Gospel Story Finder

Jason lay by the hearth, doing his homework in the firelight. But he couldn’t concentrate. The image of Mr. Rayburn’s ranch kept coming back to him, and with it the sight of the beautiful little pony the rancher had for sale. Only eighteen dollars, that’s all it would cost! he thought. But it might as well be five hundred. Jason’s father had gone to fight in the Civil War, and had left his ten-year-old son as the man of the house.
More than anything he had ever wanted before, Jason wanted a pony. But how will I ever get eighteen dollars of my own? he asked himself. All the other boys rode to school on horses. But Jason had to be up before dawn to milk the cow, feed the chickens, and then walk the long distance to school. When he wasn’t at school, Jason was busy at home, helping his mother on their farm.
Jason’s mother listened sympathetically when he told her about Mr. Rayburn’s pony. But when the boy finished, she just looked at him with a sad kind of smile. “Oh, Jason,” she said, “the pony sounds wonderful. But I’m afraid we don’t have any money to spare. We’re having a hard time now and with a new baby coming …”
“I’d forgotten for a minute about the baby. I hope it’s a girl. I’d like to have a little sister,” said Jason with a smile. “And maybe if I work extra hard, there will be enough money for a cradle.”
His mother hugged him close. “With you here to help, we’ll do just fine, Jason,” she said.
Later that night Jason climbed the ladder up to the loft where he slept. But before sleep came he couldn’t help thinking about the pony.
The next morning on his way to school, Jason saw a notice in the window of the general store:
Boys needed afternoons or evenings at the planing mill—10¢ an hour.
Ten cents an hour is a lot of money, Jason thought. I hope I can get that job after school.
The hours seemed to drag by until school was over. When the bell rang, Jason raced to the mill, but his heart sank when he saw the long line of waiting boys. At last it was his turn to apply for a job.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the man.
“Ten years old, sir. But I’ll be eleven in March. And I’m a hard worker,” replied Jason.
“I don’t think you’re old enough for a job here, son. Why don’t you try us next year?”
Jason did not move. “Please, sir, now that my father is at war, I’m the only man in the house. And I’ll work hard.”
“Well, if your dad’s off fighting, I guess we can find a job for you,” the man said.
Jason could hardly wait to tell his mother about his new job. “I know you’ll make me proud of you,” she said. “And since you’re working on your own time between school and chores, son, you may keep the money you earn.”
Jason jumped up with delight and hugged her. His chores weren’t so hard that night. In his mind he could just see himself up on the back of that little pony. It won’t matter if I don’t have a saddle. I’ll still be able to ride like the other boys, and they won’t call me a sodbuster anymore, he thought.
Jason liked his work at the mill. But it became hard to study without falling asleep and even harder to get up in the mornings. As the weeks passed, Jason’s little pile of money grew. Each payday brought him closer to his goal. However, it was nearly time for the baby to be born and Jason knew that he would soon have to quit working at the mill because his mother would need more help at home. Every night when he went to bed he wondered how long he would be able to work.
The next payday Jason counted his savings. He had $19.10, and in his mind he could see the little pony in their barn. He was so busy thinking about the pony that he almost bumped into a buggy parked in their yard. He looked up and his heart leaped. It was Dr. Frank’s. The baby must have been born! He raced toward the house. Then his face fell. The cradle! Mother still didn’t have a cradle for the baby. But it really wasn’t his fault. Mother had said he could keep the money he earned. Still, he felt a twinge of selfishness. He opened the door slowly and peeked in. His grandmother was in the kitchen.
“Grandma, is it a boy or a girl?” he asked.
Grandmother smiled and put a finger to her lips, “Shh, your mother is asleep. Come and see your baby sister.”
Jason approached timidly. He had not been this close to a newborn baby before. She lay curled up in the laundry basket, wrapped in layers of blankets. “Oh, Grandma, she’s so tiny,” he whispered.
“Your mother has named her Jenny. She looks a little like you did when you were a baby,” said Grandma.
Jason bent down to look at the tiny fingers. They moved when he touched them and curled themselves around his larger finger. He frowned. He was the man of the house, and this little baby was partly his responsibility. How could he think of buying a pony when Jenny had no cradle?
“Grandma, I’m not very hungry. I have something important to do. Please tell Mother I’ll be back soon.”
Jason ran outside and didn’t stop till he came to the general store. Mr. Wright, the proprietor, also did woodworking as a hobby.
