Gospel Story Finder

During the Korean War, Ensign Frank Blair served on a troop transport ship stationed in Japan.6 The ship wasn’t large enough to have a formal chaplain, so the captain asked Brother Blair to be the ship’s informal chaplain, having observed that the young man was a person of faith and principle, highly respected by the whole crew.

Ensign Blair wrote: “Our ship was caught in a huge typhoon. The waves were about 45 feet [14 m] high. I was on watch … during which time one of our three engines stopped working and a crack in the centerline of the ship was reported. We had two remaining engines, one of which was only functioning at half power. We were in serious trouble.”

Ensign Blair finished his watch and was getting into bed when the captain knocked on his door. He asked, “Would you please pray for this ship?” Of course, Ensign Blair agreed to do so.

At that point, Ensign Blair could have simply prayed, “Heavenly Father, please bless our ship and keep us safe,” and then gone to bed. Instead, he prayed to know if there was something he could do to help ensure the safety of the ship. In response to Brother Blair’s prayer, the Holy Ghost prompted him to go to the bridge, speak with the captain, and learn more. He found that the captain was trying to determine how fast to run the ship’s remaining engines. Ensign Blair returned to his cabin to pray again.

He prayed, “What can I do to help address the problem with the engines?”

In response, the Holy Ghost whispered that he needed to walk around the ship and observe to gather more information. He again returned to the captain and asked for permission to walk around the deck. Then, with a lifeline tied around his waist, he went out into the storm.

Standing on the stern, he observed the giant propellers as they came out of the water when the ship crested a wave. Only one was working fully, and it was spinning very fast. After these observations, Ensign Blair once again prayed. The clear answer he received was that the remaining good engine was under too much strain and needed to be slowed down. So he returned to the captain and made that recommendation. The captain was surprised, telling him that the ship’s engineer had just suggested the opposite—that they increase the speed of the good engine in order to outrun the storm. Nevertheless, the captain chose to follow Ensign Blair’s suggestion and slowed the engine down. By dawn the ship was safely in calm waters.

Only two hours later, the good engine stopped working altogether. With half power in the remaining engine, the ship was able to limp into port.

The captain said to Ensign Blair, “If we had not slowed that engine when we did, we would have lost it in the middle of the storm.”

Without that engine, there would have been no way to steer. The ship would have overturned and been sunk. The captain thanked the young LDS officer and said he believed that following Ensign Blair’s spiritual impressions had saved the ship and its crew.

Long ago a woman tearfully told me that as a college student she had made a serious mistake with her boyfriend. He had arranged for an abortion. In due time they graduated and were married and had several other children. She told me how tormented she now was to look at her family, her beautiful children, and see in her mind the place, empty now, where that one child was missing.
If this couple understands and applies the Atonement, they will know that those experiences and the pain connected with them can be erased. No pain will last forever. It is not easy, but life was never meant to be either easy or fair. Repentance and the lasting hope that forgiveness brings will always be worth the effort.

Finally, I learned that there are many kinds of pioneers. I am a first-generation member of the Church. My family was not happy with my decision to be baptized, which made it difficult for me to attend my meetings. Our small branch struggled because of a lack of members, especially priesthood holders. Eventually it became evident that the mission was going to close it.
As a result, I decided to move to Canada, which was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made. I was an only child and loved my parents very much, as they loved me, but my testimony would have been at risk had I stayed in an area where I couldn’t attend church. I can still remember the night I left—my father running alongside the train blowing kisses to me while my mother looked on. My heart was breaking, but I knew I had to leave.
I arrived in Calgary, Alberta, on Mother’s Day in May 1967. I attended church with the members I was staying with and cried through the whole meeting. I remember writing letters home to my parents with tears streaming down my face, telling them I loved Canada but missed England and my family so much.
I struggled to adjust to my new life, suffering homesickness, loneliness, and disappointments, but I stayed true to the gospel. I attended all of my meetings and accepted callings. These were my pioneer days.
Eventually I met my husband. We were sealed in the Cardston Alberta Temple and raised three children in the Church.

Like another prophet, Joseph served “notwithstanding [his] weakness” (2 Nephi 33:11). “Out of [Joseph’s] weakness he [was] made strong” (2 Nephi 3:13). At one point, when he was translating the fourth chapter of 1 Nephi, Emma was acting as his scribe. Joseph reportedly encountered the words about the wall around Jerusalem (see 1 Nephi 4:5). He apparently paused and asked Emma if, in fact, there was a wall around Jerusalem. She replied in the affirmative. Joseph hadn’t known (see The History of the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, 1896, reprint [Independence, Missouri: Board of Publication, 1967], 4:447). According to Emma, when she and Joseph were interrupted during his translating, Joseph would later resume on the very sentence from which he had left off (see Saints Herald, 1 October 1879, pp. 289–90; see also Parley P. Pratt, Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1938], p. 62).

