Gospel Story Finder

President David O. McKay (1873–1970) was the ninth president of the Church. In his boyhood he desired to know, as Joseph Smith had known, of the reality of God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. One day while herding cattle in the foothills near his home, he sought a testimony through prayer. He said:
“I dismounted, threw my reins over my horse’s head, and there under a serviceberry bush I prayed that God would declare to me the truth of his revelation to Joseph Smith.”
He prayed fervently and sincerely with as much faith as he could find within him. When he finished his prayer, he waited for an answer. Nothing seemed to happen. Disappointed, he rode slowly on, saying to himself at the time, “No spiritual manifestation has come to me. If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same ‘old boy’ that I was before I prayed” (New Era, Jan. 1972, 56).
A direct answer to this prayer was many years in coming. While serving a mission in Scotland, Elder McKay received a powerful spiritual manifestation. He later commented, “Never before had I experienced such an emotion. … It was a manifestation for which as a doubting youth I had secretly prayed most earnestly on hillside and in meadow. It was an assurance to me that sincere prayer is answered ‘sometime, somewhere.’” (David O. McKay, 50).

by Terri Jensen
When selected chapels in your stake are only ten minutes from the Bull Run battlefield of Civil War fame, 20 minutes from George Washington’s Mount Vernon, and 30 minutes from Washington, D.C., it’s only natural that your stake roadshows would bear the theme, “What’s More American?”
And for the newly formed Fairfax Virginia Stake, they did.
On March 16 and 17, 176 youths paraded up aisles to open their first annual roadshows with just that question. They carried with them 176 possible answers in the form of corn flake boxes, toothpaste tubes, footballs, baseball gloves, Christmas tree decorations, American flags, rock albums, peanut butter jars, and an array of other paraphernalia.
“What’s More American?” was asked in song. It was answered at the song’s conclusion with a unanimous shout, “I am!”
Once it was established that there’s nothing more American than Americans, each decade of our 20th century was introduced with narration and slides made from authentic pictures of the period. Among the 76 slides shown were the Wright Brothers’ first flight, Henry Ford’s Model T, and Scarlett O’Hara’s Tara.
Each ward roadshow was developed around a decade and immediately followed its slide introduction. Wakefield Ward opened the century with Teddy Roosevelt frantically searching for his missing daughter, Alice. Even the Pinkertons were called in to assist. But it all ended happily with Alice’s lavish wedding to Mr. Longworth. Manassas Ward brought 1910–1920 alive with the suffragette movement.
The 1920s gave Fairfax Ward a story line that included everything from crashing airplanes to flappers and gangsters. Charlie McCarthy, Edgar Bergen, and Shirley Temple were among those who helped Americans through the “Hard-Time 30s.” Prince William Ward brought them all to life with lavish imagination and costumes.
Warrenton Branch introduced the ’40s with a wartime laboratory that was trying to split the atom but ended up inventing the milk shake. Stuffing phone booths, doodling, and viewing 3-D movies didn’t make much sense to “square” Freddie of the 1950s. Woodbridge Ward showed Freddie finally finding someplace where he could excel so he was no longer considered a square. Fancy Foot Freddie and Boogie Woogie Betty ended the decade with a swinging rendition of the jitterbug.
The curtain closed. The combo began playing. Once again the Fairfax Stake young people marched up the aisles and began singing, “What’s More American?”
To accompany their singing, slides of the most American thing around were flashed on two large walls: The young people themselves were featured. They were hiking, laughing, running, playing, working, singing, picnicking, camping, painting, practicing, listening, serving, learning, wondering, stretching, yelling, swimming, eating, dancing, and praying.
After it was all over, church members may have driven past Bull Run, Mount Vernon, and Washington, D.C., on their journeys home. But the most American things in this area were still at the Fairfax chapel removing make-up and costumes.

Imagine living in a city planned by a dictator. The dictator imports thousands of people from throughout the country to create a worker city, filled with row after row of gray apartment buildings and enormous factories spewing black clouds from tall smokestacks. Freedom of any kind, but especially freedom of religion, is practically nonexistent.
Until just a few years ago, Dunaújváros, Hungary, a small city on the Danube River, was such a place. But now, after a generation without religion, young people are learning about the plan of salvation.
What began as a small branch in 1989, has now grown to two branches, 230 members strong. Many of these new converts are youth, and like the Saints in the days of Joseph Smith, these members are discovering the newness and beauty of the gospel—and telling others about it.
Twenty-year-old Csapó András was one of the earliest converts. (Hungarian surnames are used first, followed by the given name.) Baptized in 1989 at age 15, he is now the seminary teacher in his branch and is preparing to serve a full-time mission.
As he welcomes his class members to seminary this evening, 13 students arrange their chairs around a table covered with their well-used copies of the Book of Mormon. They sing “I Am a Child of God.” A young woman offers the opening prayer.
Since the Church is so new here, everyone is a recent convert. Seven of these students have been members for two years, five for only a year. Three are the only members of the Church in their families. Four have brought parents into the Church.
Two young women in this seminary class, both 16, are named Brigitta. “From my classmate Seres Brigitta I heard about the Church for the first time,” says Bozó Brigitta. “I began attending sacrament meeting and made a lot of friends here. So when youth conference came, I naturally thought I needed to go. At the conference, I felt for the first time that I needed to belong to this church. I was baptized a week later.”
Two months after Brigitta’s own baptism, her mother and her 15-year-old brother, László, were baptized. (Her father had died six years earlier.) “Now the three of us—our whole family—are members of the Church. It’s wonderful!”
“At first I thought just my friend would be baptized,” says her classmate Seres Brigitta. “I was amazed that her family also joined the Church.”
When an LDS classmate invited Horváth Attila, 16, to sacrament meeting, Attila liked what he saw.
“Then, when my friend told me the Church was very family-centered, I became even more interested.”
Within weeks, Attila was baptized.
Three months later, his father asked to hear the discussions. “I knew enough about the Church by that time,” says Attila, “that I could help my father learn about it. The knowledge I had received in seminary helped me explain the scriptures to him. But since he smoked and drank coffee a lot, I didn’t have the faith that he would be baptized. I was amazed when I saw how—with the help of our Heavenly Father—he was able to rid those things from his life. Two months later, I baptized my father!
“Then when my mother saw how happy my father and I were in the Church, she also started to be interested. I baptized her three months after baptizing my father! The next day, my whole family came to church and bore their testimonies. It’s not possible to describe what kind of feeling it was for me.”
As these young people are converted to the gospel, they help one another remain strong. Last summer, Klein Kinga, 19, and another young member of the Church found employment away from home. “There weren’t any other Church members around—just the two of us and the world,” she says. “We had a lot of adversity. When we came home in the evenings, we always prayed together, read together from the Book of Mormon, and waited for the letters we received from our Church friends here in Dunaújváros. These things helped us endure that difficult time.”
Balatoni Gábor and Borsos Péter, both 18, had a similar experience while working away from home. “All around us, others smoked, drank, used vulgar language, and had other unworthy habits. At first, it was difficult for us,” says Gábor. “Then we found a place where we could pray together each day. It helped a lot.”
One afternoon, Vereckei Krisztina, 16, was home alone. “I love to feel the Holy Ghost, to feel that this church is true,” she says. “But that day, I wasn’t feeling it, and I missed it a lot.” She tried listening to Church music, reading the Book of Mormon, and praying. But for some reason, she still wasn’t feeling the Spirit.
“I went to visit my friend Seres Brigitta,” she says. “I asked her to come and walk with me. As we walked, we talked about Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father. Without thinking about it, I told her my testimony, and she told me hers. We sat on a city bench for two or three hours, sharing our testimonies with each other. I felt the Holy Ghost and felt that my testimony had been strengthened. I was very happy after that.”
Seminary provides regular opportunities for these testimony-building and unifying experiences. “There are two important reasons why I think seminary is an important program,” says Borsos Éva, 16. “First, if you prepare for seminary, you have to read from the Book of Mormon regularly. And this is a good thing. Second, seminary gives us opportunities to be together. The youth in this branch are strong and are close to one another—and we can thank the seminary program for this. When we share testimonies with each other—and we do this a lot—it’s very worthwhile. About a week ago in our seminary class, we had a testimony meeting, and the Spirit was very strong. This gives me a lot of strength.”
Other milestones were trips to the Freiberg Germany Temple in April and August 1994 to be baptized for the dead. Latter-day Saint youth from all over Hungary crowded onto buses to make the 22-hour journey. Then they returned home with a mission: to tell others about it so everyone could share in the power and beauty of the experience.
“I didn’t know the people I was being baptized for,” says Somodi Zsuzsanna, 18. “But about halfway through I suddenly felt the Spirit. I felt that perhaps that person had accepted the gospel in the spirit world and had been waiting for somebody to be baptized in her name.”
Where there was once only gray industry, seminary students in Dunaújváros are now finding the beauty in their city. They are learning to rejoice in their newfound gift. They are striving to share it with others.
“There’s no feeling more wonderful,” says Vereckei Krisztina, 16, “than knowing that our Heavenly Father loves us.”
These Hungarian seminary students—singing a new song in their city on the Danube—have that assurance.