“Mr. Wright! My mother had a baby girl. How much would you charge to make me a cradle for her—one that rocks?”
“Well, since you’re a working man,” the storekeeper said with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll make a real nice one for you for nine dollars. I can have it ready by Friday.”
“That’d be fine,” said Jason. As he turned to leave, he spied some baby clothes inside a showcase. “How much is that pretty little gown?” he asked. “I want to get that for Jenny too.”
All the way home Jason whistled a jaunty tune. He was sure that the real man of the house couldn’t be any happier about the new baby than her big brother was.

I saw his wagon coming across the flats, wheels churning up the dust, wagon top flapping in the wind. I slid off Red’s back and broke into a run for the cabin.
“Look, Ma!” I hollered. “The Bible man is coming!”
Ma came to the door. Shading her eyes against the sun with a flour-covered hand, she watched the dust cloud slowly moving our way. “If he stops here, help unhitch and feed his horses,” she said. “I’ll get the biscuits into the oven.”
I tied Red to the corral poles and sat on the fence to wait. I knew he’d stop. Anybody who knew about Ma’s biscuits wouldn’t pass on by. And the Bible peddler knew about them, sure enough. He’d stuffed down plenty of them every time he’d stopped by our cabin.
The peddler would likely be hauling the same wooden box filled with hymnbooks and Bibles. And he’d talk about how he was saving “lost sheep” by selling his books to folks.
He usually teased me about my red hair matching perfectly with my horse, Red. I didn’t much look forward to his teasing.
When the peddler drove into the yard, I hopped off the fence to help him unhitch.
“See you still got that red colt,” he said, first thing.
I nodded. “I ride him now.”
“Want to sell him?” he asked, all the while rubbing his thick mustache.
My head jerked up. “I won’t sell him for any price! He’s the best thing I ever had!”
He chuckled and slapped the flank of the nearest unhitched horse. I led his team to the corral and tossed them some loose hay. I gave Red some too. Then I sprinted for the cabin. Even though I dreaded the peddler’s teasing, I didn’t want to miss out on anything.
He was eating Ma’s biscuits like he’d never get another chance. Ma had set out fresh buttermilk for him too. I slid onto a stool, hoping she’d set some out for me. But she paid me no mind at all, and I saw why. She was holding one of his books and sliding her fingers over its pages edged with gold. “How much?” she asked.
I missed what he told her, his mouth being so full of biscuit. But Ma heard. She just sort of smiled, put the book down ever so gently on the table, and shook her head.
The Bible man glanced at me. “I’d take that red colt out yonder for it,” he told Ma. “This here is the finest Bible made. I’d throw in the latest hymnbook to boot.” He might have winked at Ma, but I didn’t see it.
I came off the stool, my eyes wide. “You can’t do that, Ma! Red’s my own!” I gave the peddler a dirty look. “Red’s worth more’n any old book; you know he is.”
The peddler gulped down the last of the buttermilk and rose from the table. “I’ll come by next year,” he said. He looked at me. “Maybe by then Ben can figure out a way for you to have that Bible, him being the man here now.”
I looked at Ma. What looked to be a tear slid down her cheek. I’d not seen Ma shed tears since Pa died, and it choked me. I knew she really wanted that Bible, and I wished that I could figure out a way. But I sure couldn’t part with Red to get it for her.
I was still choked some when I went to lead the peddler’s team outside and hitched them up again to the wagon. I held the team while the Bible man put an armload of books back into the wooden box at the end of the wagon bed and climbed up onto the wagon seat. I wasn’t sorry to see him go.
I watched him going toward the knoll that marked one edge of our homestead, his wagon wheels making dust again. He hadn’t teased me at all about my red hair, and I puzzled over it.
Right in the middle of my puzzling, Ma came running out of the cabin, hollering, “He forgot the Bible!” Her face was full of worry. “He’ll think I kept it on purpose!”
My mouth dropped open. Nobody could think that about Ma. “I’ll catch up to him,” I promised her.
I ran to untie Red, and sidled him over to the fence so that I could climb onto his back. Then I took off after the Bible man. Halfway to the knoll I slowed, thinking. What if I don’t catch up? Will he remember leaving the Bible behind? Ma would have plenty of pleasure from that book by the time he comes again.
I let Red plod slowly along in the dusty road, and the peddler’s wagon went out of sight behind the knoll. I reined Red in and sat awhile. Then I started feeling uncomfortable.
