Gospel Story Finder

A few weeks ago, while attending a stake conference in California, Sister Bateman and I listened to a new convert bear witness of the love she has for her son as well as for the Restoration and the healing power of the priesthood. Her introduction to the missionaries was unusual, and her story illustrates the powerful love of a mother for her young boy. The relevant portion of the sister’s testimony is as follows:

It began last year when my son shattered his arm. We were told that it would be months before we would know if he would ever . . . use it again. We were devastated. There is nothing more painful than seeing your child suffer.

The day after Sean came home from the hospital, I saw two missionaries walking by our house. I knew Mormons were good people with strong faith, so I asked if they would come in and pray for my son.

They gave him a blessing with oil. I could feel the power of the Spirit in the room. Within days we began to see signs of improvement! Even the doctor was amazed.

The missionaries would stop by regularly to see how Sean’s arm was doing. We would talk about this miracle and about God. The Spirit was always strong when we would talk. I told them that I did not intend on becoming a Mormon and was afraid I was wasting their time. They assured me it was not a problem. They continued to stop by, and we began the discussions. I could not deny the spirit that was with us each night as we held discussions.

I still had doubts. I would ask them, “How do I know that the Book of Mormon is true? How do I know it is not just a good book?”

The missionaries said, “Don’t take our word for it. Pray and ask God if it is true. He cannot lead you astray. Ask with a sincere heart and real intent.” They wrote a note in my book that said “read/ponder/pray.”

I prayed and read, and, later, as I lay pondering this question, a very powerful sensation filled my chest. It startled me. It was a very physical, very tangible experience. This physical sensation was accompanied by a spiritual enlightenment as well. Nothing else would have been able to cut through my doubt. This experience was very moving.

I was afraid the missionaries might think I was a little strange when I told them about this experience, but they opened their books to scriptures that described my experience exactly and indicated that the next step was to be baptized. [Letter and testimony received from Laura L. MacKenzie on March 4, 1998]

The good sister had a number of challenges to overcome before she was baptized, but the divine light within and her conversion experience more than compensated for the roadblocks placed in her way. My purpose in telling the story relates to the mother’s feelings for her son and the motivating power unleashed by her love. The mother had seen missionaries before but had never sought their help or even engaged them in conversation. From her statement one may assume that faithful LDS members had crossed her path. She, too, was a woman of faith. She believed in the power of prayer. And just as Cornelius was prompted by the Holy Ghost to seek help from Peter (see Acts 10), this good woman undoubtedly received a spiritual prompting to approach the missionaries.

But where did the courage come from to heed the prompting? The mother’s special love combined with despair for her son’s health provided the strength to move beyond the normal boundaries that circumscribed her actions. The intense concern for the son caused her to seek help from two strangers. Would this woman have approached the missionaries if the crushed arm had been her own? Perhaps, but not likely. The intense feelings inherited and developed for her son were the motivating force. The son’s suffering gnawed at the mother’s heartstrings. She was concerned about the boy’s future. Would it include a lifeless limb? Would a useless arm inhibit him in other ways? Her concerns transcended her reluctance.

Christmas Eve in the Philippines was a bright, sun-drenched day. The evidence that it was Christmas boomed from the jeepney radios as we made our way along the crowded streets to the barrio where our investigators, the Juguilons, lived.
They were not only our investigators; they were our friends. We were going to share Christmas Eve with them. They didn’t have much, but they wanted to share what they did have. We found that the Filipinos were very generous: you could never give them something without them wanting to give you much more. As missionaries in the Philippines we were always receiving from the kindly people we served. The Juguilons were such a family. Their home was modest, but it was filled with love, love they were always willing to give away.
Their home was one of the smallest in the barrio; its one room was clean and tidy. All of the family’s belongings were tied in neat little bundles which hugged the walls. When we came to teach the gospel we sat on the floor with the family.
Our meetings with the family were wonderful and productive. Brother and Sister Juguilon worked hard to understand all that we were telling them. They read the Book of Mormon we gave them. They had to read from our Bible because they could not afford to buy their own. They were diligent; they listened and studied and prayed so they could become a part of the Lord’s true church.
When we arrived on Christmas Eve, the room was almost filled by two borrowed, king-sized wooden chairs. We were invited to sit while our friends sat at our feet.
Sitting in the middle of the circle of children was a scraggly little Christmas tree which had been delivered anonymously to the Juguilon home that evening. Underneath it was a gift for each of the children. With beaming faces our friends shared their joy with us. The small, green symbol of Christmas was, to this family, the world’s most beautiful. It boasted of widely spaced branches draped with candy-filled ornaments and a popcorn garland which hung lazily from its limbs.
Six pairs of children’s eyes focused lovingly on the tiny tree. A small hand lifted to touch a branch, as if to confirm its reality. Another softly coaxed a hanging ornament into gentle movement. We all enjoyed watching the children until the Christmas festivity began. This festivity was a quiet, yet joyful one.
With grateful reverence, Sister Juguilon placed a white box in front of her. Each of us waited in anticipation as she knelt and carefully began to unfold the sides of the box. Even the Christmas tree could not hold the children’s attention now. Inside were swirls of snow-white frosting that blanketed the enticing Christmas feast—it was a cake, a beautiful, store-bought cake. For the Juguilon family this was a most unusual and rare treat.
All eyes were turned upon us as we received the first pieces. No one else ate, just us. We were their guests; they waited to eat until they were certain that we desired no more. Their joy came in giving.
Together we celebrated the birth of our Savior. We left filled with the joy they shared. However, their story continued in our absence on Christmas Day.
Mealtime on that Christmas Day was attended by Brother Juguilon, but not partaken of. Finally Sister Juguilon asked her husband why he would not eat that day. He quietly answered that this day was, for him, a day of fasting, and a day of thanksgiving. Knowing that it was Christmas she agreed that it was a day for thanksgiving. “But fasting?” she asked.
Quietly he answered. “This year was different. This year each of our children received a gift for Christmas.” This, to him, was cause to return thanks to God.

