Gospel Story Finder

In addition to missionary work, helping less-active Latter-day Saints to reestablish their testimonies and return to full activity is an ongoing challenge. In the Ponce First Branch, leaders took an aggressive approach. They drew upon all interested members to help them in a kind of “activation battalion.” “Everyone gathered at the chapel on a designated evening,” says Miguel Alvarado Sr., president of the Ponce First Branch. “Leaders passed out cards with the names and addresses of less-active members to pairs of branch members. Everyone had only a few people to visit. At the end of two hours, members met back at the chapel to report on their visits. This proved to be an efficient means of locating less-active members and reestablishing contact. Follow-up on this initial activity has helped revitalize our branch.”

These records had special meaning to me—my grandfather Andres Sanchez had saved them from destruction during the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s. I grew up knowing his story, but my connection with it became evident only as I began my search for the records. Although I never knew my grandfather, I felt his spirit as I read these names and dates. Together we had become a team that made it possible to provide temple ordinances for more than 10,000 of our ancestors.
Andres had been a good man and a leader in his village. He was the father of five. Though not a wealthy man, he had a good trucking business and was considered a man of means.
But his was a turbulent time in the history of Spain. The Spanish Civil War brought starvation and destruction to much of the nation. Politics became the most common topic of discussion among the people. In all other periods in the history of Europe, this quiet village had been spared from the ravages of war, even during World War I. But now the enemy was coming. Andres named his new baby Libertia as an outward expression of his convictions.
Everywhere the invaders burned the churches and killed the church leaders in an effort to stifle opposition. In defiance, Andres and a few of his good neighbors secreted away the sacred artifacts and records from the little village church. He did this knowing that the consequences could be devastating for himself and his family. He made a choice and stood by that choice with conviction.
Eventually the enemy came to his village. The name of Andres Sanchez was discovered, and he was dragged into custody. As a result of his actions at the little village church, he met a fate of torture and deprivation. Andres’s business and property were confiscated and his family left destitute as beggars. Andres’s health weakened under the deplorable prison conditions, and after a short while he contracted tuberculosis. He was released to his family two weeks prior to his death.
The Lord did not forget the efforts of one man and a handful of brave friends who loved Him and sacrificed their very lives for these records. Years later the records were microfilmed by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Nearly 30 years ago I desired to attend a general conference of the Church and drove 14 hours to be in Salt Lake City for the conference. I entered Temple Square at 8:00 A.M., where the line outside door number 10 was all the way across Temple Square and halfway down the south side of the Assembly Hall. I was nearly 300 feet from my goal. The usher called out that the Tabernacle was full. People dropped out of line, and I inched forward.
At five minutes before 10:00 I was the only person standing in front of my chosen door. The door opened, and the usher said, “Are you still here?” He closed the door, and my heart sank. As the choir began to sing the opening hymn at 10:00 sharp, the door opened one more time, and the usher beckoned me inside. He placed me on half a seat and behind a post, but a welcome seat it was! I was able to sustain the Lord’s chosen leaders and hear their counsel that special day.

Alex asked his friend Jake to play at his house on Saturday. They were having fun with race cars when Jake noticed a picture hanging on the wall.
“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing to the picture of Thomas S. Monson.
“That’s President Monson,” Alex said.
Jake didn’t say anything.
“You know, the prophet of our Church,” Alex said.
Jake looked embarrassed. “We don’t go to church anymore,” he said.
“Why did you stop going?” Alex asked.
Jake shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want to come with me on Sunday?” Alex asked. “We could go to Primary together. My teacher is really great.”
Jake’s eyes brightened. “I’ll have to ask my mom, but I think she’ll let me go,” Jake said.
At lunchtime, Alex asked his mom, “Can Jake go to Primary with me tomorrow?”
“We have to check with Jake’s mother,” Mom said. “If she says yes, then of course he can go.”
Later that day, Jake’s mom came to pick him up.
“Can Jake go to Primary with me tomorrow?” Alex asked.
“Can I, Mom?” Jake said. “Alex says Primary is really great. They read stories, sing songs, and learn about people in the scriptures.”
“I don’t know,” Jake’s mom said, looking uncertain. “We haven’t been to church for a long time.”
“Please, Mom,” Jake said. “I want to go.”
“Jake is welcome to come with us,” Alex’s mom said.
“Are you sure you want to go?” Jake’s mom asked.
“I’m sure!” Jake said.
“Then I guess it’s OK,” Jake’s mom said.
Jake gave his mom a quick hug. “Thanks,” he said.
On Sunday morning, Alex’s family picked up Jake. He was dressed in his Sunday clothes. After sacrament meeting the boys went to Primary. When they got to class, their teacher said, “We’re so glad to have you here, Jake.”
After church, Alex’s family took Jake home.
“Thanks for taking me to church with you,” Jake said.
Alex’s mom smiled at him. “You’re welcome, Jake. We hope you’ll come with us again,” she said.
That evening at dinner, Alex asked, “Can I invite Jake to go to church with us next Sunday?”
Mom nodded. “I’m going to follow your example and invite his mother to go with us too,” she said.
“You’re a good missionary, Alex,” Dad said.
Alex was surprised. “I was just being a friend,” he said.
“That’s what a missionary is,” Mom said, “a friend.”

