Gospel Story Finder

Mom, we’ve been thinking about our Australian cousins, Max and Mindy. You said their mom is your second cousin.
What does that mean?
Miranda and I have the same great-grandparents. If we’d had the same grandparents, we’d be first cousins.
I’m getting a little confused.
Well, let’s look up our family tree on FamilySearch.org. That’ll make it easier.
At least you can’t fall out of this tree and break your arm.
So that’s how we’re related to Max and Mindy!
Meanwhile, on the other side of the world …
Mum, we’ve been wondering—
—how we’re related to our cousins Matt and Mandy …
When you start learning about family history, interesting things can happen!
At least you can’t fall out of this tree and break your arm.

I was born on a little dry farm in northern Utah in 1934. By the time the doctor drove the thirteen miles from Logan to our house, I had already arrived.
I was born blue because I wasn’t breathing right. The connection between my heart and lungs was not very good, and doctors told my parents that I would have serious health problems. My family prayed hard that I would be healthy, and none of the things the doctors predicted happened. In fact, I was six feet tall by the time I was thirteen! I know that this was a blessing from Heavenly Father.

Many years ago I heard a story that impressed me. I share it with you today as I endeavor for a few minutes to direct your thinking toward the important word peace. A beautiful little blind girl was sitting on the lap of her father in a crowded compartment in a train. A friend seated nearby said to the father, “Let me give you a little rest,” and he reached over and took the little girl on his lap.
A few moments later the father said to her, “Do you know who is holding you?”
“No,” she replied, “but you do.”
Some might be inclined to say, “What a perfect trust this child had in her father.” Others may say, “What a wonderful example of love.” And still others might say, “What an example of faith.” To me it indicates a beautiful blending of all of these principles, which brought a priceless inner peace to the child. She knew she was safe because she knew her father knew who was holding her. Affection, respect, and care over the years had placed in this little girl’s heart a peace that surpasseth all understanding. She was at peace because she knew and trusted her father.
We plead for peace in our prayers and thoughts. Where is peace? Can we ever enjoy this great gift while wars, rumors of wars, discord, evil, and contention swirl all around us? The answer is yes. Just as the little blind girl sat on the stranger’s lap with perfect contentment because her father knew him, so we can learn to know our Father and find inner peace as we live his principles.
It is very significant that when Jesus came forth from the tomb and appeared to his disciples, his first greeting was, “Peace be unto you.” (Luke 24:36.) Peace—not passion, not personal possessions, not personal accomplishments nor happiness—is one of the greatest blessings a man can receive. Our trust and our relationship with our Heavenly Father should be one similar to that of the little blind girl and her earthly father. When sorrow, tragedy, and heartbreaks occur in our lives, wouldn’t it be comforting if when the whisperings of God say, “Do you know why this has happened to you?” we could have the peace of mind to answer “No, but you do.”
Just as the little girl could sit peacefully on the stranger’s lap because her father knew him, so we can find peace if we know our Father and learn to live by his principles.

The various activities of the day left the girls tired, but not too worn out to express their feelings during a testimony meeting. They read their favorite scriptures to each other, spoke again of their love for nature, for the gospel, and for the Lord, and talked about the lessons they had learned on their trip: lessons of perseverance, sacrifice, relaxation, and sharing the load.
“It’s unbelievable the feeling you get on top of a mountain,” said Sandy Kay, 17. “If you have an open mind and a humble heart, it can really help straighten out your priorities and help you see the reason why we’re here.”

During World War II, the Latter-day Saints in Princeton met for church in our house. I learned then that the Church is not a building; the Church isn’t even a lot of people. I felt close to Heavenly Father and knew that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is His Church; it didn’t matter that our little branch met in our dining room. It was fun because when I came downstairs on Sunday, I was in church.
The branch members were my father, the branch president; my mother, who played the piano; my two brothers and me, the only youth in the branch; a few graduate students or servicemen; and a few older women who were converts to the Church and whose husbands were not members. Rarely would there be more than 10 or 15 people attending.
The sacrament was prepared on the dining room table, which also served as the pulpit. During fast and testimony meeting, I always wondered why the older women cried. I later realized that they cried because they were so happy and grateful to be with the Latter-day Saints in that little branch.