A taxicab driver in Washington, D.C., displayed a picture of his two children on the sun visor in front of him. “They are beautiful children,” I said. “You must love them very much to carry their photos in your cab. I have children, too, and grandchildren, and I miss them when I’m away from them.”
“Why are you away?”
“I’m here for Church meetings. Are you a religious man?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am a Christian.”
“So am I! That’s wonderful!” I said. “You and I are alike in two ways—we both love our children, and we both are Christian.”
“Ma’am, do you believe in the Holy Spirit?” he asked.
“I do. I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
He looked puzzled.
“Have you heard of the Mormons?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s another name for our Church,” I explained. “We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.”
That started a discussion based on the first five articles of faith. The fifth article of faith led to our talking about the authority and power to seal families forever. This interested him—he had seen the beautiful Washington Temple.
I asked him if he’d like to know more. He said that he would, and he agreed to listen to the missionaries. I had him write his name and address for me, and as soon as I reached my hotel, I telephoned the mission office and gave his name to the elder who answered.

For some kids one night a week of Mutual is enough, but not for Claudine Miller of Sandy, Utah. Besides going to her own Mutual night on Wednesday, Claudine also volunteered to help with her region’s handicapped Mutual every Thursday night.
One of Claudine’s most memorable times with the girls was on “Cinderella Night,” she says. The Mutual girls dressed up in fancy dresses and learned how to put on makeup and fingernail polish. “It really helped them feel pretty,” says Claudine.
Another great experience came when Claudine helped the handicapped Mutual do baptisms for the dead in the Jordan River Temple. “It was really neat,” she said. “The Spirit was so strong!”
Her service project ended up lasting two years, but the time flew by for Claudine. “It made my testimony grow so much to feel their spirit and hear them say thank you and express their love for me,” she says. “When I serve I feel like I’m doing it for Christ, and it makes me feel really good.”

Illustration by Jim Madsen
A missionary activity had been planned in the stake where I was serving. My companion and I were to briefly explain a gospel principle to the investigators who would attend. However, when we arrived at the meetinghouse, we discovered that hardly any investigators had come. Instead of teaching the principle as we had originally planned, we were asked to go out into the street and invite the people passing by to come and take part in the activity.
Truthfully, I couldn’t help but think, “This is not going to work.” I felt that our efforts would be fruitless—that no one would accept the invitation to just come to the activity, particularly with such little notice.
But we understood the importance of obedience, so my companion and I tried to invite people to come in. Not much later, a woman and her daughter and her daughter’s boyfriend passed by. We invited them to come in. At first they were hesitant, but finally they accepted the invitation and joined the group inside. I was surprised but very happy.
The activity started: a gospel-centered musical presentation. The activity lasted more than an hour. I worried that our guests were angry because the event lasted so long, but I had a prayer in my heart asking for everything to work out well.
When the activity ended, I approached them to apologize for taking so much of their time. Before I could say a word to them, the woman said, “Thank you. Thank you so much. It was very beautiful. Thank you.”
I was astonished; they were thanking us for the experience, and they weren’t concerned about the time. It was marvelous, and there was joy in my heart. (And to think that I had been saying that inviting people on the street wasn’t going to work!) The woman wanted to know more about the Church and to attend our Sunday meetings.
I learned something great from this experience: exercising just a little faith, even if it is nothing more than a desire to believe, can yield great fruits (see Alma 32:27–28).
This experience changed my attitude for the rest of my mission. From that time on, at each missionary activity, I would see the fruits of my labors when I went forth with hope and an eye of faith.
If we exercise faith, even when we think it cannot come to pass, we can obtain delicious fruits. What we see as impossible is not impossible for God.

I first saw Karen Aydlotte at a multi-stake fireside at BYU. She was the speaker. She was smiling and joking and telling us that there was a good chance she might not live much longer, that she had cancer, an often incurable form of it.
Several weeks later I met Karen through a mutual friend. She was very open with her feelings. We talked a good deal about life and death. For me, for most of us, it is easy to put the reality of death into what Shakespeare aptly phrased as “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.” For Karen death was hard reality. She had to reconcile living with dying.

Not long ago while I was sitting on the stand during the closing session of a youth conference, just as the young priest conducting the meeting rose to his feet to bring the meeting to a close, Kathy, sitting next to me, jumped up and unhesitatingly slipped in front of the young man, took her place at the pulpit, faced the audience, raised both hands in front of her with outstretched fingers, and said, “I’ll bet you’re all wondering why I’ve been wearing this ugly green nail polish.” A soft ripple could be heard across the audience, and I realized that I was not the only one sharing that curiosity.