“Are you a Christian?” It was a headline for an advertisement soliciting community service volunteers, and it attracted Roger Freeman’s attention. Brother Freeman is a faithful member of the Church—a Sunday School teacher, home teacher, and father of nine. Surely no one could accuse him of not serving his fellow man in a Christian way. Still, the question concerned him.
Brother Freeman contacted the community service agency that had placed the advertisement and asked how he could help. The agency gave him the names of several elderly people who needed someone to do various tasks around their homes.
Since that day several years ago, Brother Freeman has mowed lawns, repaired furniture, cleaned yards, and done odd jobs in many of the older sections of his city—often taking along a few of his children to help. Every few months, he calls the agency for more names. Sometimes he has cried, seeing people who are so poor and so lonely. Occasionally, he can befriend a person he serves and maintain some personal contact. He wishes he could do more.
Where does he find the time to reach beyond his circle of family and Church associations? “It doesn’t take much time,” says Brother Freeman. And what motivates him? He explains, “It’s mostly a matter of reaching beyond my own needs. Sometimes I think of the Savior walking down the dusty roads he traveled. He was aware of people’s needs.”
Serving those around us is not merely something added to the gospel. In fact, the Lord equates serving each other with serving Him. (See Mosiah 2:17.) Brother Lowell Bennion, who runs the community service agency in Salt Lake City that Brother Freeman called, feels that Saints should go to church not to be satisfied, but to “be motivated to go out and serve our neighbors in need.”

An experience I had more than 60 years ago in Boston taught me just how powerful the privilege of ministering one-on-one can be. I was then a resident surgeon at the Massachusetts General Hospital—on duty every day, every other night, and every other weekend. I had limited time for my wife, our four children, and Church activity. Nonetheless, our branch president assigned me to visit the home of Wilbur and Leonora Cox with the hope that Brother Cox might come back into activity in the Church. He and Leonora had been sealed in the temple. Yet Wilbur had not participated for many years.
My companion and I went to their home. As we entered, Sister Cox welcomed us warmly, but Brother Cox abruptly walked into another room and closed the door.
I went to the closed door and knocked. After a moment, I heard a muffled “Come in.” I opened the door to find Brother Cox sitting beside an array of amateur radio equipment. In that small room, he lit up a cigar. Clearly, my visit was not all that welcome.
I gazed about the room with wonderment and said, “Brother Cox, I have always wanted to learn more about amateur radio work. Would you be willing to teach me about it? I’m sorry I can’t stay any longer tonight, but could I come back another time?”
He hesitated for a moment and then said yes. That was the beginning of what became a wonderful friendship. I returned and he taught me. I began to love and respect him. Through our subsequent visits, the greatness of this man emerged. We became very good friends, as did our dear eternal companions. Then, with the passage of time, our family moved away. Local leaders continued to nurture the Cox family.
About eight years after that first visit, the Boston Stake was created. Can you guess who its first stake president was? Yes! Brother Cox! During subsequent years, he also served as a mission president and a temple president.
Years later, I, as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, was assigned to create a new stake in Sanpete County, Utah. During the usual interviews, I was pleasantly surprised to encounter again my dear friend Brother Cox! I felt impressed to call him as the new stake patriarch. After I ordained him, we embraced each other and wept. People in the room were wondering why these two grown men were crying. But we knew. And Sister Cox knew. Ours were tears of joy! We silently remembered the incredible journey of love and repentance that began more than 30 years ago, one night in their home.
The account doesn’t end there. Brother and Sister Cox’s family grew to include 3 children, 20 grandchildren, and 54 great-grandchildren. Add to that their impact on hundreds of missionaries, on thousands more in the temple, and on hundreds more who received patriarchal blessings at the hands of Wilbur Cox. His and Leonora’s influence will continue to ripple through many generations throughout the world.
Experiences such as this with Wilbur and Leonora Cox occur every week—hopefully, every day—within this Church. Dedicated servants of the Lord Jesus Christ carry out His work, with His power and authority.

