Gospel Story Finder

One of our most cherished experiences regarding the priesthood occurred just a week after our marriage. After a major crisis I fell into a coma. The doctor explained that he had done everything he could to help me, and that now all that was left was to believe in God. My wife, Marjorie, who was not a member of the Church at the time, asked herself the question “What would José do?” She immediately thought I would have liked a blessing for the sick. Then, she went to get a brother to ask him to bless me.
Three days after the blessing, I was standing! The blessing brought me back! This is undoubtedly one of the greatest blessings I have ever received.

In Wisconsin it gets so cold that you can drive to an island. And that’s exactly what some young people from the Duluth District of the Minneapolis Minnesota Mission did. The “Isle of Happy Days,” Birchwood, Wisconsin, was the site of a Super Saturday for 150 home-study seminary students, leaders, and nonmember friends.
The 21-acre island boasts a 17-bedroom home that was built in the early 1900s, complete with a wood-burning stove and a one-lane bowling alley. In the recreation hall of the home, old and new friends joined in for pool, Ping-Pong, a ski movie, and lots of conversation. Dinner consisted of tacos and watching the flickering shadows from the huge fireplace jump on carved overhead beams.
The next day brought with it a scripture chase and gospel discussion. There were also more activities, long talks, and good food. For the young people from Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Canada, it was better than they’d hoped for and something for them to live up to next year.

Speaking of expectations, let me share an experience I had several years ago when I attended a missionary zone conference. First of all, I'd never been to a zone conference, so this was a new experience for me. After reciting section 4 of the Doctrine and Covenants, many missionaries stood to bear their testimonies. I must admit that I was both thrilled and a bit disappointed by what I heard. Lack of premission preparation by some missionaries was evidenced by three occurring themes in the testimonies. This is what I heard: "I am gaining such a strong testimony of the Book of Mormon. I'm reading it now for the first time." Can you see the reason for my concern? These were young men and women who for the most part had been blessed with the privilege of attending seminary, Sunday School, and priesthood classes. Some of them may have been former Ricks College students. I don't know. But whatever their background, why were any of them reading the Book of Mormon for the first time in the mission field? Surely the Lord expects more of us.

Other missionaries said, "I am so glad to get out of the MTC. There were so many rules and restrictions in there--it felt like a prison." I was astounded. I had to chuckle as I wondered if these young missionaries were acquainted yet with the missionary handbook. I know there are rules in the missionary handbook. There are lots of rules. There are even rules here at BYU-Idaho which, by the way, are endorsed by the Board of Trustees comprised of apostles and prophets. God has given us many commandments. If we love Him, we obey Him--cheerfully.

Now, for the final theme I heard in that zone conference: "I love my companion" (with no mention of loving the Savior). Loving and getting along with a missionary companion is a prerequisite for having the Spirit to teach. But we don't go to the mission field only to declare our love for our companions; we go to declare our witness of Christ--a witness of our Savior's redeeming love, His divinity, and His power. That witness was noticeably lacking in the testimonies that day.