“Remember a long long time ago when you were just a little kid?” I mused. “Well, you couldn’t, of course, because you were only about 18 months old, but it was the night after Robby was born in the old Dee Hospital on 24th Street. Anyway, you and I were the only ones home, and I guess it was about midnight or later. I came into your room to see if you were covered up, if everything was okay. The light from the hall was shining on your face a little, and there you were, wide awake as could be, just looking up at me and smiling—like right now. So I sat down on the edge of our old rocker, and we looked at each other. That’s all we did. We were all alone, just looking at each other through the bars of that crib—looking into each other—for maybe 15 minutes. And you know something?” I paused. “That was one of the neatest experiences your old dad has ever had.”

Dad dumped some compost onto the soil.
“What are you doing, Dad?” Caleb asked.
“I’m getting the soil prepared for our garden.”
“Why do we need a garden?” Caleb asked. “Can’t we just buy food at the store?”
“Yes, but the prophets have counseled us to plant a garden, and I want to obey,” Dad said.
Dad and Caleb worked to prepare the soil. Finally, the garden was ready to plant.
On Saturday the whole family planted seeds in their garden. There were beans, corn, yellow squash, zucchini, cucumbers, and pumpkins.
Every morning, Caleb walked around the garden looking for weeds. Before picking each weed he asked Dad to make sure it wasn’t a seedling.
Then one day, Dad announced that the first plant had popped up. Caleb ran out to the garden. When he saw the tiny leaves peeking out of the ground, he couldn’t hide his disappointment.
“What’s the matter, Caleb?” Dad asked.
“I guess I just thought it would be bigger.”
“Don’t worry. It will grow,” Dad said.
Dad was right. Every day the plant grew a little bigger. Then more plants popped up. Soon the whole garden was filled with plants.
One morning Caleb noticed a plant growing right next to the yellow squash. It looked different than the squash plant.
“Hey, Dad, what’s this plant over here?”
Dad came over. “I don’t know. It doesn’t look like a squash. We’ll just have to wait and find out.”
Whenever Caleb was in the garden, he checked on the mystery plant. Before long, he noticed a green ball on the vine. Excitedly, he showed Dad.
“Looks like it might be some kind of melon,” Dad said. “That’s strange. We didn’t plant any melons.”
Each week the ball got bigger and bigger, and soon it started to turn a tan color.
“I think that’s a cantaloupe, Caleb,” Dad said one day. “It must have grown from some seeds that were in the compost.”
Caleb could hardly wait for the melon to grow. He loved cantaloupe.
Soon the garden was producing food for the family. Caleb enjoyed helping with the harvest. Mom bottled many of the fruits and vegetables, and they gave extras to neighbors.
“Caleb, would you go pick a yellow squash for dinner tonight?” Mom asked one evening.
“Sure, Mom!” Caleb ran to the garden. As he gently moved the cantaloupe so he could pick the biggest yellow squash, the cantaloupe fell off the vine. Caleb went to find Dad.
“Dad, I didn’t mean to, but the cantaloupe broke off the vine when I moved it,” Caleb said.
“That’s OK,” Dad said. “That probably means it’s ready to be picked.”
Caleb grinned. “Really? You mean it’s done?”
Dad laughed. “Let’s taste it and find out!”
Caleb brought the cantaloupe into the kitchen, and Dad cut off two slices.
“I guess this cantaloupe is one way Heavenly Father is blessing us for following the prophet,” Dad said.
Caleb looked at the colorful pile of produce on the counter that was waiting to be bottled. “Heavenly Father has blessed us a lot!” he said.
They both smiled as they took their first bite of cantaloupe. It was delicious!