I think one of the beautiful pictures that I remember back in the early days of the program was when we looked up and saw a beautiful field, white with cotton bolls, and then saw the Relief Society sisters, the Primary children, the men and women and children in the rows of cotton with their long bags trailing behind them. They were learning to pick cotton. When they went to weigh, they always were disappointed. They thought they had 150 pounds dragging behind them, and it turned out to be only eight or ten. I remember they were happy; they were doing something that was constructive. They were helping others. I remember sometimes in their happiness they would sing songs like “Way Down Upon the Swanee River.”
I have seen them picking fruit, cherries, apples and peaches, and it seems to me there was a new dimension that had been added when they felt they were doing something constructive, something they did not have to do, something they wanted to do for their own people.

“I hate Santa Claus!” I exclaimed, glaring at the jolly old elf painted on a mall window.
Mom looked at me with raised eyebrows. “You certainly have the Christmas spirit,” she said.
I hurried with her to the car, trying to find the words to explain how I felt. “It’s just that I’m sick of Santa and Rudolph and Frosty and all that,” I said, as I put my shopping bags in the trunk. “I mean, aren’t we supposed to be celebrating the birth of the Savior?”
“I agree. Christmas is getting too commercialized,” Mom said.
We drove past the town hall. A poster told people to bring their Sub for Santa goods in. “And that’s another thing,” I blurted. “I hate the way people feel a tug of guilt on their heart strings at Christmas time and donate all their old stuff to charity. Why can’t people be generous all year long? As if they’re fooling anyone.”
Mom smiled. “Christmas is a good time to start.”
But I didn’t care what she had to say. Before long I was mad at everyone, and by the time we pulled into our driveway I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to act any different just because it was Christmas. I wasn’t going to be hypocritical like the rest of the world. And as for the Savior’s birth, I’d just celebrate that in April.
After dinner we cleared the table and sat down to do homework. “Hey, help me with this algebra problem,” my brother Tom said.
“I’ve got homework to do,” I snapped.
“C’mon, it’s Christmas,” he pleaded. Boy, was that the wrong thing to say. I told him I didn’t care if it was Christmas. “Ask someone who has time,” I said.
“How about someone who needs blessings because she’s acting like the Grinch.”
“All right!” Mom’s stern voice cut in. “That’s enough you guys. I’ll help you Tom. Your sister’s carrying a grudge against Christmas this year.”
“I think her shoes are too tight, or her head’s not screwed on just right, or maybe her heart is two sizes too small,” Tom said as my mom dragged him to the other side of the table.
It was hard to concentrate on my homework because the ugliness inside me was growing. I couldn’t understand why I was feeling worse instead of better. After all, I wasn’t being a Christmas hypocrite, pretending to be jolly when people the world over were starving and suffering.
Just then the doorbell rang. Mom looked at me then quietly walked to the door. Her surprised gasp brought the rest of the family to her side, including me.
There stood our home teachers dressed as shepherds. They waited until everyone had gathered around, probably waiting for some of the shock to dissolve too. “We’re on our way to Bethlehem, and we thought we’d stop by and tell you what’s happened. You see, we were watching over our flocks when suddenly an angel appeared to us. At first we were terribly afraid, but the angel said, ‘Fear not, for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord’” (Luke 2:10–11).
There was something about the simplicity and sincerity of their message that got to me. My lip started quivering and I quickly bit it to keep it under control. I didn’t hear any more. I was too busy remembering how awful I’d been, all because I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. Tom was right. I had been the worst kind of Grinch, griping about how horrible everyone is, when I wasn’t willing to change myself for the better. At least the people I complained about were generous and kind part of the year. I certainly wasn’t.
“We’re going to see this miracle which has come to pass,” one of the shepherds said. With that they disappeared into the night, leaving us stunned into silence, meditating on their wonderful message.
Then it hit me. They were going to share this marvelous event with others, to help them feel the true spirit of Christmas.
I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat. “I’ve got some Christmas messages of my own to deliver,” I said. “I’ll start with you.” Turning to Mom I gave her the biggest hug I could manage. “I’m sorry for all I put you through. I know I can be a real pain sometimes.”
Mom smiled. “I guess part of being a mother is learning to take a lot of frustration.”
I looked at Tom who was grinning triumphantly.
“Probably the hardest thing I have to do is apologize to you, Tom,” I began. “But if I didn’t, you wouldn’t believe me when I tell you that my heart has really grown tonight.” He shrugged his shoulders and brushed past me. I noticed the reddening of his ears, a sure sign he was embarrassed.
I followed him to the kitchen table and sat down. “Tom,” I asked, “can I help you with your algebra?”
Tom looked up at me, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Sure,” he said. “And maybe you can help me wrap some presents too.”
I smiled back. “I’d like that.”
And for the first time that Christmas, I meant it.