It was a typical Ohio winter night, cold enough to be snowing yet warm enough to be raining. I was making an almost futile attempt at driving and checking street signs at the same time. Jim Bowen and Mark Auckerman, 18-year-old non-LDS friends, were reading off the street signs as we slowly drove down the ice-covered street.
“All I know,” explained Jim, “is that Chris lives on Dibert Avenue, and it’s somewhere off this street.”
“But are you sure it’s down this far?” asked Mark.
We were in the south end of Springfield, a district that none of us was very familiar with. I was stuck with the treacherous chore of driving and decided we should just keep going until we found Dibert or came to the end of the street.
Slowly we drove on, block by block, attempting to read each sign as we passed it. Just as we were about to give up hope and turn around, we saw it. “Dibert,” we chorused happily.
Because of the ice and the poor condition of my tires, I turned the car into a parking lot about 20 yards past Dibert. By making a U-turn in the lot, I stopped the car perpendicular with the street we had been searching for. Now the problem was which way to turn on Dibert. As Mark and I argued about whether to turn right or left, Jim drew our attention to the house directly in front of us.
It was a two-story frame house, like most of the dwellings in this part of the city. The front of this house was a dry cleaning store; the back appeared to be a couple of apartments. The dry cleaners faced the street we had just turned off, and we faced the side of the house.
Through a side window we could see some kind of flame throwing shadows off the walls inside. The shades were drawn, and we couldn’t see if the flames were in a fireplace or a stove. But soon we realized that the flames looked too big for a stove and too high off the ground for a fireplace.
Leaving the engine running, I put the car into park and jumped out, followed closely by Mark. As we reached the window, we could see the flames were much taller than we’d realized. We hopped the fence and ran to the back door. We pounded as hard as we could, but no one answered. The door was locked. I ran around to the front of the building while yelling to Jim to “go call somebody.”
I kicked open the front door and hurdled the counter just inside. There was a small room between the front of the dry cleaners and the apartment in back.
In the living room of the attached apartment was a young woman who was screaming hysterically and trying to beat out the fire with a small rug. What appeared to be a large overstuffed sofa was completely engulfed in flames. The paper on the wall had caught fire, and the flames were shooting up the wall and across the ceiling directly above her.
My first reaction was to bend down low, turn, and leave the room. The heat was intense, and the smoke was quickly filling the room.
I screamed at the woman to leave but finally had to grab her by the arm and drag her out of the room. I asked her if there was anybody else in the house. Before she could answer, there came cries from upstairs.
“My children,” she sobbed.
“How many?” I asked.
She said there were two children upstairs. She pointed to a doorway right next to the flaming couch. Though only a few seconds had elapsed, the flames had now engulfed the entire wall and were shooting across the entire ceiling.
Glancing at the doorway, I realized that even if I could make it through, there would be little chance of returning the same way.
My thoughts turned to Heavenly Father. It seemed there was only one thing to do. Putting my complete trust in God, I darted for the flame-engulfed doorway, my face burning as I ran up the narrow stairway as fast as I could.
Standing at the top were the two children, a five-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. They were crying for their mother. I tucked a child under each arm and turned to run back down the stairs. Their mother had broken away from Mark and was about three-quarters of the way up the stairs when I turned around.
I heard a loud boom. The flames were now coming about halfway up the inside of the stairwell.
In that split second on those stairs I prayed harder and with more intensity than I had prayed in my entire life. I now realized that not only my life but the lives of a woman and two children depended on my actions. I remember praying, if not saying aloud, the words, “Not my will but thine.”
I suddenly remembered Mark was still downstairs and started yelling at the top of my lungs for him. Mark later told me the loud boom I heard was the living room ceiling collapsing and that a huge piece of blazing plywood had fallen to the floor just as the woman disappeared into the doorway. He had stayed downstairs and tried to confine the fire by shutting doors throughout the house. He never heard me yell that we were going out a window.
Knowing that the smoke wasn’t going to leave us much time, I ran up the stairs to look for a window.
When I reached the second floor, I ran straight into a totally dark room that apparently had no windows. I could feel the soles of my feet getting warm and realized the smoke was getting more unbearable by the second. The woman led me down the hall to a small window that led out onto the roof.
She climbed out first and I followed, still squeezing a child under each arm. When we reached the edge of the roof I could see smoke was pouring out of every window in the house. I saw Mark on the ground right below us and yelled that I was going to drop the kids down to him.
Pivoting, I tossed the little boy about three feet away from the house to Mark, who made a perfect basket catch.
The smoke was so thick now I couldn’t see the ground, but I heard a voice I didn’t recognize and dropped the little girl off the roof. I was told later that a man had seen the blaze, stopped his car, and run over to Mark in time to help catch the little girl.
The woman was still sobbing and crying hysterically. Mark had put down the little boy and broke the fall of the woman as she fell from the roof. I jumped feet first and landed unhurt.
Safely on the ground, I ran to the apartment on the other side of the house. There, Jim and I pounded on the door, but no answer came. After a few seconds we broke the glass and unlocked the door. We checked the entire house and found that no one was living on that side.
My thoughts, as we ran back around the building, were the products of years of Boy Scout training—treatment of smoke inhalation, shock, and exposure. The woman and the children were brought to my car, which was warm and still running. The little boy asked where his puppy was, and even though I had seen no dog, I tried to assure him his puppy was all right. By now the fire trucks and ambulance were parked at the front of the house, so I told Mark and Jim to meet me at the hospital.
Everyone was treated and released.
When we returned to the scene, we counted nine fire engines. The blaze had been doused, and all that remained of the building was the charred frame. It sent chills up my spine to look at the house, smoke still billowing from the windows. As we stood there solemnly looking at the destruction that had taken place, a fireman emerged with what looked like a small stuffed animal. It was the little boy’s puppy. It had hidden in a downstairs closet in some kind of air pocket and had survived the two-hour blaze without so much as a scratch.
A feeling of relief and thankfulness swept over me. I realized that chance had not led us to this house but that a heavenly force had inspired us to make that wrong turn. I knew that without the Lord’s help several people would likely have lost their lives. Before this experience I had thought my faith was weak, but I knew then that if it had not been for faith, I would have panicked at the thought of death. Because of the teachings of the gospel and the understanding it gives us of death, I was able to keep my head and do what had to be done. I realized that my life was in Heavenly Father’s hands. I’m thankful now that we were spared and that my faith was strengthened immensely by an inspired wrong turn.

