felt love, a love that I yearned to feel forever.
Feeling such love, I felt safe. I felt I was home. I knew this was so right.
This kindhearted man, the bishop, told me his name and spoke with authority, and he made me feel safe and very welcome.
He drew me in with his godly spirit. He drew me in with his smile. He drew me in with his love. He drew me in with his fatherly influence in the way he spoke to me. He drew me in.
He was a good decent man, and a fatherly influence on my shattered, insecure soul. It has taken me years to be who I am today. I was a canny, quiet kid, yet fiery when anyone hurt me. I carried so much pain. So, I love with my heart and soul, and am so overjoyed at the fact that I allowed Bishop Barratt to draw me into the gospel with his beautiful strong spiritual soul. He indeed saved me that day.
I dread to think how my life would have turned out if I had not been introduced to the Church at that time. Although I have had periods of inactivity, I have always stayed loyal to the teachings of the gospel. I have never stopped believing that the gospel is true, and during those times of inactivity, I knew with all my heart and soul that I would return.
Years on, I met my husband, and we were sealed for time and eternity. Bishop Barratt was a very important part of our gospel journey, yet sadly he was too unwell to make trips to the temple; but he did give many beautiful and sacred blessings to my husband. Over the years I would choose him to bless my children. As my children got older and had children of their own, they would also choose Bishop Barratt to bless their babies too.
Brother Ronald Barratt died in early 2021. His beautiful wife, Mary, gave my husband a few of Bishop Barratt’s tie pins, which will be treasured; it’s an honour to have something of his. It has been many years since Brother Ronald Barratt was bishop, but he brought honour to the title.
The Barratts carried out many acts of service in spreading the gospel and teaching people. They were firm examples. They stood strong in the Church through difficult times. They worked hard. Bishop Barratt also had an amazing operatic voice which could drown us all out when singing.
We all have amazing experiences with people in our lives who have been such wonderful examples. I am so grateful to many people in my life. Heavenly Father certainly knows what He is doing. He brings people into our lives for specific reasons. We are never alone, even if we sometimes feel we are.
Cherishing our surroundings and those who have helped us on our way is so important. Each person met on life’s journey can be vital to one’s spiritual growth and emotional wellbeing. Even in challenging times, people are helping to move us forward, to learn from one another through the good and the bad. Everything has its purpose. We see the beauty in others and in ourselves. We are all God’s beautiful precious creations.

The next morning I sat shyly, uncertainly, on a big wooden kitchen chair, Oscar, my teddy bear, on my lap. I looked across the table at a long, tall newspaper with a strong hand clutching each side. I knew it was Grandpa because when I had walked down the stairs and peeked timidly around the corner, he had lowered the paper and winked at me.
“Would you like some hot chocolate, dear?” Grandma had asked in her quiet voice.
I jumped slightly at her question, chewed on Oscar’s ear, and tried desperately to think of an answer. It shouldn’t have been so hard, but you see, Grandma was very quiet, and I was a little afraid of her.
“Yes, dear,” I heard the deep voice from behind the newspaper answer.
Oh, I thought, embarrassed. I was glad I hadn’t answered. I soon learned that Grandma would never ask me if I wanted some. If I did, I had to ask her.
I drove thoughtfully around corners, through child-infested residential areas, almost afraid to arrive at my destination.
Grandma had sounded as quiet as ever on the telephone. “You’d better come,” she had said. As usual her voice confused me. She gave only words. I could never see what was in her mind, in her heart. If only she would cry or something to give me a clue.
“Come now,” she said. So I came. But I was afraid.
What if Grandpa looked less than majestic? I didn’t want to remember him the rest of my life as small and shriveled, perhaps even senseless. Oh, how I longed to sit on his lap once again, to place childish arms securely around his neck, hear a story, share a laugh. Why hadn’t I come back last year when I had planned to? Why had I waited till now when … I shook my head angrily. I had been having too much fun. And in my mind there had been no rush. Grandpa would be there forever. I couldn’t imagine it any other way. And his lively, colorful letters brought him into my apartment weekly.