“Turn on your lights”—Sister Sharon Eubank’s message for October 2017—was the theme of our stake Relief Society activity for this year 2018.
The purpose was to unite sisters, increase their self-­worth, and enlighten their minds toward ministering and temple preparation.
All were excited. The preparations from the stake activity committee began. They started planning, organizing, and assigning sisters for the activity.
We were five wards and one branch, which was a big number to coordinate. Each ward’s sisters were assigned with a topic to present on the day of activity with a skit or presentation.
And these were the topics covered:
Being righteous
Being articulate/different/distinct
Being happy
Preparing for the temple
Being self-reliant
Ministering/the worth of souls
Each ward started preparing for their presentation on the activity day. The long wait came to an end.
?It was a beautiful morning. When the activity began, there were not as many sisters as was expected. However, they began with an opening hymn and prayer. And slowly more sisters started coming in. There was a message from the stake Relief Society president. She displayed different kinds of lights and explained about each light, comparing it with the qualities of the sisters. It was a beautiful message.
Then the actual part of the sisters came. It was time for them to showcase or present their topics.
Here I would like to talk about the dedication and the commitment of one group of sisters of a small branch of another city which belongs to our stake. They had to travel two-and-half to three hours to join the activity. They began with the presentation of being righteous women. They were indeed righteous women by example.
Each group of sisters came forward and presented their topics in the form of skits. Every one of them had put in a lot of effort to convey the message in a spiritual way and with a little bit of humor.
We all laughed and enjoyed ourselves, but in the end of each presentation, we were touched by the Spirit for the messages they carried about how to be happy always, how to be articulate and different, how to be self-reliant, and how to prepare for the temple.
It was amazing to see how the sisters joined hands together, both young and old, in acting it out. Lastly it was concluded by the testimonies of a few sisters who strengthened ours for their commitment to the gospel.
We all were given a framed picture of lights to remind us to turn on lights that we have and give light to others and also to help others to turn on theirs as well. Along with it was a reminder of the four things President Nelson challenged the sisters to do during the last general conference.
On the whole, the activity was great! The stake Relief Society presidency had planned very hard to put all this together for us to learn and enjoy at the same time. They even had to work till midnight to pack those gifts for the sisters. We could see and feel the love and dedication they had for all of us and they turned on their lights. The sisters from the KGF Branch were different and articulate by setting an example of traveling so far to show how much they loved the Lord.

We were nearly halfway through the journey from Utah to our homestead in New Mexico. For several days we had found no water, and our barrels were low. The men were becoming anxious. We knew from the map that we were coming into Indian territory.
When we reached the edge of the reservation the wagons stopped for our leaders to consult. Because of his experience with Indians, Papa was chosen to go ahead and see what arrangements he could make. As we slowly drove on, we had a feeling that we were being watched.
“I hope the village ahead has plenty of water,” Papa said.
“I hope they are friendly,” Mama replied.
“I’m prepared to take care of that even if they’re not,” Papa assured her.
“How?” Mama asked.
“I have a trick up my sleeve,” he answered, but he would tell her no more.
In a few moments we saw a cluster of huts up ahead. And about the same time two little girls with black braids ran from the shadows toward the village.
“Messengers,” Papa observed.
“What do we do now?” Ed asked.
“Wait,” Papa said and pulled the horses to a stop. He jumped down, climbed in the back of the wagon, and came out carrying his unfinished basket and a hank of straw.
“You children stay in the wagon,” he instructed firmly. And we settled in a spot where we could watch what was going on.
Papa sat down on the ground and began weaving. It seemed to me like a silly time and place to finish his basket, but I had learned that patience answers many questions, so I watched and waited.
Before long five or six braves came riding up on their ponies and formed a circle around Papa.
“You cannot cross Indian land,” one insisted.
Papa said nothing but kept on with his work.
“Go back,” another brave said, pointing in the direction we’d come from. “Do not cross Indian land.”
Papa nodded to acknowledge he had heard but he stayed where he was. Nothing moved but his hands. I had watched him make many baskets, and I knew that his fingers could fly as fast as frightened quail. Now he was weaving slowly, exaggerating the in and out movements as he laced the wide strips between the twisted upright ribs.
The belligerent expression on the Indians’ faces changed to curiosity. One by one they slid off their ponies and came closer. After they had watched awhile, Papa handed the basket to one of the braves, who copied the motions he had been watching. The Indian smiled at his handiwork. Then the basket was passed around the circle, with each brave taking a turn at the weaving and all of them becoming excited and pleased.
Papa began a new basket and handed some straw to one of the Indians to start one too. Before long each brave was sitting cross-legged on the ground, busy on a basket. Papa had motioned to Ed and me to climb down from the wagon, and we slipped out quietly and stood by his side. Other Indians came one by one and soon quite a crowd was watching the activity.
I turned to look toward the village and saw a large squaw coming toward me with a loop stretched open between her hands. Smiling, she came closer and closer, holding the noose high as if to place it over my head and around my neck. To choke me, I thought, and began to shake with fear. Please, Heavenly Father, save me, I silently prayed. My hands tightened on Papa’s arm, and he sensed my fright.
“It’s all right, Dora,” he assured me. “She won’t hurt you.”
By now the squaw was close enough so that I could see she was holding a beautiful necklace of dried berries and seeds. She placed it over my head saying, “Pretty, pretty.” I guess she had never seen yellow hair before.
All of a sudden I felt that she was a special person, and I wanted to do something for her. I climbed into the wagon and found the mirror I had brought rolled up in my sweater so it wouldn’t break. It was a round one with a handle. I handed it to the squaw and when she looked at it and saw her face reflected back, she was delighted. She showed it around with great pride, pointing to her image and laughing.
While the braves worked and the others watched, Papa spoke to them in gentle tones. “We want to be friends and will do you no harm. We are moving to New Mexico and would like to cross your land. We have our food and supplies with us. We need to stop tonight to rest our horses and fill our water barrels. We will leave tomorrow. Other wagons are behind waiting to hear your answer.”
At this point, five more braves and the chief rode up at a gallop. They began to talk rapidly in their own language with the weavers, who jumped up, showing off their baskets. After some discussion the chief turned to Papa and asked, “What are you teaching?”
“Basketmaking,” Papa said. “How to make baskets.”
“Basket,” one brave repeated, pointing to what he had done.
“You are good,” the chief said. “You can camp here tonight. There is plenty of water.” Then he motioned for Papa to mount one of the ponies, and they rode back together to get the rest of the camp to join us.
Soon after we left the Indian reservation, Sister Owens in the next wagon became ill, and we camped for several days.
Some of the braves rode over from the reservation to get help with their baskets. Papa didn’t have much straw left to give them, but they had already decided that bear grass would do just as well. Papa showed them how to do a braided edge around the top of their baskets. He took out a pocketknife to trim the ends, and a little Indian boy who had come with his father looked so pleased with the knife that Papa let him keep it. Later that day the boy’s father returned with a strange-looking three-pronged stick that he gave to Papa, explaining how he could use it to find water for digging a well.
“I can probably use this later,” Papa said as he fastened it securely to the wagon.
After we left this place the weather became hotter and the land drier. We had one more stop for supplies before we came to a stretch of desert, and Papa was able to replenish our ice supply. We had left Salt Lake City with a hundred-pound block of ice in a tub to keep our meat cool. Since it was wrapped in newspapers and burlap bags, it melted slowly and lasted quite a while. Ice was harvested from frozen streams and lakes just before the spring thaw and packed in sawdust in dirt-covered sheds. Most towns had a supply that lasted until the next winter, so we were able to buy it as we needed it along the way. That day we were very glad we had some.
The desert sun was hot. Heat waves curled up in ghostly spirals. We choked on the dust stirred up by the wagons and animals. Papa chipped off pieces of ice for us to suck on. They tasted so good that soon all the other children were coming to our wagon for ice chips.
“You’ll give it all away and then we won’t have any,” Caroline complained to Papa.
“Now, now,” he replied. “They don’t have any, and we can share.”