A friend called me one evening while I was driving home from work, and when he asked how I was doing, all kinds of emotions bubbled to the surface. I had been feeling concerned about some questions I was having. Certain aspects of the Church didn’t seem to be adding up for me. I felt frustrated that answers to my questions hadn’t been made clear. And even though I’m not typically an angry person, I felt mad and upset. I had been wrestling with my questions for a while, and I didn’t know what to do.
As I pulled into my driveway, I spit everything out. I told him about the questions that were bothering me and how I had been feeling. After our conversation, I felt a lot better. And it wasn’t because he had all the answers for me—he didn’t. However, he was willing to just listen to me. He validated how I was feeling and helped me to know that I wasn’t the only person with questions. My questions weren’t a reflection of a lack of faith on my part, and it was OK to be unsure.
I still don’t have answers to all my questions. One of the biggest things my friend helped me to do was to realize that I don’t have to have all the answers right away. As time has passed, answers have come to me in bits and pieces. I trust that God has the answers and that He is watching out for me. I have hope that answers will come when I need them. And that’s enough for me right now.

Having overcome her shyness, upon returning from her mission, Salamatu decided to give Zainu a chance and agreed to date him. It did not take her long to realize that Zainu “really wants me in his life. He wants us to make a family. He wants us to be together forever, not only here but in the life to come. He is the man for me!”
When Zainu told Salamatu he wanted to get married, she said, “If you really mean it, you need to go to my people.”
Like many young people, the Deens faced some big obstacles when thinking about marriage. Zainu explained, “One thing that makes us in Africa find it difficult to get married is that young people think about the cost of living. No job, nothing that can bring in income. Some of us, some of the young people in the church, have the mentality, ‘How can I get married? How can I feed my family? Where can I get money? Where can I start?’”
Zainu said, “In Africa setting of marriage, people think that before getting married you have to acquire everything. That is the mentality. I must get money first. I must get a house. I must get a car. So those are some of the . . . [barriers] to getting married.”
By the time Salamatu returned from her mission, neither one of them had a job even though Zainu had been looking and volunteering the entire time she was on her mission. They both had taught the principles of marriage and family on their missions. They knew what was right. The obstacles seemed very large.
That is when Zainu took the action he knew from two years of practice on his mission. He told Salamatu, “I want us to pray that I can have a job, any kind of job. Then I think we can proceed.”
He said, “All of a sudden, God heard our cry, and I got a job, a security job!”
The way to marriage seemed to open, but there was still a lot of preparation. As soon as Zainu got a job, Salamatu said, “When they pay you, we must take a small amount of the money, $300,000 Sierra Leones, and we will save it. In fact, you will not save it in your own account. You will open a small account for me so that you won’t have access to take from that money.”
Zainu thought, “$300,000? What can $300,000 Sierra Leones do for marriage? It’s too small.” He continued, “Well, as time goes on, $300,000; $600,000; $900,000; $1,200,000. It is true! It is working! Now we can get married.”
Zainu said that Salamatu was his motivation. When he felt, “We don’t have much,” she told me again, “We do it little by little.”
When Zainu was paid, they worked their plan. They took out a set amount to put into Salamatu’s account. Then they would buy one thing necessary for their future or for their wedding. “We go buy material,” Zainu said. “We buy two yards. We do not have money to buy six yards at once. We go buy two, and we keep it. This is how we do it. Little. Little. Little. Little.”
Just as they both encountered opposition when deciding to serve their missions, so too, the Deens had people questioning their decision to marry, suggesting they should spend their money on things, or they should wait until they had a better job. But Zainu said, “I am obeying commandments. ‘If you love me, keep my commandments’ (John 14:15), and marriage is a commandment. Marriage is ordained of God.”
Salamatu quickly added, “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7).
She tells her young women that she wants them to go and serve the Lord and then get married. “The gospel blesses families so when you go out there and serve the Lord, the Lord will not only bless you, but even the families you leave behind, they will also receive the blessings.
“I also want to tell those who are struggling to marry that they should not struggle. They should not think about the worldly things that say ‘I have to do this; I have to get everything before I get married. Like me and my husband, we do not have plenty, but we have enough because the Lord is for us. The Lord always provides for us. The Lord always loves us. That is why we are so happy. We are so blessed. We have a handsome son. That is one of the blessings we have.”
Zainu added, “If we serve Him wholeheartedly, then there are blessings, which me and my wife, as a family are experiencing. People are coming now to us, wanting to know our way of living. These are the blessings. The Lord knows our hearts.”
“I want to testify that serving a mission is a good opportunity to serve the Lord with all our heart, might, mind and strength. Even when we return home, the things that we learn on a mission, we should not let them go away. If we apply them in our lives, we will receive a blessing, especially in our marriage. I always know that the Lord loves us. That is why He wants us to have a partner, not only here but even when we return to Him that we will always be happy. We should not be afraid of being married because the Lord, He stands for us wherever we are. If we are having any constraints, He will stand for us,” said Salamatu.
“I testify that marriage is ordained of God. As me and my wife have endeavored to follow the principles and the commandments of the Church, we are receiving the blessings,” finished Zainu.