A pang of the same old fear shot through me as I realized the old woman trudging up 400 South about a half block ahead of me was Miss Bickersheim, my old typing teacher. The shopping cart she was dragging behind her was the giveaway. Miss Bickersheim had dragged that cart to school every day with her materials in it, year after year after year.
It was her all right. I tried to smile at the return of my old terror. How silly. She couldn’t hurt me now. But then I had to admit Miss Bickersheim had really never hurt me or anyone. She had taught me, my classmates, and hundreds of students before us to type and type well.
My mind raced back to my first day in her classroom. Miss Bickersheim and I had gotten off to a terrible start. “My dear young lady,” she had said, her eyes glaring, “I’m afraid you and I are not going to do business well together.” I could still remember her exact words and how precisely she had said each one. She was not amused that I had mustered the courage to defend my fingernails which tapered to beautiful ovals: I had stopped biting them just the summer before, and at last they looked exactly the way fingernails should look, gorgeously, perfectly, uniformly oval. Miss Bickersheim had held up my hands to show the class how fingernails should not be for typing.
“But, but … they don’t show over the tips of my fingers … much.” I had said the words with a trembling, hopeful voice, shocked at my courage. That’s when Miss Bickersheim had glared at me and uttered those frightful words.
That night I begged my mother to let me check out of Type I. “Oh mom, she’s just awful. Awful! She never smiles. I mean never. She just glares. And she hates me now. I can’t go back. I can’t.”
My mother smiled sympathetically at my plight. “I’m afraid you’d be sorry later if you checked out,” she said. “I know how badly you want to learn to type. Miss Bickersheim may be frightening, but she is also the best. Sometimes we have to do things in life that are hard, but we’re glad later. Of course, you’re the one who has to decide.” Slowly I walked to my room where I would ultimately look for an emery board.
During the next few months, typing became a 24-hour part of my existence. At movies my fingers typed the words the actors said on the screen. While I studied for other classes, my fingers typed the words I read. One night I woke up to find that my fingers were typing on my invisible typewriter. I was typing in my sleep. And each morning before Type I, I shuddered and got a stomachache, but each morning I went.
Because Miss Bickersheim took typing very seriously, her students did too. Miss Bickersheim stressed steady, rhythmic, accurate typing. Ten points were deducted for each error. She taught blind copy typing. No lower form of typing would do. A whack on the desk with her ruler revealed the guilty student who was sneaking a peek at the cylinder or keys. And Miss Bickersheim’s five-minute timed writings were precisely that: five minutes. When she shouted her terrible “STOP!”—a stop that made the stomach jump and the hair stand on end—we stopped typing and stopped immediately.
Although we hoped for a substitute, Miss Bickersheim never missed a day. Never once did she relax long enough to lose her sternness. Never once did she joke or laugh with the students like the other teachers. And never once, no not once, did she smile. Using her own unique methods, she taught us to type. I hadn’t liked those methods, but because she had taught me to type, I had been able to land the excellent summer job I had at the Wilcox Insurance Company. Even though I was one of the younger applicants, the company had been impressed by my performance on the timed typing test, a standard part of the application. I had made only one error. But then, timed writings were “a piece of cake” without the anticipation of Miss Bickersheim’s terrible “STOP” at the end.
The Wilcox company had said I would be able to continue working part-time during the school year, again, because of my accurate typing ability. My job would help me get through college and someday I hoped typing would help me achieve my dream of being a writer. No, Miss Bickersheim hadn’t hurt me—that was certain. In fact, I knew I really needed to thank her. But I didn’t want to.
Ahead of me, she had stopped to adjust the wheel of her shopping cart and had turned slightly. Her body was slumped awkwardly over her cart and her profile looked just as frightening as ever. I wondered if her eyes were glaring. I also wondered if I would speak to her when I caught up with her in just a few yards.
My throat felt dry, and my heart was beginning to pump more vigorously. But what was she doing now? Miss Bickersheim had reached the corner, and instead of stopping at the curb of the same street I planned to cross, she had turned to face the other crosswalk. If I didn’t speed up, she would be gone. I had an excuse now. Maybe I wouldn’t have to face her after all. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to face those glaring dark eyes again anyway.
The light changed, and I knew that in just a few seconds she would be out of my life again and perhaps I would never have another opportunity to thank her. Opportunities cannot be resurrected with each dawn. Maybe that was all right with me. She was so mean and, well, I was scared. But then I thought again of what that one typing course, the only one I’d ever taken, had done for me, and I knew I would thank her, not only because I had to, but because a warmth was encompassing me. The feeling of obligation had been replaced by an urgent, happy desire. I suddenly wanted, really wanted, to thank the old woman just a few feet ahead of me.
“Miss Bickersheim!” All those years of hearing close to 30 typewriters going at once had apparently made her a little deaf. “Miss Bickersheim!” I was almost out of breath from running the last few yards. “Stop, Miss Bickersheim!” She stopped just before she stepped off the curb. I was close enough to touch her arm, and she turned and looked at me with unglaring eyes, eyes that—was it possible that there was a flicker of good humor in them?
“You were one of my students,” she said.
“Yes, I was.” I smiled and wondered what I would say next. I took a deep breath and talked fast. “I just wanted to thank you and tell you how much I enjoyed—appreciated—your class. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was in your class about five years ago and I was the one with the too-long nails.” What a dumb thing to say, I thought, as I realized she had probably taught hundreds of girls with nails that had initially needed trimming. “Anyway,” I continued, “I have an excellent summer job now because you taught me to type so well, and it’s helping me through college. So thanks!”
Miss Bickersheim didn’t speak for a moment, and her thick wrinkled face contorted slightly. “I wish I could say I remember you, but I had so many students.”
“Oh, that’s all right.” I assured her that I understood. After all, I had changed, and it had been a long time.
“I wish I could remember you because you’re a lovely girl—I can tell that.” Her bottom lip was beginning to tremble slightly. Was this the same Miss Bickersheim I had known? Where was the sternness? Why, this old woman was nice. And my short speech seemed to have touched her. Again there was a silence for a few moments. “I taught for many, many years, you know, 32 to be exact.” Her eyes had a glazed look. “And I taught thousands of students. But when I retired, no one said anything, not one student, and I thought, well …”
“Oh, but we all appreciate you now. Now that we realize how well you taught us, we’re all so glad we took type from you. I’m sure all your former students feel the same way I feel.”
“You think so?”
“Of course.”
She patted my arm with a wrinkled, slightly shaking hand, and it was then that I saw the miracle. Miss Bickersheim’s thick lips parted, revealing aged, slightly protruding teeth. She was smiling! It wasn’t a pretty smile. No, it wasn’t that. But it was nevertheless a genuine, from-the-heart smile. And although it only lasted a few seconds, I had seen it.
“I did my best. I did my very best,” she said with a raspy voice.
“You were the best,” I said.
The light had changed again, and after we said good-bye, I watched Miss Bickersheim until she stepped up to the opposite curb, her old shopping cart thumping up behind her. The sun’s reflection on the silver metal made the old cart appear to be an object of beauty. She raised her hand to me before she continued her trek. And it was gratifying to see that her step was much livelier than it had been before. As for me, I felt like skipping. I felt like skipping and laughing and hugging the world because Miss Bickersheim had smiled at me.