Old Father Frost had a son, Little Frost, who was an impossible braggart. My father has grown so old that he can hardly do his job anymore, the youngster decided. But I’m young and strong. I can freeze people better than anyone! No one can escape my icy nip or equal the mighty force of my hoary blasts. I can conquer all!
The first thing Little Frost saw when he went down the road was a gentleman riding along in a fine sleigh pulled by a sleek, well-fed horse. The gentleman was stout, and he wore a warm fur coat. He had a thick blanket draped over his lap to keep his legs nice and toasty.
Little Frost whispered, “No matter how tightly you wrap your warm things about you, nothing will save you from my chilly fingers.” He slipped under the blanket and crawled up the sleeves of the warm fur coat. Then he curled himself under the collar and tweaked the poor fellow’s nose.
The fine gentleman ordered his servant to hurry the horse along. “Otherwise I’ll freeze!” he cried.
Little Frost’s cold became even more bitter. He wore down the rich man’s resistance, tweaked his nose even harder, turned his hands and feet icy, and made the air too cold to breathe.
The gentleman was now too cold even to shout. In fact, by the time they reached his house, he had to be carried in from the sleigh; he was barely alive.
Little Frost flew back to his father and began to brag about what he had done. “See what a fine boy I am!” he boasted. “See what an important gentleman I’ve frostbitten! Look what a warm winter coat I managed to get through!”
Old Father Frost laughed and said, “So you think you’ve done something really fantastic, eh? See that peasant over there wearing the tattered coat and leading the skinny nag? He’s on his way to cut firewood in the forest. If you can make him freeze with cold, then I’ll really believe you’re strong!”
The peasant reached the forest, took out his ax, and started to chop down the trees. My how the wood chips were flying! Little Frost grabbed him by the hands and feet and even slipped under his collar. But the harder Little Frost tried to freeze the woodcutter, the faster the peasant swung his ax. He warmed himself so well with his work that he even took his mittens off.
That was a great surprise to Little Frost, and he thought, “Well, I’ll just slip inside these mittens and fill them so full of cold that they’ll turn to ice! Then he’ll sing a different tune.” So Little Frost crouched inside the mittens while the peasant chopped away.
When the sleigh was filled with firewood, the peasant declared, “Now I can go home.” He picked up his mittens and tried to put them on, but they were frozen as hard as steel.
“Aha! What are you going to do now?” Little Frost chortled.
The peasant grabbed his ax and started beating the mittens with the back of the ax head. All the while he whacked away at the mittens, Little Frost, who was trapped inside, howled and roared with pain. Then the peasant started home with the firewood.
Little Frost limped back to his father, moaning all the while.
As soon as Old Father Frost caught sight of Little Frost, he asked, “How is it that you’re limping along so, Son? And why are you moaning so pitifully?”
“That peasant really wore me out,” answered Little Frost. “And he gave me a working-over besides.”
Old Father Frost burst out laughing and said, “Let that be a lesson to you, my son. It’s easy enough to get the best of an idle man. But you can never freeze a fellow who stays busy—he’s got his work to keep him warm!”