A couple of years ago a humor columnist for a local newspaper wrote on a serious and thought-provoking subject. I quote from this article: “Being a go-to-church Mormon in Utah means living so close to fellow ward members that not much happens that the entire congregation doesn’t know about in five minutes tops.”
He continues: “This kind of cheek-to-jowl living can be intrusive. … It also happens to be one of our greatest strengths.”
The author goes on to say: “At work on Tuesday, I caught the noon news broadcast on television. A van had been obliterated in a traffic crash. A young mother and two small children were being rushed to emergency rooms by helicopter and ambulance. … Hours later I learned that the van belonged to the young couple living across the street from me in Herriman, Eric and Jeana Quigley.
“Not only do I see the Quigleys in church, … we ate dinner with them at a neighborhood party the night before the crash. Our grandkids played with daughters Bianca and Miranda. …
“Fourteen-month-old Miranda suffered serious head injuries and died three days later at Primary Children’s Hospital.
“Here’s where all that nosiness … pays off. Although the accident occurred several miles from home, the dust literally had not settled before someone from the ward stopped and was pulling through the wreckage. The rest of the ward knew about it before the cops and paramedics showed up.
“Ward members went to all three hospitals, contacted Eric at work and organized into labor squads. People who didn’t get in on the immediate-need level were frantic for some way to help.
“In 48 hours, the Quigley yard was mowed, home cleaned, laundry done, refrigerator stocked, relatives fed and a trust fund set up at a local bank. We would have given their dog a bath if they had one.”
The author concludes with this insightful comment: “There is a positive side to the congregational microscope my ward lives under. … What happens to a few happens to all” (Robert Kirby, “Well-Being of Others Is Our Business,” Salt Lake Tribune, July 30, 2005, p. C1).

Every December, the youth of the Holladay 24th Ward, Holladay Utah North Stake, put on an amazing Christmas party. They decorate with beautiful lights, have a delicious dinner, make Christmas goodies, and receive hundreds of gifts.
Sound fun? It is, because none of it is for the teens themselves. They give it all away.
For nine years, the youth have put on a Christmas party at their ward building for elementary school students—about 50 children each year—from local low-income areas. The event includes a variety of themed rooms designed to make the children’s Christmas unforgettable.
In the Bethlehem room, children learn about the birth of the Savior as they dress up and act out the Nativity while reading the story from Luke.
In the Santa Claus room, they get their picture taken while receiving their own fleece blankets made by the youth. The children also choose a box full of home-baked treats to give to their families. Their teenage “buddy” for the evening also reads them their favorite Christmas story.
And then there’s a stop at the North Pole Diner for a scrumptious Christmas dinner.
As wonderful as each of these rooms is, they’re not what make this party so extraordinary. The big event happens in the cultural hall. When the children enter this area, their eyes get really big, and exclamations of “Wow!” fill the air. Some of the little ones even jump up and down with anticipation. For there before them is a “store,” just like the big stores downtown, full of hundreds of donated gifts.
But, like the youth of the ward who choose to give their Christmas party away each year, the children aren’t excited to pick these gifts for themselves. They are overjoyed because this is the first time for most of them to be able to get Christmas gifts for their family. “The best part of Christmas is giving, and this gives the kids the chance to experience the joy of giving themselves,” says Tiffany Thompson, 15.
At the end of the evening, adult volunteers from the ward drive the children home with bags full of gifts, treats, and a ham and other food items their parents can use to make a wonderful Christmas dinner. “It touches your heart to see kids who otherwise would not have anything to give to their families be able to give them so much,” says Valen Campbell, 17, who co-chaired this year’s party.
The giving doesn’t stop there. Even after the hundreds of hours of combined effort involved in putting on this service activity, youth of the ward say they are the ones who receive. “The children serve us, because they teach us about being selfless,” says 17-year-old Whitney Drage, the event’s other co-chair. “If there are gifts left over at the end, we let the children pick a gift for themselves. One year a little 8-year-old girl asked me, ‘Instead of getting a gift for myself, could I just choose another one for my sister?’”
Becca Nelson, 14, adds, “It brings us the true meaning of Christmas: Christlike service. These kids are such an example of that. They hardly want anything for themselves, only for their families.”
The project also brings unity to the youth, the ward, and even the community. Ward members and members of other faiths help serve the Christmas dinner, donate food and gifts, and transport the children to and from the party. “It brings everyone closer because it takes everyone to make it work,” says Valen.
Perhaps these are the reasons the youth keep putting on this party year after year. “We had one year when we thought we’d do something else, but there was a ‘revolt,’” Bishop Gerreld Pulsipher says with a smile. “The youth and ward really look forward to giving this service.”
George Theodore, the counselor and social worker at the children’s school, adds, “This will be a Christmas these kids will never forget. When you’re not used to having something so special, the memory always stays in your heart. I think these kids will in turn give to others someday when they have a little extra to give.”