One other matter. I remember some years ago, a young man and his wife and little children moved to our Arizona community. As we got acquainted with them, he told me of the rigorous youth he had spent as he grew up. He’d had to get up at five and six o’clock in the morning and go out and deliver papers. He’d had to work on the farm, and he’d had to do many things that were still rankling in his soul. Then he concluded with this statement: “My boys are never going to have to do that.” And we saw his boys grow up and you couldn’t get them to do anything. They left off their Church activity and nothing seemed very important to them.

Emilie pumps her legs back and forth. Swoosh! Her swing flies up into the sky. Emilie’s arms carry her across the bars. Whoosh! She makes it all the way across. Emilie’s feet hop through hopscotch. Hop, hop, hop! Emilie sees a girl sitting by herself. “Come play with me!” says Emilie. Sofia wheels over. Emilie and Sofia use their arms to play with a ball. They use their feet and arms to have a race across the playground. They smile and laugh with their mouths. Emilie is happy she made a new friend at the playground!

Darren and Stacey sold everything to chase his dream job of animating for a movie studio in London, England. But when they found out they were expecting a baby after years of trying, they realized they couldn’t afford to live there on just his income.
Christina Smith, photographer
Stacey: We started talking about moving back to Australia. In Brisbane there were no movie studios. Darren would have to essentially give up his career.
Darren: We were moving into darkness. We didn’t know what was ahead of us.
Stacey: When I was five months pregnant, I was given a last-minute assignment to speak in sacrament meeting. The topic was on having faith in Jesus Christ through trials. Up until that point, we still hadn’t decided on a name for our daughter. As I was preparing for the talk, I read through the Bible Dictionary and Topical Guide under “Faith.” I kept seeing the word faith, faith, faith, and I just 100 percent knew what to name our daughter. I looked at Darren and said, “Faith. That’s going to be her name. That’s what I want to name our daughter.”
Darren: We both felt really great about the name Faith. It seemed to encapsulate every experience we were going through.
Stacey: We had to have so much faith to give up Darren’s career, move back to nothing again, and start over with no job prospects.
Darren: We had to just move forward in faith and believe that everything would work out. We came back home and I took a teaching job in a related field at a university. Then I injured my back and had to pull out of the teaching job.
Stacey: We moved in with my parents. We had no money and no car.
Darren: I felt like I was at rock bottom. My wife was pregnant, but I had no job and we couldn’t afford a place of our own.
Stacey: There was a moment in the lounge room at my parents’ house when we knelt down and prayed.
Darren: We didn’t just pray, we pleaded for help to get through this and get back on our feet.
Stacey: It was probably the strongest prayer we’ve ever said together. The next day, my grandmother called and said she was buying a new car and wanted to give us her old car.
Darren: That just blew us away.
Stacey: We felt it was a direct answer to our prayer.
Darren: Then we heard there was a new studio opening in Brisbane. I got some contract work in animation.
Stacey: We didn’t think he’d be animating in Brisbane!
Darren: And my brother randomly came around with some baby toys.
Stacey: We were given so many things for our daughter from friends and family.
Then Faith was born and—I don’t even know how to describe it—she’s the best thing that ever happened. Now she’s over two, and we’ve moved to Sydney. Darren is still animating for movies, which we didn’t think would happen. We definitely feel blessed. Our faith has led us here.
Darren: We can definitely see the hand of God in our lives. I hope our little baby, Faith, absorbed some of our faith as we went through our trials. She is such a ray of hope and faith and delight!
Stacey: We’ve learned that no matter what we’re going through, the most important thing we can have is faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
Whenever we have turned to Jesus Christ and had faith in Him, everything seems manageable. There is peace and happiness in following Jesus Christ and doing the right thing. The gospel has everything. It allows us to be happy in this life. I am really happy and I know it is because I’ve turned to the Lord, relied on the gospel, and had faith.
Darren: I’ve learned that God gives us commandments and laws to make our lives happier because He can see the bigger picture. When we can’t see what’s ahead of us, we need to rely on Him, keep His commandments, and go to Him in prayer. He will direct us through our trials and help us make our lives better.
Darren and Stacey Rea enjoy spending time with their daughter, Faith, on a beach near their home. Before Faith was born, the Reas faced several serious challenges. Not knowing what to do, Darren said, “We were moving into darkness. We didn’t know what was ahead of us.”
Faced with an uncertain future, Darren and Stacey found that their faith in Jesus Christ helped them through their challenges. “There is peace and happiness in following Jesus Christ and doing the right thing,” Stacey says.
The Reas are grateful for the spirit they enjoy in their home. “The gospel has everything,” Stacey says. “It allows us to be happy in this life.”
Faith is a reminder to Darren and Stacey of all the blessings they have received. “She is such a ray of hope and faith and delight!” Darren says.

One tragedy of love has already occurred this year. A beardless youth became so enamored of a young miss (although she did not encourage him) that each day for 47 consecutive days he wrote her a special delivery letter, until finally, on the 48th day, she eloped with the mailman.
The lad was probably blessed, since he had nothing to offer the lady except a mission yet unserved, a college education one quarter complete, and no funds. (He had spent all of his money on stamps.)