The admonition of Paul includes the hope to be able to endure all things. Elder Clinton Cutler exemplified how hope, perseverance, and steadfastness call forth the blessings of heaven. He literally became an instrument in the hands of the Lord. Clint and Carma Cutler were high school sweethearts. They began married life by attending college on a basketball scholarship. But they soon became pressed financially, so Clint went to work for the telephone company. His first job was washing, greasing, and maintaining the company trucks. That led to work in the central office as a cable repairman. For three and a half years, Clint worked full time and went to college full time. He graduated in December 1960 with honors. By that time he had four children.
A series of transfers and promotions followed. In 1963, while serving in Riverdale, Utah, Clint was called to be a bishop. Three years later they moved to Midvale, Utah, where Clint was called to be the second counselor in the stake presidency.
After another three years, Clint was transferred to Denver, where he was called as president of the Littleton Colorado Stake. Other moves followed, one taking them to Boise, Idaho, where he was called to be the president of the Boise Idaho West Stake. Another transfer brought them back to Salt Lake City, where Clint was called as a regional representative. His final promotion, in 1984, was as assistant vice president/director of marketing operations. His company seemed to transfer him where the Lord needed him.
On his retirement they returned to Utah, and soon Clint received the call to serve as president of the Washington Seattle Mission. In April 1990 his final call to service came to serve as a General Authority in the Second Quorum of the Seventy. His call to serve ended with his death on April 9, 1994, following a heroic struggle with cancer.
I do not wish to imply that presiding callings nor career promotions are the measure of faithfulness and worthiness. They are not and never have been. We have all been richly blessed by the humble, faithful teachers who have taught us the gospel by precept and example. But Elder Cutler’s example shows that faith, hope, and perseverance help our Father in Heaven to strengthen us and enhance our abilities and opportunities, however ordinary they may be.

In 2017, my goal for visiting Wales was to discover Margaret Rowland, the sister of Job Rowland, my great-great grandfather who immigrated to the United States in 1849. I had records that indicated that her husband, Morgan Thomas, had been buried in Pant Cemetery in Merthyr Tydfil, but nothing about her, and I was determined to suss out her information.
In March of 2017, my friend Sandra, my two brothers and their wives and I set out on a journey that would take us across the south of England, through Scotland and straight into our family’s history in Wales.
The day we arrived in Merthyr Tydfil, we went to the local history centre and spent a couple of confusing hours trying to decide how to begin our search. At a loss, we decided to pick up a few pamphlets and go to the Pant Cemetery where we were sure we could find the grave of Morgan Thomas, Margaret Rowland’s husband, or at least find someone who could guide us to the grave.
When we arrived, we were stunned, having been used to our western American cemeteries of limited size. Pant was huge! Hill upon hill of ancient gravestones in every conceivable state of disrepair. We all stood in disbelief as we stared at the task before us. We ultimately decided just to walk around a bit as we prayed to be guided in the right direction. After about 30 minutes of wandering, we met and determined that this would be a hopeless endeavor and somewhat discouraged, we left for dinner.
The next morning, we went to the Engine House (a genealogical repository and information center) in Merthyr to begin our research. It is there where the miracles began as we entered the Engine House and met miracle number one, Terry Jones.
My brothers Richard and Joe, Joe’s wife, Eileen, and I were downstairs learning about the history of the iron industry in the town when Richard’s wife, Sharon, and my friend Sandy went upstairs to wander and look for restrooms. There, they encountered a gentleman working on a computer and began a conversation with him about our quest. When they mentioned trying to find one grave amongst the 10,000 in Pant Cemetery he realized that we really did need some help. He introduced himself as Terry Jones and arranged for us to meet him at the cemetery office across the street where he introduced us to Deb, the keeper of records. Here we not only found Margaret’s grave site number, but others who were related and resided next to her. We were able to arrange with Deb’s husband, the caretaker of the cemetery, to meet later that day to see the graves.
Miracle number two occurred when we returned to the cemetery and realized that all six of us had previously stood very near the actual site of the graves at some point as we wandered the cemetery. The reason we didn’t see the graves was they were covered entirely by a huge tree that had completely swallowed them. We had previously photographed the tree because it was so immense and imposing, but for no other reason.
We returned later to cut away some of the lower branches so that Sharon could crawl inside and read the writing on the headstones, and we discovered that we had many more relatives buried in this plot than we realized.
Miracle number three came with a visit to the Colly Isaf farm upon which Margaret and Morgan Thomas farmed. It is no longer in the Thomas family, but the current owners allowed us to visit and to photograph the place where our family lived. We discovered the name of the farm listed on the back of a photograph found in material one of our aunts had given us.
Miracle number four occurred throughout the following year as Terry continued to do research for our family and discovered many more links in the family chain, but culminated with a discovery of John Thomas, a direct descendant of Margaret Rowland and Morgan Thomas.
John currently lives on Penrhiw farm which has been in the family since 1724 and he and his wife, Celia, were willing to meet with us. He sent us a lineage chart of all the siblings of Job who remained in Wales, adding much needed information to connect our family to those who had died. This discovery came about through another miracle, number five, that of Terry meeting Father Powell at St. Catwg’s Episcopal Church. While looking for Edward Rowland and Ann Miles, he mentioned John as a possible Thomas still living on the farm.
Miracle number six, cheap tickets to Wales even though it was at the time of the royal wedding. The window for these tickets was short, and directly after we booked them the price doubled.
Miracle number seven again involved Terry Jones who had looked for one year for the marriage of Edward Rowland and Ann Miles (Job and Margaret’s grandparents). Three weeks before we returned to Merthyr in 2018, he found it.
When we arrived in Merthyr, the scene had already been set by those who had been directing our lives for the past year. It felt as though we were in a giant genealogical chess game over which we had no control. Terry was beginning to feel the same forces in action as well. Every morning he would present us with a list of places we would visit that day. One day he showed us his list, which had two sides. He said that he created one list the night before and then this morning, for some unknown reason, he changed it and added a new place: Gadfield Elm Chapel in Gloucestershire. He said he didn’t know why he added it but thought it would be interesting for us to see. Of course, we acquiesced.
Miracle number eight: As we got to Gadfield Elm we discovered the reason. The first ownership of the chapel was given to Wilford Woodruff by the United Brethren, but it rested on or near brother Benbow’s farm. Many of the early members were baptized in Benbow’s pond. And Benbow was the maiden name of Terry’s wife. Terry was stunned. He kept saying he had no idea why he had changed the itinerary for the day, but we all knew why.
The next day we visited St. Catwg’s church and we were met by Father Powell and his lay reader Carolynn Corbin, who showed us around this very impressive 2,000-year-old building. While chatting, my brother Richard discovered miracle number nine that Carolynn was a Parry and quite likely a very close cousin of ours. We exchanged emails and discovered that we did indeed have a common ancestor. This led to a wonderful afternoon tea and the uniting of another branch of Welsh and American lines. After just a few minutes with this family we knew we had met before.
Miracle number ten: We discovered that we were not in charge in other ways as we went to Terry’s home for juice and to collect a book of remembrance that he had found when cleaning out the Engine House. He had asked Richard and Sharon to take the book of remembrance back to Logan where they live to find its owner. He showed Sharon this photo of a family reunion taken in 2004 (he had been doing research for the person who sent it to him), and she recognized someone. She immediately texted that person, and as a result, the connection was made between the photo and the owner of the book of remembrance.
There were more miracles during our visit that involved finding graves that were hidden in cemeteries, discovering writing on tombstones that were covered in lichen and moss, and potentially uncovering ancestors of whom we had no knowledge. If you ever doubt that the veil is thin or that there are others across that veil who wish their work done, let these experiences prove to you that you can be an instrument in their hands. If you allow yourself to be open to the impressions, the promptings, or urgings, as a member of this Church or not, the work of Elijah can be accomplished. Please always live so that you can be a vehicle in the work of redeeming your dead; so that when you meet them, they will encircle you with their joy and gratitude.