Star tugged at her clothes. It still felt strange to wear a dress to church. In her old church the girls wore pants or shorts on Sunday. But not in her new church. She and her mom had just been baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Star sighed as she looked in the mirror. She was excited to go to church for the first time as an official member, but she was also nervous. Before, she stayed with Mom the whole time at church. But this time she was going to Primary.
Star blinked at her reflection. What if she didn’t fit in? What if the other kids didn’t like her?
“Star? Are you ready?” Mom called.
Star walked downstairs. “Do I look OK?” she asked.
Mom smiled. “You look beautiful.”
Star made a face. “You have to say that. You’re my mom.”
“You’re right. I do have to say that. Because it’s true.”
Star gave a small smile. Mom always had a way of making her feel better. But there were still butterflies in her stomach. What if none of the other kids wanted to talk to her? She had friends at school, but they weren’t members of her new church. She wished she had even one friend going to church with her.
“I just remembered something I have to do,” she told Mom.
She ran back upstairs and knelt by her bed. “Dear Heavenly Father, please help me make friends. I believe what the missionaries taught is true, but I’m scared.”
Star stayed on her knees and listened. After a moment she felt a sweet, peaceful feeling, and she wasn’t so nervous anymore.
At church Star and Mom sat by a family with three little girls. The parents introduced themselves and started talking with Mom before the meeting started. Star helped the girls color a picture of Jesus.
Bishop Andrews made his way toward them. “Sister Cunningham! Star! It’s good to see you today.” He gave them each a warm smile and a handshake. Star had forgotten how nice everyone at church was. Maybe she would make a friend after all.
After sacrament meeting Star went to the Primary room. She glanced at the other kids nervously as she sat down. They were talking to each other and didn’t seem to notice her. Star’s heart sank. She’d be on her own after all.
Just then a girl Star’s age walked into the room. She looks nervous too, Star thought. I could go talk to her.
Star took a deep breath, then walked over to the girl. “Hi, my name is Star. I’m new. Would you like to sit by me?” Star held her breath. Would the girl want to be her friend?
The girl’s mouth turned up in a half-smile. “I’m Sarah. I’m new too. My family just moved here from Ontario.”
“My mom and I were baptized two weeks ago,” Star said. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”
Sarah’s smile grew wider. “We’ll figure it out together.”
Star and Sarah sat with their class. Sometimes Star caught Sarah’s eye and smiled. Sarah smiled back. Star felt calm and happy. She knew that Heavenly Father had answered her prayer and helped her find a friend.
In class the teacher asked Star and Sarah to introduce themselves.
Think About It
How can you help someone who’s new at church feel welcome?
Star stood up. “My name is Star Cunningham. My mom and I were baptized two weeks ago.” She paused, and a smile grew on her face as she looked at her new friend. “And this is my friend Sarah.”

When I was in my eleventh year of school I contracted a kidney disease. Over the next few years my health gradually declined until my condition became critical. Despite the best medical care, the disease eventually destroyed both of my kidneys.

In January 1968 I was admitted to the University of Washington Health Center. My parents were called and told that my condition was so poor that I might not survive the night.

My father and a close friend administered to me; then, my mother took a copy of my patriarchal blessing from her purse and read several passages. She bore her testimony, then handed me the blessing. “You have a great mission to fulfill,” she said quietly, “and the Lord wants to help. But you need to do your part, too, Brent.” She leaned over and kissed me good night.

