Gospel Story Finder

Hannah sat on the train seat between her father and her sister, Bessie. Papa had let Bessie sit next to the window, but Hannah didn’t mind because that meant she could sit next to Papa. She snuggled up next to him, and he reached out to squeeze her hand.
“Today we’ll go inside the house of the Lord,” Papa said, his voice trembling a little.
“Yes, Papa,” Hannah said.
“Do you know why?”
Hannah nodded. “The Salt Lake Temple will be dedicated today. Then it will be a real temple.”
“Yes,” said Papa. “And why else do you want to go?”
“To see how beautiful it is inside,” Hannah answered.
Papa smiled. “Is that why we go to the temple?”
Hannah looked down at the pink ticket she was holding on her lap. It had President Wilford Woodruff’s own signature on it. She would show it at the door so she could go inside to see the temple dedication.
“To see President Woodruff?”
“We do love our prophet, but why else do you want to go?” Papa tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.
Hannah leaned back in her seat. What answer was Papa after?
“You think about that.” Papa patted her knee. “On the way home, you can answer again.”
The train ride went by quickly, and soon Hannah found herself staring at the Salt Lake Temple. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. Looking up at the spires made her delightfully dizzy. The angel Moroni sparkled in the morning sun. “Holiness to the Lord,” Hannah read from the inscription on the wall. She felt a powerful joy in her heart. She promised herself that someday she would be married right here in the temple.
Hannah whispered to her father, “I know why I want to go to the temple. It’s because of Charley and Grandfather Bird and the rest of our family. It’s for Holiness to the Lord and for me too.”
Papa nodded, tears pooling in his eyes. “That’s why I want to go too.”

The chute burst open and a raging, bucking bronco leaped high into the air. A cowboy sat atop, in perfect form, his spurs above the point of the shoulders, the rhythm of each move matched to the twisting and turning of the wild horse.
But then the crowd rose to its feet and gasped as the massive animal came crashing down on its side, all of its weight crushing the left foot of its rider.
Zane Davis picked himself up and hobbled over to the chute. When he got his boot off, the foot began to swell. The crushed bones eliminated his chances to continue in the competition, but that didn’t keep Zane down.
Less than a month later he was back in the saddle, working his way to the title as top college rodeo rider in the United States.

A missionary I know recently wrote his family:
We had a zone conference tonight. It seems that some missionaries from another district have been taking the meetings a little less seriously than other people feel they should. They were openly rebuked for it, and it gave me some thoughts on the relationship we place between the gospel and people. . . . It’s so easy to notice what other people do wrong and how we would do things differently. Can you imagine how different the world would be if that trend was reversed and if we all noticed the positive of others and set these qualities as our goal to work for rather than comparing ourselves to the negative? [Letter from Elder Adam Wilcox to MarJean Wilcox]
Yes, Elder Wilcox, I can imagine. In fact, in my fondest dreams we treat each other in the kind ways that heal and soothe the bruises and rebuffs of life. This wise young elder reminds us that if we will acknowledge successes and think of ways to bring everyone in, rather than emphasizing the errors or differences that leave some out, life will be better all around.