Suddenly I saw a flash of blue before me. My hands gripped the steering wheel; my foot reached for the brake. Screeching, I stopped just inches short of the boy on his blue bicycle. My head pounded, my palms sweat, but he just pedaled by, his hands in the air, unafraid, cocky. It seems like everyone has a nice bike these days. With a smile I remembered mine.
It was the most beautiful bicycle I had ever seen. Next to it the twinkling Christmas tree looked dim. It was shiny lavender and white, with coal-black seat and tires, sparkling spokes, and what surely would have been the envy of every kid at home—lavender plastic tassles dangling gaily from the handlebars. My eyes laughed. My mouth didn’t utter a sound, for there was more, even more, and my little heart could hardly stand it. There in the center of the handlebars, strapped securely in place, was a dainty, white, woven basket with two purple plastic flowers on the front. It was too much, really too much. Why, I knew kids back home who would’ve been glad to come in Christmas morning and find anything that had two wheels and could move by their Christmas tree. I used to have a friend named Sara who never sat down while riding her scratched, squeaky bicycle because it had no seat. In fact, I knew an older boy back home, well he was at least 12, who had picked up junk from the junkyard and made his own bike. It was a strange looking thing, but it worked.
I caressed my shiny new handlebars. I turned and grinned at Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma stood quietly, with a hint of a smile about her mouth. Grandpa beamed. I had been suspicious lately of this man, Santa Claus. I mean he never did get anything right and he always gave more to the kids whose parents had money than he gave to poorer families, and it seemed like it should be the other way around. Seeing Grandma and Grandpa like they were that Christmas morning, I decided once and for all that Santa was not responsible for this wonderful surprise. Grandma was too pleased, Grandpa too proud. This was one of those times that my mama had told me I’d have someday when I would cry with happiness and wisdom.
The difference between me then and many kids now is that I knew how truly lucky I was to have that bike.
I remember another morning, a summer morning that dawned slowly on me, slow and dimly gray … different. I pulled my blankets over my shoulders. My room felt cool and clammy. The sunshine that fell across my bed seemed shrouded, not glorious like a Saturday morning. My mind was foggy. My eyes studied the room, wall to pink wall, corner to corner.
“Is this Saturday?” I blinked and tried again. A clear, glassed window answers all kinds of questions. I hated the window in the bathroom. It was made of some fuzzy, bumpy kind of glass, and you couldn’t see through it at all. My bedroom window was my world. I could see green through it. I could see blue. I could vaguely see the colorless, transcendental, sparkly shine, but it was having a hard time getting through those raindrops on the window. Raindrops! I threw back my covers, swung my feet to the floor, and ran to the window.
“It is Saturday and it rained last night!” Tears sprang to my eyes, and I knew, I just knew that my bike would be nothing but a big pile of rust.
Who would have thought last night when the full moon fell all over the yard and the clear, black sky stretched on forever that clouds would sneak in and drench everything during the night? I ran hysterically down the stairs, holding my big, poofy nightgown in one fist around my waist so I wouldn’t trip. I ran to the kitchen window and threw back the curtain. A little bubble popped in my chest—my bike hadn’t disintegrated to rust yet. I grabbed a dish towel from Grandma’s apron. Grandma looked up questioningly from spattering bacon and eggs. I ran out the door.
Oh my bike, my bike, it was wet! Wet all over, wet white and lavender, wet droopy tassles, wet little basket, wet, wet, wet! I could hardly see it through my tears as I wiped madly with Grandma’s dish towel. Soon the salty droplets were one with the raindrops. My face was wet and cold.
I didn’t hear the door bang shut. I didn’t hear the footsteps. I only saw the hand, the big, masculine hand clenched around another dish towel gently wiping up raindrops. I looked up. He hooked a bit blurry. No questions, no amused grin. Grandpa helped me dry my bike.