“Well,” she said, “it’s like this: I knew my responsibilities as one of the leaders of this conference were big. I knew I had some real challenges ahead, and I didn’t want to be sorry after the chance was gone that I didn’t do what I really wanted to do.

“You see, I needed something that would remind me of what I really wanted to do and help me through the things I didn’t want to do. So I thought of a plan. And it worked! You see,” she went on, “I wanted something that would remind me of what I really wanted to make myself do. I knew my fingernails would always be there, and if they were green, I would be sure to notice them.”

After giving further details and bearing a strong testimony of the joy that comes when you do what you should, she took her seat.

Last July I visited the Church’s Polynesian Cultural Center in Hawaii. Before the evening show of dancing and music from various island cultures, I went backstage to thank the performers. I arrived during those frantic moments before the show began. Scores of performers were hurrying through the last-minute tasks required to coordinate their efforts in a fast-moving performance. I wondered how the director would bring this turmoil to order in preparation for my brief remarks.

It happened as if by miracle. On signal, one strong voice began, and the strains of “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” quickly swelled into a beautiful chorus as the uniquely talented young people brought their thoughts into harmony with the Lord.

We had a similar experience in our family. Last spring some of our children and fourteen of our grandchildren had a family outing in the mountains. One of our activities was a meeting to share experiences and testimonies. We gathered at the appointed time, but the little people were only gathered in body. The large spirits in those little bodies were clamoring for more of the exciting outdoor activities they had been enjoying. The cabin where we met was too small to contain them, and it seemed as if a dozen restless children and their outcries were ricocheting off the walls in every direction. Grandparents will appreciate the apprehension I felt at trying to sponsor something serious in that setting.

Suddenly the instinctive wisdom of young mothers rescued our efforts. Two mothers began to sing a song familiar to the children. Others joined in, and within a few minutes the mood had changed and all spirits were subdued and receptive to spiritual things. I offered a silent prayer of thanks for hymns and for mothers who know how to use them!

But the Lord was much more interested in who I was becoming. Sometimes becoming requires discomfort. It requires loneliness, sacrifice, and sometimes becoming requires heartbreak. For many years, life felt full. Busy. Beautiful. And absolutely normal. But then in 2020, everything changed.

My Sione passed away during the COVID-19 pandemic while we were locked out of our home in Tonga. Our daughter, Lose, was serving her mission in San Jose, California, and my two younger children were adjusting to a new life in Utah. One moment, I was a wife building a future with my eternal companion. And the next moment, I was a widow trying to figure out how to breathe again. There are no words strong enough to describe that kind of loss.

In the middle of that heartbreak, I came to understand that testimony is not built only in moments of success. It is built in moments when all you can do is hold onto the Savior. And when my world fell apart, those truths became my lifeline.

There were days after Sione passed away when I honestly did not know how I would continue. I remember one particular moment very clearly. The day after Sione’s burial, I had to turn in the final paper for my master’s degree. I remember sitting there staring at my computer, wondering what I could possibly write. Nothing came. My mind was exhausted. My heart was broken.

During the month Sione was in the hospital, I struggled to attend Zoom group calls. I struggled to complete quizzes and assignments. Most days, I was surviving on three to four hours of sleep, going back and forth between home and the hospital, praying for a miracle, trying to be strong for my kids while quietly falling apart inside.

I was fasting almost every single day, barely giving myself enough time to eat a small bite before beginning another fast. And yet, somehow, with the Lord’s help, I kept moving forward one small step at a time. But the hardest moment came after the burial. The house felt quiet. The future felt uncertain. And I remember thinking, “I do not know if I can do this.”

Not long after Sione passed away, I remember receiving a phone call from Elder Gary E. Stevenson. During that conversation, he reminded me of a truth that I have carried deeply in my heart ever since — that the Lord would consecrate my afflictions for my gain.

At the time, I could not fully understand how something so painful could ever become part of God’s plan for my growth. But over time, I began to see the Lord’s hand in ways I could not recognize in the middle of my grief. Through Jesus Christ, we really can do hard things. Not because we are strong on our own. But because He strengthens us. In the midst of trials and tribulations, grief and heartache, the Lord again prevailed in His own way.

I was able to finish my paper and graduate with my Master of Business Administration. At the time, all I could see was pain and uncertainty. But the Lord could see who I was becoming. And once again, He was helping me become. This led me to opportunities that have blessed not only my life, but also my children and those I love dearly.

So some years ago, when I was a graduate student in Berkley, California, my husband, who was not yet my husband at the time, he and I went to see a movie at a theater in Palo Alto, California not far from the Stanford campus. It was a movie called 35 Up and this movie was actually the most recent iteration in a series, a documentary series that had been made by British filmmakers beginning many years earlier.

The first film in the series was called 7 Up which has nothing to do with the soda pop, but was instead this group of film makers who went and gathered this array of seven-year-old British school children. They filmed them and interviewed them and talked to them about their lives. They took children from a great variety, very many different walks of life; kids who were bound for Eaton and Oxford and other children who had very different futures in line for them.

I had never heard of this series, until we went to see 35 Up. We sat through the interviews and the conversations with this array of people who had been interviewed every seven years of their lives ever since they had been seven. Some had dropped out and ceased to be a part of the project, others were still very much involved with the project.