When I was getting married, Maria, a close family member of mine, visited me. Maria had previously decided to leave the Church to pursue a relationship with another woman. I don’t agree with all her choices, but I love Maria and respect her agency, so I have tried to maintain a good relationship with her.
When Maria and Kristen visited, I had the opportunity to give them both priesthood blessings, as they were seeking guidance through some struggles in their lives. The Savior often responded to the faith of those who were outside of the covenant or who weren’t keeping His commandments (see Matthew 8:5–13; Mark 7:24–30; Luke 7:36–50). So even though I wasn’t sure of what I was going to say, I dressed up and prepared to let God’s power flow through me.
During the blessings, I felt prompted to share specific counsel with both Maria and Kristen and to make certain promises. I’ll never forget the strong Spirit we all felt. I believe it changed all of us for the better.
Because of our love for each other, I can share my feelings about the gospel with Maria in a way that she may not welcome from others. Love qualifies us to do His work by opening doors to share His gospel and by inviting His help into our efforts (see Doctrine and Covenants 4:5). In perfect love, the Savior shared truths with the woman at the well, even though she had sinned and was a Samaritan (see John 4). She felt the love and truths He shared with her and was forever changed by His message.
And even if our invitations to live the gospel aren’t accepted, sharing the love of God with others can still make a lasting difference in their lives.

Between December 23 and 24 1993, our Oshodi Branch missionaries asked me to go to Sister Patience Ojukwu’s farm to buy old layer chickens for Christmas dinner. When I returned with one, the other companion asked me to get another for them. Arriving at the farm on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Sister Ojukwu informed me that she had lost more than two hundred old layer chicken which had been stolen the previous night. I was only a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, but I was the only priesthood holder on the farm that very day. I asked that we all join hands together and pray to God to reveal to us what action to take. I got the answers immediately and asked Sister Ojukwu to inform the police. When the detectives arrived, the farm security guard was arrested and confessed that the farm supervisor transferred and sold the birds to a small neighboring farmer.

Over 90 percent of the birds were recovered. The activities at the farm that day lasted until nightfall. Sister Ojukwu pleaded that I spend the night with her family. Very early on Christmas morning, I returned to the missionary apartment at Oshodi with crates of eggs as a gift from Sister Ojukwu.

The Women Development Division of the Ministry of Agriculture, Food, and Forests (MAFF) asked The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to fund the construction of two new seedling nurseries in Tonga.
In return the MAFF has agreed to provide seedlings and training each year and to maintain the nurseries. Upon completion of these projects, a handover ceremony was held on 3 September 2024.
The MAFF is the leading government entity providing vegetable seedlings to Tongan communities to encourage home gardening and healthy eating.
Agriculture is the primary economic source in Tonga after service. About 88 percent of the Tongan population live in rural areas where they are dependent on agriculture and gardens.
The Church is involved in many humanitarian efforts ranging from education to food security. These efforts help build self-reliance and improve agricultural sustainability and food access.
The communities that will benefit from this project will be ‘Alaki in the east and Fo’ui in the west.
The ceremony began at the ‘Alaki nursery with a formal ribbon cutting and then the group traveled to the Fo’ui nursery for a brief program.
The overarching themes of the program were gratitude for God and joy. Seini Ela Vaipulu, acting head of the division, said, “This may look small, but it is not a little thing. This is our grassroots effort to give the people access to safe, healthy food.”
She expressed gratitude to God for the Church’s generosity in providing the funds for the nurseries.
Elder and Sister Latimer, Church humanitarian missionaries over this project, gave copies of the Book of Mormon marked with the scripture Alma 32:28, 31. These verses compare the word of God to a seed, which will grow if we nourish it, until it becomes a “tree springing up unto everlasting life.”
Kalati Hafoka, deputy director of MAFF’s corporate services division, concluded by thanking God and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for “making our dreams come true.”
Smiling, she said, “There is a Tongan proverb, ‘The reward of good work is more work.’ We look forward to more projects with you.”
Those in attendance enjoyed a delicious meal and traditional Tongan dancing. Several members stood and tearfully expressed their thanks for the new nurseries.

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

My teacher was out of the room, helping other students. Some of the rest of us who didn’t need to use the computers were messing around—walking around, reading, goofing off. I was at my desk, quietly drawing a comic page I had been working on.
Jason* came over and said, “Will you draw this for me?” He pointed to a picture in our social studies book that he wanted to use for an assignment.
When I asked why, he replied, “I can’t draw very well, so can you draw this for me? The teacher won’t know it was you, I swear.”
I thought, What should I do? He knows I’m a good artist, but this just doesn’t seem honest.
“Ehhhh, no,” I said.
“Why not? Please, man,” he begged.
“Because this isn’t right. I don’t want to,” I told him.
“OK, if you can tell me five reasons why it’s not right, I won’t bug you anymore.”
“Look,” I said, “why can’t you do it? Just do your best. It isn’t like he’s going to give you a bad grade for a not-so-good picture. Just try.”
“But …” he started, then trailed off and walked away from my desk.
It was really hard to make that choice. I thought that if I didn’t draw the picture, he wouldn’t like me and I couldn’t be his friend. But now he’s just like normal. I’m glad I made the right choice.
Austin Lee Ballard, age 11Rexburg, Idaho

As we come to the close of another conference, our spirits have been lifted, our minds inspired, and our souls filled.
The messages delivered at this pulpit have provided words of counsel and guidance for our journey through mortality. The prayers have been offered with humility, and their petitions reflect the feelings of our hearts. The angelic music provided by the choirs at each session has confirmed the Lord’s words that “the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads” (D&C 25:12).
We sincerely regret that President Ezra Taft Benson has been unable to be with us here in the Tabernacle. Nonetheless, we have felt his spirit throughout the proceedings. His love of the Lord, for the membership of the Church, and for God’s children everywhere is legendary. His many acts of kindness have blessed the lives of those with whom he has met everywhere he has gone.
One Friday, he and Sister Benson followed their usual practice of attending a session at the Jordan River Temple. While there, President Benson was approached by a young man who greeted him with joy in his heart and announced that he had been called to fill a full-time mission. President Benson took the newly called missionary by the hand and, with a smile on his lips, declared, “Take me with you! Take me with you!” That missionary testified that, in a way, he took President Benson with him on his mission, since this greeting demonstrated President Benson’s abiding love, his devotion to missionary work, and his desire to ever be found in the service of the Lord.
With the rapidly developing changes on the face of Europe, we remember President Benson’s great service to the hungry and to the homeless on that continent at the close of World War II. In attendance today is one who was the recipient of such service. She recently wrote to President Benson: “This is the first time in my life that I am here in Salt Lake City to attend general conference. I hope you will remember our first acquaintance in the autumn of 1946 in Langen, Germany. You and I will never forget the remarkable days following the Second World War. We will never forget your help for the refugees in those sad days. Now, forty-four years have gone, and we have both grown older. I wish you happiness and the blessings of the Lord all the days of your life and send you all my love.”
If President Benson were here at the pulpit at this, the conclusion of the final session of this glorious conference, he would extend to you his love, his admonitions, and his blessing. May I, with President Benson’s own words, provide you his counsel:
“Let us be valiant in our testimony of Jesus all the days of our lives” (Come unto Christ [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1983], p. 16).
“His word is one of the most valuable gifts He has given us. I urge you to recommit yourselves to a study of the scriptures. Immerse yourselves in them daily so you will have the power of the Spirit to attend you. … Read them in your families and teach your children to love and treasure them” (“The Power of the Word,” Ensign, May 1986, p. 82).
“It is soul-satisfying to know that God is mindful of us and ready to respond when we place our trust in Him and do that which is right. There is no place for fear among men and women who place their trust in the Almighty and who do not hesitate to humble themselves in seeking divine guidance through prayer. Though persecutions arise, though reverses come, in prayer we can find reassurance, for God will speak peace to the soul. That peace, that spirit of serenity, is life’s greatest blessing” (“Pray Always,” Ensign, Feb. 1990, p. 5).
He continues: “I am getting older and less vigorous and am so grateful for your prayers and for the support of my younger Brethren. I thank the Lord for renewing my body from time to time so that I can still help build His kingdom. … God willing, I intend to spend all my remaining days in that glorious effort” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1988, p. 5; or Ensign, Nov. 1988, p. 6).
President Benson is a man of love, and this love he would have me extend to you in his behalf. He has a beautiful voice and has often sung the melodic strains of a favorite hymn:
God be with you till we meet again;
By his counsels guide, uphold you;
With his sheep securely fold you.
God be with you till we meet again.
God be with you till we meet again;
When life’s perils thick confound you,
Put his arms unfailing round you.
God be with you till we meet again.
[Hymns, 1985, no. 152]
To the membership of the Church and to God’s children everywhere, our prophet, President Ezra Taft Benson, conveys to you the tender feelings of his heart, his gratitude for your prayers, and his abiding love. God be with you, brothers and sisters, till we meet again, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