Spider pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the perspiration from his brow. The hot afternoon sun was yellow white. He had spent the day traveling from house to house in the village, hoping to wheedle a dinner invitation. Alas! His neighbors, who were generally kind and generous, had grown weary of Spider’s shiftless, greedy ways.
“Well,” sighed Spider, “I suppose I shall have to prepare my own supper.”
He shuffled slowly to his cottage. Grumbling at every turn, he managed to put together a rather sumptuous dinner. Just as he sat down and drew his chair close to the table, he heard a rap at the door.
“What now?” mumbled Spider to himself. He opened the door a tiny crack to see a bedraggled turtle staring at him.
“Could you … would you … ,” began Turtle, standing on his hind legs and sniffing hungrily at the delicious aroma that floated through the doorway, “spare a bite for a weary traveler?”
Now Spider hated the thought of sharing anything with anybody, but he feared the ridicule of his neighbors if they should hear of his selfishness. So, reluctantly, he opened the door and nodded to an empty chair at the table. Turtle sat down gratefully and reached for the bowl of steaming yams and the platter of fish.
“Tsk, tsk, my friend,” said Spider loudly. “Where are your manners? Just look at your filthy hands! You must wash them before coming to my table.”
Turtle stared at his dusty paws. Mumbling apologies to his host, he waddled as fast as he could to the river. There he washed his hands thoroughly and scrubbed his face for good measure. As quickly as he could, he returned to Spider’s table. The dish of yams was half-gone, and several fish had been devoured. Eagerly Turtle reached again.
“Dear friend,” scolded Spider even more loudly. “You surely don’t call those hands clean!”
“But the dust from your path … ,” began Turtle. He stopped. He didn’t want to sound ungrateful. Slowly he rose from the table and waddled again to the river. On his return, however, he was careful to walk on the thick grasses so his hands would remain spotless.
Turtle climbed onto his chair only to see the last bite of fish passing Spider’s lips. The bowl of yams was licked clean.
“A delectable dinner, wouldn’t you agree?” said Spider, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.
“To be sure!” answered Turtle disgustedly. “If you are ever near my home, you must let me repay your hospitality.”
Some months later Spider wandered far from his village. Tired and hungry, he stopped beside a quiet river to rest. He spied Turtle sunning himself on a large rock. Spider called to his friend.
“Well, well,” said Turtle, smiling. “At last you have come. You will stay to supper, of course.”
“Of course,” answered Spider eagerly.
“Wait here,” said Turtle. “It will take a short while to prepare.” He disappeared beneath the water. Before long he popped to the surface, munching a juicy clam. “It’s ready,” he called to Spider.
Spider dived eagerly off the rock into the water. He sank a few inches but bobbed immediately to the surface. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t propel his spindly body to the bottom of the river. He flipped. He flopped. But nothing worked.
However, Spider was as cunning as he was greedy. He hurried to the riverbank and stuffed his jacket pockets with pebbles. This time when he jumped off the rock, he sank quickly and plopped right into a chair by Turtle’s table.
What a feast awaited him! On a bed of fresh watercress lay dozens of tiny fish. There were bowls of clams and mussels and a platter of warm eels. Hungrily Spider reached for them.
“Tsk, tsk,” said Turtle loudly. “Where are your manners? It is very rude to come to my table wearing your jacket. You must remove it at once.”
Greedy Spider didn’t stop to think. As quickly as he could, he took off his jacket. Without the weight of the pebbles, he shot to the surface of the river, barely missing a large rock in his ascent. The laughter of Turtle followed him. Realizing the lesson was deserved, Spider headed for his village, still tired and hungry, but much wiser.

Leah dropped her schoolbag as soon as she walked into her room. She crawled onto her bed and squeezed her pillow to her stomach. She couldn’t believe what Ashley had said about her dad.
Leah’s dad had died by suicide a few months ago. She missed him a lot. She missed his famous meatballs. She missed how happy he made Mom. And she missed watching him play his guitar.
Sometimes when she was sad, Leah listened to his music. She also wrote him letters. She kept them in the memory box in her closet. It was the same box where she kept Dad’s glasses, his old baseball hat, and other things he liked. It was her way of remembering him.
But Leah didn’t feel like listening to music or writing letters now. She was sad, but also kind of angry. She squeezed the pillow tighter and started to cry.
Mom tapped gently on the door. “Are you OK?” Mom asked.
Leah sniffed and sat up. Mom sat down on the bed next to her.
“Ashley said something mean,” Leah said. “About Dad.” Tears kept falling from Leah’s eyes. “She said he can’t go to heaven because of how he died.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, pulling Leah into a hug. “That’s not true.” She wiped away some of Leah’s tears. “When your dad died, his brain was sick. Heavenly Father understands what Dad was feeling and why he was hurting.”
“He was a good man,” Leah said. “Heavenly Father loves him and is helping him, right?”
“Dad was a great man, Leah. He loved you so much.” Mom wiped away a tear of her own. “And Heavenly Father does love him. I know He does.”
“But how do you know?” Leah asked.
“Because I pray about it sometimes,” Mom said. “And even though I miss him so much it hurts, I also feel moments of peace.”
Leah nodded.
“I’m sorry Ashley said that to you,” Mom said. “I know Ashley is one of your best friends, and that was really hurtful for you.”
“Yeah.” Leah was quiet for a minute. Then she asked, “Can we say a prayer together?”
“Of course.”
Mom and Leah knelt down. Then Leah began to pray. “Heavenly Father, I really miss my dad. Is he OK? Please help me to feel better. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Leah unfolded her arms and gave Mom another hug. She felt a tiny bit better. She still felt really sad, but she didn’t feel worried about her dad anymore. She knew Heavenly Father loved him, and she knew that He loved her too.
“Thanks, Mom.” Leah took a deep breath. “Can you help me talk to Ashley?”
“That’s a great idea,” Mom said. “I don’t think she meant to hurt your feelings, but it would be good for her to know why what she said was hurtful. I’ll call her mom and see if we can have them come over tomorrow to talk.”
“OK,” said Leah. “I think I’m going to have some quiet time now.”
Mom nodded. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Leah turned on her dad’s music. She closed her eyes and listened to the strumming of his guitar. Then she pulled out a piece of paper and started writing him a letter.