One of the people who influenced me most was my Uncle Jimmy. He was 13, just six years older than I was, and he became like my older brother. Uncle Jimmy was lots of fun. He’d hook up a sled to our big dog, Tony, and take me for a ride over the ice and snow.
At Christmastime, we often went together to hunt for a Christmas tree. After finding the right tree, we cut it down and brought it home. Grandmother popped lots of popcorn for us to string and gave us colored paper to make into ornaments.
One of my jobs was to help Uncle Jimmy on his delivery rounds in the milk truck. One of my older uncles drove, and we would run to the doorstep of each house, pick up the empty milk bottles, and leave full bottles in their place.
Wherever Uncle Jimmy went, I went. And since Uncle Jimmy went to church, so did I. Sundays started awfully early. First I went out to help feed and milk the cows. Then I came home, cleaned up, and dressed for church. I didn’t own a suit, but my mom and dad made sure my best clothes were clean. When I turned eight, I was baptized by my Uncle Grant.
After Grandpa Giles died, there was arguing about how to operate the farm. Eventually the family business fell apart, and my family moved to Kaysville, Utah.
When I was 14, our family moved back to Manti. I had a bedroom upstairs, and my only window faced the Manti Temple. I spent a lot of nights looking at the temple, wondering what my future would hold.
When I was in my late teens, I began to think about serving a mission. By then, my father had died and my mother didn’t have very much money. I felt a lot of pressure to stay home and help my mother. Then one night I went up into the hayloft to think and pray. There I had a clear and strong impression: I needed to serve a mission.
That was the best decision I had ever made. It changed my life. Doctrine and Covenants 31:5 became a guide: “Therefore, thrust in your sickle with all your soul, and your sins are forgiven you, and … your family shall live.” I decided to trust that the Lord would take care of my family while I worked hard on my mission. And the Lord was faithful to His promise. My mother was well taken care of while I was away.
While I was on my mission, I traveled for a few days with Elder Spencer W. Kimball, then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I was his temporary driver and companion. It was the first time I had been so close to an Apostle of the Lord. I heard him pray and testify. I saw what he focused on, what he talked about, and what he was like when he was not in public. I saw how he treated other people and how thoughtful he was of their needs. I decided that this was the kind of man I wanted to become.
Boys and girls, if you do good things on your own, your parents will eventually praise you for it. In part because of my mission, my mother became active in the Church. Honoring your parents doesn’t always mean doing exactly what they do. It means doing what Heavenly Father wants you to do. Even if your mom and dad don’t go to church, you still can. Even if they don’t keep the Word of Wisdom, you still can. If you will stand on your own two feet and be good, you will bring great honor to your parents’ name.