It has become easy to shock people. I remember once a lady asked my mom, “Are all these kids yours?” We just looked at her and said, “Of course not, lady. She checks us out of the library.” I admit that being in a large family can cause a little bit of commotion. People always stop and stare or look at us funny. Maybe it’s because there are so many of us, or maybe it’s because the colors of skin don’t seem to mix or match.
Many people would have a hard time dealing with this, but not my dad. He usually just tries to pass us off as a Sunday School class or birthday party when we are in public.
A family the size of Helaman’s army does have its advantages. If we want to play basketball, it doesn’t take long to divide up into two teams. By the time we graduate from junior high school we are highly skilled in mass food production. How many of you have ever seen a five-pound bucket of peanut butter disappear by Thursday? How many of you can make ten lunches in ten minutes or less? Do you know what a pan filled with two dozen scrambled eggs looks like?
For all of you who are wondering, I can clue you in about the lunches real quick. The key here is speed. Grab ten lunch sacks and write the kids’ names on them. If you forget one, just refer to the handy chart inside the cupboard door. Then get out 20 pieces of bread and put them on the counter. Blob mayonnaise on each piece and spread with one hand while using your other hand to put ham on every other piece. Now go back and put a piece of cheese on the other slice of bread. Match up a ham and cheese and the hard part is finished. Grab an apple, some carrots, and a drink. Throw them in the sack with a napkin, and you are finished. This has been done in seven minutes and 37 seconds, and my record has stood for three years!
Speaking of food, my mom truly considers fast Sunday a day of rest since that is the only Sunday she doesn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to get us to church 15 minutes late.
Another great advantage of a big family is that unless you are the oldest child, you can usually find a pair of shoes that almost fit. But this advantage has backfired. Can you imagine the horror on my mom’s face as she looked down the aisle in sacrament meeting to see my little sister Amaris in her white chiffon dress with dirty purple tennis shoes flopping on her feet?
In sacrament meeting we take up the entire first row. Over half of our ward’s Mutual is my family. I can’t tell you how exciting it is to go to a stake dance to find that your brothers are four of the ten guys that showed up.
When most moms make a birthday list of what they want, it usually includes things like perfume, jewelry, or maybe a sweater. But my mom’s recent birthday list included a set of scriptures without the baby’s Cheerios smashed in between the pages and a new pancake griddle which can accommodate ten pancakes at once. Her ultimate desire is to remodel our dining room with sloping floors, drains, and automatic water, spigots in the ceiling. I guess dinners at our house are a bit messy.
On Saturdays, when many dads are asleep, reading the paper, or watching the Wide World of Sports on TV, my dad is constantly repairing bike tires, helping out the Cub Scout pack (we only need two more to have our own), or going to the wholesale food outlet to do our weekly grocery shopping.
You’d think that turning 16 would be a festive event in our family. Well, if we can handle the horror of the transportation my dad offers us, then we will probably survive the dating scene. Our family has three cars from which to choose—the 1971 Chevy Impala which works most of the time (my friends dubbed it “the Beast”), my mom’s beatup brown station wagon complete with Popsicle sticks stuck to the ceiling, and the 15-passenger family van. Needless to say, when the Beast is working, I usually drive it. My dad has presented me with three things to keep it moving—jumper cables, a screwdriver, and an up-to-date Triple-A card.
Now for the dating scene. Once my date passes the “date with Shannon interview,” my mom must see him blessing the sacrament, and then he must deal with the harassment and questions from my younger brothers and sisters. “Do you really like my sister?” “Do you always dress like that?” “Did you know my sister really likes Brad better than you?” I figure anyone who comes back twice must be a true friend.
When the family really needs to get away from it all and get a little bit of rest and relaxation, we go camping. We drive our van, which pulls a tent trailer, and take a second car, which pulls a U-Haul filled with four pup tents and 14 bikes. By the time we get it all set up, it’s time to go home. Besides, it is getting to the point where we have to rent three campsites.
One time we really splurged and got to stay in a hotel. The only problem was that we didn’t have enough suitcases to go around. So my dad nonchalantly plopped the black garbage bags used to hold extra clothes along with the suitcases on the cart for the bellhop to take up to the room.
One of the hardest things to deal with is Christmas. You thought you had it hard because your mom made you wait until 7:00 A.M. to begin opening your presents? Well, that’s the easy part at my house. No matter what time we start, it’s usually three or four hours later before we finish. My mom insists that we open our presents one by one so we can “enjoy the other children’s exuberance.” I don’t know about you, but there is only so much excitement I can get from watching the wrappings being peeled off another doll or Tonka truck. By the time it gets to me, I have to brush off the cobwebs.
Valentine’s Day is another fine day I could do without. My mom insists that homemade Valentines show more thought and care. Usually on February 13 at about 10:00 P.M., you can find one mom, dad, and big sister cutting out pink, red and white hearts numbers 412, 413, and 414. It’s a never-ending battle.
Easter—18 dozen eggs later—you wish there were no such things as chickens or bunnies. And by the time I hop around the yard trying to find a place to hide all of them, I usually get pretty tired of it and shove a whole carton of them in the mailbox. But that’s not half as bad as the defrosted egg salad sandwiches we eat for two whole weeks!
The only regret my parents have is that we don’t yet qualify for a group rate at Disneyland. But hey, we are only two short now. Our home teachers hope we don’t adopt any more children very soon because after a year they finally have all of our names memorized.
My mom never has been very good at handiwork, so when she finished cross-stitching a family tree with our names on it, we were all impressed. But that was five kids ago, and she doesn’t have time to fix it, so she has taken to adding Post-it notes around the edges.
There are times that make it all worthwhile. I don’t think there is an experience comparable to having an adopted sibling sealed to our family in the temple. No matter how many times we’ve been, it’s always neat to hear that we will be a family for all eternity.
Whenever we do baptisms for the dead, I get really excited knowing that five of my brothers and sisters are in the temple with me.
Besides all of that, I have the biggest fan club in town. It really makes me feel good to know that 13 people in the audience are really proud of me.
This summer I went to Denmark, and I actually began to miss my family (except for the 6:00 A.M. Saturday morning “Smurf’s are on” call). When I returned and stepped off the airplane, there they were—13 people screaming, “Shannon’s back!”
As I wandered through the house in the middle of the night suffering from jet lag, I saw the ten-pound bucket of butter in the refrigerator, stumbled over the assorted pairs of mismatched shoes in the front entry, and opened my lipstick tubes to find that they had all been bitten off or smashed down, and I smiled and said to myself, “I’m home.”