The final individual, who was featured in this film, was a man whose life was troubled at best. He was actually doing apparently quite a lot better at thirty-five than he had been doing at twenty-eight. My future brother-in-law's wife, my future sister-in-law turned to me and said, "In 28 Up he was homeless and living in a trailer." He was a man who clearly had some issues and I, as I said, was living in Berkeley at the time not far from campus. I would walk to and from campus every day for course work and then back to my apartment. The walk to and from campus would take me along a not very clean street in Berkeley that was filled with panhandlers and drug addicts. When I saw this man in the film, the first thought that occurred to me was, if I saw him in Berkeley, I would cross the street to avoid him. That's the kind of individual I would tend to shy away from.

But in 35 Up this hadn't been the case, you didn't just see the man at 35. They showed clips from all of the earlier movies from 7 Up, from 14 Up, from 21, 28. And so instead of just seeing this deeply troubled, disturbing figure at thirty-five, I also saw the boy. And this boy was beautiful, bright-eyed, vibrant, intelligent, articulate, little lad-completely loveable. Because I had seen the child, I found myself perfectly capable of loving the man because I had some idea of who he really was: of that innocence, of that beauty, of that energy that had characterized him as a seven-year-old. And it completely transformed my perception of him as an adult. Instead of thinking, "I would run from that person," I felt drawn to him. I felt great compassion and great and quite real love for him.

It occurred to me then and it has occurred to me many times in the years since, that this is how and why parents are perfectly capable of loving us as teenagers. I have some teenagers and they're great and I love them. I mean they're quite adorable and pleasant now as they were as small children. But it occurred to me, too, that this gave me at least a little glimpse in to how our Heavenly Father can see us. He doesn't just know the flawed mortal you. He knows who you really are and He can see that and He loves it. If we can see something of that in one another, if we can just see a glimpse of that, how it can transform our sense of one another.

Although my father had been almost completely out of my thoughts up to this point in my life, soon after my marriage a desire to do genealogical work for my ancestors made me think of him more and more. My patriarchal blessing told me that the time would come for me to do the work for my ancestors through genealogy and temple ordinances and that “means and opportunities” would be provided for me to accomplish that work.
After I had joined the Church, my brother, who had moved by then to France, had informed me that my father had accumulated facts, names, and dates on the Ainsa family. I resolved to write to my father, hoping to gain the necessary information to tie my genealogy from my grandparents to my paternal great-grandparents. I sent him a letter asking for details.
His reply consisted of a letter with only general information—and a request that I not bother him again. I felt resentful and angry, but I continued to pray that the “means and opportunities” necessary to do my family history work would be provided.
Sometime in March 1986, while we were living in Arizona, my father wrote again during a family crisis in which my mother was losing her sight. I was comforted by the care and concern that my mother’s second husband showed her and was again offended at my father’s critical letter. I sent it back to him and indicated that if I couldn’t receive pleasant letters instead of criticism, I would rather not communicate at all. Within three weeks, my father answered the letter, telling me, “Your brother will inform you of my death when it occurs. I don’t intend to write to you again.”
Nine months passed after I received the letter. Again I prayed about the admonition in my patriarchal blessing. The answer came unmistakably from the Spirit—I felt I should apologize to my father. I consequently composed a five-page letter to him that detailed the events of the year and that included an apology for my erratic behavior in my previous letter. When I mailed the letter, I prayed that the Lord would soften my father’s heart.
More than two months went by with no answer. Then one day a registered letter arrived. In it, my father asked, “Would you spare ten to twelve days during your upcoming summer vacation to visit me? If you accept, I will send you the money to help meet the cost of your expenses.”
I called my brother in Paris, France, who suggested that I wait a year, since my father had waited thirty-five years to try to see me. But as I prayed with my wife, Angie, we both thought of my patriarchal blessing and knew that my ancestors had waited long enough. I would go this year. My mother’s husband offered to pay for Angie’s trip, as we couldn’t afford it ourselves. My mother-in-law offered to care for our four children in her home in California.
Everything went according to schedule—everything, that is, except for feelings of apprehension. I started worrying that my father might criticize my mother, my wife, or me. He had done it before. How would I handle it this time?
Only when two dedicated home teachers—to whom I will be eternally grateful—came to our home a few days before our departure and gave us a priesthood blessing, did I feel at peace. They blessed my wife that she would be a source of inspiration to me, and they blessed me that I would be receptive to the promptings of the Spirit and would know what to say. I then knew that everything would be all right.
When we arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay, I nervously looked for my father and saw him standing with his wife. He waved his cane at me in recognition. I waved back. Finally, the customs officer told me to proceed. As I walked through the customs door, my father eagerly came toward me. We embraced and kissed each other. As we left the airport terminal, the Spirit told me that the man walking beside me was a different person than I had imagined.
We spent the next few days getting acquainted with one another, laughing together, discovering what we had in common, and becoming friends. Angie and I asked him to record on tape his experiences in his youth and in courting my mother, and we discovered many things about his past. Then, one morning, Angie and I prayed that we would be blessed that day with the right words in asking my father to share with us the Ainsa genealogy and history.
It was my father’s eighty-first birthday. After opening presents at breakfast, he excused himself and came back with an object hidden underneath a towel. He handed me a box and said, “This is the least I can do after all these years. Somehow I feel that I have to make it up to you.” Inside the box was a beautiful watch.
Thirty minutes later, as we were upstairs sitting around my father’s oak desk, I inserted a blank tape into the cassette recorder and asked him to tell me about my ancestors. He talked for a few minutes, then stopped. “It’s a waste,” he said.
I panicked. “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.” Then I asked my father, “Why do you say it is a waste?”
“Because I have it in print,” he replied. My heart began to beat faster as he reached for a drawer in his desk, opened it, pulled out a folder, and handed me a sheet of paper with a list of names on it. “These are your ancestors on my father’s side,” he said, “and you’re welcome to this list.” I glanced quickly through it; it contained the names of his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, as well as those of distant relatives.
“What about your mother? Have you compiled a list on her side of the family?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Your grandmother’s lineage is not important,” he muttered, brushing aside my inquiry. I replied that were it not for my grandmother, he wouldn’t be here, to which my father said, “Well, if it is that important to you, you can have it.” With that, he gave me an envelope containing names scribbled on several sheets of paper and said, “As a matter of fact, you might as well have everything.” He placed the folder in my hand.
I opened it and, as tears began to blur my vision, I read through several lists of names of distant relatives. Inside were pictures of my grandmother, my grandfather, and others. I wept openly. During the past twenty-one years, I had prayed on many occasions for this day. The Lord had heard my requests and had answered them at the appropriate time.
“Why are you crying?” my father asked.
“Because I am happy to be here,” I said.
At that moment, he, too, began to cry. He leaned his head on my shoulder and took my hand between his. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry for what I did. I was wrong. I was never a father to you. During all those years, I never bothered to find out who you were. Will you ever forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you—it is forgiven and forgotten,” I uttered between sobs. As I embraced him, the Spirit whispered softly, “I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men” (D&C 64:10). We were at peace. All the years of separation, loneliness, and turmoil melted away. He knew who I was. He had found a son. And I had finally found my father.