My father bore his testimony, shook my hand, and hit me lightly on the chest.

“Good night,” he said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

Then I was alone in the quiet solitude of my hospital room—alone with my thoughts, memories, and a blessing.

As I thought about my mother’s admonition, I began to reach out to my Father in Heaven, something I had never really done before. As I prayed, I at first tasted the bitterness of a life that had failed to reach its potential. But as I continued to pray, the bitterness subsided, and I felt as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from me. I was at peace again—warm, comforted, and assured that my prayer was being answered. I knew in my heart that all would be well.

Early in 2003, just two years into our quinoa research project, I visited traditional quinoa production fields in the Bolivian Altiplano. There, highly diverse quinoa fields were partly infested with the local weedy goosefoot, and the two often cross-pollinated. Impoverished subsistence farmers who lacked mechanization would walk through the fields and separately harvest the black-seeded weedy quinoa, which they often consumed in popped form. Later, in early November 2003, I broke away for a day from a scientific conference in Denver to see what quinoa production looked like in the United States, visiting the main growing region around Alamosa in southern Colorado. The discouraged Colorado grower I met with complained that every three years they had suffered near-total yield losses due to pressure from insect pests and excessive heat. From those two experiences, my colleagues and I started thinking that maybe the solution to failed quinoa production in the United States was to cross it with lowland-adapted strains of goosefoot.

The next year, in 2004, we started collecting seeds from weedy populations, mostly in Utah and Arizona. Since then, our collection has expanded to include samples from hundreds of goosefoot populations growing in environments as diverse as the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts, the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the Great Plains, California, and even as far east as the coast of New England. We are now crossing elite quinoas with these exotic goosefoot strains and producing breeding populations that we share with quinoa breeders in a dozen countries on four continents.

Two years ago, while revisiting the Colorado quinoa region, this time during the growing season, we noticed that the production fields had native goosefoot plants growing around their margins. In addition, the quinoa fields contained many plants showing intermediate characteristics between quinoa and the weedy form—just like we were accustomed to seeing in Andean quinoa fields in Bolivia and Peru. The next year we sampled fifteen plants showing varying degrees of goosefoot characteristics, and after DNA sequence analysis by one of my students, Jake Taylor, and Drs. Maughan and Jarvis, we confirmed the extensive introgression of goosefoot genes into this population. Interestingly, many years after the quinoa disaster of 2003, the problem was no longer failure to set seed; it was now a problem of heterogeneity due to the natural outcrossing process, which was converting quinoa into an adapted crop through genetic mixing with its weedy but native cousin. In other words, weedy goosefoot genes had literally saved the Colorado quinoa industry.

Many years ago, Dr. Earl V. Pullius, a non-Mormon scholar, told a story on this campus that deeply impressed me with the connection between the first and second generations of pioneers and the present generation of young people and converts in the Church. Before World War II, the renowned musician Bruno Walter was the conductor of the Vienna Symphony. This symphony was a unique musical organization with a spirit and unity and synergism that produced glorious music, powerful and unmatched by any other symphony. When the Nazis took over Austria, the conductor fled to America. It was not until 1947 that he was finally able to return to Austria. His first priority was to visit his beloved Vienna Symphony. As he approached the concert hall where they were practicing, he could hear the strains of their remarkable music. He said that if he had been anywhere on the face of the earth and heard that sound, he would have been able to identify it as coming only from the Vienna Symphony. When he entered the concert hall, to his amazement he discovered that although the exquisite musical quality was still there, not one of the musicians playing with the symphony had played with it when he was its conductor. All of them were new, but the powerful spirit remained.

Such was the case when my wife’s parents joined the Church in 1968. A young missionary who wanted to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands helped bring their family into the Church.
My in-laws met with the missionaries once, but after that, my father-in-law didn’t want to continue. Then a new missionary, Elder Fetzer, was transferred to the area, and this young missionary and his companion felt prompted to visit and minister to the family. Elder Fetzer was able to touch the hearts of the family members in a way that other missionaries had not.
For the next six months the missionaries ministered to the family’s needs. In time, my wife’s parents were touched by the Spirit and joined the Church. They received the blessings that come as we make and keep covenants. Through them, more families have joined the Church and received the blessings of the gospel.
This happened, in part, because a young man from Utah was willing to “let God prevail” in his life. He had the courage to leave the comfort of home, learn a new language, and serve the Lord in Brazil.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t join the Church at that time. My parents strongly objected, especially my father. But I could understand him. His parents never took him to church; he was brought up when the country was under communist rule. Nevertheless, I knew the Lord had prepared a way for me to join the Church someday. I already knew that way would be very hard. But I had learned from the scriptures that tribulations can be for our good.

