Gospel Story Finder

I visited my grandpa and grandma who are not members of the LDS Church. On Sunday we went to the church where my grandpa preaches. A girl invited me to go to Sunday School with her. The teacher was teaching about “Mormonism.” I knew that what she was teaching was not the truth, and I felt angry. I excused myself from class. Once I was alone I said a prayer to ask Heavenly Father for courage to bear my testimony. When I got back to class, I raised my hand and said, “I am a Mormon.” Suddenly I felt the Spirit really strong and my fear went away completely.
The teacher asked me if I could tell the class why we are called Mormons. I said, “We are called Mormons because we believe in the Book of Mormon.” A girl said that she had started to read the Book of the Mormon but she laughed at it. She asked me how I could believe such a story. Her question hurt my feelings, but I said what was in my heart: “I know it is true because I prayed to Heavenly Father and He told me it was so.” Before this happened I did not think I could share my testimony with so many people who didn’t believe in our Church, but now I know that the Spirit will always give me courage.

One afternoon in the fall of 1974, I received a letter, forwarded to me from my parents’ address. I recognized neither the name Lois Muntz nor the Michigan return address on the thick envelope. I began reading the first page, which alluded to the time when I had been a missionary in Libertyville, Illinois. The letter told of a family moving to several different states and being “found” by missionaries wherever they happened to settle and then told of their baptism in June 1974 and the subsequent death of the father not many months later. I was still puzzled as to the identity of the writer when I reached the end of the letter.
Suddenly, it all became clear to me. I could picture the exact circumstances of this long-since-forgotten acquaintance. My mind went back to July 1966 when Roger Allred and I were missionary companions in Libertyville. The name Muntz had appeared on a list of recent move-ins to the area. The list had been supplied to us as ministers by some local organization.
Soon after, we called at the address, a small brick home facing west. The young couple was refinishing their hardwood floor. They told us they were busy and asked us to come back. We’d heard the “busy-come-back” routine many times when people were trying to tell us in a nice way that they just weren’t interested. So we dutifully placed their name on our call-back list, then proceeded to forget about them.
One night weeks later, an appointment fell through. The family we’d lined up to teach a discussion to decided they weren’t interested and sent us away. My companion and I were downhearted, of course, and the rain only added to our misery. We returned dejectedly to our upstairs apartment in the home of an elderly lady and changed into dry clothes.
“What do we do now?” we asked each other. Elder Allred and I were both approaching the end of our missions and were especially anxious to be productive. Tracting in the rain wasn’t such a great idea, yet we couldn’t see wasting the entire evening just because one family didn’t want to hear the gospel. So we got down on our knees and asked our Father to help us do something worthwhile that night.
When we finished, we both had a distinct impression that we should visit the Muntz home. The only question was, who are the Muntzes? Then we had some faint recollection that their name had been on a new move-in list, which we no longer had. But I remembered the brick home on the east side of the street in the south part of town somewhere. So we left once more in the rain and drove around the south part of town until we found it.
We knocked on the door, and Lois Muntz invited us in. There were two small girls, one in diapers. The family welcomed us, and that night we taught them the first discussion and left a copy of the Book of Mormon. We also bore our testimonies. Naturally, we were very encouraged with their attitude and made an appointment for the following week.
When we returned to teach the second discussion, we never got in the house. They informed us that they had discussed our visit with family and friends and had been given some information about Mormons. (Actually, it was anti-Mormon literature.) To continue the lessons at that time would, for them, cause discord and confusion with their families, they said. We tried to answer some of their objections, but they asked us not to come back. We couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong when we knew the Lord had sent us there.
“Well, if you ever do join the Church, let me know,” I said as we left. I didn’t hear from the Muntz family again after that until the letter.
In it Sister Muntz told me how she and her husband had known the Church was true that very first night when Elder Allred and I had borne our testimonies, but, both having been raised strictly in another faith, neither dared tell the other. And as they were taught by missionaries in various states during the next several years, they strengthened their testimonies of the truth but would not be baptized because of their families’ objections. At last, nearly eight years after we had knocked on their door and introduced them to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, they decided they must be baptized. This was accomplished in June 1974.
In September, Brother Muntz was killed by a drunken driver who hit his car head-on. Because they had not been members for one year yet, the family hadn’t been to the temple. But the work was done vicariously for Brother Muntz, and he, his wife, and three daughters were sealed in the Washington Temple in December 1975.
I am grateful that Elder Allred and I had the faith to ask the Lord what to do that night ten years ago and then do what He told us to do, despite the rain and cold. And I am grateful we had the courage to bear our testimonies, for it was not the lesson or the logic of our discussion that converted the Muntzes, but the humble testimonies of two young missionaries who had listened and obeyed the promptings of the Holy Ghost.
There are many experiences in missionary work; some are not fruitful at all. Some carry with them great rewards, though all are not immediate as this story testifies. It was nine and a half years before this family was finally sealed for time and eternity. This is the end of my telling but certainly not the end of this missionary story, for there will yet be much missionary work done by this family, both living and dead.