Between Nauvoo and Montrose, the Mississippi River is 1.6 kilometers wide. Necessity often required Mary Ann to make the dangerous river crossing in a skiff to obtain food. One day in late November 1839, Mary Ann was suffering from malaria, and her hungry children were crying for food.

Mary Ann tossed a tattered blanket into the boat and wrapped another around herself and the infant Emma Alice. A winter storm had come up, and a stiff north westerly wind swept across the river. Wearing a thin cotton dress and shawl, Mary Ann rowed into wind-whipped waves that soaked her and her baby.

Finally Mary Ann reached Nauvoo and visited a friend, who fed her. “Sister Young came into my house … with her baby Alice in her arms, almost fainting with cold and hunger, and dripping wet,” this sister recorded. “I tried to persuade her to stay, but she refused, saying, ‘the children at home are hungry, too.’ I shall never forget how she looked, shivering with cold and thinly clad. … She came back [from the tithing office] with a few potatoes and a little flour, for which she seemed very grateful, and … weak as she was from ague and fever, wended her way to the river bank” to row home again.10

I would like to comment on another song in our hymnbook. The text of “How Great Thou Art” was first written by a young minister in Sweden. His name was Carl Gustav Boberg. He was only 25 years old. After attending a church meeting, he walked two miles along the southeastern coast of Sweden in a thunderstorm. The experience inspired him to write the words, which were later translated into English by Stuart K. Hine:
O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works thy hands have made,
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,
Thy pow’r thru-out the universe displayed;
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee,
How great thou art! How great thou art!