It was 11 p.m. when I heard my father’s car door close outside. He was home a little early tonight. Dad was a college professor with a full load of night classes to teach, so his normal arrival time wavered somewhere between 11:30 p.m. and midnight. And since I left for my early-morning seminary class before sunup, I usually only saw him for a few flurried minutes each night. That is, if I saw him at all.
Tonight I was brushing my teeth when he popped his head through the bathroom doorway. “How are you?” he asked. Through a mouthful of toothpaste I mumbled a response, then asked how his day had been.
“Great,” he said boisterously. “The plane got in a few hours ago, and the bus dropped us off at the school. After that I came right home.”
Plane? Bus? Was I missing something? He must have noticed my vacant stare, because he quickly added, “I was at a conference in Indianapolis all week.”
He was? Why didn’t I know about this? I realized with a pang of shame that my father had just spent five days on the other side of the country, and I hadn’t even noticed he was gone.
As my sister and I got older, it seemed like the whole family got busier until we were, as Mom liked to say, “like ships passing in the night.” We barely had time to blurt out “good morning” before we rushed in separate directions. But even with our classes and after-school activities, my sister and I couldn’t compete with Dad at being busy. His workday was longer than anyone else’s. Even when he was home, he spent hours at the computer, writing textbooks and revising lecture outlines.
Because Dad wasn’t a member of the Church, we only saw him on Sunday mornings over our bowls of breakfast cereal. By the time the rest of the family came home after our Church meetings, he had usually disappeared to his office at the college to get more work done.
I had always thought my family was a regular busy family, and I figured that feeling out of touch with my dad was just a part of such a high-speed life. Until that night over the bathroom sink, I never really considered the idea that we might be too busy.
A few weeks later, the missionaries from our ward came to my house for dinner. Dad, of course, was missing in action, but after we had eaten, the missionaries began to ask us some questions about Dad’s feelings toward the Church. Had he ever taken the discussions? Had he read the Book of Mormon? Did he ever come to Church with us? My mother and I answered the questions as best we could. Then the elders said that they’d really like the chance to teach my father the gospel, and they wanted to enlist our help.
Although I was usually enthusiastic about thinking up ways to help share the gospel with my father, I leaned back into my chair and frowned. “What can we do?” I asked skeptically. “We hardly ever see him.” I explained to the missionaries about Dad’s overly hectic schedule, and they nodded understandingly.
Finally one of the missionaries, who also had a nonmember father, said, “My dad was the same way when I was in high school. He was such a workaholic that I felt like I never saw him, and we just drifted farther and farther apart. I got even busier after I joined the Church.
“I just decided,” he went on, “that it was important for my dad to know that I loved him, that my joining the Church didn’t make me love him less. Since I didn’t see him very often, I started leaving him notes. Nothing special. I just wrote a quick note telling him that I loved and appreciated him, and I made sure I put it where he’d find it.”
“Did it work?” I asked skeptically.
He smiled and shrugged. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
It was a challenge I couldn’t refuse. That night, after I was in my pajamas and Dad still hadn’t gotten home from work, I pulled out a pad of sticky notes and wrote a quick message: “Dear Dad: I hope you had a good day. I love you.” I signed my name at the bottom and stuck the note to his computer screen, knowing Dad almost always made a stop at his computer before he finally got to bed.
The next morning when I plodded into the bathroom still half asleep, I noticed a piece of yellow paper clinging to the mirror. “Dear Melody,” it read. “Thanks for the note. I love you too. Love, Dad.”
I smiled, something I rarely did at 5:30 in the morning.
For the rest of that year before I went away to college, I left notes for my father a few times a week. Nothing elaborate, just a few lines to tell him what was going on in my life, to wish him a good day, to tell him I loved him. He almost always responded with another note attached to my bathroom mirror or my bedroom door.
As the weeks went on and our note exchange became a regular thing, it became easier to put into words how I really felt about my dad. I realized that even though I didn’t spend as much time with him as I wanted to, I really did love him. And I realized that even though he worked a lot, he really loved me too. Having a true friendship made us more eager to do things with each other, too, like trips to museums or into the city on Saturday afternoons.
Over the years I kept a few of the sticky notes from Dad. I even taped one to the mirror in my dorm room at college just to make it feel like home. When I finally went back home for Christmas, I noticed that Dad had done the same. A piece of yellow paper with the words “Dad, I love you. Melody” was firmly attached to the top of his computer desk.
My father never joined the Church. But when he died suddenly several years ago, the yellow sticky note was still on his computer desk, right where it had been for five years. In the weeks after his death, I felt grateful that I had found a way to communicate with Dad even when we were both at our busiest. I didn’t have to wonder whether he knew that I loved him. I knew that he looked at my words every day.