On October 17, 1989, while driving home after work, I was approaching a stoplight at the intersection of Market and Beale Streets in San Francisco, California. At that moment I felt the car shake and thought, “I must have a flat tire.” As the car continued to shake, I noticed a bus quite close to me and thought, “That bus just hit me!” Then the car shook more and more, and I thought, “I must have four flat tires!” But it wasn’t flat tires or the bus—it was a powerful earthquake! As I stopped at the red light, there were ripples in the pavement like waves of the sea rolling down Market Street. In front of me a tall office building was swaying from side to side, and bricks began falling from an older building to my left as the earth continued to shake.
The Loma Prieta earthquake impacted many lives, including my own. Pondering the events of that day reaffirms in my mind and heart that in order to successfully withstand the tempests, earthquakes, and calamities of life, we must build upon a sure foundation.

Scott* and Jeri* reaped the benefits of living among Saints who loved and comforted them. Scott had been excommunicated from the Church for 12 years when he and Jeri and their four children moved to another part of the country. They decided to go to church, they said, “for the sake of the kids.” Scott steadfastly maintained he would never rejoin, although he knew the Church was true.
From the moment they arrived, they were warmly welcomed. When ward members learned of Scott’s Church status, they didn’t gossip or expect him to give a long explanation of his past. No one judged him. “They liked me for who I was,” says Scott. “After that first Sunday, we never missed church again.”
About a year and a half later, Scott was rebaptized, and eventually his priesthood blessings were restored. A son and daughter born when he was not a member were sealed to Scott and Jeri in the temple. “We’ll never forget watching our two children walk into the sealing room dressed in white,” Jeri reminisces. “There must have been at least 70 members of the Church with us. Everyone there seemed to be part of our family! These people had loved us through our ups and downs and comforted us in our times of discouragement. Without our friends we wouldn’t have made it.”
Scott’s bishop at the time observes: “Knowing that a loving ward presents the best climate for individual growth and development, we worked hard as a ward at ‘having [our] hearts knit together in unity and in love one towards another’ (Mosiah 18:21). As bishop, I saw the Lord direct many people like Scott to our ward because of the climate that existed there.”

One family home evening years ago began with our singing, “The day dawn is breaking, the world is awaking” (“The Day Dawn is Breaking,” Hymns, no. 52). When we asked each of our five children to suggest an activity we could do that week, five-year-old Fernando said plaintively, “I want to see what it’s like when the day breaks and the world wakes up.” We tried and tried to explain to him all of the things that happen: how the sun comes up, the morning breezes blow, and the dew glistens on the landscape. But he would have none of it. “I want to see it,” he repeated.
So that Thursday at 4:00 a.m., we got up, piled into our car, and drove to a place with a clear view of the eastern sky. Sunrise that day seemed to come from heaven itself. Circles of yellow color were transformed into a brilliant coral as the great curvature of the sun appeared. It was glorious.
Thirty years later, Fernando’s small son Fernandito was visiting us. “You know what, Grandma?” he said. “Papa took us to see the sunrise.”