I had never done anything deceitful like I was doing now. It bothered me some that I had told Ma that I’d catch up to the peddler, and I wasn’t even trying. I kicked Red and sent him toward the knoll at a good lope.
At the top of the knoll I stopped and stared. The wagon was bouncing and rattling off through the sagebrush, the team looked to be on a dead run, and the peddler was pulling hard on the reins.
Runaway!
The clatter of the bouncing wagon was something fierce. It swerved through a boulder patch, hit a big rock, and bounced high in the air. The wooden box came flying out, sending books sailing. I closed my eyes for an instant and prayed that the Bible man wouldn’t go sailing off too. When I looked again, I saw that the wagon had slowed some and the peddler had the team circling.
I rode Red down through the brush to help look for the scattered books. Nobody will miss a gold-leaf Bible in all this mess, I decided. And with such excitement, even Ma wouldn’t hold me to remembering why I’d set out after the Bible man.
I slid off Red’s back, righted the wooden box, and gathered the books and loose pages the best that I could. It was a while before the peddler had the horses calmed enough to drive them to where I was. Then he just looked at the jumbled books and rubbed his mustache.
After a while he said, “An old sage hen and her young’uns flew up right under the horses’ noses. Scared them clean out of their wits for a spell.”
He picked up one of the books. “Not worth much now,” he said.
“There’s one book not hurt at all,” I heard myself say. “You left the gold-edged Bible back at the cabin. Ma sent me to tell you.”
I could have kicked myself for saying it. I looked away, chewing my lip, knowing that Ma’s only chance to read that Bible was gone.
“A good, biscuit-bakin’ woman like your Ma should have a Bible,” he said. “Now, I could be takin’ Red there as payment for it.”
My chin dropped, and my heart plumb sank inside me. I figured I’d best get Red out of the Bible man’s sight. When the peddler stooped to load the wooden box, I started scrambling onto Red’s back.
Then I heard him laugh.
“I meant her to have that Bible—to even up some for all those good biscuits that she’s fed me. You tell her so, Ben.”
He climbed up onto the wagon, grinning at me, and I knew then that he’d been teasing me all along. That was why he hadn’t mentioned my red hair. He had sparked more fire out of me over Red than he ever could have about my hair.
As the Bible man turned his team toward the road, I waved. “I’ll tell her!” I yelled.
And I was kind of sorry to see him go.

When I first saw Aaron, he made me uneasy, even a bit scared because he was so … well, different. I had never really been around anyone like Aaron.
At Madison School, Mrs. Wood’s kids with special needs—we called them “SN kids”—had their classroom down the hall from Mrs. Parrick’s fifth grade room. The first day of school, as Mrs. Parrick lined us up to go to the cafeteria, Mrs. Wood marched down the hall with the SN kids—Paula, the girl in the wheelchair; Carlos, the Down’s syndrome boy with the funny grin; Maggie, the girl with the braces and twisted legs; Charles, the chubby boy who never smiled or spoke; and Aaron.
I had seen Aaron a couple times before because his family moved into our ward a few weeks before school started, I remember staring at him as his mom and dad brought him into the church. He was grinning and grunting and mumbling things that nobody could understand. Although he was about my age, he couldn’t talk, and Mom told me later that his mind would never grow up, that he would never be able to talk like other kids.
When Aaron passed me in the hall that first day of school, he stopped in front of me and grinned. I felt uneasy and embarrassed, even a little afraid. I looked at the floor, hoping he would disappear down the hall, but he reached out, pushed me, and shouted something I didn’t understand. All the kids in my class laughed, and my cheeks burned as Mrs. Wood led him on down the hall.
“What a weirdo,” Paul snickered behind me. “Watch out, Ben—you’ll get bugs from him.”
“Why did Heavenly Father make someone like Aaron?” I asked Mom that evening.
Mom thought for a moment. “Well, Benjamin, he’s a child of God too. Heavenly Father loves him as much as He loves any of His children.”
“I didn’t figure that He didn’t love him.” I fidgeted with the salt and pepper shakers. “But if He loves Aaron, why did He make him so different?”
Mom thought for a long time. “I’m not sure we’ll ever know why some of God’s children are born with such special needs. But He does love them, and He wants us to love them too.”