• After my baptism and confirmation, my mother drew me aside and asked, “What do you feel?” I described as best I could the warm feeling of peace, comfort, and happiness I had. Mother explained that what I was feeling was the gift I had just received, the gift of the Holy Ghost. She told me that if I lived worthy of it, I would have that gift with me continually. That was a teaching moment that has lived with me all my life.

Her first love, though, is ballet. She started studying at age four, and plans to be a professional ballerina. She became so skilled that her teacher suggested that she audition to be a Junior Associate of the Royal Ballet School. This would mean attending a regional class with Royal Ballet School teachers once a month. Miriam was accepted. But with the acceptance letter came bad news—the classes were to be held in Swansea on Sunday! (Swansea is a Welsh coastal city west of Cardiff.) Miriam’s mother recalls, “I’d heard from Miriam’s ballet teacher that the class in Bristol (an English city east of Cardiff) would be held on Saturday, so I wrote a letter to the administrator of the Junior Associates explaining how I felt about the Sabbath and asking if Miriam could attend in Bristol. It was the most eloquent letter I’ve ever written. The administrator rang me and said, ‘I just received a letter from another parent wanting her child to move from Bristol to Swansea.’ It was an answer to prayer.”

The Young Women of Eight Mile Plains Ward, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia, decided to share their love for Valentine’s Day. After spending a Saturday preparing paper hearts with messages of love and friendship, the girls sneaked into the yards of their “victims,” leaving their messages behind, attached to sticks in the ground, and taped to doorknobs and doorbells.
The girls did the entire project in secret but were found out by some people who loved the idea so much that they did the same thing to their neighbors the following day. The Eight Mile Plains girls have decided to make it a yearly tradition.

It looked as though the Dublin football match would have to be stopped. The game just couldn’t continue with two referees blowing identical-sounding whistles. The official referee was blowing his whistle at the proper times, but the whistle of a mysterious, unseen “official” was sounding at all the wrong times.
Fortunately for the players and spectators, the unofficial whistle-blower was discovered to be a starling perched in a nearby tree! The bird was chased away, and the game continued.