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Andrew swallowed his popcorn and grabbed another handful.
His older brother, Caleb, plopped down on the couch beside him. “Hey, can I have some?”
Andrew didn’t look away from the TV. “No.”
“Aw, come on. You can share.”
Caleb reached for the bowl, but Andrew snatched it away.
“No! I already told you before. Don’t ask again!”
“Fine.” Caleb got up and left the room.
The next day, Andrew went into the kitchen. Caleb was making some sushi with rice, seaweed, and canned pork.
Andrew’s mouth watered. “Can I have some?”
“No,” Caleb said.
That made Andrew really mad. He ran downstairs to tell Dad.
“Why is Caleb being so selfish?” he asked.
Dad frowned. “I saw yesterday that you wouldn’t share your popcorn. Why should Caleb share with you after you didn’t share with him?”
“Because he’s my brother!” Andrew said.
“Then why didn’t you share with him?”
“He never shares with me either! Besides, I made it for myself, not him,” Andrew said. But he felt a little bad. Maybe it was mean of him not to share.
“Did you know that in Korea, sharing is really important?” Dad asked. Andrew’s family was from Korea. “Sharing is a way to show someone you care about them. So if you don’t share, it’s kind of like saying that you don’t care about them.”
“But I do care about Caleb.”
Andrew thought about what Jesus might do. He remembered how Jesus loved everyone—even those who were unkind to Him.
“I think I’m going to share with Caleb tomorrow and see how it turns out,” he told Dad.
Dad smiled. “I think that’s a good idea.”
When Andrew went to bed that night, he thought about other nice things he could do for Caleb. He was excited to start sharing!
The next morning, Andrew woke up to a surprise. Caleb had made breakfast just for him!
“Dad talked to me about sharing,” Caleb said. “I want to do better. So I made this for you.”
“Thanks!” Andrew said. “I want to do better too.”
Later that day, Andrew and Caleb watched a movie. Andrew let Caleb pick which one. Then he made some popcorn just for Caleb! He looked inside the bowl. It was like the popcorn was saying, “EAT ME!” But Andrew didn’t take any. He gave Caleb the bowl and said, “This is all yours. I’m sorry I didn’t share before.”
Andrew shared with Caleb all week. He let Caleb read his books. He let Caleb use his markers. He let Caleb play with his favorite toy. He even gave Caleb an extra turn when they were playing a game.
The more Andrew shared with Caleb, the more Caleb shared with him! Soon they were doing nice things for each other all the time. Andrew knew that Heavenly Father was helping him share with his brother. Andrew wasn’t perfect like Jesus, but he was trying to be more like Him every day.
This story took place in the USA.
Illustration by Adam Howling

Elder Nicholas D. Germer, who served in the Brazil Brasília Mission, has been on the receiving end of a family home evening activity. He writes: “I received three letters from members of a family that I knew before my mission. They wrote the letters during a family home evening, and the three-year-old daughter even got help from her father to write to me. I could feel their love and will never forget these letters.”

Sister Kristie Wilson
I am one of eight sisters working as a welfare missionary in a Vietnamese refugee camp. Since most of the people in camp have never heard of Jesus Christ or Heavenly Father and to help them better appreciate the Savior’s birth, we held a special activity just before Christmas. The Primary children reenacted the manger scene and story as told in Luke. They were as delighted to do it as we were to watch.
Christmas Eve we went caroling through the camp. It was a neat experience to roam through the billets and share the news of the Savior’s birth through song. The Spirit overcame language barriers, and we were avle to celebrate the Savior’s birth with one heart and mind. I have never been so exhausted. I have never been so at peace.

Recently I listened to a young mother address a ward Relief Society meeting. She told us that she is losing her eyesight. She expressed gratitude for those who had been reading to her, driving her to appointments, and for another sister who was teaching her to play the piano. Relief Society sisters through their acts of kindness had offered her their light and helped to lessen the fear of this very difficult time of her transition into a world of darkness.

There is a dentist who shares the gospel at every opportunity—to the “captive audience” in his chair, at the service station where he takes his car, at the post office, even at his neighbor’s home as he seeks advice in running his farm—just everywhere. He says he has read the Book of Mormon until he feels he understands the love and peace the sons of Mosiah felt when they went to preach to the Lamanites. And, I believe, he has the same zeal they had.

Through his efforts during the past year, missionaries have been introduced to hundreds of people and have brought four families into the Church. This fine member and his home teaching companion diligently go before the elders and set up meetings. He feels the people respond more readily to him because he is a permanent resident in the area. Again, member-missionary oneness has brought the light and peace of the gospel of Christ into the lives of those seeking the truth.

Upon returning home, Ellis moved her family into a house near her office. “Thus began the happiest hours of my life,” Ellis wrote. She was now with her sons and daughter. Her boys helped clean the house, tend the baby, and deliver messages. On one occasion, Ellis was on calls for a period of twenty-four hours, during which time she delivered five babies. When she returned home, her two boys were waiting for her; they immediately rushed her off to bed and made sure she was not disturbed while she rested.