A summer rain in the Sierra Mountains usually lasts only a few hours, so I wasn’t worried when the rain began. I told the boys to pack up and we’d hike during the rain to the high secluded lakes in Bench Valley that promised good fishing. We were unaware, after four days of camping and hiking, that Tropical Storm Norman was lashing at California. In a rage of rain, wind, and ship-shoving waves, “Storming Norman” would make itself felt across the state. But that first Monday in September, we merely enjoyed the cooling rain.
A week in the Sierras had become an annual trip for me as bishop and the Explorer-aged boys in my ward. I had been on many hikes in the Sierra Mountains as a teenager. Now as bishop I felt the hikes brought me close to the boys as nothing else could. This was my sixth trip as a leader and one of my easiest so far. In the first place, two other adults, Brother Rich and Brother Christiansen, were helping me. Secondly, seven of the boys had been with me before. Only two 14-year-olds were on their first Sierra hike. Steven Knight had planned on this since his brother Jim came back a year before with enthusiastic accounts of the fishing, camaraderie, and glories of nature. He and Kurt Moody, the other first-timer, were excited. I found their inexperience creating the usual slight problems any beginner presents. They made occasional mistakes. They complained about the difficulties of backpacking and suffered from sore ankles and stiff muscles. But generally, we all enjoyed the 11 kilometer hike that day. We crossed several small streams, walked through one large meadow, and managed a stiff climb into Bench Valley.
“Don’t set up camp yet, boys,” I instructed. “We don’t want wet tents if we can help it. Stay under your ponchos and wait for the storm to end.”
I still thought the rain would soon stop, as it had every other time I had been there. But when the rain hadn’t stopped by midafternoon, we set up our camp.
“Split some logs for dry wood and let’s start a fire,” I instructed.
“Won’t the rain just put it out?” Jim asked.
“Build the fire next to that rock face. It will provide a little protection from the rain. We’ll keep the fire big enough to burn in spite of the rain.”
After a wet but warm supper, we went into our tents to wait for the end of the storm. The wind began blowing. And the rain came down.
“Bishop Brown!”
I woke up. It was still night, and it was still raining. Steven was standing outside my tent, shivering and wet.
“Our tent leaks. I’m all w-w-wet and freezing.”
I got Steven in with Steve Rich, who was sharing my tent. I didn’t know that Steven had left his own tent flap open. For the rest of the night the rain came in on his tent-mate, Kurt.
Several hours later I awoke again, with a feeling of wet suffocation. The wind had pulled the tent stakes out of the ground which was too wet to hold them. One end of the tent had collapsed, dumping its load of water on us. I struggled out and reset the stakes. While I was up, I built up the fire again. By the time I got back to my tent, the other end had blown down. I put it back up and got back in. It took a long time before I felt warm again.
Dawn came, showing a very wet camp. Keith and Mark Nelsen woke to find a pond forming next to their tent, within 15 centimeters of them. A new stream ran between two other tents. The rock overhang used to protect the packs had sheets of water flowing down it, soaking the packs. Most of the boys had wet sleeping bags. The rocky cliffs surrounding us were covered with waterfalls pouring water into the valley. It was spectacular. It was also frightening.
“We’d better leave here,” Brother Christiansen said. “We might get trapped by some flooding.”
Aren’t we up pretty high?” Steve Young asked. “This rain could turn to snow. We might get trapped in a snowstorm.”
They were both right. We decided to start going down for more shelter and less cold. We hurriedly packed our camp equipment.
“How much of this food should we take? We don’t need to carry it all back out do we?” Steve Rich asked.
“No, let’s just take what we need,” I agreed.
“Let’s go all the way out to the cars today. I’m sick of this rain,” Cornell Hansen grumbled.
The boys all loudly agreed. But I wasn’t sure.
“I don’t know if we can hike the full 32 kilometers today in all this rain,” I said. “We had better take food for four meals in case we’re delayed.”
“Oh, bishop, do we have to?” “We have to. Now let’s start.”
The hike soon became a nightmare. Our fears of flooding were well-founded. Small streams we had walked through without wetting our pant cuffs became turbulent rivers, tearing at us and trying to pull us under. Waterfalls were everywhere. The trail itself became a stream and difficult to follow. The wind whipped branches in our way. We missed our turnoff and went down the longer trail to Maxon Meadows. I remembered a Ranger cabin in the meadow from last year. Maybe we could take refuge there. We walked slowly on through the chilling wind and rain. When we finally reached a spot where we could look over the meadow, we stopped in dismay.
“Look, it’s a lake!”
Yes, the meadow was covered knee-deep in water. The cabin looked like some sort of strange ark. The rising water was lapping at its base. We hiked through the lake and kept going.
The trail was now often waist deep in water. We were all cold and miserable.
“Just keep going, boys,” I encouraged. “Then we’ll be out of this mess.”
But I hadn’t taken into account Fall Creek. It was a small creek we had waded through on the way in. Then it had been about 3 meters wide and 30 centimeters deep. Now it was a raging torrent of churning water 30 meters wide and well over our heads.
We had to cross the river. Our situation was becoming critical. We were wet and chilled, with no way to dry shelter, and all the wood was soaked or underwater. It was hard to comprehend the quantity of water around us.
We had to cross the river. But we couldn’t cross the river. It was too deep to wade, too rough to swim, and too wide to bridge. Upstream, the river came down a deep gorge between cliffs. We couldn’t cross there. I prayed to our Heavenly Father that, like Moses, I could somehow part the waters. We started downstream, hoping to find a way across.
After hiking about 400 meters Brother Rich discovered a huge pine tree that “happened” to span the river. We had often seen pines crossing streams before, but never one the dimensions of this huge patriarch. While it didn’t reach from shore to shore, both ends were on ground high enough that we could reach them by wading waist deep.