The hospital was tall, five stories tall. It was a new building with hundreds of windows in uniform rows. I stood before it, my head bent back as my eyes scanned the top row of windows. So many windows, each with a personal story behind it. Which one housed my grandpa, my childhood, my life? I looked to the pavement below my feet and slowly shook my head. My hand wiped away a tear, and I entered the modern, colorful house of birth, of joy, of pain, of loneliness, and … I shuddered … and hoped I would never have to come here again.
“Room 363, intensive care.” The woman’s face was blank, expressionless. Again I felt the tightness in my chest. Something wanted to explode there. I leaned against the elevator wall, my eyes shut tight.
The nurse was a little more human. “You’ll have to wait a moment, dear. The doctor is with him,” she whispered. The hall, the air was hushed and still. At the end of the hall in the corner, a quiet bottle rack stood with rows of empty pop bottles. It made me think of Grandpa’s store. Grandpa kept all the empty pop bottles in a bushel basket just inside the back door. It didn’t take me long to figure out that if I went in the back door, took a couple of bottles, went out the back door and around to the front door, I could give Grandpa the bottles and buy a candy bar. Then Grandpa would take the bottles out back and put them into the bushel basket to wait till the next time I got a craving for a Hershey bar. Back home we had to search up and down the streets, in and out of alleys, through garbage cans to find an empty pop bottle. Life was just easier all the way around here with Grandpa and Grandma.
Thinking of Grandma made me feel a little apprehensive. She was in with Grandpa now, but sooner or later I would have to see her, I would have to say something. It doesn’t seem possible that two people could live in the same house together for 13 years and still be strangers. How could she be so unlike Grandpa? She’d never been cross or impatient, but I couldn’t talk to her. I secretly suspected that she’d been relieved to see me go. I sighed tiredly. Grandma wouldn’t understand my hurt. How could she? She didn’t know me.
I had finally come to know myself. I remember a day when, 15 and confused, I borrowed Sandy’s jeans. Sandy was everything I wished I was—cute, popular, self-confident. Somehow I guess I thought that if I wore her jeans, I’d be more like her. But her body, shapely for 15, was about three sizes bigger than my wiry one. I guess I looked pretty silly with her pants hanging on me like a bag, held tight around my waist with a belt, then ballooning out like a clown’s costume. I remember Grandpa’s face, so serious, so gentle: “Honey, why do you wear Sandy’s clothes? Why do you talk like her and laugh like her?” Embarrassed I looked to the floor, at the pants that hung inches past my feet.
“Why not be yourself?” he said.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I sobbed. “How can I be myself? I don’t even know who I am.”
Grandpa held me on his lap as if I were a child again, quietly, till the crying stopped and the tears dried. With a smile he looked into my eyes. “You used to know,” he said. “But we all forget sometimes. Take Sandy’s pants back to her. Together we’ll rediscover you. Then you can be yourself.”
Grandpa knew me. He hadn’t forgotten who I was. I soon remembered who I was. But Grandma had never known.
The door swung silently open. The doctor walked through the doorway and looked kindly at me. “You must be Janie,” he said. “Your Grandpa has been asking for you.”
I let out a long breath and stood. I felt light-headed. My legs felt like jelly. I looked to the doctor for strength. But he didn’t know me either. He smiled and walked down the hall.
I entered the room. Grandpa was not small and shriveled. He was not senseless. He smiled at me. He looked very pale.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I cried and ran to his open arms. He held me, patting my back.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I have no regrets.” I looked at him with a teary face. His eyes were clear. He looked tired.
“Don’t cry, Blondie Boo. Don’t cry.” His eyes closed. He held me a moment longer, then his hands, his arms, relaxed. They lay heavy on my back.
“Grandpa,” I sobbed. I could see him lying still. But someone’s warm hands were on my shoulders. I turned to look into Grandma’s face.