Nita Blackwing dragged her bleating one-year-old sheep across the corral. “You’re going to get your first shearing,” she told him. “But don’t be afraid—it won’t hurt.”
Mother and Granny were shearing the whole flock that spring day. Some of the sheep belonged to Nita’s older brothers and sisters. This was Nita’s first sheep. With a pair of big hand shears Granny expertly sheared the wool from Nita’s sheep in one whole piece.
“How skinny he looks!” Nita declared. “Poor thing!” She wished she could wrap his woolly coat around him and make him a baby lamb again.
Feeling a bit sad, Nita walked home with Granny as the glowing sunset turned the earth and rocks of the Navajo reservation red.
Running ahead of the older woman, Nita shouted, “The cactuses are in bloom, Granny!” Nita kept a safe distance from the spiny pads of the prickly pear cactuses as she stroked the dark pink petals of a colorful blossom. They were big and as shiny as wax. “I wish I could take one home,” she said.
“A cactus flower lives only a short while,” Granny cautioned. “Let it turn into a fruit that we can use.”
The Blackwing hogan was a round house made of logs and bark, plastered with mud the same color as the rocks around it. The boys helped their father with the horses and ponies and the crops of corn and squash. The girls herded the sheep and helped prepare the wool for weaving. Mother wove good blankets and rugs, but Granny was known far and wide as one of the best weavers among the Navajos.
Nita and her sisters spent the hot summer days in front of the hogan, beating the wool with sticks to make the burrs and dirt fly out. Then they carded it into strands by combing it with metal-toothed paddles. Nita carded her own sheep’s fleece especially well so that Granny would want to use it in her rug.
Every night Nita watched Granny spin the wool into yarn on a spinning stick. “Why do you whirl it around so many times?” she asked.
“The more you spin, the finer the yarn,” Granny explained. “The finer the yarn, the better the rug.”
Mother, who liked new ways and bright colors, bought the dye for her yarn in paper packages at the trading post. One night when they were all snuggled down under their sheepskins, the children chose the colors they wanted for their wool.
“Turquoise!” said Maria. “Like the sky.”
“Yellow!” said Jolie. “Like the sun.”
“Red—bright red!” Ben shouted.
Those three colors would go into Mother’s rug.
“My sheep is black, so I don’t have to choose,” said Ramon.
“I want mine to stay white,” said Johnny. “And my wool will be twisted with Ramon’s to make gray.”
Both Mother and Granny used the three natural colors—black, white, and gray. But Granny wouldn’t use dyes from the trader. She made her own by boiling roots, bark, fruit, and leaves from plants.
“I guess you’ll have to choose brown, Nita,” said Maria. “That’s about the only color Granny ever makes.”
But brown was dull, and Nita like bright colors too.
One day Nita went with Granny to the nearby mountains to find plants for making dye. The trees and shrubs were turning red and yellow in the frosty air.
“What a pretty tree,” said Nita as they dug up roots of a mountain mahogany with reddish bark and leaves. “Does this make red dye, Granny?” She hoped it did.
But Granny replied, “No, Brown,”
On the way home they came to the prickly pear cactus, now bearing dark red fruit. “We’ll pick some of these to make rose-colored dye,” said Granny.
“You’ve never woven a rose-colored rug before!” Nita said excitedly.
“I mix it with brown to make a good Indian color—the color of the earth that takes care of us.”
Nita looked toward the hogan framed against the rocks. It was a kind of rosy brown in the setting sun. “Like that?” she asked, pointing.
“Yes. I see a design in my head that has many squares of the Indian earth color at sunset.”
“Then I want that for the color of my sheep’s wool,” Nita declared.
When the snow came and the coyotes howled, Nita sat in front of the loom and watched Granny weave her rug. It had a gray background and a black border and a design in squares and rectangles of white and black and the rosy Indian earth color.
When the frozen ground thawed and the snowstorms were replaced by dust storms, Granny took the rug off the loom and laid it on the floor. Nita touched the rosy brown squares.
“There is my sheep’s wool,” she said. “And there are the colors from the prickly pear flower and the mahogany tree.”
Granny began to roll up the rug. “Now I must take it to the trading post. We need flour, sugar, and canned food, and some cloth for blouses and skirts.”
Tears came into Nita’s eyes as she thought about the beautiful rug that must be traded for supplies.
“Come,” said Granny. “Your father will drive us to the trading post in his truck. The trader will give you a peppermint stick.”
Nita smiled. “It’s almost time for the ewes to have new lambs, isn’t it? Will I get to choose another one to be mine?”
“Of course,” said Granny. “You will have a new lamb, and your old sheep will have new wool. The cactus will bloom again, and we will go again to the mountains for our plant dyes. That is how the earth takes care of us.”
“And I will learn to weave rugs full of beautiful things like yours,” said Nita

For example, a sister missionary recently wrote to me: “My companion and I saw a man sitting on a bench in the town square eating his lunch. As we drew near, he looked up and saw our missionary name tags. With a terrible look in his eye, he jumped up and raised his hand to hit me. I ducked just in time, only to have him spit his food all over me and start swearing the most horrible things at us. We walked away saying nothing. I tried to wipe the food off of my face, only to feel a clump of mashed potato hit me in the back of the head. Sometimes it is hard being a missionary because right then I wanted to go back, grab that little man, and say, ‘EXCUSE ME!’ But I didn’t.”

Relief Society sisters in Germany noticed that some Afghan women were using their husbands’ shirts to cover their heads instead of their traditional head coverings, which had been lost or damaged in the madness at the airport. These Relief Society sisters gathered to sew traditional Muslim clothing for these women in need—showing kindness and respect for others, putting aside their difference of beliefs.