From this point forward, I began to experience mixed emotions about becoming a member of the Church. I was concerned about my father’s opinion and his reaction to my decision.
During the sixth discussion, I received the message that I had an incoming call from my father. The phone rang. I picked it up, and it was indeed my dad.
He said, “Your mother informed me you’ve made a decision to join the Latter-day Saints.”
I said yes.
He said, “I’m here to prevent that from happening.”
And I said, “You know what, Dad? I love you and you’ll always be my dad. You’ve done a great job with me. But I’m 22. I’m a man now, and these decisions are for my family and my future. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and will continue to do for me, but this is my decision. I’m going to do it, and I know the Lord wants me to do this.”
My dad wasn’t very happy when he hung up the phone. Immediately I got on my knees and asked the Lord to help me see and understand that what I was going to do was correct. I was thousands of kilometers from home. I was all alone, and nothing was going right. Only when I was with the missionaries did I feel good. At that moment the Spirit testified to me that it was the Lord’s will and that the Lord wanted me to be baptized. A very clear voice said, “You are to do the Lord’s will. You are to follow His example.” Then I knew. I never looked back after that. I was baptized on 12 October 1995.

In the story of our own people there stands out the example of Brigham Young’s attitude toward the Indians. His declaration that it was “better to feed them than to fight them” evidenced not only the innate mercy of his nature, but the greater wisdom inherent in a compassionate attitude toward the less fortunate.
If I may be pardoned a personal indulgence, I find expression of this attitude in the chronicles of my own family. My grandfather, Ira Nathaniel Hinckley, was called in 1867 by Brigham Young to build a fort at Cove Creek on the road to southern Utah so that travelers might be afforded protection from the Indians. But there was never Indian trouble of any consequence because of the policy of merciful treatment toward them which was followed during the years by my grandfather when he operated that lonely outpost.

My testimony recently got stronger when Heavenly Father answered one of my prayers. I asked Him if I could not be an only child anymore (my two older brothers had died as soon as they were born). Where I live, there aren’t many kids, and so I really wanted to have a sister or a brother. Two months ago, my mom had a baby! When I found out that I was going to have a little sister, I was very excited because I’d waited nine years. My mom and dad let me help pick the new baby’s name, and I chose to call her Anastasia. I know that praying is a good thing to do.
Alex Buchholz, age 9Spearfish, South Dakota

Many years ago, while on vacation with my family, I had an experience that taught me a great lesson. On a Saturday, my wife and I decided to take the children for a drive and to do some shopping. During the drive the children fell asleep, and not wanting to wake them, I volunteered to stay in the car while my wife ran into the store.
While waiting, I glanced at the car parked in front of me. It was full of children, and they were looking at me. My eyes caught the eyes of a small boy, six or seven years old. As our eyes met, he immediately stuck his tongue out at me.
My first reaction was to stick my tongue out at him. I thought, “What have I done to deserve this?” Fortunately, before I reacted, I remembered a principle taught in general conference the week before by Elder Marvin J. Ashton (see Conference Report, Oct. 1970, 36–38; or Improvement Era, Dec. 1970, 59–60). He taught how important it was to act instead of react to the events around us. So I waved at the little boy. He stuck his tongue out at me again. I smiled and waved again. This time he waved back.
Soon he was joined in his enthusiastic waving by a little brother and sister. I responded by waving this way and that until my arm became tired. Then I rested it on the steering wheel and continued with every creative wave I could muster, all the time hoping their parents would quickly return or that my wife would soon come back.
The parents finally did come, and as they pulled away, my newfound friends continued to wave for as long as I could see them.
That was a simple experience, but it demonstrated that in most encounters we can determine the kind of experience we are going to have by how we respond. I was grateful that I chose to act in a friendly way rather than react to my young friend’s childish behavior. In doing so I avoided the negative feelings I would have felt had I followed my natural instinct.

Anna’s husband had died and she had a desire to take her little daughter Albertina to be with the Saints in America. Rasmus had gone already, and a number of their friends were preparing to leave too. Anna borrowed enough money for both their fares. And after a journey by boat and by train to Hamburg, Germany, Anna and Albertina boarded the sailing ship Humbolt for the trip across the ocean.
For more than six weeks they lived aboard ship in crowded quarters, where food was scarce and storms were plentiful. Finally, the company arrived in New York harbor. Anna was grateful for their safe arrival, but her little girl was crying for food and there was no money left to purchase any. In despair she took AIbertina into a nearby warehouse where they both knelt behind some large barrels and asked God to supply their needs. Stepping outside, they met the man who had been in charge of the company of emigrants. He explained that he had charged too much for Albertina’s fare and refunded part of the money—enough to provide food for the remainder of their journey!