Not too many days later, I got a phone call from a member of the Church I knew named Dave. He asked if I wanted to come to his house on Saturday night. He also invited me to join his family for dinner the next day. It sounded like a lot more fun than I was currently having with no friends, so I agreed.
Dave and I had a good time together—and, of course, there were no cigarettes or alcohol. As I listened to Dave’s dad say the prayer at dinner, I felt so good. I began to think that maybe—just maybe—things were getting better.
Dave and I became best friends. We played football together, went to school together, helped each other go on missions. When we got back, we were college roommates. We helped each other find the right women to marry and kept each other on the strait and narrow path all the way to the temple and after. All these years later, we’re still good friends. And it all started with a simple phone call, right when I needed it.

No description of models for us to follow would be complete without including Joseph Smith, the first prophet of this dispensation. When but 14 years of age, this courageous young man entered a grove of trees, which later would be called sacred, and received an answer to his sincere prayer.

There followed for Joseph unrelenting persecution as he related to others the account of the glorious vision he received in that grove. Although he was ridiculed and scorned, he stood firm. Said he, “I had seen a vision; I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it, neither dared I do it.”

Step by step, facing opposition at nearly every turn and yet always guided by the hand of the Lord, Joseph organized The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He proved courageous in all that he did.

Toward the end of his life, as he was led away with his brother Hyrum to Carthage Jail, he bravely faced what he undoubtedly knew lay ahead for him, and he sealed his testimony with his blood.

As we face life’s tests, may we ever emulate that undaunted courage epitomized by the Prophet Joseph Smith.

A small plane flew low over the trees and buzzed the camp. It was a signal, and several campers knew who the message was for. “Hey, your dad’s here. He just flew over.” One girl needed a warmer sleeping bag, so her father was going to drop it by, literally. Several girls ran out into an open area waiting for the plane to reappear. It came in low and slow. As the plane reached the playing field, a black plastic bag was pushed out a window and landed with a soft plop. No one seemed particularly amazed by this unusual way of delivering a forgotten sleeping bag. After all, this was Alaska, and many families own small planes. It’s almost a necessity if your work or home is away from a city.

My story begins with a loss that shaped my destiny. My father, Mr. Kofi Donkor Adane, died just a week before I was born. My mother, deep in her grief, held me for the first time with tears streaming down her cheeks. In my culture, there is a belief that a mother’s profound sorrow can cause a newborn’s spirit to “go back”—to return to the spirit world. Fearful of this, my aunt, Mrs. Faustina Boahin, came for me. She persuaded my mother that it would be safer if I stayed with her. And so, as a tiny baby, I left my mother’s arms and went to live with my aunt and uncle, growing up believing they were my true parents and that my cousins were my siblings.
My aunt was a strict disciplinarian. While my uncle was kind, my aunt believed in corporal punishment to “put me in line.” I was kept indoors, often watching the neighborhood children play football from behind the louvers of our window, shouting instructions as if I were their coach but never allowed to join. This isolation made school my sanctuary, a place where I could finally engage with friends, join clubs for acrobatics and drama, and feel a sense of belonging. Coming home late from these precious hours of play always meant a beating, but to me the fleeting freedom was worth the price.
The foundation of my life was shattered when my cousin, Kwesi, revealed the truth. “Is Faustina really your mom?” he’d tease, until one day he stated plainly, “No, she’s not. Auntie Mina is your mother.” I was stunned. Auntie Mina was the woman who visited often, always bringing a special gift just for me—a donut, an orange, a sweet—a fact for which my aunt had often scolded her. The pieces began to fall into place. I noticed the differences in treatment: I had more chores, I was denied meat at meals, and the punishments were more severe. The truth, once seen, could not be unseen.
I eventually moved in with my biological mother, Fatima Wilhelmina, and entered a new world: a Muslim household. My mother had been raised Muslim by her father, and she had remarried a Muslim man. I embraced this new identity with the fervor of a child seeking belonging. I learned to pray in Arabic, fasted during Ramadan, and perfected the ablutions. I even joined a wazi team, Muslim evangelists who would set up in town. My role was to read from the Bible, drawing parallels to the Qur’an, while others demonstrated Islamic prayer. I didn’t see it as outreach then; it was simply the faith I was living. For a time, it was my entire world.