I think Primary also played a big part in helping me develop a testimony of the gospel. Many of my teachers encouraged me and helped me understand what I needed to do to gain a testimony. It was a gradual process. I finally realized that I could not live off Mother’s or Dad’s testimony forever. I took the advice that my Primary teachers had given me and read the Book of Mormon, prayed about it, and found out for myself that it is true.

For as long as I can remember, Mom has talked about Aunt Vera. Aunt Vera is Mom’s youngest sister, and according to Mom, she loves to sing and dance. “Vera was always happy, and she made everyone around her happy.”
When Mom married Dad and left the Philippines, the hardest part was leaving her family—especially Aunt Vera—behind. But pretty soon my brother, Todd, and I were born, and Mom was really busy. She and Aunt Vera wrote letters back and forth, and two or three times a year they called each other on the telephone, but Mom still missed her.
When Aunt Vera wrote to say that she was coming to spend three weeks at Christmastime with us, Mom was ecstatic. We cleaned the house and put up decorations, and Mom told us about when she and Aunt Vera were little girls and decorated their home. They had always saved the Nativity scene for last. As they put each figure in place, they tried to imagine being there with the shepherds when the angel told them about the Baby Jesus, and with the Wise Men as they followed the star.
Aunt Vera was all smiles and laughter when she arrived, just as Mom said she’d be. She and Mom spent hours looking through picture albums and talking about old friends and family. But by the second week, Aunt Vera started to seem unhappy. A few days before Christmas, I came into the living room and found her staring out the window. She looked like she’d been crying, and I wasn’t sure what to do. “Aunt Vera, what’s wrong?” I asked.
Aunt Vera blew her nose and shook her head. “There’s really nothing wrong,” she said. “It’s just so different here. I’m afraid I’m a little homesick.”
“Oh,” I said. “I guess our weather doesn’t help much, does it?”
“No. It doesn’t get so cold at home, and it never snows. The snow is beautiful, but it’s so cold! I don’t think that I’ll ever be warm again. Mostly I miss Mother and Father … and Christmas.”
“Christmas? We have Christmas here!”
“Yes, but it isn’t the same,” Aunt Vera said with a smile. “You see, where I live in the Philippines, Christmas is a very big celebration. We start on December sixteenth by setting off firecrackers and other fireworks very early in the morning. And we keep celebrating until January sixth. Almost every night there are fireworks and parties. Decorations are everywhere, especially colored lights. And plays that tell Bible stories are performed in one village after another. All the children make beautiful paper lanterns of different shapes and colors, then put candles inside them and have a parade at night. It is beautiful!
“And everywhere are the Christmas stars. They’re lanterns made in the shape of a star. Every house has one hanging over a Nativity scene. On Christmas Eve, we have a “Parade of the Stars,” in which all the villages compete for prizes. Some of the Christmas stars are so big that they ride on the back of decorated pickup trucks or are carried by several people. Our family never misses the parade.”
Aunt Vera paused, a faraway look in her eyes. Then she looked at me. “It isn’t that there is anything wrong with your Christmas,” she said with a sigh. “It’s just that I have never been so far from home, and I didn’t expect things to be quite so different.”
I looked at the star we had hanging over the manger scene. I hadn’t known it was so special. I leaned over and hugged Aunt Vera. “I’m sorry you’re homesick,” I said, “but I’m glad you’re here.”
Aunt Vera laughed and hugged me back.
After that, Aunt Vera seemed to feel better, but I couldn’t help thinking about Christmas in the Philippines. It certainly did seem more festive. I told Todd what Aunt Vera had said and asked if he had any ideas on how to make her feel more at home. He said he’d think about it. Two days later he had a great idea! The very next day, Christmas Eve, we set about making it work.
Right after breakfast, we dressed to go out—boots, snow pants, sweaters, coats, gloves, scarves, and hats. Luckily it had snowed the night before, so there was a lot of snow. Better yet, it was the wet, heavy kind that’s good for building.
We worked by the side of the house where there were no windows. First we each rolled the biggest snowball we could. Todd had to roll his over next to mine because mine got so big that I couldn’t push it. Then we used the plastic buckets from the sandbox to make snow bricks, which we attached to the tops and sides of the snowballs. Then we used our sandbox shovels to smooth the sides and carve details. When we were finished, we had two large snow stars. They looked great, but something still wasn’t right.
“They’re supposed to have lights inside,” I said.
“No problem,” Todd replied. “We’ll just hollow out the center of each one and put in a flashlight.”
And that’s what we did. After lunch we went back out and made three smaller stars. By dinnertime I was drooping, but everything was ready.
After dinner we told Mom, Dad, and Aunt Vera to get their coats and boots on because we had a surprise for them. While they got ready, Todd ran out and turned on the flashlights. We’d borrowed some from the neighbors to have enough. By the time we all went outside, it was snowing again. As we turned the corner of the house, the adults stopped short.
“Oh my!” Mom exclaimed. “It’s gorgeous!”
It was beautiful! With the flashlights reflecting off the insides of the stars, and the snow sparkling from the lights in the houses against the dark night, our sculptures looked better than I had even imagined they would.
“It’s for Aunt Vera,” Todd said.
“For me!” Aunt Vera sounded surprised.
“Yes, you said one of the things you missed about being home was seeing the ‘Parade of Stars,’” I said. “So we made you a little one. Do you like it?”
“All this for me?” she asked again. “Oh, I love it! I’ll never forget it. These are the most beautiful Christmas stars I’ve ever seen!”
Aunt Vera hugged Todd and me for the longest time, and so did Mom and Dad. And for a long time we stood and watched the snow fall on our Christmas stars. Then together we went inside and read in the book of Luke the story of the Savior’s birth—the most beautiful part of Christmas in both our countries.