When I was twelve years old, my family moved to American Fork, Utah. Danny and Kelly Brewer and their widowed mother, who had remarried, lived across the street from us. I have never known such wholesome boys. They never swore and they always went to church because they wanted to.
They played tennis, so I learned to play tennis, too. Kelly became my tennis partner and best friend. It’s one thing to be a good person on your own, but it’s much easier when you have a friend who also wants to be good. I’m very thankful for the good influence of those boys.

Sally Randall of Nauvoo, Illinois, whose 14-year-old son died, found great comfort in the promise of eternal families. After her husband was baptized for their son, she wrote to her relatives: “What a glorious thing it is that we … can be baptized for all of our dead [ancestors] and save them as far back as we can get any knowledge of them.” Then she asked her relatives to send her information on their ancestors, saying, “I intend to do what I can to save [our family].”4

A few weeks ago I was called to the County Hospital in Salt Lake City by a mother. I didn’t know her. She said her boy was dying from polio and asked if I would come down and give that boy a blessing. So I picked up a young bishop whom I generally take with me, for I think his faith is greater than mine, and I always like him along. We went down there and here was this young lad in an iron lung, unconscious, his face rather a blackish color, with a tube in his throat, and they said he had one lower down in his abdomen. He had been flown in from an outlying community. The mother said to me, “This is an unusual boy, not because he’s my child, but he is an unusual boy.” I think he was eight or nine years of age.
After they put the usual coverings on us we went in and we blessed that boy. It was one of those occasions when I knew as I laid my hands upon that lad that he was an unusual boy, and that he had faith. Having faith in his faith, I blessed him to get well and promised him he would. I never heard anymore about him until last Saturday. I was on my way to Murray to conference. I dropped in at the County Hospital, and I asked if I might see the lad. The nurse said, “Certainly. Walk right down the hall.”
As I walked down the hall, out came the boy running to meet me. He ran up and asked, “Are you Brother Cowley?” And I said, “Yes.” He said, “I want to thank you for that prayer.” He added, “I was unconscious then, wasn’t I?” I replied, “You certainly were.” He said, “That’s the reason I don’t recognize you.” Then he asked, “Come on in my room; I want to talk to you.” He was an unusual boy.
Well, we went in the room. He still had a tube in his throat. I said, “How long are you going to have that tube there?” He said, “Oh, two weeks. Two more weeks and then I’m all well. How about another blessing?” So I said, “Certainly.” I blessed him again, and then I was in a hurry. I wanted to get out to my conference. But he stopped me and asked, “Hey, how about my partner in the next bed?” There was a young fellow about sixteen or seventeen. I said, “What do you mean?” He said, “Don’t go out without blessing him. He’s my partner.” I said, “Sure.” Then I asked the boy, “Would you like a blessing?” He said, “Yes, sir. I’m a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood in my ward.” I blessed him, and then my little friend left and brought another fellow in. Here was another partner. And I blessed him.
Now, except ye believe as a child, you can’t receive these blessings. We have to have the faith of a child in order to believe in these things, especially when you reach college age and your minds are so full of skepticism and doubt. I guess there are some things that you should doubt, but you can become as little children in these things. Miracles are commonplace, brothers and sisters.

1. “Watch out! The allosaurus is going to get you!” roared Teddy as he chased Cole’s dinosaur around the couch with his allosaurus.
“No one can stop me. I’m a tyrannosaurus rex,” Cole said, bouncing his dinosaur along the walls.
2. The boys stomped through the house like loud, hungry dinosaurs until Mom brought out a snack.
3. “Who’s that on your wall?” Teddy asked, eating his string cheese.
“Jesus, of course,” Cole said.
“Who is Jesus?” Teddy asked.
Cole didn’t know what to say. He thought everyone knew about Jesus.
“He lives in heaven. And He loves all the people,” was all he could think to answer.
“OK,” Teddy said. “Do you want to go outside?”
4. Cole was kneeling by his bed that night getting ready to say his prayers when Dad came in.
“Did you have a good time with Teddy today?” Dad asked.
“Yes. We played in the sandbox and with dinosaurs. Dad, Teddy asked me who Jesus was, and I didn’t know what to tell him.”
5. Dad pointed to a picture on the wall above Cole’s bed. It was of Jesus surrounded by children. “What do you think about when you look at this painting?” Dad asked.
6. “I think about how I want to live with Jesus and Heavenly Father someday. And how Jesus treated people kindly when He was on the earth,” Cole said.
7. “It sounds like you could tell Teddy both of those things,” Dad said.
“Maybe Teddy would like to come to church with me sometime,” Cole said. “Then he could learn lots of things about Jesus. And it is fun too.”
8. Dad kissed Cole on the top of his head.
“You’re a good boy, Cole. Heavenly Father and Jesus are both proud of you. And Teddy is lucky to have you for a friend.”