“For the first time in his life he was wrong,” she said. “It’s all right to cry.” Surprised, I saw that she was crying, too. I could only stare.
“Come stay with me for a while,” she said suddenly. I was confused.
“Please,” she said. “It will be kind of like wiping up raindrops. I’ll help you … and you can help me.” I couldn’t believe it. She did understand. And in her quiet way she probably always had.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll stay.” I had a grandmother to get to know.

Henry Machado tugged the top of his sleeping bag over his tousled hair, rolled over, and tried to rationalize a few more minutes of sleep. Somehow, though, the sun stole its way past the folds of fabric and pried his eyelids open.
It was cozy inside the bag, and his stiff muscles, still aching from 70 miles of pedaling the previous day, urged him to rest as long as he could.
Henry was just one of a group of Explorers from Post 263, sponsored by the San Jose Tenth Ward, San Jose California South Stake. The post members were waking up to the second day of a 480-mile bicycle trip, and even though they had trained for three months to prepare for the effort, they knew they had been through a workout.
“We would get pretty tired sometimes,” Kurk Bakow recalled later, reminiscing about the trip with others in the post. “Some of the big hills nearly wore us out, especially when they came at the end of the day. But the work was worth it for what we got to see and for the closeness it brought to us, working together and pulling for each other.”
Henry knew the struggle was worth it, too. But it was cold outside the covers. Rousing himself, he unzipped the bag and ran to join the others clustered around the supply van as a mildly chilling breeze tickled the tails of their T-shirts. It was time for the daily briefing, an agreed-upon-in-advance procedure for the 11-day trip. Each morning the riders would review the agenda for the day (including the route to be followed, the menu for meals, cooking and clean-up assignments, and locations for lunch), review safety tips (such as wearing helmets while riding), and pray. They would also inspect the mechanical condition of each bike before breaking camp.
On the day the Explorers left San Jose, a ham-and-egg breakfast was served by the Mia Maid and Laurel classes, and then Brother Jensen, a member of the bishopric, gathered the cyclists around him, thanked the Lord for his goodness, and asked him to bless them with a safe trip.
“Most of us work together as a teachers quorum as well as in Scouting. It was reassuring to have the bishopric ask the Lord for his blessing before we left,” Danny Case explained.
Besides briefings and morning and evening prayers, the rest of each day followed a tight timetable, too. Travel began by 8:00 each morning and ended upon arrival at a predetermined camp for the night around 3:00 in the afternoon. There was always time to just lounge around, swim, or play football on the beach, but there was also an evening meal to prepare, and it didn’t take much coaxing to get everyone to bed early. They knew they would need the rest to have energy for the next day.
Some days were scheduled as long rides, consecrated to covering territory so that other days could be spent casually, touring at will. “The neatest part was being able to see so much at one time,” Mike Powell said. “We were out in the open, traveling through mountains and fields, sleeping on beaches, and were able to take time just to enjoy nature. It didn’t rush by like it does in a car. We were part of it. It helped me appreciate the love Heavenly Father must have for us to give us such a beautiful place to live.”
The distance covered daily averaged 65 miles. A one-day rest stop was planned Sunday so the Sabbath could be observed at Arroyo-Grande Ward, Glendale California Stake, in Pismo Beach. Another day was planned for the train trip home (nobody wanted to turn around and pump his bike the same distance the other way), and a day and a half were set aside for Disneyland. This left eight days of pedaling to travel 480 miles.
“It’s important to remember we just didn’t start out cold,” David Sackett said. “Sixty-five miles is a lot of bicycling for one day. We worked for months getting in shape.” The training program required each Explorer to cycle 300 to 325 miles a month for the three months prior to the trip. Each participant had to ride at least four days a week. In addition, once each month the trainees pumped the pedals through a 75-mile practice run.