This story took place in the USA.
“I can’t come over today,” Blair said. Her face felt hot from embarrassment.
Her friends stared at her. “But you said you would!” Sammy said.
“I know.” Blair stared down at her feet. “I’m not feeling very good. I’m sorry.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Jessica said.
Blair didn’t know what to say. She wished she could go to Sammy’s house. But her stomach really hurt today. She needed to go home and rest.
Blair had Crohn’s disease. It made her stomach ache, and it really hurt. Most days her stomach hurt at least a little. But some days were worse than others. Today was one of those days. She wished she could pick which days she hurt more. It seemed like her stomach hurt the most whenever she wanted to do something fun.
“Let’s just go,” Sammy said to Jessica.
When Blair got home, she took her medicine. Then she tried to sleep. But she hurt too much.
Mom and Dad came to check on her. Dad sat on her bed. “How are you feeling?”
“OK. The medicine helped a little,” Blair said.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t go to Sammy’s house,” Mom said.
Blair felt tears in her eyes. “It’s not fair! My friends don’t understand what it’s like.” Blair threw a pillow at the wall. “I just want to get better.”
Dad gave Blair a hug. “I know. Would you like a priesthood blessing?”
Blair nodded. Blessings usually helped her feel more peace.
Dad put his hands on Blair’s head and blessed her to rest and feel comfort. It was a nice blessing. It helped her remember that Heavenly Father loved her. But she still felt sad about her friends.
After the blessing, Mom and Dad gave Blair a kiss goodnight. They left so she could sleep.
Blair lay back down and closed her eyes. The blessing had helped, but she was still hurting.
She knelt by her bed to pray. At first it was like most of her prayers. She told Heavenly Father what she was grateful for and asked to feel better. But this time she kept going.
“Heavenly Father, I feel really sad. I miss being with my friends,” she said. “I feel lonely. No one understands how much I hurt each day. I miss what it was like before I was sick.”
The longer Blair prayed, the more she felt that Heavenly Father was listening to her prayer. She couldn’t hear or see Him, but she felt His love. She knew He cared about what she had to say. Blair didn’t want the feeling to end.
Blair prayed until she had told Heavenly Father everything she felt. Then a thought came to her mind. Blair’s friends might never know what it felt like to have Crohn’s disease, but Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ did. They knew how much she hurt and how lonely she felt. They would always be there for her.
Blair felt like she was getting the biggest hug. After she finished her prayer, she went to find her parents to tell them what happened.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Mom asked.
Blair smiled. “No. I’ve been praying.”
Mom looked surprised. “We said good night a while ago. Were you praying that whole time?”
Had it really been so long? Blair nodded. “It was like getting a big hug. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know how I feel. Because of Them, I don’t have to feel alone!”
Illustrations by Tammie Lyon

In 1938, during the middle of the Great Depression in the United States, my mother had just turned nineteen years old. She was the oldest of six children, with her youngest sibling having recently turned five. Her father, Leslie, was a sheepherder in the deserts of eastern Utah. The weather was hot and dry. One summer day in June, while Leslie was out tending the sheep, he became dehydrated and suffered from heat stroke. At age 41, he died suddenly, leaving his wife and six children with no husband and father and very little financial means. My mother did not understand why God would take her father when she felt the family needed him so desperately. She prayed and asked God why her father would die at that particular time.
My mother sought to learn from God why her father died when he was young and had a family that needed him so much during a time of great economic difficulty. The answer she received did not come quickly, but it did come. After studying the scriptures and praying for many days, her answer came in a dream. The answer was clear and brought peace and understanding to her soul.
I witness that Jesus Christ lives. He is the all-powerful Son of God. He knows us personally. He can guide and comfort us during times of uncertainty, pain, or fear if we listen to His words and seek to hearken and to heed what He tells us to do. I also witness that Jesus Christ directs His ordained servants and speaks through them. I have personally felt His clear direction in preparing messages for general conference.
As we listen to the messages during general conference—and seek to hearken and heed the words of Jesus Christ—He will speak to our hearts. He can and will help us to deal with temptation, struggles, and weakness. We can experience miracles in our marriages, family relationships, and daily work. Jesus Christ seeks to help us feel increased joy even if turbulence surrounds us. May we turn to Him and hearken and heed His words.

Jenny came home from school, dropped her backpack off in her room, and slumped down on the couch.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
Jenny sighed. “Today Mrs. Patterson gave each of us three paper flowers. If anyone talks during quiet time, we have to give someone one of our flowers.”
Mom nodded.
“Emily keeps saying I need to give her a flower. But I’m not even talking!”
“Have you talked to your teacher? Maybe she can help,” Mom said. “But sometimes when people act like that, they really just want a friend.”
Jenny scrunched up her forehead. “It seems like a strange way to show you want a friend.”
“I know. But if you pray, Heavenly Father will show you how to be a friend to Emily.”
That night Jenny prayed for help. She asked Heavenly Father to help her know what to say when Emily asked for her flowers.
At school the next day, her teacher announced that she would retire soon. A lump grew in Jenny’s throat. She loved Mrs. Patterson! Jenny wanted to cry as she thought about how empty her school would feel next year. Later she went home and told her mom about Mrs. Patterson leaving.
“I’m sorry,” Mom said. “I bet Mrs. Patterson is sad too.”
Jenny nodded. “Maybe our class could buy her a new wind chime. She loves those.”
“Great idea! Let’s go to the store tomorrow. You could invite some friends to come too,” Mom said.
Jenny smiled. She was excited to give Mrs. Patterson a present.
“Speaking of other kids, did you talk to Emily today?” Mom asked.
Jenny shrugged. “She kept asking for flowers again. I didn’t know what to do, so I just gave them to her. I prayed for help last night, but it’s not getting any better.”
“Don’t give up,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father hears your prayers. Just keep praying, and you’ll know what to do.”
That night Jenny prayed again for help with Emily. When she got to class the next morning, she quietly sat down at her desk next to Emily. Almost immediately Emily told Jenny to give her a paper flower.
Jenny hesitated. Suddenly she knew what to say. “Emily, I have a question for you.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I want to buy Mrs. Patterson a new wind chime, and I need help picking one out. Do you want to come shopping with my mom and me?”
Emily’s face lit up. “Really? I guess I could help you.” She looked down at her hands. Then she reached into her desk. She carefully pulled out several paper flowers and handed them to Jenny.
“I’m sorry I took your flowers.”
Jenny reached for the flowers, and the girls smiled at each other. Mom was right, Jenny thought. Maybe she just wanted a friend!
As Jenny turned to her desk, she felt happy inside. Heavenly Father had heard her prayers! She was sad to lose her favorite teacher, but she was happy to gain a new friend.