I recall a story told by Elder Harold B. Lee in 1952. His story has had a significant impact on me for several reasons. I quote Elder Lee:
“I was around ten or eleven years of age. I was with my father out on a farm away from our home, trying to spend the day busying myself until my father was ready to go home. Over the fence from our place were some tumbledown sheds that would attract a curious boy, and I was adventurous. I started to climb through the fence, and I heard a voice as clearly as you are hearing mine, calling me by name and saying, ‘Don’t go over there!’ I turned to look at my father to see if he were talking to me, but he was way up at the other end of the field. There was no person in sight. I realized then, as a child, that there were persons beyond my sight, for I had definitely heard a voice. Since then, when I hear or read stories of the Prophet Joseph Smith, I too have known what it means to hear a voice, because I’ve had the experience” (Stand Ye in Holy Places [1974], 139).
Consider some of the effects of that experience. First, it taught the reality of revelation to a young boy who was to become a prophet. Second, it may have protected young Harold from some hidden danger in those old sheds. That was the way I interpreted the story for many years, and perhaps that is true. We will never know. But perhaps the warning he heard was not to protect him from danger. Perhaps it was to test his willingness to be obedient to heavenly guidance. Surely he passed the test, and where did that lead? It kept the channel of revelation open for further guidance, and it was a formative experience in the life of one of our greatest teachers. Following an impression may seem a small thing now, but where it leads can be immensely important.

Speaking under the influence of the Holy Ghost and within the limits of his or her responsibility, a person may be inspired to predict what will come to pass in the future. The one who holds the office of the prophet, seer, and revelator prophesies for the Church, as when Joseph Smith prophesied concerning the Civil War (see D&C 87) and foretold that the Saints would become a mighty people in the Rocky Mountains. Prophecy is part of the calling of a patriarch. Each of us is also privileged occasionally to receive prophetic revelation illuminating future events in our lives, like a Church calling we are to receive. To cite another example, after our fifth child was born, my wife and I did not have any more children. After more than 10 years we concluded that our family would not be any larger, which grieved us. Then one day, while my wife was in the temple, the Spirit whispered to her that she would have another child. That prophetic revelation was fulfilled about a year and a half later with the birth of our sixth child, for whom we had waited 13 years.