During a visiting teaching visit, Martha, a member of our ward, told my wife and her companion never to come back again. She had decided to stop coming to church. One of the visiting teachers asked Martha if they could sing a hymn together this one last time, and she agreed. As they sang, something special happened. Little by little, the Spirit began to fill the room. Each of them felt it. Martha’s heart began to soften. With her eyes filled with tears, she expressed to her visiting teachers the feelings of her heart. At that moment, she realized that she knew that the gospel was true. She now thanked her visiting teachers and expressed a desire for them to return. From that day forward, she received them with joy.
Martha began to attend church with her young daughter. For years they attended regularly, with Martha never losing hope that her husband might eventually choose to join them. At last the day came when the Lord touched his heart, and he began to attend with them, as did their other daughter soon thereafter. This family began to feel the true joy that comes from having gospel blessings in their home. Martha has since served faithfully as our ward Relief Society president, and her husband has served well in several callings within the stake. All this began with the singing of a hymn, a small and simple thing that touched Martha’s heart.

I shall ever remember the bewilderment of one boy from down on the farm when he first gazed at the skyscrapers in Toronto. He inquired of me: “President, how many people in this here town?” I answered: “Oh, about a million and a half,” to which he responded, “Goll-ee! There are only 80 in my home town.”
That evening at our traditional get-acquainted testimony meeting, some of the veteran missionaries expressed themselves regarding the difficulty of the work. “Doors will slam in your face, abusive language will be hurled toward you, you’ll get discouraged and downhearted, but when it’s all over you will say, ‘These have been the happiest two years of my life.’” My missionary from the small town was more hesitant than ever as he spoke falteringly: “I’ll be glad when the happiest two years of my life are over.”
This young missionary was short in stature but tall in testimony. Together with his companion, he soon called at the home of Elmer Pollard in Oshawa, Canada. Feeling sorry for the young men who, during a blinding blizzard were going house to house, Mr. Pollard invited the missionaries into his home. They presented to him their message. He did not catch the Spirit. In due time he asked that they leave and not return. His last words to the elders as they departed his front porch were spoken in derision: “You can’t tell me you actually believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God!”
The door was shut. The elders walked down the path. Our country boy spoke to his companion: “Elder, we didn’t answer Mr. Pollard’s question. He said we didn’t believe Joseph Smith was a true prophet. Let’s return and bear our testimonies to him.”
At first the more experienced missionary hesitated, but finally he agreed to accompany his “green” companion. Fear struck their hearts as they approached the door from which they had been turned away. A knock, the confrontation with Mr. Pollard, an agonizing moment, then with power, a testimony born by the Spirit: “Mr. Pollard, you said we didn’t really believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Mr. Pollard, I testify that Joseph was a prophet; he did translate the Book of Mormon; he saw God the Father and Jesus the Son. I know it.”
Mr. Pollard, now Brother Pollard, stood in a priesthood meeting some time later and declared: “That night I could not sleep. Resounding in my ears I heard the words: ‘Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know it. I know it.’ The next day I telephoned the missionaries. Their message, coupled with their testimonies, changed my life and the lives of my family.”