Photo illustration from Getty Images
Dorothy knew the end was coming. Every day she lost something more—not tangible things, but abilities. The ability to shower herself. The ability to fix her own meals. The ability to walk to the bathroom without falling. The ability to unlock the back door and pick up the paper. The ability to write a note to a loved one.
Some things she hadn’t lost yet, though. Her spunk. Her wit. Her gratitude. Because of that, being with Dorothy brought joy. Her home seemed to welcome guests from both sides of the veil.
One night, I was the ward Relief Society guest staying with her—supposedly helping her. A spring storm arose, and the power went off about 11:00 p.m. We discovered the power was out when I tried to turn the lights on so I could help her to the bathroom. I flipped the switch, but nothing happened. Dorothy was prepared, however. She pulled a tiny flashlight from a pocket on her walker, and somehow with that meager light we managed to stumble down the hall. After the slow walk back to her chair, she smiled and said, “Do you know how grateful I am?”
Illustration by Carolyn Vibbert
The same night, about 12:30 a.m., something woke me. I heard the prompting: “Dorothy needs her portable oxygen.” I noticed that the bubbling of Dorothy’s regular oxygen machine had stopped. The power was still off. I hurried to get her portable oxygen. I put it on her, trying not to wake her. As I placed the tubes around her face, she looked up and again said, “Do you know how grateful I am?”
Fortunately, when I texted our Relief Society president at 1:00 a.m., she answered. “The power isn’t off at my house,” she said. “I’ll call the power company.” Her call must have done the trick, because at 1:30 a.m., trucks arrived and men began restoring electricity to Dorothy’s home. When she awoke at 2:30 a.m. to make another slow, flashlight-guided walk to the bathroom, she looked through the kitchen windows. She saw all the workers and said, “I hope they know how grateful I am.”
The workers left at 5:30 that morning, just as the battery ran out on her portable oxygen. But the lights were back on. After another slow trip to the bathroom, we saw that her regular oxygen machine was bubbling once again. I helped her safely settle back into her chair. Before she closed her eyes, she told me about three other visitors she had seen during the night—family members who had come to bring her comfort and peace. Then she whispered once again, “Do you know how grateful I am?”
I left Dorothy’s home at 8:00 a.m. on Saturday morning when another sister from our ward arrived to be with her. As I sat in my car, tears started to form. I felt such love for Dorothy, such thankfulness for the tender moments I had spent with her.
I found myself offering a prayer of thanks as her words came tumbling from my heart: “Heavenly Father, do You know how grateful I am?”
Even though Dorothy was advanced in age and in need of assistance, her simple example of gratitude blessed me that night. And it continues to bless me. Though she has passed on, I often find myself thinking, “Do people know how grateful I am?” And whenever I do, I try to express that gratitude.
Learn More
Read about taking care of yourself while giving care to others in the April 2021 Liahona—one article in print (“While Caring for Others, Take Care of Yourself”) and another digital only (“Caregiver? Take Care of Yourself Too”).

A number of years ago a young man who is an excellent skier went with friends to the wilds of the Yukon to experience the ultimate in deep-powder skiing. A helicopter took them high into the mountains, far away from safety, ski patrols, and hospitals. They were virtually hundreds of miles from anywhere with nothing but 8,000 feet of vertical drop before them. Their guide was a 70-year-old man, small and seemingly fragile. He told them to stay directly behind him and he would get them down safely, but if they veered off to the right or left, chances were they would fall into a crevice or onto the sharp rocks at the bottom of unseen cliffs.
Suddenly my friend realized that his life was in the hands of this old gentleman whom he hardly knew and who certainly didn’t look like a man who could ski long miles through heavy powder to safety. The young man felt his stomach knot up. But suddenly the old man dropped over the edge, and one by one his friends followed. There was no other way down, and he quickly forced his muscles to move him over the edge and onto the path of the guide now moving quickly away from him.
The descent was awesome. His doubts about the guide were dispelled as he followed a path that led him past sheer cliffs he would not have seen until it was too late. As he noticed these death traps out of the corners of his eyes, he clung even more desperately to the path his guide was making some distance in front of him.
His confidence in the old gentleman was complete when he suddenly stopped them from crossing a seemingly wide-open snowfield. It looked like some of the finest powder he had ever seen, but his first impulse to reject his guide’s words was replaced by the realization that his guide had brought him this far in safety and now was no time to stop trusting him. So he followed as they labored through heavy snow to climb up and around the snowfield, finally arriving below it. Stopping, they turned and looked behind them. What they saw made him take a deep breath. The snowfield wasn’t a snowfield at all, but a crevice several hundred feet deep with a snow bridge two or three feet thick. Had they attempted to cross it they would have surely broken through and plummeted to their deaths on the jagged rocks and ice below.
By the time they had reached the bottom, my friend was humbled by the ability of his “fragile” guide. Through years of preparation, the guide had gained a knowledge that went much deeper than the eye could see. His life was dedicated to keeping people like my friend from serious harm. Over the next few days they would ski some of the most beautiful country in the world, dangerous country with disaster hidden in its deep snow. But their guide was ever vigilant in protecting them, and they were able to relax and really enjoy the marvelous, once-in-a-lifetime experience.