In that regard, I wish to share with you a letter which I received while I was serving in the BYU–Idaho First Stake. It was a letter from the mother of a young man sent to his bishop in our stake. It was received during the week we were about to call a new bishop. With the permission of this mother, I will share some of her thoughts about her son. I will not refer to him by his real name, but today we will call him Wilbur.
Dear Bishop,
I am writing in hopes of receiving whatever help you might be able to give me in regards to my son, Wilbur who is presently in your ward at BYU–Idaho.
I have prayed and fasted for guidance and thought to write to you in case you might know how to reach him.
His dad and I spoke to him on the phone last night at which time he informed us that he is coming home at the end of the semester. He has planned to try to live with friends so that he can get away from the influence of the Church in his life. He says that he has prayed several times to know if the gospel is true and claims he has never received an answer. So now, he says, “I give up.” “I’m not going to try anymore.” He says it is misery to be around so many people there at school who say they know it is true and that their prayers are answered while his are not. “Therefore,” he says, “he is rejecting it all.”
Bishop, Wilbur has been struggling with this for several years. Somehow he is unable to recognize the still small voice and perhaps expects a lightning bolt or a vision. He has made some mistakes in his life . . . hanging around hard rock musicians who put no pressure on him to try to better himself and who are therefore, easy to “hang out with” because they have no expectations of him. Whereas, he feels that to be a faithful member of the Church requires so much obligation, more than he can stand without a testimony.
Though rebellious, we know our beloved son is valuable and that his soul is of great worth to the Lord. We love him tremendously and know that the Lord would not have us give up on him.
If there is anything you can do to reach my son’s heart or to help him with this struggle of faith, I would be eternally grateful.
As I mentioned, the Bishop handed me the letter near the day of his release. I immediately tried to contact this young man and found that he had checked out of school early and returned home. I called his mother to see what might be done – to see if there was something we might do to help him return. Wilbur had moved on, joining those who “had little expectations of him”
Later I contacted his mother to see how Wilbur was doing. During the conversation, she shared with me that she felt that things could have been so different if Wilbur had simply chosen to associate with different types of friends in his life – “good friends” as she described them.
I have thought a lot about that comment since then and about some of the comments the mother had written in her letter. Might I point two observations which this very insightful mother suggested would have been of great benefit to her son:
Wilbur needed to be with those who genuinely cared about him. Unlike Wilbur’s friends mentioned in his mother’s letter, friends who truly care do have expectations of us. Expectations which are not critical or intended to be overwhelming or burdensome; but a simple assumption that the best we can be is really who we are. Associating with those who expect little or nothing from us usually results in our actions yielding just that – very little. On the other hand, as we associate with those who recognize our potential, our true character, our tender heart; their association instills in us a desire to live according to our highest potential. We come to realize, as they do, that the best we can be really is who we are.
Wilbur needed to be around people who not only bear their testimony in Sacrament Meeting but actually lived their testimony through their actions, their selfless deeds of service and kind gestures. Through such examples, good friends provide us with occasional snap shots of what it means to be Christ-like. As we witness such qualities in others, the Spirit of the Holy Ghost whispers to us that these qualities are genuine, lasting, good and virtuous. We find ourselves wanting to incorporate those qualities into our lives.
Because Wilbur, while here, chose not to heed the promptings of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost, Wilbur’s mother had prayed earnestly that his path would cross with those who could provide an example, with those who could touch his heart, with those willing and worthy to be instruments in our Father in Heaven’s hand to deliver the message that God is mindful of him.
As I prepared my remarks for today, I again called Wilbur’s mother. I guess I was sort of surprised that 6 years later she still had the same telephone number and that she remembered who I was. She reported that although Wilbur had not yet returned into full activity in the Church, that he was making great progress. She expressed deep gratitude for BYU–Idaho and the students, ward members, faculty and priesthood leaders that are here. Given that he hadn’t had a very good experience here, I wondered why she had such gratitude for this place? During our conversation, the answer became clear. Because, as she said, he remembers. He remembers the associations – although very brief – which he had while he was here. He remembers the example of the people here. He remembers their testimonies.
She said her prayers, unknown to her at the time, had been answered. You see, Wilbur had been touched by some wonderful caring angels while here at BYU–Idaho. I am sure some of them didn’t even know it at the time, but they touched his heart through their example. Even though he rejected them while he was here, now he remembers. Six years later, he is now beginning to recognize the influence for good which was here. As we were saying goodbye, she remarked “My prayers were answered before and I have faith they will be answered again.”

One of these enduring frontierswomen, Lucy Hannah White Flake 1 received her basic education in the home from her schoolteacher mother. The eldest of eight children, she also assumed many responsibilities in caring for the younger children. Lucy was baptized in the Missouri River at a time when the ice had to be broken to perform the ordinance. Then, along with her parents, she walked every step of the way from the Missouri River to the Valley of the Great Salt Lake, arriving there in August 1850.

Lucy spent her childhood in Cedar City, Utah. There, at the age of sixteen, she met William Jordan Flake, and they were married in 1858.

After years of hard work and many disappointments, William found a ranch he could buy in what is now called Snowflake, Arizona. There the Flakes lived in a four-room adobe dwelling called the “White House.” For many years this house served as a courthouse, post office, meetinghouse, and school. Lucy eventually bore thirteen children—nine sons and four daughters—five of whom died in childhood.

Sister Flake made her life tolerable by her many religious activities and by the pleasure of doing for her family. She was an officer and teacher in the Primary, Sunday School, and religion class, and had been stake president of the Primary for five years at the time of her death in 1900 at the age of fifty-eight. Among the activities that she chronicled one spring were whitewashing her home; gardening and irrigating; gleaning wool from carcasses along the trail over which sheepmen were, by this time, making a seasonal circuit to and from the Salt River Valley, and picking, washing, and cording it to make a mattress; sewing, including making underwear, shirts, and carpet rags; tending her grandchildren; and feeding her husband and growing children. On one occasion she set down in simple detail her morning tasks, which were typical of pioneer women generally:

“I will just write my morning chores. Get up, turn out my chickens, draw a pail of water, water hot beds, make a fire, put potatoes to cook, brush and sweep half inch of dust off floor … , feed three litters of chickens, then mix biscuits, get breakfast, milk besides work in the house, and this morning had to go half mile after calves. This is the way of life on the farm. …”2

When I was 16, I didn’t get along with my twin brother at all. We fought about everything. One day he humiliated me at school with an intensely critical and personal attack in front of a group of friends. His actions and hurtful words left me devastated in a way my teenage self could not bear. Even when our parents confronted him about the incident, he never said he was sorry. For years I held onto the pain.
He was still on his mission when I received my own mission call. I was preparing to enter the temple and began to reflect on my life to find where I needed to change to feel prepared to go to the temple. I realized that even though I didn’t often think about what my brother did, I still needed to forgive him.
My brother had hurt me more than anyone else, and I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to forgive him. So I prayed for help from Heavenly Father.
With His help, I decided to start writing my brother regularly on his mission. Before that, I’m sorry to admit, I hardly wrote him at all. Then I sent him a package. When I left on my mission, he came with my parents to the missionary training center and gave me a hug. He even wrote me a few times.
I know that even though it may take time, with Heavenly Father’s help, we can let the past remain in the past.