The show was such a success that people clamored for another performance. However, the encore performance did not go so smoothly.
Just hours before the second performance was to go on, the power failed. Nothing is darker than the inside of a theater with no power. The cast gathered for prayer. Together they asked for a miracle.
Still no lights.
The cast, already in costume, gathered on the stage. The mood was glum. Then Tina Johnson walked over to her friend Danielle Smith and asked her if she wanted to sing “How Great Thou Art” with her. The two girls’ voices filled the dark and others joined in. As soon as they finished that hymn, another was started. A great feeling of warmth and comfort and peace came over the cast.
Still no lights. That night the show had to be canceled.
“It was a very spiritual experience,” said Kit Regas. “Even though we didn’t get to do the show, I think everyone gained from that.”
Brother Brimhall explained to the disappointed cast members that many times in the Church’s history people have prepared and worked on something good only to be forced to leave it behind and never enjoy the fruits of their labors. He explained that being engaged in a good cause is always beneficial. It was a hard lesson for some of the young people, but only when the disappointment had faded did they come to appreciate just how wonderful it felt to be praying and singing together on a dark stage.
The second and final performance of Showtime was rescheduled. This time the lights stayed on, stage fright was nearly gone, and the word had spread that this was a very good show. No one worried about empty seats anymore.
The cast had become more than friends; they were more like one big family. The natural barriers between the ages broke down. The teens became good friends with the adults. The adults had a new appreciation for the youth. Tina Johnson said, “I’ll be with my friends at the grocery store, and I’ll see someone from Showtime. We just start talking. My friends always ask, ‘How come you are friends with so many grownups?’”

One of Ida’s friends, whose contributions were of major significance not only in the cultural arts but in the ecclesiastical and political affairs as well, was Mary Jane Robinson West. 15

Mary Jane’s mother was a woman of refinement and culture and had been brought up in a wealthy Southern family. She took pains to pass on this heritage to Mary Jane, who loved books and became a fine actress, speaker, and dancer. Her dance instructor was John A. West, whom Mary Jane married when she was not quite seventeen. Shortly after their marriage John was called on a mission to Hawaii, so Mary enrolled as a student in a private school. Four sons were born in the six years after her husband’s return. At that point John was called to return to Hawaii, during which time Mary Jane supported her family by teaching school. In a gesture that would seem insanity to many people, while John was in Salt Lake City preparing for his mission, he purchased an organ and sent it to Mary Jane in Parowan with an accompanying letter saying he had also arranged for Professor Thomas Durham of Parowan to give Mary Jane instruction in how to play the instrument. Mary Jane did learn to play, and the family had a full repertoire by the time John completed his mission.

John and Mary Jane were called to go to Arizona in 1879. They left in November, reached Snowflake in February, and as a symbolic gesture, Mary Jane had the boys lay strips of carpet in their tent as soon as it was pitched and set the organ down on the carpet. Then all the family joined in singing “Home Sweet Home.” Four more children were born to Mary Jane in Arizona—two of them girls to go along with the eight boys. In addition, for many years Mary Jane also looked after her widower brother Solomon and his many children.

In 1892 Elder Karl G. Maeser, Church commissioner of education, went to Snowflake to open a Church academy. As president of the ward Relief Society, a position she held for fourteen years, Mary Jane led a movement to make the academy possible. The sisters loaned their Relief Society hall for a classroom and saved their Sunday eggs to sell in Fort Apache for funds to assist in the building. Old-timers suggest that the sisters are the ones who really made Snowflake Academy possible.

In the 1890s Carrie Chapman Catt of the National Woman Suffrage Association came to ask Sister West if she would accept the county chairmanship of the Woman Suffrage movement. Upon consultation with ecclesiastical authorities, she accepted the appointment and took a lead in the territorial suffrage movement. Her sister Relief Society officers in Salt Lake City, Eliza R. Snow, Susa Young Gates, Sarah Kimball, and others, had led the movement in Utah, in which territory the women were the first in the nation to exercise the franchise.16 For a number of years Mary Jane wrote a regular column for the monthly Relief Society paper, The Pearl, proclaiming women’s rights and opportunities. After her release from her civic positions and an extended visit in Salt Lake City, Mary Jane returned to Snowflake to become stake Relief Society president, a position she held for seven years.