Brother Rich started across first to test if it was safe. As he climbed on the pine, it bobbed in the water, but stayed where it was. Carefully he made his way safely to the other side. There he climbed off and waded out of sight through the trees to higher ground.
I was the third one to attempt the crossing. I had gone only a few steps when I stopped. I had a feeling that the two younger boys would not be able to get across without help. I turned around, but others were on the log behind me.
“Keith,” I called. The big blond boy looked up. “Cross with Steven and help him if he has trouble.” He nodded in agreement.
“And, Jeff, you go with Kurt.”
“I will do that,” Jeff answered.
Keith and Steven started across the slippery tree. Branches, twigs, and other debris washed down by the flood were trapped by the tree. The fallen tree’s own branches impeded their progress.
“Step there,” Keith instructed.
Steven stepped, but he had misunderstood Keith’s directions. The branch disappeared under the foaming water. Steven followed it. His pack pulled him down, completely under the water. The current started pushing him under the log. He was in danger of being trapped and drowned. Acting quickly, Keith reached in and grabbed Steven’s pack. With one strong pull, he pulled him back onto the log.
Scared, but with no other choice, they continued across the tree. But danger wasn’t through with Steven yet. He stepped on some branches that snapped underneath him. Again he went in over his head and started being pulled under the huge tree. Again Keith reached in and pulled him out.
By now, Steven was afraid to take another step. Keith helped him off with his pack and carried it. Without its added weight, Steven made his precarious way to safety:
When Steven reached solid ground he began shaking. He was thoroughly chilled and apparently in shock as a reaction to his near drowning.
“Let’s get you some dry clothes,” I said heartily, trying to get his mind off his past peril. I gave him the shirt and dry wool sweater I was wearing. One of the boys gave him some dry pants from his pack.
While he was changing, the rest of the boys came across the tree.
“Be careful,” Jeff told Kurt. “You’re bigger than Steven and I’m not sure I can lift you.”
They began to carefully walk across. But the slippery tree moved—Kurt lost his balance and fell in, He caught himself and didn’t go completely under. However, with the force of the current and the weight of his pack, he couldn’t climb back on the tree and Jeff couldn’t lift him. They struggled futilely for several minutes. Jeff almost lost his balance himself. Finally Jeff helped Kurt off with his pack. Now Kurt was able to get back on the tree and continue across the river.
A new danger was now apparent. Kurt was soaked after his icy bath, I had given up my own dry clothes, and Steven was still shivering. In spite of his dry clothes, he was shaking so hard he couldn’t speak. I knew we had to get warm, but I didn’t know how.
Everything—equipment, clothes, wood, ground-everything was wet. The temperature was dropping, and the wind was adding to the chill factor. The only thing I could think to do was to keep on moving. Brother Rich and Brother Christiansen, agreed. We had to get out. But the rain was falling and the rivers were rising.
We hiked on. I was becoming very chilled. I was having a hard time thinking clearly. I recognized this as a symptom of a lower than normal body temperature, and I was becoming frightened. As the body temperature drops, the body loses its ability to warm itself. It’s a very real danger for wet hikers and I wasn’t sure if the two younger boys would be able to get out all right.
I sent a couple of the older boys ahead to look for dry wood and ground up out of the water. And I prayed.
About 15 minutes later we got to them. They had found a fallen log.
“We managed to split it,” Jeff said. “We dug some dry wood from the middle, but none of our matches will light.”
“Here,” I said as they moved aside. “I’ll use my lighter.”
I flicked the lighter. Nothing happened. Flick. Still nothing. Flick. Flick.
“Maybe it’s out of fuel,” someone offered.
“It can’t be. I bought it just for this trip.” I flicked it again and again. It wouldn’t light.
I got out my matches. Thank goodness they were still dry. I struck one. It wouldn’t light. Another. It still wouldn’t light. One by one I struck them all. Not one would light.
“Oh, Father,” I prayed, “thou knowest we need help. I am afraid these two boys will die if they don’t get warm. If we have to spend the night wet in this rain and wind, I may die too. Please help us light a fire to warm ourselves. We need thy help!”
We tried everyone’s matches. We didn’t get one spark.
“Why, Father why? I am their bishop, and we need thy help. Why are my prayers unanswered? We need thee. Please don’t turn away.”
The only answer was the blowing rain.
“Lord, it depends on you now. I don’t know anything else to do.”
We hiked on. I was shivering violently now. The trail was sometimes chest deep in water on the boys. Only the marked trees kept us on the correct trail. I knew we couldn’t hike all the way out. The younger boys were slowing down. There was another river ahead. It was bigger than all the others. It would surely be unpassable.
“What will I tell their mothers?” I worried. “Will this end all camping trips for Church teens? How will my wife manage our seven children? Little Melanie’s only two weeks old. I’ll never know her.” My mind continued on its frightened course. I continued praying, hard and constantly.
Almost in despair, we hiked on, leaning into the rain. We walked wearily around a bend. There was a cabin. It took a moment for us to realize it was real. A cabin! A cabin with smoke coming out of the chimney. Other than the inundated one on Maxon Meadows, it was probably the only cabin within 32 kilometers. Pacific Gas and Electric Company kept it to measure winter snowfall.
Inside the cabin were four other hikers who had taken refuge from the storm. A fire was burning hotly. There was a huge stack of firewood, trashcans full of wool blankets, and ample food supplies. We were safe.
When we were all warm and dry, I thanked God for his mercy. I realized that had we been able to light a fire, we would still be out in the storm, fighting for our lives.
“Thank thee, Father, for not answering my pleas for fire. Help me remember, when I complain and wonder why, that I do not know what shelter is is around the next bend.”
I tried my lighter. It flicked its merry little flame on the first try.
The storm forced us to stay for two and a half days. Then, with snow on the ground, we hiked out.