Vanwillam was a tailor with a shop by the river. He made cloaks and capes, skirts and shirts, while his friends laughed at him for the dull life he led. “Surely you can find a more interesting line of work,” they said. “Tailoring is so dull.”
“True,” Vanwillam replied. “But it’s a job that needs doing, and when there’s a job that needs doing, I’m willing to do it.”
One day, as Vanwillam was about to take his first snip of black velvet, he heard the town crier outside. Curious, Vanwillam opened his window.
The town crier unrolled an impressive-looking scroll. “King Blander issues the following proclamation,” he announced. “A box containing the deed to the kingdom was stolen by his beautiful but wicked stepsister, Zelda. Whoever retrieves the deed from Zelda’s home in Peligro Swamp will be royally rewarded.”
He rolled up the scroll and hurried to the next corner.
Vanwillam slowly withdrew his head from the window. So Zelda had stolen the deed to the kingdom. It was hardly a surprise. She believed the kingdom was rightfully hers. With the deed, she might claim the right to rule, and nobody wanted her as queen.
Vanwillam looked at the velvet on his table. He’d promised to make a cloak for the Earl of Thomble. Still, how could he work when the kingdom was at risk? He was only a humble tailor, but he wasn’t the sort to sit idly by when danger threatened. So he packed the tools of his trade—the black velvet, scissors, a tape measure, buttons, and a needle and thread. Then he strode down the road to Peligro Swamp.
On the way he met several who had already tried to retrieve the deed. They laughed at his shortness and lack of weapons, warned of quicksand and alligators, and doubted that a tailor could succeed where knights had failed.
Nevertheless, he pressed on, determined to do what he could.
Peligro Swamp appeared ahead. It was dark and dank. Spanish moss hung like thick gray spiderwebs.
Mindful of the warnings he had received, he tied the scissors to his tape measure, then swung them over his head and let them fly. They landed in the swamp and sank—quicksand!
He pulled them back and hurled them again and again until he found solid ground. He stepped there, dropped a button, and swung again. Thus he made his way through the swamp to dry earth bordering a slimy green pond where a dozen ominous green shapes bobbed in the water.
Quickly he pulled out his needle and threaded it with sturdy button thread. As each of the alligators pulled itself to shore, drawn by the thought of a tailor lunch, Vanwillam grabbed its jaws and, with a few quick stitches, sewed each mouth shut. Soon there were a dozen angry alligators on the shore, thrashing their heads around.
A path led away from the pond. Shouldering his bag, Vanwillam followed it. Night was settling in when he found Zelda’s home. His knees quivered, but he straightened his back and knocked.
“My name’s Vanwillam,” he said when Zelda opened the door. “Word of your beauty reached me from afar.”
Zelda was suspicious, but it had been years since anyone had entertained her with such honeyed words.
“Why are you here?” she asked, letting him enter.
Vanwillam smiled modestly. “I’m a tailor, but I have yet to prove my skill in these parts. I need a beautiful woman for whom to sew an elegant cloak. Then, as people see her beauty, they also see my cloak. My reputation would be assured.”
“I won’t pay for a new cloak,” Zelda said.
“Pay?” Vanwillam put his hand to his heart. “You wound me! This would be a gift, naturally.”
Zelda hesitated, but greed overcame distrust. “Very well, but tomorrow you must be on your way. Don’t try to escape, for my alligators know my scent and will attack anyone else. I wonder that you made it here alive.”
Vanwillam measured Zelda, then cut the black velvet and sewed late into the night. At last he yawned, and Zelda sent him to sleep in the attic.
In the middle of the night Vanwillam crept downstairs. He hoped to find the box with the deed and escape while Zelda slept. He searched and searched, but the box wasn’t to be found. The only place he couldn’t search was Zelda’s bedroom. He tiptoed back upstairs to formulate a new plan.
The next day Vanwillam stitched and sewed, hemmed and tucked. Beneath his fingers appeared a cloak fit for a queen. Finally he called Zelda over. “Try it on,” he urged. “Nothing could enhance your beauty, but I hope that my cloak will at least not detract from it.”
He draped it over her shoulders. It fit perfectly, sweeping the floor in flowing darkness.
Vanwillam stroked his chin. “It still needs something,” he said. “Perhaps a silver brooch to hold it together at the neck?”
Zelda twirled, watching the cloak flare around her ankles.
“Fetch one from my bedroom at once,” she commanded.
Vanwillam darted to her room. On the dresser lay a clutter of jewelry and a wooden box. Inside the box was the missing deed. Quickly he tucked it under his hat, then hurried back with a stunning silver brooch. Zelda fastened it to the cloak, with nary a word of thanks.
“I must be going,” Vanwillam said. “I would be honored if you would wear the cloak soon and let it be known that I made it for you.” With that, he hurriedly gathered his things and headed out the door.
Zelda was too busy admiring herself to stop him. Or perhaps she was depending on the alligators. Vanwillam was approaching the slimy green pond when Zelda’s scream announced that she had discovered her loss.
Twelve miserable alligators slumped nearby. Quickly he cut the stitches holding their mouths closed, then ran.
He reached the quicksand as Zelda came into view. Jumping to the first button—solid ground—he turned to see what would happen.
“Attack!” Zelda screamed.
The alligators followed her instructions, but not as she had expected. She was wearing her new cloak, which still smelled strongly of the tailor, whom the alligators had reason to despise. She came to her senses just in time to flee back up the path.
Once safely through the quicksand, Vanwillam headed to the palace. He wasn’t an impressive sight, this short tailor with the muddy shoes, as he walked up to the throne. Still, he was well-received when he took off his hat and handed the king the deed to the kingdom.
“You’ve saved us from disaster,” the king said. “What would you have as your reward?”
Vanwillam bowed. “I didn’t do it for the reward, Your Highness. I did it for the kingdom. It was a job that needed doing, and when there’s a job that needs doing, I’m willing to do it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the king said, shaking Vanwillam’s hand. “You may be hearing from me again.”
So Vanwillam returned to his tailor shop by the river and took out some velvet for the Earl of Thomble’s cloak. His friends still laughed at the dull life he led, but he just smiled.
“A tailor’s life isn’t often exciting,” he agreed. “But it’s a job that needs doing. And when there’s a job that needs doing, I’m willing to do it.”