I went to seminary and later to institute, I attended Church activities, and I even started my own Personal Progress. I couldn’t wait to go to Young Women activities. I will never forget the hours we spent cooking, making postcards or bookmarks, decorating our classroom, or playing games, as well as the wonderful spirit of friendship between us. Each activity helped me understand my divine nature and role in life.

One of the most difficult Personal Progress projects was memorizing “The Living Christ.”1 When I looked at the text, I thought it would be a great challenge to memorize it. After a couple of weeks, I already knew why that project was in the Faith value. It was a test of faith and patience, a test with rewarding consequences. The testimony of the Apostles helped strengthen my faith and testimony. By remembering their inspiring words of Christ’s divine life and ministry, I got the courage to testify of Him myself.

When I was about 16, we had an activity about being a full-time missionary. We divided into pairs and lived like missionaries for a week. That was the first time I learned how important it is to share our testimonies with others. This activity helped me realize not only how hard it is to serve the Lord, but also the joy we feel by sharing the gospel and seeing how Christ’s teachings change someone’s life. It helped me understand what it is like to “stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).

As an “active nonmember,” as everyone called me, I learned to have patience and hope that one day I would become a member of the Church. I knew it was a test of my faith and patience. I wondered how long it would take to be cleansed and start a new life.

That day came almost seven years after my friend took me to church on that cold February morning in 2000. I was baptized at 21 at the mission home in Sofia. My baptism day was one of the happiest days of my life. At that moment I felt the great redeeming love Heavenly Father has for me. I felt that even more when I partook of the sacrament the next day. I couldn’t hold back the tears. The Spirit burning inside me was telling me it was worth waiting for. I could finally enjoy the gift of the Holy Ghost and other blessings of being a member of the Church.

I’m grateful to be blessed with knowledge of the restored gospel. I know we can overcome the tribulations of life through faith and patience. We have no greater and more rewarding privilege than being a member of the only true Church on earth. Nothing brings greater happiness than the knowledge we have that as worthy members of the Church, we can live with God again.

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.

Kelley could not find Samuel’s wife. Kelley knew her name, but Samuel’s wife just wasn’t where she was supposed to be. It was like unraveling a mystery, and it was frustrating. “His wife had a nickname, and we had to get a special form for the census to get her record. Then we had to put their names in code before we asked for it. We would do these names in code, and then we were wrong, wrong, wrong.”
For a little while one Saturday afternoon in Anchorage, Alaska, Kelley Staats, a Beehive in the Anchorage Sixth Ward, got a taste of what doing family history was really like. Even though Kelley was having a hard time for a few minutes, she was actually having a great time figuring out how to find information from census, cemetery, immigration, and church records.

When I was young, I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with my dad. He went to college all day and worked most of the night. It was really wearing him out, but he had himself, my mother, and four children to support.
I used to play with the wooden toys my dad made for us. He made such things as blocks, wooden animals, and puzzles when he had time. But my favorite was the little knife he carved for me from a small piece of wood. It wasn’t using the knife to fight an imaginary foe that intrigued me so much. It was the fact that my dad had made it himself, just for me and no one else.
I was so proud of my dad. I thought there was nothing better than someone who could turn an ordinary piece of wood into something as magnificent as my little knife. I would just sit and hold it in my hands, looking at it and thinking about the time he spent making it for me.
Years later, when my dad was out of school and had a good daytime job, I was able to spend a little more time with him, but the value of that knife never lessened.
One day I walked outside and what I saw sent a flood of memories into my mind. My dad was sitting on the steps, a pocketknife in his right hand, and in his left a piece of wood slowly taking the shape of a little knife. I could see little slivers of wood fly as he whittled and whistled a happy song. He turned to me and smiled.
Before I knew it, I was sitting right next to my dad, a pocketknife in my right hand and a piece of wood in my left. Twice as many little shavings of wood flew as my dad taught me how to carve a little knife by myself. Mine didn’t look nearly as good as his, but it was okay. My dad was sitting next to me, and that was all that mattered.
Every once in a while, I looked up at him, all smiles, to compare my knife with his, as he kept carving the wood and whistling his songs. Once he caught me looking at him and gave me a big smile and winked at me. That made me feel good because he would wink at me when he was really happy. I winked back.