We have been given all that we need to be successful in these assignments that come. I remember one of these opportunities while serving in the Cannery. I was standing by a conveyor belt watching it go by with dizzying results. One of the workers came up and informed me that a women from my ward had passed out and would I please go and check on her. When I arrived, they were loading her in an ambulance to take her to the hospital. They said she had been out for about thirty minutes. I asked if she had been given a blessing, they said no, but there was a Catholic Priest who had come with a friend, and that he had given her the last rites, but that no one had given her a blessing. I followed her to the hospital and with her husband, we gave her a blessing. It amazed me that with all of the faithful priesthood brethren there, no one had thought to give her a blessing. President Packer said we live far below our privileges. We need to be bolder in using the amazing spiritual gifts each of us are endowed with.

Hello! dear brothers and sisters.
I’m very grateful that I have this Church and gospel in my life. Because of this Church, I was able to attend the YSA conference in Hyderabad. I learned so many things that help me to become self-reliant.
Now I’m working in a company that pays me a good salary. This happened because of the conference. I gave my interview without fear, I explained about myself in 30 seconds. I followed the “no preaching” concept and I was selected. Because of the conference, lots of people became my good friends, and now I’m also planning to go on mission. A mission is the place where you can learn so many things and I can become self-reliant. So many things are there which I can’t explain in words, but I’m glad that I was part of this conference. Those precious memories will stay forever.

I would like to begin with a personal story. In 1988 I was visiting with my brothers and sisters when the conversation drifted to our father, who had passed away many years earlier. We shared our memories of Dad: his ways of doing things, his favorite sayings, our fishing trips (where all he did was bait hooks), and so forth. After enjoying the discussion for 10 or 15 minutes, I was surprised when my youngest sister started to cry. When her emotions settled down, she reminded us that she had been only six years old when our dad passed away. Though she was happy to hear us talk about our memories of Dad, she was saddened because she herself had very few memories of him.

That experience bothered me for several weeks. Being the oldest child in the family, I had many memories of my father and could not imagine life without those memories. It bothered me further when I realized that my wife and most of my siblings’ spouses would never meet my dad and that my children and their cousins would never know their grandfather. So I enlisted my wife’s help, and for the next several months we set about compiling a book about my father. We contacted extended family, found former friends, and called work associates and Church leaders who had interacted with Dad. We asked all of them to write down their memories of him. We made copies of pictures, news articles, and documents that showed his special achievements, trying to put everything we could find about my father in a book. After many months of effort, the book was finished, and we printed copies and gave them to family members as our Christmas gift.