I’d like to share with you an example of the tender mercies of the Lord through an experience that occurred in my beloved home island of Puerto Rico.
It was in my hometown of Ponce that a sister in the Church, Célia Cruz Ayala, decided that she was going to give a Book of Mormon to a friend. She wrapped it and went to deliver this gift, more precious to her than diamonds or rubies, she said. On her way, a thief approached her, grabbed her purse, and ran away with the special gift inside.
When she told this story at church, her friend said, “Who knows? Maybe this was your opportunity to share the gospel!”
Well, a few days later, do you know what happened? Célia received a letter. I hold that letter, which Célia shared with me, in my hand today. It says:
“Mrs. Cruz:
“Forgive me, forgive me. You will never know how sorry I am for attacking you. But because of it, my life has changed and will continue to change.
“That book [the Book of Mormon] has helped me in my life. The dream of that man of God has shaken me. … I am returning your five [dollars,] for I can’t spend them. I want you to know that you seemed to have a radiance about you. That light seemed to stop me [from harming you, so] I ran away instead.
“I want you to know that you will see me again, but when you do, you won’t recognize me, for I will be your brother. … Here, where I live, I have to find the Lord and go to the church you belong to.
“The message you wrote in that book brought tears to my eyes. Since Wednesday night I have not been able to stop reading it. I have prayed and asked God to forgive me [and] I ask you to forgive me. … I thought your wrapped gift was something I could sell. [Instead,] it has made me want to [change] my life. … Forgive me, forgive me, I beg you.
“Your absent friend.”
As for the unintended recipient of Célia’s gift, the Book of Mormon, this brother went on to witness more of the Lord’s mercy. Although it took time for this brother to forgive himself, he found joy in repentance. What a miracle! One faithful sister, one Book of Mormon, sincere repentance, and the Savior’s power led to the enjoyment of the fulness of blessings of the gospel and sacred covenants in the house of the Lord. Other family members followed and accepted sacred responsibilities in the Lord’s vineyard, including full-time missionary service.

Sweat trickled down Nathan’s back. He fingered the candy bar in his pocket—it would melt if he didn’t eat it soon. But his craving for the chocolate and nuts had disappeared as soon as he walked out of the store with it—a candy bar he hadn’t paid for—in his pocket.
Now it was growing warm and very sticky. Nathan pulled it out and looked at it. Chocolate oozed from under the wrapping onto his fingers. Spotting a trash can, he dropped it inside. I’ll feel better now, he told himself. The candy bar is gone.
But the guilt wasn’t! As he trudged home, Nathan wondered why he’d stolen the fifty-nine-cent sweet.
Later that afternoon Mother asked, “Nathan, will you go to the store for me, please? I need a gallon of milk.”
“From Brother Milligan’s store?”
“Of course.”
“Uh … I’m sort of busy right now. Couldn’t it wait until later?”
“No, I need the milk for dinner tonight.” Taking her wallet from her purse, his mother gave Nathan a five-dollar bill. “Get a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, and a loaf of bread.” She smiled. “There should be enough left over for you to have a candy bar.”
Nathan winced at the mention of a candy bar and stared at the money in his hand.
In Milligan’s Market, he muttered a greeting to Brother Milligan. When Nathan paid for his groceries, the storekeeper put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “Nathan, you look like you just lost your best friend.”
Nathan turned and tried to smile but couldn’t. How could I have stolen from Brother Milligan? How could I have stolen from anyone? he asked himself. Aloud, he said only, “Uh … I have to get home,” not meeting the storekeeper’s eyes.
Brother Milligan looked disappointed. “Come by when you can stay a while,” was all that he said.
Nathan barely tasted his dinner that evening, even though his mother had fixed his favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs.
When Nathan knelt beside his bed to pray that night, the words caught in his throat and formed a huge lump. All he could think about was Brother Milligan, his CTR B teacher two years ago. Nathan remembered one lesson in particular, about the Saints building the Salt Lake Temple. His thoughts turned to the temple. He planned on going on a mission when he turned nineteen years old and, later, being married in the temple. How can I do any of those things when I’ve stolen something? He imagined the hurt looks on his parents’ faces if they ever learned what he’d done.
The next morning Nathan skipped breakfast. He’d asked Heavenly Father’s help and decided to fast at least one meal until he did what needed to be done. Milligan’s Market opened at eight o’clock, and he intended to be the first one there.
Inside the store, Nathan glanced around, glad that there were no other customers as yet. He found his old Primary teacher in the back. Nervously the boy cleared his throat. “Uh, Brother Milligan, I have something to tell you.”
“Could you help me lift this box of apples?” Brother Milligan asked. “When a body gets older, he can’t do all the things he once did.”
Nathan helped the storekeeper lift the crate of apples and set it on a shelf. “I stole a candy bar from you yesterday,” he blurted out.
“I know.”
“You know? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I figured that you’d get around to telling me when you were ready.” He stooped to lift another box.
Automatically Nathan bent down to help.
“As I was saying, a body needs some help when he gets older.” Brother Milligan sat on a crate and pushed his glasses on top of his forehead.
“Maybe I could help you,” Nathan offered. “After school and on Saturday. To make up for taking the candy bar.”
“Well now, that’s a good idea. A very good idea.” He patted Nathan’s shoulder. “Did the candy bar taste good?”
Nathan shook his head. “I threw it away.”
“I sort of figured you might.” The storekeeper looked at his watch and said, “You’d best be going. You don’t want to be late for school.”
“I’ll be here at 3:30.”
“I know you will, son.”
That evening Nathan told his parents what he’d done. They didn’t yell at him. In fact, they said that they were proud that he’d done the right thing in the end.
As he knelt beside his bed that night, Nathan didn’t have any trouble telling Heavenly Father what was in his heart.