For gymnast Kim McCauley, a 14-year-old from the Rockwall Ward, “someday” began when she was a toddler. She was walking at six months, running at eight months, and by the time she hit three, her parents decided they’d better find a way to channel her energy, or they’d be exhausted in the chase. They enrolled her in gymnastics classes, and today, she not only is a top competitor on her high school team, but she also uses her talent in her spare time to teach gymnastics classes for small children.

For a group of young men in Nevada, a journey of 195 miles started with service. It ended with goals accomplished, lessons learned, and bonds formed.
The idea for running the 195-mile relay race came when the young men, as a Scout troop, volunteered to set up and man some stations at the race the previous year.
“We thought it was pretty cool that people were running just for fun,” says Carter M., 17. “Our group thought we wouldn’t mind doing something like that.”
A few months later, their Young Men president, Jon Wayne Nielsen, got serious about the idea and asked the boys if they really wanted to run the race. “He thought that would be something fun for us to do and something that would be a good experience,” Andrew B., 18, says. The young men agreed and decided to participate in the race.
Many of the young men had never run long distances before, so they began training a couple of months before the race. They would train most days of the week.
“Starting out we would do 25 minutes, 30 minutes, or an hour,” says Michael W., 13. “Then we started running 3 to 8 miles. Two weeks before the race, we did a qualifying run that was 10 miles, which we had to complete in order to run the race.”
Some of the Scouts did the training on their own, and others ran together. “Having other people helped a lot,” says Carson M., 15. “A lot of us thought that when we were running by ourselves, we were doing this all on our own, and it didn’t really matter. Having your team running with you is more of a motivation, because you know you’re going to be running with them in the race.”
Finally, the day of the race came, and Carter started off their two-day run at 7:30 a.m. on a Friday morning. Their team of 12 included 10 members of their Scout troop and 2 of their leaders. Each runner completed three legs of the race, ranging between 3 and 12 miles. They all ran in their Scout uniforms. They traveled in two vans when they weren’t running.
After 34 hours of running day and night, the Scouts finished the race on Saturday afternoon. The young men say the race was hard, but they enjoyed it. They were especially impressed by all the support they got from the other teams in the race.
“We were the youngest group to ever do one of these races,” Andrew says. “So it was cool to see all these people who are good runners and do this all the time come up to us and say, ‘It’s cool that you guys are doing this.’ It felt really good.”
The other thing that felt good was the sense of accomplishment the young men had from training for and completing this race.
“I think the race helped me learn that I can set a goal and actually do it,” Michael says. “It really helped me learn that I can do hard things instead of sitting around playing video games.”
The race also helped the young men get closer to the other members of their troop and their priesthood quorums.
“It’s just cool to have fun with people who are members of the Church,” Andrew says. “We all got a lot closer as a quorum, as a priesthood body. That was a bonding experience for us. We all hold the same priesthood, and we all felt our struggles together.”
Along with getting to know one another better, the young men also learned to help and support each other. “We were always there supporting each other,” Carson says. “Everything we did there, we worked as a team. We cheered on everybody as a team.”
“The most important thing I learned from that race would be to care for others around you,” Carter says. “If others need help, you help them out, because you’re going to run into people who want to hear the Lord’s gospel, and how you care for them and others will affect them.”
It may have seemed like just a long race, but these young men learned valuable lessons and skills that will help them in a more important race—the race of life.