Squeezing in training around a summer job might seem like a burden, but Steve Fowler managed it well. “Kevin Jolley (the post president) and I would get up early, around 6:00 A.M., and go out on his paper route. When the route was done, we’d just keep on going. I had a late night job, so I could go home and rest before work. When it got hard practicing so much, I’d think that if I didn’t push myself, I’d run out of energy during the trip, or maybe I wouldn’t get to go. That made me work harder.”
Training sessions on bike maintenance (including instructions about which parts to carry in a seat or handlebar pack), safety and first aid (a first-aid kit was attached to each bike), and physical care during periods of strenuous exercise were also conducted throughout the summer. A local bicycle shop provided training and parts. The owner kept his shop open late for classes and worked with each boy individually. He wasn’t LDS, but he seemed eager to talk with the group members about their Church-related activities.
Andy Carlstrom described the orange T-shirts the group bought with funds raised for the trip: “We had them silk-screened with the name of our ward, post, and a map of our route on them. The color made us more visible to traffic and worked as a safety factor in our favor, and the shirts also identified the post as a group,” he said.
Nine post members made the trip, along with Herbert C. “Chuck” Carlstrom, post advisor, and Chet Harmer, a post committee man. They were joined at the third stop by the Young Men’s president, Dale Van Horn, and his wife, Beryl. In the “Sag Wagon,” as the supply van was nicknamed, rode Hank and Olga Machado and their two children, Mike and Andrea. Hank is another member of the post committee. Scott Mortensen, a recently returned missionary, accompanied them. Janine Van Horn joined the group in another truck along the route.
Brother Carlstrom, in his daily journal, narrates the contentment he reveled in one evening: “We made camp. Some of us wanted to sleep on the beach, but after a while we were forced to higher ground by the unusually high tide. … The day’s end caught most of us watching the beauty of the coast as wild fowl flew … before us. As the sun sank … , it filled the sky with all shades of reds and oranges, with slight traces of pink. … It was replaced by the moon, almost full, as it came over the mountains in back of us, painting the ocean’s surface with flickering light. It was soon joined by other heavenly bodies and God’s handiwork was displayed before us. We had just received our compensation for an afternoon of hard, uphill riding, and we all were thankful.”
Danny shared similar sentiments. “Being able to see nature and many of the things the Lord has created on the earth strengthened my testimony of the plan of salvation and the creation of the world. I never realized how much there was to see.” Bob Nelson said he felt the most impressive part of the trip was following the road along Pismo Beach. On the left mountains jutted up into the sky. On the right hundreds of feet below, ocean waves hurled themselves into the rocky shoreline, jetting streams of water high in the air. At the tops of hills, the view continued for 15 or 20 miles.
The trip’s itinerary, along with the distance covered each day, included: Monterey (70 miles), Kirk Creek south of Big Sur (65 miles), San Simeon State Beach (40 miles), Pismo Beach (51 miles), Gaviota State Beach (65 miles), McGrath State Beach (65 miles), Santa Monica (55 miles), and Anaheim (46 miles). The route from San Jose to Anaheim was part of a 1,000-mile Bicentennial bikeway that stretches from Oregon to Mexico. Many of the stops retraced—only backwards—the route taken by the founders of San Francisco, led by Juan Bautista de Anza from Mexico.
The journey offered glimpses into the past, reflecting the colonizing efforts of Spanish, Russian, and Mexican explorers. Forts, lighthouses, missions, and old mining and lumbering areas were passed on the road. The route also showcased the modern agricultural bustle of northern California.
The cyclists divided themselves into sub-groups of two or three. “It was the buddy system used all the time in Scouting,” Andy explained. “Each person is responsible for the others with him. That way no one gets lost or left alone.” Kevin noted that those who were fast or slow were paired together.
Brother Harmer said he felt the Lord had protected the group. “It’s interesting that we went about 6,500 man-miles with only one slight tumble as an accident,” he noted. Others chimed in their agreement, noting that all the flat tires occurred on level ground instead of on steep downhill grades, and most of them at the end of the day, just as the group pulled into camp.