The three members of The Pretty Ugly Indie Band, brothers Daniel and Joseph Cottam of Doncaster Ward and James Swift of Sheffield 2nd Ward, chose to leave behind their music and a record deal to serve the Lord.
Elder Daniel Cottam, of the Italy Rome Mission, said, “So I’m serving as one of the older missionaries in my group. I’m 22 right now, 20 when I started the mission. That is due to a few reasons. Number one, the band of course; I couldn’t go leaving them alone and miss out on all the fun. Another reason is that I am extremely shy, so a mission for me wasn’t always a guarantee in my mind. I also had very long hair and a beard and didn’t want to give them up; they were very much part of who I was and made me feel different and look cool. But the decision to serve a mission was largely thanks to my family, their wonderful examples and encouragement. Always being in the Church, I suppose I’ve never had a huge conversion experience. All the lessons at Church, things I’d heard from my parents over the years, my own studies and prayers allowed me to really put my trust in the Lord, put the band on hold, have my hair cut and overcome my social awkwardness. A test of faith, but worth it! The mission experience has been amazing! I have learnt and grown so much and come to a true and firm knowledge of the gospel and of my Saviour, so many blessings. If we had stayed as a band putting off the mission, I don’t think the band would have been quite so successful. Now we have met so many people who already love the music we have made and are excited for when we get back, a nice side blessing of building up the fan base all over the world!”
Elder Joseph Cottam, of the Spain Madrid Mission, commented, “I’ve always been fully into music, ever since listening to my iPod Touch and my headphones when I was seven years old. At that age, I started playing the piano a little bit and the guitar, but I started playing the drums when I was 11 years old and that’s when I started rocking. My brother, Dan, and I started to rock the roof off our living room when we started playing the drums and guitar together. We then gathered the band together and played through all our teenage years pretty much every week until we were headlining shows, playing at festivals, winning competitions, and recording music videos. Then the time came when I had to start considering a mission; it was honestly something I had tried to avoid thinking about up to that point. I had a mindset that if we made the band big and rocked the world, we would be the best missionaries in the world. Obviously, God has different ideas to us. After a lot of prayer and thought, I and my brother decided to start with our mission papers. The reason being that I figured out that God knows what is best for us. He has shown us the path to follow, and we just must follow it without trying to compromise or trying to make our own paths. I also had a trust that God would make sure that everything went okay. He knows what means a lot to us in this life and he will cater for our desires if we always put him first. So that’s what I decided to do. Leaving everything behind we worked for was a blow for a while; it was our dream; it was everything we wanted to do but then the quarantine came, and everything stopped. The world was on pause and then I said to myself, “Wow. God does know best; He knew that if we accepted that record deal and continued, we would have been in a massive pickle.” That was the time when I knew for a fact God was guiding us in this.”
Elder James Swift, of England Leeds, Manchester, Scotland/Ireland Service Mission, remarked, “At the time of the first two band members leaving for their missions we had received lots of interest from record labels, managers and agents wanting to get us on their rosters. But the boys knew that it was their time to go and serve, so we turned down all those amazing offers and trusted in the Lord. Leaving my music aspirations behind and leaving university was a difficult decision to make. I won’t lie but I was very reluctant, even frustrated by the fact that this was the time I felt so impressed to go and serve. However, I have been blessed already beyond measure. I’ve been placed in the most perfect mission, with some of the greatest missionaries the Church has to offer. I’m truly grateful for the chance I have had to show my love for the Saviour by making these sacrifices and ultimately devoting myself to His ministry.”

When I was a freshman in college, I had a part-time job at a convenience store in a small town. I had the closing shift, which ended at 11:00 p.m. Despite the relative safety of the community, I would frequently get nervous while closing the store all alone.
One night I felt particularly anxious. As I finished cleaning the store and made my way to the cash register to shut it down, a feeling of dread came over me. I did not have any logical reason for being so afraid, but I could not shake my nervousness. I did not want to overreact by calling the police, but I also wanted to be protected if there was any real danger.
Finally, I knelt to pray. I told Heavenly Father that I was afraid and didn’t know what to do. It was the most sincere prayer I had ever given.
As I stood up, I immediately noticed a vehicle pulling up to the fuel pump nearest to the building. To my surprise and relief, it was a police officer. As he pulled out his credit card to fill his patrol car with fuel, I quickly started my final closing responsibilities. I wanted to take advantage of his protective presence and get as much done as I could before he finished at the pump. When he had finished fueling, he made a call on his cell phone and sat in his car as he talked. He was still there when I locked up and got in my car. Both of us pulled away from the convenience store at the same time.
As I drove home, I was amazed at how quickly my prayer had been answered. I humbly thanked Heavenly Father for listening to me. I had been taught that I was a daughter of God, but until that night I had never felt His love for me so near or so tangibly. Words cannot describe the peace I felt in my heart. I know that the Lord will bless me if I have faith and ask for His help.

My grandfather used to graze his cattle each summer in the beautiful, lush, high mountain valleys east of our town in central Utah. However, the cattle craved and needed supplemental nutrients from licking rock salt. The rock salt came from a salt mine some distance away. Grandfather replenished the salt at the salt licks by putting a packsaddle on a sturdy horse and filling the packsaddle with rock salt. I called the packhorse Slowpoke for good reason. Grandfather put me on Slowpoke with the saddle loaded with rock salt. He gave me the reins so I could guide the horse up the mountain following Grandfather on his horse.
My horse Slowpoke was slow, but I didn’t push him because he carried such a heavy load. It took a full day to ride up the mountain to the salt licks and to unload the rock salt from the pack animal. As the day got warmer, my sweaty legs would sting as they rubbed against the lumps of rock salt in the packsaddle. It was a joy when we crossed a stream and I could get off the horse and get rid of the sting by washing and drying my legs.
Grandfather would sing most of the day. Mostly he sang the songs of Zion. But one song he sang that impressed me greatly was “Show me your companions, and I will tell you what you are.” Looking back on it, taking salt to the mountain valley was an enjoyable experience, while the additional nutrients from the rock salt fortified the cattle.