“How can you love someone like Aaron? I mean, you can’t play with him because he doesn’t know how to play. You can’t be friends with him because he doesn’t even know you. I bet he doesn’t even know who his teacher, Mrs. Wood, is.”
“Benjamin, I think you’d be surprised by how much Aaron knows. Not about math or reading or science but about people and about how much they care for him.”
I didn’t know if I believed everything Mom told me, but every day at school, I watched Aaron as he went down the hall, ate his lunch in the cafeteria, or charged crazily around the playground during recess. Always alone.
Most of the kids in my class laughed at him. When he came around, they ran away screaming, like some monster was after them. They said that anyone who hung around him would get cooties. It was all a game. For them.
I especially didn’t like going to the cafeteria because wherever I sat, I found myself watching Aaron eat his lunch in a kind of daze, sometimes spilling down his front, always smearing his food across his face, even when Mrs. Wood was there to help him. I felt sorry for him eating alone, but I didn’t dare get close to him. I didn’t want the other kids to talk about me like they talked about him.
One day I finished my math early, and Mrs. Parrick called me up to her desk and asked me to take a note to Mrs. Wood.
My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry as I pushed open the heavy door of the SN room. Mrs. Wood was on the other side of the room, working with Paula. Aaron was at a corner table, stacking huge plastic blocks. He watched me rush across the room and hand the note to Mrs. Wood.
I turned to charge from the room, but Mrs. Wood stopped me. “Wait, young man. Let me write an answer for you to take to Mrs. Parrick.”
I stood beside Mrs. Wood, staring at the floor and poking my fists deep into my pockets. Suddenly a cool hand touched my arm. I jumped and turned. Aaron stood there, grinning and staring. As I backed up, he touched me again.
“Aaron just wants to play,” Mrs. Wood said, smiling. “When you have some time, you’ll have to come down and play with the children. They love visitors.”
I wasn’t supposed to run in the halls, but as soon as I was out the door, I ran back to my classroom. I wanted to get as far from that SN room as I could.
“I don’t ever want to go in there again,” I told Mom that evening. “It gives me the creeps. They’re so different. I don’t know what to do around them.”
“Benjamin, Heavenly Father would be very happy if you would show real kindness and love to those special children.”
“I don’t know how to be kind to them. And I sure don’t want everybody thinking I’m one of them.”
The next Sunday in Primary, Sister Roth told us about how Jesus had loved and been kind to everyone, even to people who were sick, crippled, dirty, or wicked. He reached out and cared for them all. Just the way she told the stories made me want to be like Jesus. Then she challenged us to help someone in need, like Jesus did.
I thought of Aaron. Not because I wanted to. I wanted to be kind to someone normal. I didn’t care if that someone was sick or dirty, but I didn’t want to help someone who made me feel uncomfortable. That week I did everything I could to stay away from Aaron. I didn’t want to even think about him.
On Friday I got to the cafeteria late, and all the tables were filled—except the one where Aaron sat alone. I frantically looked for a table where I might crowd in.
Then I remembered Sister Roth. I thought of Jesus Christ. And I knew that more than anything else, Jesus would want me to sit by Aaron. I wanted to refuse, but I couldn’t.
I walked toward him, sure that every eye in the cafeteria was on me. “Hi, Aaron,” I rasped. I set my tray next to his and sat with my head down so that I wouldn’t have to look at anyone. Aaron stared at me for a moment. Then he grunted something and held his pizza in front of my face. I nodded. “Yeah, it looks good.”
He shouted and touched me with his other hand. It was covered with pizza sauce, and I had to use my napkin to wipe it from my arm.
When I looked up, I saw Marni at the next table. She’d just moved into town and started school here on Tuesday. She was a very nice girl, and I’d been happy when she was assigned to my class. She was staring at me as I sat next to Aaron. I could feel my cheeks and ears burning, but there was nothing I could do except stay there and eat my lunch.
The best way to keep from noticing the staring eyes was to concentrate on my own lunch and to help Aaron. I helped him cut his pizza into small pieces. I used a napkin to wipe his face. When he knocked his carton of milk over, I helped him clean it up. When it was time to dump our trays, I helped him carry his.
Then he disappeared outside! I hotfooted it toward a different door.
“Benjamin?” Marni was standing there. “Benjamin, I think … well, I think you’re the most wonderful boy in this whole school!” Then she scurried past me to the playground.
“Do you like eating with that weirdo?” Paul snickered as he brushed by.