Nancy climbed up on the hard wagon seat, Papa clucked their aging chestnut mare into motion, and the trip to Gettysburg began. Carefully, Nancy placed the brown parcel on the seat between them, then smoothed the coarse paper with loving strokes. As her fingers touched the package and she thought of its contents, Nancy allowed herself to believe that at last the trip was a reality. She sighed deeply. No, she wasn’t dreaming, but was actually going to Gettysburg to see the president.
Two weeks ago, Papa rode home from the village with news that President Lincoln would come to dedicate the new cemetery on the battlefield where so many soldiers died last July. Nancy’s thirteen-year-old heart pounded in anticipation, and immediately she asked her father if he would take her there.
“It’s twelve miles to Gettysburg,” Papa said. “Take a whole day to go, hear the speeches, and come back, providing nobody talks too long. Don’t know if I can spare the time. But I do need supplies.” When Nancy saw the hard lines of his face soften and the glow that warmed his dark eyes, she knew they would go to Gettysburg.
Nancy had held a dream in her heart for months, turning it first this way in her mind then that, until it sparkled like a newly minted coin. She wanted to make a contribution to the war whose furious sounds had come so close to them last summer. She wasn’t a boy so she couldn’t volunteer as a soldier, but surely she could do something worthwhile. Then she remembered people telling about how President Lincoln worked alone through the night in the cold and drafty White House with only an old threadbare shawl draped over his shoulders for warmth.
It was then her idea took birth and her dream spun a web of hope. As she hoed among the vegetables and fed the clucking brown hens, she pictured herself dressed in a pale gown covered with pink rosebuds, knocking on the White House door and asking to see Mr. Lincoln. When he appeared, she presented him with the most beautiful woolen shawl in the world, one that she had knitted herself. Then the president would no longer look sad and lonely, and he would be warm when he worked through the night. It was a good dream and sometimes, as she stared at the darkened ceiling of her bedroom, she held it close to her, willing it to come true.
Now, bouncing along in the wagon, Nancy remembered how carefully she’d knitted during every free moment to finish the blue shawl so that she’d be prepared to give it to the president at the right moment. And soon now that moment would be here. It was the most important one of her life and she could hardly wait.
Why can’t we go faster? she wondered. She sighed deeply and tried to stop squirming on the wooden seat.
“Patience, Nancy, patience,” her father cautioned.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Look around you. Enjoy the day!”
“I’ll try,” Nancy said with a smile.
Early morning mist swirled in soiled, gray patches along the roadbed covered over with an umbrella of tangled oak and hickory, but the sun warmed clear patches of meadow just beyond, casting an occasional golden shaft of light in their path through the trees.
Could that be a hint of good things waiting to happen? She wondered if Papa’s almanac that told of weather signs and good crop-planting days had anything to say about this day. Grownups often looked for signs in nature to tell them about the future. Now that she was nearly grown up, with vague changes taking place in her body that sometimes mystified her, it was time to take on grown-up ways. Surely this gift she’d made for the president showed that she was growing up and making a contribution to the war. She wished she knew what it felt like to think grown-up thoughts. Then, maybe she’d know for sure.
Hoofbeats slowed to a trot behind them, then came alongside. Nancy turned to see their neighbor, Mr. Brooks, in his fading federal blues. He’d been an officer at Bull Run, his empty left sleeve a silent testimony of his contribution to the war.
“Howdy, Mr. Montgomery. Morning Nancy,” he greeted them. His black moustache curved upward into a bushy smile.
“Mr. Brooks,” Papa said, “You’re alone, then?”
“The child has a fever again so Martha’s home, but this is one trip I had to make.”
“You and Nancy.” Papa turned and smiled at her. “She has some mysterious reason to see the president. Wants to give him something.”
“Well, now, fancy that,” Mr. Brooks said. “I hope she’s going to give him the name of a general who knows how to fight a war and win. That he could surely use.”
“True,” Papa agreed, “although General Grant did himself proud at Vicksburg. Maybe he’ll finally be the one to bring an end to it all.”
Mr. Brooks nodded in agreement and then said, “I’ll be off now. We’ve a rare treat in store for us today and I don’t want to miss a word of Senator Everett’s speech.” He touched his horse’s flanks lightly and disappeared down the road. Nancy yearned for a horse with the speed of Mr. Brooks’ animal.
“Who’s Senator Everett?” she asked.
“He’s a fine speaker, Nancy, and he’s also been a governor and president of Harvard University.”
“All that?” she asked.
“And more,” Papa replied. “You’ll never forget what he says today. Mark my word.”
“But President Lincoln will be there, won’t he?” Nancy was suddenly anxious. “You said so.”
“Oh, yes, he’ll be there,” Papa assured her. “But I don’t know why. After Senator Everett gets through talking, there won’t be much left to say.”
They rode in silence for a few moments, then Nancy asked, “Papa?”
“Yes, Nancy?”
“Do you think I’ll really get to talk to President Lincoln? Can I really get that close?”
“Lots of people have,” Papa said. “They come to see him at the White House and he visits with soldiers in the field. He’ll talk to you too.”
Reassured, Nancy smoothed her dark green skirt, touched her blonde hair, and found that it was curling around her face again in spite of everything she’d done to make it stay back. Oh, well, she thought and leaned forward, eager for her first glimpse of Gettysburg.
Hours later, it seemed, Nancy began to wonder if they’d taken a wrong turn in the road when finally, on the horizon, the town popped into view. She shaded her eyes against the hazy sun and stood up to ease the tension that had held her taut as clean wash hanging outside on a winter’s day.
“The town looks deserted,” Papa said. “I hope we’re not too late.”
“Oh, Papa, hurry,” Nancy pleaded. “We can’t be too late after so many weeks of waiting and dreaming. It wouldn’t be fair.”
They entered town from the north on Harrisburg Road, clippety-clopping through empty streets, past silent wooden houses and churches and deserted brick stores and shops. A solitary figure stood at an intersection ahead.
“You missed the procession,” the hoop-skirted lady called to them.
Papa slowed the wagon. “Where’s the dedication ceremony being held?”
“Straight south,” she answered, “on Cemetery Ridge.”
Nancy dug her fingers into her skirt and twisted the material into a ball. “Can’t you make Dora go any faster?” she urged. She sat forward on the edge of the seat and held onto the rough sideboard of the wagon for support. Now she could see carriages and horses tied to scrub brush along the sides of the road.
Papa halted the mare, jumped down, and tied her fast. “Looks like we’ll have to walk the rest of the way, Nancy,” he said.
Nancy took her parcel and hopped down and started running toward the crowd. “I’ll meet you back here afterwards, Papa,” she called.
She heard Papa shouting to her, but she didn’t stop. No time for anything now but getting there. Hurriedly, Nancy picked her way over wagon ruts and past rail fences, still on the ground where they’d been toppled by advancing confederate troops last July. Out of breath after her hasty climb up the low ridge, Nancy leaned against a tree for support. As her hand touched something cold and metallic, she looked to see what it was. Slowly recognition came and, with it, a tingling revulsion that bunched her stomach into a knot. She jumped back and wiped her hands on her skirt. She’d been touching a bullet, a real bullet, partially imbedded into the tree! Did that bullet kill someone before the tree stopped it? she wondered and shuddered involuntarily. Shaken, she hurried on.
(To be concluded next month.)