She was young and beautiful—young enough to be largely unaware of the grace that unfolded with bashful uncertainty as the days passed. But in the third month of her 17th year, she died, cut down by a rare disease.
He was 18 and her friend. They never really dated. He had kissed her once at her 16th birthday party in front of her mother and everybody. He had done it as a joke, so that no one could accuse her of being “sweet 16 and never been kissed.” But she had always seemed too young for him to consider her seriously.
They both lived in a small town in Montana. To the east was prairie, and to the west a range of mountains.
Because of the few LDS students in the high school, Dave and Cathy attended early morning seminary. Each morning at 5:00, he jabbed at the buzzing alarm clock, struggled out of bed, showered, dressed, ate a hurried breakfast, and drove to her home to pick her up. She often kept him waiting, but finally she would rush out—a book, a purse, a piece of toast in one hand, a hair brush and a coat in the other.
One evening in April, her mother phoned Dave to say, “Cathy won’t be going to school tomorrow, so you won’t need to pick her up for seminary. She isn’t feeling well.”
That was the beginning.
Dave graduated from high school in May, was ordained an elder in June, and began working in a clothing store in order to earn money for his mission. Each day after work he visited her. On the days when she was feeling better, he found her in the backyard.
Her backyard had once been mostly lawn. But through the years the vegetable garden had been enlarged until now there was left only a small strip of lawn in front of the patio. Even with the threat of losing all the lawn to the needed vegetables, her mother always insisted that a patch of flowers be preserved.
One day when he came, Cathy was lying on the lawn, her chin propped up by her two hands, intently studying the determined efforts of several bees that were working the flower garden. Dave paused at the gate and quietly watched her. She wore a pair of Levis and a western-style shirt. Since he had visited her last, her long hair had been cut into a more practical summer style.
When he finally went through the gate, she turned and sat up.
“I wish I could spend all day watching flowers grow,” he teased.
She stood up and came over.
“Who cut your hair?” he asked.
“My mother. Do you like it?”
“I like it fine.”
They walked together, inspecting the long straight rows of beets, lettuce, and tomatoes.
“Did you have a date last night?” she asked.
“Yes, with Karen. We played miniature golf.”
“Do you like her?”
“I don’t know. She’s okay. It’s hard to get involved with anyone when I know I’m going on a mission in four months. Maybe she’ll write to me.”
He picked a small flower for her from a bush that clung to the trellis by the house.
“Will you write to me?”
“What do you want, a fan club? ‘Dear Elder Dave, you are so great! All us girls at home are just sighing our lives away until you return.’ Is that right?”
“It’ll do,” he grinned. “And I’ll write each of you a mimeographed letter. ‘Dear Sister Friend, We baptized 500 last week. I’m trying to remain the humble self that you’ve all grown to love. I hope that none of you are dating while I’m away.’”
“Is that the way it’s going to be?” she asked.
“I guess not,” Dave replied.
“Dave,” she said, suddenly serious. “You will be a good missionary, won’t you? You’ll remember the Savior and represent him properly?”
“I hope so,” he answered.
They sat on the lawn chairs on the patio.
“I was sitting here this morning,” she said, “looking at the flowers in the garden. I remembered what the Savior said: ‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow.’ Where’s that found in the Bible?”
“I thought I was finished with scripture chasing when I graduated from seminary,” he teased.
“Okay, I won’t press you. Anyway, that’s not my question. I had a picture in my mind while I was thinking. I want to tell you about it.”
She held the flower he had given her in both hands and studied it carefully.
“It’s early morning,” she began. “There are mists still hanging over the Sea of Galilee. A lone man walks along a path leading away from a small fishing village. It’s the Savior. He walks up the slope away from the water. As he walks, he comes upon a patch of wild flowers. He kneels down to get a closer look. He reaches out and touches the petals. He bends over to examine the insides of the blossom. My question is, what does he see?”
“A flower.”
“Is that all? Just a flower?”
“What else could he see?”
“Jesus was given the responsibility by Heavenly Father to create this earth. At one time, he knew the purpose of every feature of that flower. Did he remember all of those details? Or did his great mind understand the function of each part of the flower just by careful observation? That’s my question.”
“I can’t answer that.”
“I know, neither can I. But I don’t believe that he ever considered anything to be common. I think he valued the beauty of every sunset, each view of the Sea of Galilee—in sunshine or in rain. I believe that he was sensitive to beauty. When he said, ‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow,’ I believe that he had considered those lilies in greater detail than most of us ever will.”
Her father, home from work, came through the gate and began to pull some weeds from the garden. He was a quiet man who took pride in straight, neat rows of vegetables. Often when he worked, he whistled a tune with no recognizable melody.
He picked half a dozen strawberries, washed them off with the hose, and brought them over for Dave and Cathy to sample.
“They’re coming along nicely, aren’t they?” he asked.
In June Cathy spent a week out of town undergoing tests at a university medical center. When she returned, she didn’t look any better, and her parents were strangely evasive when asked what the specialists had found.
As the summer passed, Dave could see that she was slowly getting worse. Often when he came, she was in bed. Sometimes he only stayed a minute because she looked tired. But she enjoyed seeing him, and some days she felt good enough to talk.
“Dave,” she said on one of his visits, “I found a scripture for your mission.” She reached for the triple combination on the table by her bed, and, finding the place, read aloud: “‘Therefore, O ye that embark in the service of your God, see that ye serve him with all your heart, might, mind and strength, that ye may stand blameless before God at the last day.’ (D&C 4:2.) How’s that?” she asked.
“You’re determined to make me a good missionary, aren’t you?” he asked.
“There’s so much to be done. I wish I were going to be around to help.”
He looked up, trying to read her face.
“I know what’s happening. I’m dying.”
“No, you’re not.”
“We traveled a thousand miles to see a team of doctors. After two days, we came home. My parents never say anything about the results. They won’t talk about it. Now my dad asked me about taking a vacation to California. He wants to cash in his life insurance to get the money so we can all fly down. We’ve never gone on a big vacation like that before. When my parents come into my room, they’re both so cheerful. But yesterday I heard my mother in her room crying. And the worst part is that we can’t talk about it. We spend 20 minutes talking about the weather, clinging to the topic as if it were a life raft.”
Just then her mother came in the room with another vase of flowers. Cathy’s bedroom was filled with potted plants and cut flowers given to her by friends. Her mother picked up two vases of old flowers and left the room.
Cathy continued, “Dave, I need you to talk to. I can’t talk to my parents yet. I need to tell someone how I feel so I can define it in my mind and see the limits of my fear and measure it. There must be boundaries to it.”
They talked for a long time. Mainly he listened as she tried to find out if she could face her future.
“I know that none of us can be guaranteed a long life and that Heavenly Father won’t deny me any blessings. But I don’t want to leave this earth. I like it here.”
Before he left, she asked, “Will you give me a priesthood blessing?”
“Shouldn’t your dad do that?”
“He’s already administered to me. I need a priesthood blessing so that I can face it and so that my parents and I can talk.”
“I can have the bishop come over,” he said weakly.
“No, you’ve got all the priesthood you need. I want you to give me a blessing.”
“I’ve never given a priesthood blessing.”
“It doesn’t need to be today,” she said.
“Do you mind if I talk to your dad and the bishop about it? If they approve, I’ll be glad to.”
Sunday afternoon he arrived prepared. He had spent two days in reading. He had talked to Cathy’s father and the bishop and asked for their help and counsel. They had encouraged him to respond to Cathy’s special request. He had fasted and prayed since Saturday morning.
When he came, she was waiting for him, sitting in a chair in her bedroom.
He stood behind her. The room was silent except for the outdoor sounds coming through the open window. He placed his hands lightly on her head, touching the silky texture of her hair. Closing his eyes, he paused and then began, “Catherine Edmonds, by the power of the Melchizedek Priesthood which I hold, I place my hands on your head to give you a priesthood blessing …” The words seemed to flow easily and naturally. He blessed her that she would be comforted and that she would be able to talk openly to her parents about her condition.
When it was over, they both felt peaceful. He helped her into bed, sat down in the chair, held her hand, and talked with her until she fell asleep.
Monday afternoon when he came again, she was lying outside in a recliner. Her father was building a screened-in room with a covered roof so that she could spend more time outside.
“Daddy,” she asked, “could we move those potted plants from my room out here? I’d like them planted in the garden with the other flowers.”
“I don’t see why not,” her father answered. “Are you getting tired of them in your room?”
“No, I just want them to be here in the sun.”
The next day when Dave arrived, her plants had already been transferred to the garden.
“Don’t they look good?” she asked him. “I’ve been watching them all day. The bees have been visiting them. Out here they have the sun and the warm soil. I’m glad they’re out here. Look at all they’d miss if they were still cooped up in the house.”
Saturday he worked in the morning, but he took the afternoon off so he could be with her. They sat together in the enclosed patio.
In the late afternoon, dark clouds, which had been building to the west of them all day, finally moved in.
Her father gently asked, “Don’t you want to come inside? It looks like rain.”
“No, I like it out here. Let me watch the rain.”
The summer storm struck with fury. The large drops were driven almost sideways by the wind.
Then the hail came. At first it was just one or two scattered, marble-sized stones striking the grass and bouncing back. But as the storm approached, the crashing of the hail on the green fiberglass roof of the patio sounded like hundreds of cannon rounds.
In a few minutes it was over. The lawn was covered with a layer of white.
Her father stood up and walked out into the garden. Standing in the light rain, he silently observed the damage. He picked up a broken stem from a tomato plant, examined it, and then let it drop back to the ground. He slowly made his way to the flower garden. The flowers had been flattened to the ground.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have moved these plants out here,” he said. “They would have been safe inside.”
She stood up and, with some difficulty, went to her father.
“No, Daddy. I wanted them here in the garden. They were safe inside, but out here, even though it was only for a few days, they’ve had the warm sun and the bees and the gentle summer wind at night. I’m not sorry we brought them here. It was worth the chance just to have them in the garden—even for a short time.”
Somehow they both realized that now they were talking about more than flowers. He held his daughter close to him while she repeated softly, “Daddy, it’s going to be all right.”
The next day she told Dave that she and her parents had finally talked about the future.
Two weeks later she was admitted to the hospital.
Three weeks later she died.
Some who attended the funeral may have wondered why, instead of the customary wreath of flowers on the casket, the family placed there a bouquet of flowers from their garden—flowers that had endured the hail and yet lived on.