When we were transferred in 1989 from the Germany Hamburg Mission to East Germany to preside over the Dresden mission, the time was not convenient for our family. Our children had just adapted to their new school in Hamburg and now had to become acquainted with the socialistic school system in East Germany. One child could not even come with us because she needed to finish school in the West. However, we have learned from this experience that what seemed to be hard for us in the beginning eventually turned into a great blessing for all of us. The Lord had His own way to take care of our challenges.

One evening in my youth, my mother sat with me at the foot of her bed and spoke fervently of the importance of living the Word of Wisdom. “I know from the experiences of others, from years ago,” she said, “the loss of spirituality and sensitivity that comes from not following the Word of Wisdom.” She looked right into my eyes, and I felt her words penetrate my heart: “Promise me, Ronnie, today [she called me Ronnie], that you will always live the Word of Wisdom.” I solemnly made that promise to her, and I have held to it all these years.

That commitment served me well when I was in my youth and in later years when I was in business circles where substances flowed freely. I made a decision in advance to follow God’s laws, and I never had to revisit it. The Lord has said, “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise.”6 What is He saying to those who abide by the Word of Wisdom? That we will have the promise of health, strength, wisdom, knowledge, and angels to protect us.7

I would like to express my deep gratitude for the New Era. Though I am 35 years old, it is my favorite reading each month and is a great asset to my teaching at Solano College. Last Christmas our family gave nine gift subscriptions to young nonmember friends and students. Now six of them have joined the Church. Brother Leavitt’s articles on the very special people and land of Chile have opened doors for missionary work with friends we have in Chile as well as with former Chileans living in California. What a joy to know the gospel of Jesus Christ is true and that the New Era has a part in publishing the good news.
Stephen DavidsonVacaville, California

I quickly marked the verses. I loved this story and continued to think about it. As a matter of fact, I hoped for a similar manifestation myself. I was doing family history research and had experienced many difficulties gathering information. Most of my relatives did not remember much about our ancestors, and many of the records documenting baptisms, marriages, and deaths had been destroyed during bombings of the Philippines in World War II.
I persevered, expecting some kind of great and dramatic event. I had heard many accounts of people doing family history and temple work receiving divine assistance through dreams or other sacred experiences and finding the information they sought.
But as I continued to search old records and visit graveyards, I had no dramatic experiences. No dreams came. I had no visits from the spirit world. And yet the way opened before me. One time at the local Family History Center, another patron left some microfilm out. When I examined it, I discovered it contained the 19th-century census records of my hometown. I was thrilled to discover that the records included lists of entire families, their birth and death dates, and their occupations.
Using the microfilm, I spent weeks reconstructing family relationships. Eventually I identified six generations on my father’s side. I was jubilant and showed my work to one of my relatives. “You are half my age,” she cried in astonishment, “and you know more about my grandfather than I do!”
But another challenge remained, for I had little information on my mother’s lineage. Her parents live on an island far to the south of us, many kilometers away, and I didn’t have the money to go there.
Then one day my mother surprised me by announcing, “Your grandfather wants all of us to come home for a reunion.”
“When?” I asked happily.
“As soon as possible.”
Fortunately, we were able to get the money to pay for our plane tickets. At the reunion I was able to obtain a great deal of information from my mother’s relatives, and I promptly submitted the names of 86 ancestors to the Manila Philippines Temple. My collection of names was modest compared to some, but I was very happy about it.
One radiant February morning I went to the Manila temple and was baptized for one ancestor after another. As I stood in the baptismal font, I kept hoping to see my ancestors or hear their voices. I returned to the temple on succeeding days to complete the work, still expecting to have some kind of spectacular experience. I also thought I might have a dream about my ancestors. Or perhaps the hearts of my nonmember relatives would be softened and they would want to know more about my research. Perhaps they would even be converted.
But none of these things happened. The days continued to go by in an ordinary fashion. I was disturbed and asked myself, Where are the blessings of the Lord? Where are the blessings He has promised those who help redeem the dead?
I went to the temple again a few nights later to attend an endowment session. While there, I gazed into the calm waters of the baptismal font. All of a sudden I realized something I had overlooked: Wasn’t the privilege of being baptized for my ancestors a wonderful blessing in itself? I thought of all the valuable records I had discovered during my research. Hadn’t the Lord prepared my way? Hadn’t I been able to accomplish more than I thought I could?
Then the scripture from the Old Testament flashed into my mind. The eyes of Elisha’s servant were opened, and he saw the army of the Lord. The Lord opened my eyes and gave me an understanding of the blessings I had received. As I left the temple that night, I felt nothing but gratitude.
I have learned that when we open our spiritual eyes, we see that blessings need not be dramatic; we see and are grateful for the simple manifestations of the Lord’s love in our lives. At times I still tend to forget this, but then I, too, offer the prayer of Elisha, “Lord, open my eyes that I may see.”

The Summiteers of the Lansing Michigan Stake undertook a rather unusual hike. They chose to join with 50,000 other participants in the five-mile annual walk across the Mackinac Bridge.
Young women and their leaders and advisers camped for several days before the event. They attended church at a small branch where they were asked to help with the sacrament meeting program and Sunday School.
After breaking camp early on Monday morning, the girls were driven to the starting point to cross on foot the largest suspension bridge in the world. They joined the crowd of young and old, including families with babies in strollers and senior citizens in wheelchairs. They completed their five-mile walk in a little over an hour and a half and received their certificates.
The Summiteers enjoyed the adventure and the chance to get together for the event.

President McKay was prepared for this work and responsibility from his earliest childhood in Huntsville, where he was taught by the example of his parents that the Lord and His work were to come first in a person’s life. When he was eight years old, his two older sisters died, and a short time later, his father was called on a two-year mission to Scotland. Sister McKay was to give birth to a baby girl in ten days, the farm had to be run, and the young family needed to be fed. It was a time of testing and of sacrifice—and David learned much about faith and commitment. As his father climbed on his horse to leave, he lifted young David up into his arms, kissed him good-bye, and said, “David, take care of Mama and the family.” From that day forward, David O. McKay developed an exceptional sense of responsibility.