They say everybody loves a party, and I guess that is generally true, if it’s the right kind and with the right friends. You do have to choose carefully though, for a wrong choice can be embarrassing. I know I’m a lot more careful about the kinds of parties I go to now, especially since the accident. I’m a police officer and do have some type of professional image to maintain. But, nevertheless, awhile back my wife talked me into attending a Police Association Halloween party.
She had planned what was sure to be a prizewinning costume for us, and as reluctant as I was to wear it, she won the day and I agreed that we would go as “The Tortoise and the Hare.” Our costumes were quite simple, consisting of two pair of long thermal underwear, dyed to fit our characters—a gray pair for Nancy and a bright green pair for me. A cardboard shell and a funny cap completed my rig while a cute cotton tail and a pair of ears rounded out hers. It was a little distressful but fun, and we did win a prize.
Not long after the party, on Thanksgiving Day, I was riding my police motorcycle on traffic patrol duty. It was a beautiful day, but the weather was cold and I was dressed warmly with high motorcycle boots and breeches, a leather jacket, and earmuffs in my helmet. I would be glad when my shift ended at 2:00 P.M. that afternoon and I would be free to join my family for a special Thanksgiving dinner. I decided to check traffic on 9th East and had just stopped my motor on a side street to watch, when—Zipppppp—a nearly new car went zooming by at a very high rate of speed.
My foot punched the gear lever into low as my fingers released the clutch and cranked the throttle open. The bike jumped forward and I was in pursuit. “Get a clock first on his speed,” I thought, as I rapidly accelerated and stabilized my speed with that of the car. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. We were steady, and I punched my speedometer lock, which would keep it set at the clocked speed. Noting the distance we had traveled at that rate, I prepared to make the stop. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, and simultaneously pushed the red-light switch with my thumb, screwed the throttle full on, and pushed down the siren pedal with my heel. The powerful cycle leaped forward, siren screaming. The cold fall air bit deeper into my cheeks, and my eyes began to water as my speed reached 55, then 60 miles per hour.
I was still perhaps a quarter of a block behind the speeder and gaining rapidly, when suddenly I saw a movement from the side of the road. A dark small car, having stopped at the side street stop sign, had let my violator pass and was pulling into the street right in front of me. The driver had failed to see my speeding police motorcycle in spite of my lights and siren and had pulled right into my path.
Instant reflexes took over. Throttle off, brakes on hard, weight shift smooth to the left and front wheel turned hard to the right to put the motor into a broad slide. Training I’d been through many times before on a dirt field and at much slower speed could now perhaps save my life—if I remembered it and did it correctly. The idea in such an emergency was to lay the motorcycle down so that it was sliding toward the object, wheels first on its crash bars. If the rider can stay on and hold the bike down, the wheels and engine will protect him from death and reduce his injuries.
So far, so good. I was in the broad slide, and my speed was down to probably about 45 miles per hour. The driver of the car had seen me at last and had stopped abruptly in the center of the lane. My skidding cycle shot past the front of his car, missing him by inches. I was going to make it. I relaxed. What a mistake. When I did so, my heel released slight pressure from the brake, allowing the wheel to turn. It caught the pavement and flipped the motorcycle hard to its opposite side. The effect of this acted upon me like a giant catapult, and I was thrown into the air head first, arms outstretched, still moving probably 40 miles per hour. I must have looked like a great ungainly bird sailing along for a moment, and then the pavement was slamming into my chest and arms and I was sliding and skidding along the road.
Still sliding, I realized that I was now on the wrong side of the roadway and that other traffic was coming at me. A car was very close, and I could see the driver. His eyes were wide with surprise and indecision. I could see his white hair, and I just knew he was old and probably had reflexes which would let him run right over me before his foot got to the brake.
“I must get turned around and hit him feet first,” I thought. “At least I won’t be killed, just seriously injured.” Somehow I did it. In the few seconds left before impact I turned on the roadway and the crash ended as my posterior hit the oil pan of the old gentleman’s car and my motorcycle came to rest between a tree and fire hydrant nearby.
All was very quiet for a moment and I lay very still, afraid to move, feeling great waves of nausea and pain come over me. Then people came from everywhere to help. There were sirens in the distance, and soon helpful persons had pulled me from beneath the car and were trying to determine the extent of my injuries. My uniform was torn and my leather coat had holes worn in its sleeves and, oh, did my bottom hurt.
Then it happened. Right there on that public street the ambulance crew began stripping away my uniform to check my injuries and, in front of everyone, exposed to view the brightest green thermal underwear you have ever seen. I was mortified and embarrassed. A police officer is supposed to be manly and maintain an image of strength and decorum at all times, and suddenly my secret was exposed to the world. I couldn’t explain about the costume party and the fact that I only had one pair of thermals to wear on a cold November day. My secret was exposed to the world, and when I got to the hospital, those nurses didn’t help my ego any with their snickers and whispers either.

Grandma came to our house last Friday to make jelly. She gave Mom two big brown paper sacks full of plums. All morning Mom and Grandma filled jars with hot pink stuff that was jelly when it cooled. It is the best-tasting jelly in the whole world! I know because once Grandma gave me some when I was at her house.
Mom and Grandma were so busy that I helped by making my own sandwich for lunch. After all the jars were lined up on the kitchen counter to cool, Grandma went home.
The next day I counted fifteen jars of jelly when I helped Mom put them away. I thought she’d put them in our food storage, but she didn’t.
After lunch Mom asked me to take a jar of the jelly to Mrs. Conner. Mrs. Conner is a grouchy lady who lives next door to us. She always yells at me if I cut through her yard or if she thinks I am making too much noise. But she smiled and thanked me when I gave her the jelly.
Later Sister Moreno came to go visiting teaching with Mom. They took six more jars of plum jelly with them.
Sunday we took another jar of jelly to church for Brother Jones. He’s really nice. One time he came into Primary and showed us some wooden toys he’d made in his basement workshop. I like Brother Jones, and I was glad he got some of the jelly.
We gave a jar to each pair of missionaries too. I hope someone gives me some when I’m a missionary!
Dad took another jar with him on Monday. He gave it to the man he rides to work with. And when Aunt Julie stopped by on her way home from the store, Mom gave her a jar of jelly.
I looked up at the shelf and counted the jars again. It didn’t take very long. There were only three jars left. Mom was giving all the jelly away! I went into the living room where she was reading and asked, “Why are we giving all our jelly away?”
She looked at me for a moment. “That’s why we made it—to give away,” she said. “Grandma and I made it to give to people we love, to let them know that we care about them. I think Grandma may have some more plums, Danny. If she does, would you like to help me make some more jelly?”
“Jelly to keep?” I asked her.
“You bet,” she said. “And maybe there will be enough for you to give to some of your friends too.”
The next morning when I looked at the shelf, there were only two jars of jelly left. The third jar was in front of my plate. Taped to the front of the jar was a note that said: Danny’s jelly to keep (because we love him)

Elder M. Russell Ballard tells a story about receiving a visit from one of the missionaries who served under him when he was a mission president. The missionary expressed that he was beginning to doubt his testimony and had several questions. Elder Ballard posed the following question to the young man: “How long has it been since you read from the Book of Mormon?”
His response was, “It’s been a long time.”
Elder Ballard challenged the young man to read the Book of Mormon for an hour each day until they met again. Ten days later the young man returned to Elder Ballard’s office. He immediately said that he knew the Church was true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. Elder Ballard asked the young man what he had learned from the experience.
The young man said, “Give the Lord equal time.”