Still, there were a few difficult moments along the way. One morning during the first part of the trip, the cyclists were enshrouded in a damp fog. They had to stop and dig deep in their gear to find jackets. One night they reached the scheduled campground and found it closed. A friendly ranger let them camp a mile away on the beach at a picnic ground.
Later, anticipating an easy trip on flat land, the riders were buffeted by strong headwinds, which slowed their progress almost as much as an uphill grade. Another time they battled two large hills, one 15 miles long and rising 1,500 feet, in temperatures that exceeded 100 degrees F. at 10:00 A.M. What was worse, the road veered inland, away from the cooling effect of the coastal waters.
“We learned to appreciate the ocean more after that,” Mike Powell said. “When we got back to the beach that night, just about everyone went swimming to cool off.”
The rough spots were worth enduring, though. “There’s not one person who went on the trip, including the leaders, with whom I don’t have something in common now,” Danny said.
The final Saturday, having put the bikes on the train the day before, the weary travelers boarded to return home. There was plenty of room to stretch out and relax, and soon they were snoozers, not bikers.
Somehow, though, when the train finally halted in San Jose and they had to remount their cycles for another seven-mile jaunt to the chapel, they seemed almost eager to be riding once again. Soon they would be home recuperating, sharing a slice of their saga with their families.

Before he came to the missionary training center, he was discussing with a missionary about temple work. The thought came to him that his parents had given him life and done everything for him, and this was something he could do for them. He printed the temple ordinance cards and brought them with him. Elder John had the opportunity to attend the temple and to do the necessary ordinances for his mother and father. On 12 December 2023, Elder John was able to participate in having his parents sealed together, and he was then sealed to his parents. He felt as if his mother was asking him again “Brother Isaiah, do you know that this Church is the perfect Church?”
In his mind he, once again, answered “Yes, mom, I love the Church and know it is true.”
He knows that someday they will all be together, and that brings him great joy and peace.

While on my mission, my companion and I were knocking on doors and we came to a house that had a sign that said something about “no salesman, no solicitors, no evangelists, no religion.” Then under the list in a larger font it said, “This means you! If anything changes, we will call you.” After we read the sign, we debated whether we should knock on the door or not. Ultimately, we decided that everyone deserved an opportunity to hear the message we were sharing. My companion stepped forward and hesitatingly knocked on the door. When the door opened, we were instantly berated because we did not read the sign, followed by insults and questions about our ability to read and follow simple instructions. Because my companion knocked on the door, he was in front of me and was the focus of the homeowner's tirade. At that moment I wasn’t ashamed of what I was doing and who I was there representing. I stepped up to the homeowner and boldly told him the only reason we knocked on the door was to make sure he had our phone number, that way when he wanted to know more, he could call us. That wasn’t a response he was expecting; we could tell by the look on his face. He stepped back and simply said they weren’t interested at this time and closed the door. I was tempted to leave our phone number on a card right next to the sign, but I didn’t.

Within a few months, because of the time I spent studying the scriptures, praying, and serving others, my ability to be a lower light to others went from a small flickering flame that I could easily hide from my friends to a radiant beam that quickly defused a contentious situation.

When the car was ready to go, we started on our way again, slowly, down the coast. A short time later we saw two young Mexican parents and their two toddlers standing next to a car with a mangled tire. Our opportunity to help had come sooner than I expected.
We spoke with them and offered to take them to their home a few miles down the road. They gratefully accepted and piled into the back seat.
Two dusty little hands plunged into our box of crackers as we bumped along that rocky dirt road in the Mexican desert. Now seven people were crammed into the minivan, along with a cooler, two surfboards, camping gear, and a pile of oily towels.
As the toddlers eagerly devoured the last cracker crumbs and we joked with their parents, I realized that this was what helping was all about. It didn’t matter how much it cost the man to give us the epoxy or how far out of our way we went to take the family home. We all knew we had done the right thing, and the feeling was worth more than anything in the world.