While we were growing up in a small community, my father saw the need for my brother and me to learn the principle of work. As a result, he put us to work on a small farm on the edge of town where he had been raised. He ran the local newspaper, so he could not spend much time with us except early in the morning and in the evening. That was quite a responsibility for two young teenagers, and sometimes we made mistakes.
Our small farm was surrounded by other farms, and one of the farmers went in to see my father one day to tell him the things he thought we were doing wrong. My father listened to him carefully and then said, “Jim, you don’t understand. You see, I’m raising boys and not cows.” After my father’s death, Jim told us his story. How grateful I was for a father who decided to raise boys, and not cows. In spite of the mistakes, we learned how to work on that little farm, and I guess, although they didn’t say it in so many words, we always knew we were more important to Mother and Father than the cows or, for that matter, anything else.

It was a dreary January day in 1928. As I looked out of the schoolroom window at the gathering clouds, I wanted only to be home sitting on my mother’s lap. It had been a very hard day. My family had recently moved from a small farming community in Utah to a mining town in Nevada. My first day in second grade in this new and very different school had been anything but pleasant.
My mother had brought my older sister, Marjorie, and me to school early in the morning. The principal took me to my classroom and introduced me to the teacher. I heard the other students whispering about “the new girl,” and I felt my face turning red. I wanted to find my mother and go back home. The children were not very friendly and I didn’t feel welcome. The only bright spot had been the teacher, Miss Quigley, who was very friendly. She tried to make me feel a part of the class.
As I looked out the window and saw huge snowflakes filling the air, I longed for the bell to ring so I could find Marjorie and go home.
The minutes dragged by. Finally, Miss Quigley announced that it was time to put away our pencils, books, and papers and line up to go home. How I welcomed those words! I quickly put on my coat and found a place in the noisy line.
My mother had reminded me several times to wait for Marjorie, who was in fourth grade. She would help me find my way home. So I stood by the radiator in the school entrance and waited. She didn’t come and I began to worry about where she was. The snow was now swirling down. I was anxious to go home and talk to my mother about my miserable day, but still Marjorie didn’t show up.
Miss Quigley appeared and asked, “Avonell, why haven’t you gone home?”
I explained that I was waiting for my sister who was in the fourth grade.
“She won’t be out of school for another hour,” she explained. “You had better run along home before the storm gets worse. Can you find your way home alone?”
I was too proud to admit that I really wasn’t sure. So I nodded my head and said, “Yes.”
I left the warmth of the school and ventured out into the cold, snowy world. By now there was a blizzard going on and it was hard to see where I was going. I walked in the direction of my home but when I arrived at the first row of houses I realized that in this mining town all the houses looked alike. I felt a gnawing in my stomach and wished I had stayed and waited a little longer for Marjorie. But I pushed on through the snow hoping I could remember where my house was. I walked up one row and then another. I couldn’t even remember the number on my house. I began to get colder and more worried.
What should I do? It wouldn’t do much good to stop at a house and ask because we had just moved in a week ago and we didn’t know the neighbors yet. Besides that, I was too shy to even consider that choice. I thought of going back to the school and waiting for Marjorie, but I wasn’t even sure where the school was in this blizzard. Tears rolled down my cheeks, mixing with the snow that was blowing in my face. I was cold, scared, tired, and lost.
Then I thought of my mother telling me about prayer and reminding me that when I needed help I should ask Heavenly Father. This made me feel better. I bowed my head and asked Heavenly Father to please help me find my way home. As I finished my prayer I noticed my new shoes were all wet, and I realized that I hadn’t put on my galoshes that morning. I had left them sitting on the top step of our porch.
Then a beautiful thought came into my head. All I had to do was walk up and down the rows of houses until I saw my galoshes. Then I would be home. A flood of happiness filled my whole body and I hurried through the gusts of snow looking for my galoshes. They were not on the first row nor the second. But on the steps of the second house in the third row I saw a most welcome sight—my galoshes! I was finally home! I opened the door and ran into my mother’s loving arms.