I was ordained an elder, and on the day of my departure for active duty with the navy, a member of my ward bishopric joined my family and friends at the train station to bid me farewell. Just before train time, he placed in my hand a small volume titled Missionary Handbook. I laughed and commented that I wasn’t going on a mission.
He answered, “Take it anyway. It may come in handy.”
It did. I needed a hard, rectangular object to place in the bottom of my seabag so that my clothing would stay more firm and would thus be less wrinkled. The Missionary Handbook was just what I needed, and it served well in my seabag for 12 weeks.
The night before our Christmas leave, our thoughts were of home. The barracks were quiet, but then the silence was broken by my buddy in the adjoining bunk—a Mormon boy, Leland Merrill—who began to moan in pain. I inquired concerning the reason, and he said he felt really sick. He did not want to go to the base dispensary, for he knew that doing such would prevent his going home the following day.
He seemed to grow worse as the hours passed. Finally, knowing that I was an elder, he asked me to give him a priesthood blessing.
I had never before given a priesthood blessing, I had never received a blessing, and I had never witnessed a blessing being given. As I prayed silently for help, I remembered the Missionary Handbook in the bottom of my seabag. I quickly emptied the bag and took the book to the night-light. There I read how one blesses the sick. With many curious sailors looking on, I proceeded with the blessing. Before I could put everything back into my bag, Leland Merrill was sleeping like a child. He awakened the following morning feeling fine. The gratitude each of us felt for the power of the priesthood was immense.

I’d like to share an experience that reminded me that I was a son of God, that He loved me and has a work for me to do. I had been in South America sourcing new potato varieties and, at the conclusion of my trip, was scheduled to fly home from Lima, Peru at midnight on Saturday night. That weekend happened to be General Conference, so I went to a local Stake Center to view the proceedings on Saturday.

In the afternoon, I asked a native Peruvian how long it would take to get from the Stake Center to the airport so that I could arrive in time to catch my flight. He said I should leave halfway through the Priesthood session, but then he cautioned me not to take a taxi. He said there were many taxis that were dishonest and very dangerous, and as a foreigner, I could be taken advantage of – even robbed and beaten. I thanked him for the information but knew that since I didn’t have a vehicle, or know anyone with a vehicle, my only option, other than walking, was to take a taxi.

That evening as the brethren stood to sing the rest hymn, I said goodbye to the missionaries in the RS room where we had been watching the session. One of the Zone Leaders, who looked like a big defensive lineman, offered to walk out to the street with me, and said he would try to find a good taxi. We stood there for a few minutes, and many taxis drove past, but none of them looked trustworthy.

Suddenly a Peruvian man wearing a white shirt and tie appeared at my side. He stated, “You are going to the airport,” and as I nodded, he said, “Wait a few minutes and I’ll be back.” Relieved, I thought he was going to get his car. However, to my surprise, he returned on foot, and then after watching the traffic for a few minutes, he stopped a taxi for us to get in.

Full of questions, I asked, “Who are you, and how did you know that I needed to go to the airport?” He replied that he was President Fernando Soriano, first counselor in the Stake Presidency. He then asked if I remembered the counsel from President Monson at General Conference a few years ago, that we were to act when we receive impressions of the Spirit. Then, he said that tonight as he was singing the intermediate hymn, an unmistakable impression came into his mind: “Walk out to the street and you will find a man that you are to take to the airport.”

Following the promptings of the Spirit, President Soriano walked out to the street and found me looking for a taxi. He ran home to tell his wife that he would be going to the airport and would be home late. Because he didn’t own a car, he relied on taxis when he needed to get across the city and knew which ones were legal. Even so, our taxi did not have authority to enter the airport and stopped several blocks away, leaving us to walk the rest of the way. President Soriano helped me with my luggage and led me in the dark as we walked through an area where homeless men gathered around campfires.

Once we entered the airport, I thanked him for his assistance. Without his guidance, I knew that arriving at the airport safely without being robbed or beaten was questionable. However, President Soriano refused to say goodbye. He explained that in his impression, he had a very clear vision of escorting me through the security gate, and that until he had fulfilled his duty to God, he would not leave. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for this good brother who listened to the Spirit and came to my rescue at great personal sacrifice. I asked for a photo together, although I knew that I would never forget him.

As my plane flew through the night, I found I was sleepless. Tears flowed from my eyes as I reflected on the events of the evening. I have traveled throughout the world without any difficulty, yet, that night I was in danger. Even though I hadn’t been aware of my need, my Heavenly Father was. He knew of the potential perils that awaited and protected me by inspiring President Soriano to escort me to the airport. Although I have had spiritual experiences in helping others, I don’t know if I had ever been on the receiving end before as strongly as was manifested in this experience. I was humbled and overwhelmed with a feeling of exquisite love from above. I knew that God was aware of me individually as His son and that He loved me.