One evening, years ago, my wife and I sat alone together. The children were all asleep in their beds, and we were waiting for the birth of a new little baby. My wife, big with child, was sitting by the table. We were talking softly together, knowing that the baby would arrive that night. The lights were dim, and there was a feeling of love for each other and for the baby that was to come. I remember looking at my wife—she was in a rocking chair, her eyes closed, her pale white hands spread across her full waist. The sweet feeling in the room grew and persisted. It was very powerful. I said to her, “Do you feel this all around us?” and she replied, “Yes.” It was lovely being with her there then. It was a sweet closeness, a unity I can hardly describe.

“Can you tell?” I said. “We shall have a son.”

“I know,” she replied. “It will be a boy.”

And then for me the veil parted, and I saw our son, standing, waiting, a few feet from the chair my wife was rocking in. He was tall and well formed, taller and larger, it seemed to me, than the room allowed. There was power about his person, great power and goodness and patience and love. I said, “Do you see him there standing beside you?”

Again there swelled that sweet feeling of closeness and unity. She looked at me, confident, a small smile on her lips. “I don’t need to,” she said. “I know he is there.”

Pat: In the summer of 1973, Brother David K. Skidmore received military orders to report for duty in Thailand. Leaving a wife and two small children behind, David hoped to make the year pass as quickly as possible.
On the evening of his arrival, he was invited to join in a social gathering with his new squadron. He turned down an alcoholic drink for a soda pop and tried to obscure himself in quiet conversation amid the pounding of the music and the layered haze of smoke.
As he was introduced around, Brother Skidmore eventually ended up standing at the bar with the squadron commander, a colonel. With the officer’s arm around David’s neck he was a captive, listening to tales of airplanes, daring, and past comrades.
Soon a signal was given and the men gathered around the bar. The music was turned off and it became very quiet. Everyone was served a small drink of very strong alcohol. When the drinks came to Brother Skidmore, he said quietly, trying to be casual, “No, thank you, I prefer this soft drink.”
The room went silent. “But this is a squadron tradition,” the man said.
Thoughts raced through David’s mind: “Why me? Why in front of the whole squadron? Why the very first night?” Trying to sound confident, David explained that he did not drink alcohol but would participate with soda pop.
With that, the silence deepened, and the commander’s arm tightened around his neck and he said, “Lieutenant, I’m ordering you to have this drink. You’ll drink it if I have to pour it down you myself.”
David thought of how far he could get if he tried to fight. He envisioned the results, and an unpleasant visit to the wing commander to change squadrons. Again he asked himself, “Why me?” But he gathered his courage amidst the waiting silence and said, “I’m sorry, sir, I will not drink alcohol.”
An electricity filled the air, and David prayed silently with all his heart.
The colonel leaned back and measured him with his eyes, then replied, “You are going to drink this . . .”
David kept praying.
Then the colonel added, “. . . unless you are a Mormon.”
What relief filled a soldier’s soul! Of course he was a Mormon! He’d always been a Mormon. Why hadn’t he said so earlier? “Yes, sir, I’m a Mormon,” he answered.
The commander quizzed David again to make sure he wasn’t simply taking an easy out. Then he said, “A soft drink for this man, please” (David K. Skidmore, “Yes, I Am a Mormon,” Ensign, September 1985, pp. 55–56).

George Q. Cannon had a large family. Forty-three children. It wasn't always easy to keep them straight, as I found out in a recollection of Collins Cannon, one of the younger sons. Here is what Collins wrote:

"I was about eight and one day I came upon Father and Uncle Angus M. on Main Street. Before I go further with this anecdote I must [explain that] Uncle Angus was a kisser. He kissed all and sundry, young and old, male and female alike, and it didn't matter whether it was on Main Street or wherever...Uncle Angus had grandson twins...They were called Jack and Chick. They were about my age...I had chanced upon Father and Uncle Angus and I was attempting to slide by unnoticed on account of my dread of the kissing ordeal...Angus spotted me, halted me and you guessed it—he kissed me...Father looked on and said, 'Angus, which is that, Jack or Chick?' My world tumbled about me...and I cried out, 'No, no, Pa! I ain't Jack or Chick! I'm Aunt Martha's little boy.'"