When she first moved into Relief Society at home, Macie thought it was a challenge to fit in with the older women. Mallory’s home ward tried to ease the transition by periodically inviting the Laurels to Relief Society lessons and activities, so she had a taste of what it was like, but in the back of her mind she still had a fear that they were going to spend a lot of time sewing. However, both Mallory and Macie now understand the reasons for programs like home, family, and personal enrichment and are able to gear them toward the women their age.
“I have a greater appreciation for Relief Society now,” Macie says. “I don’t think it’s just an old ladies society anymore.”
And just as both girls turned to their mothers for words of advice and comfort in their new callings, Mallory says that with the right attitude, the younger women can learn from the older women. Then, that sisterhood she and Macie have come to embrace can be extended across the generations.

By faith, Heber C. Kimball accepted a call to serve on a mission to England. On June 4, 1837, the Prophet Joseph Smith came to Heber C. Kimball who was seated in the temple in Kirkland, and whispering to him said, “Brother Heber, the Spirit of the Lord has whispered to me: Let my servant Heber go to England and proclaim my gospel, and open the door of salvation to that nation” (Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball, 1945, p. 116). This would be the first time that the restored gospel would be preached overseas. It was a great undertaking. Heber C. Kimball’s response to the call was,

“O, Lord, I am a man of stammering tongue, and altogether unfit for such a work; how can I preach in that land, which is so famed throughout Christendom for learning, knowledge and piety; the nursery of religion; and to a people whose intelligence is proverbial…. The idea of such a mission was almost more than I could bear up under. I was almost ready to sink under the burden which was placed upon me.” (Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball, 1945, p. 116)

And then Heber C. Kimball said this:

“However, all these considerations did not deter me from the path of duty; the moment I understood the will of my Heavenly Father, I felt a determination to go at all hazards, believing that He would support me by His almighty power, and endow me with every qualification that I needed; and although my family was dear to me, and I should have to leave them almost destitute, I felt that the cause of truth, the Gospel of Christ, outweighed every other consideration.” (Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball, 1945, pp. 116-17)

Nine days later, Heber C. Kimball and those who were to accompany him departed to England. As a result of that mission, thousands of British converts joined the church and most of them crossed the ocean and settled in Nauvoo. Many of these converts became great church leaders and brought strength to the church. Faith in Christ caused Heber C. Kimball to act.

Several years ago, my wife and I were on the verge of getting a divorce because of my problem with alcohol. Not even our daughters’ tears could change me. When the missionaries visited our home, it did not take long for my wife and daughters to be baptized, but I would not accept the things of God.
My addiction to alcohol controlled my life. I would go to bars after work and often missed work because I was drunk. When I drank, I became physically aggressive. I often got into arguments and fights with others.
When I would leave for work, my daughters would cry and ask to go with me to keep me from drinking. I promised them I wouldn’t drink, but I never kept my promises. I just wanted to keep drinking.
Eventually, I realized I needed help. With the help of the missionaries, I worked to overcome my addiction. For a while, I couldn’t stop drinking for more than a week at a time.
Then one day the missionaries shared a passage from the Book of Mormon that changed my life: “And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” (Ether 12:27).
I needed the Savior’s help. Without Him, I would never overcome my addiction. I found that the more I relied on Him, the longer I could go without drinking. After several visits with the missionaries, I accepted their invitation to be baptized.
Since then my life has changed. More than eight years have gone by, and I have not tried even one drop of alcohol. Today I am free, and I owe it all to the Lord.

Sometime, either before, during, or after the call, the Lord confirms to the man being called that his call is of God. One young stake president reported his confirmation this way:
“When I was interviewed, I was 32 years old and had served about four years as bishop. One of those conducting the interviews asked two poignant questions: (1) How did you gain your testimony? and (2) Would you share with us your testimony of the Savior? I shared my experience as a teenager, shortly after my mother passed away, when I learned for myself the truthfulness of the restored gospel, specifically with regard to the Book of Mormon.
“As I shared my testimony of the Savior, I received a witness that I would be called as the next stake president. I drove home and told my wife about my experience. When I told her that I thought I could be called as the next stake president, she responded, ‘You’re good, but you’re not that good.’ The phone rang two hours later, and I was invited to return with my wife, and the call was extended.”

The girls in the Salt Lake East Millcreek Fourth Ward kept track of their acts of charity in a candy jar. Each week the girls put a piece of candy into the jar for each act of service they had been involved in that week. As the jar filled with the sweets, the girls were reminded of the sweetness of service. When the jar was full, the girls selected a special family and presented the jar to them, explaining what the filled jar meant—each candy represented a charitable act.