Please permit me to tell you about one last hero of mine—one who is very personal. This story also started with a moment of despair. In 1990 my wife and I were blessed with the birth of our third son, Connor. Within moments of his birth he was whisked away by the nurses for cleaning up and ordinary checkups. Soon thereafter, however, a solemn doctor returned to my wife’s recovery room to inform us that our son had Down’s syndrome. As the words came out of his mouth, I vividly remember the deep despair that sank through my body. I felt ill and turned away from the doctor and prayed silently to Heavenly Father, asking Him to turn back time and to not let the doctor say those words. It didn’t happen; time went on.

Over the course of the next two days I was in deep despair, thinking of all the challenges that the future would hold. On the morning of that third day, I said a prayer asking Heavenly Father to deliver me from despair. I felt like I couldn’t go on, and I needed His help. That afternoon a good neighbor and friend came to visit. He took me aside and told me that our little boy needed a name and a blessing and then prodded me to go with him to the hospital and give him one. I agreed, and as we finished the blessing, I watched our little Connor in the incubator struggling for life. In that instant these words came to my mind: “One day at a time, Tom. One day at a time.”

The despair seemingly melted away. I had my answer. My little boy was fighting for life. I was surely going to give him my best—one day at a time. Since that moment I have never worried too much about the future with Connor. We’ve taken it one day at a time—moment by moment. Connor taught me to not be overwhelmed and fall into despair but instead to break life down into bite-size pieces, chew hard, and savor the moment.

For nearly twenty-two years our life’s ride with Connor has been awesome. I have often thought that all I have to do is provide him with a good life and then hang on to his coattails, for he will surely whisk me back to the celestial kingdom. He is a perfect example of unconditional love. He has been the glue to our family. He has made each of us a better person—especially his Papa Bear. And may I add that he is a great field assistant and a superb fishing partner! Connor seems to know what he is about. He wastes no time in sharing his talents: smiles, hugs, and unconditional love to all he meets.

Have you ever heard the old saying that people who get lost tend to walk in circles?
Jan L. Souman, a German psychologist, wanted to determine scientifically if this was true. He took participants of an experiment to a large forest area and to the Sahara desert and used a global positioning system to track where they went. They had no compass or any other device. Instructions to them were simple: walk in a straight line in the direction indicated.
Dr. Souman later described what happened. “[Some] of them walked on a cloudy day, with the sun hidden behind the clouds [and with no reference points in view]. … [They] all walked in circles, with [several] of them repeatedly crossing their own path without noticing it.” Other participants walked while the sun was shining, with faraway reference points in view. “These … followed an almost perfectly straight course.”1
This study has been repeated by others with different methodologies.2 All returned similar results.