Later, while I was working on a science project, Marni came over to my table. Usually I don’t talk to girls because they make me nervous. I couldn’t think of anything to say then, either, so I just sat there and pretended that one of the nicest girls in the whole school wasn’t standing next to me.
“Is that boy in the cafeteria a friend of yours?” she asked.
“I know him a bit. His name is Aaron.”
“I have a cousin like Aaron.” Marni looked down at the table. “He’s not exactly like Aaron, but …” She pressed her lips together. “I like David—that’s my cousin’s name. Once you know him, he’s really a neat kid. But he’s different. Ever since coming here, I’ve watched Aaron because he reminds me of David.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she confided, “Benjamin, that was a brave thing you did today.”
I coughed. “It wasn’t anything.”
We were still talking—not just about Aaron and David but about lots of things—when Mrs. Parrick came over. “Benjamin, Mrs. Wood wondered if you’d like to work with her students for a few minutes this afternoon.”
Paul, who was sitting at the next table, grinned and muttered, “Benjamin’s getting so he really likes those retards.”
Mrs. Parrick was starting to scold him, when Marni asked, “Could I go with Benjamin?”
Paul’s mouth dropped open, and Mrs. Parrick apparently decided she didn’t need to say anything more to him. She just told Marni that Mrs. Wood would be delighted.
Marni and I were both a little nervous, but as we worked and played with all the kids—not just Aaron—the jitters left us, and I realized that I was actually having fun.
The following Monday at lunchtime, Marni and I sat on either side of Aaron and helped him with his lunch and talked to him, even though he didn’t understand anything we said. By the end of the week, lots of kids sat at Aaron’s table. Even Paul came over on Friday and squeezed in between Aaron and Marni.
In the afternoons, if I finished my work, Mrs. Parrick let me go to Mrs. Wood’s room for a few minutes. Sometimes Marni went with me. Sometimes I went alone. One day Randy, who sat behind me, asked, “Can I go with Benjamin today? I’m finished with my work.”
It was funny how, after a few weeks, our class kind of adopted Mrs. Wood’s class. If we were working on an art project or having a class program, we invited them to come to our room. At recess Aaron would hang around while my class played football or soccer. He didn’t know how to play, but he chased around the field and shouted and laughed like he was part of the game.
“I saw Mrs. Wood in the store this afternoon,” Mom told me one evening. “She said that you’ve become great friends with Aaron.”
I smiled. “He’s fun. He doesn’t make me nervous anymore. I still don’t think he knows me, though. I’m just some kid to him, like all the others.”
“But Heavenly Father knows you and knows how kind you’ve been to Aaron.”
The next Sunday I was walking down the hall at church, when I heard a shout. I turned and saw Aaron charging toward me. His mother was down the hall, struggling to catch up to him. Laughing wildly, he crashed into me and threw his arms around my neck. When his mother reached us, Aaron pushed away, jabbed his finger against my chest, and grinned at his mother.
For a moment she just stood there. Then a huge smile covered her face. “You must be the boy at school! We’ve known for some time that Aaron had someone very special at school. He can’t exactly tell us things like that, but we knew that there was someone. You must be Aaron’s very special friend.” Her face was beaming, and tears wet her cheeks.
Aaron stopped pointing and wrapped his arms around me again. I felt a strange, happy warmth spread over my body, and tears jiggled in my own eyes as I wriggled loose and put my arm around the shoulders of my special friend Aaron.

A few years ago, in the fall, it was business as usual for the seminary students in Welland. School and seminary started, with first-year students eagerly looking forward to what they knew would be a great year. And it was a great year, except for one thing. Brother Cunningham’s energy and health had declined over the summer break. Soon he was in the hospital, his lungs and digestive system failing. A lung transplant years earlier had improved his health dramatically and prolonged his life into his early 30s, but now he was as ill as he had ever been, without any sign that he would ever improve.
Seminary went on, now with much-loved team teachers Mike and Kim Hammond. The Hammonds helped the class not only to learn the gospel but also to remember their old teacher fondly. Brother Cunningham was never far from their thoughts.
At Christmas the students wanted to send their love. Many of Brother Cunningham’s major organs were failing, and the risk of infection through contact with other people was high. For his protection, they weren’t allowed to visit their teacher. They made a video instead, each including a personal greeting and get-well wishes. He would see that video, but he would never again see his students in person. Before the new year dawned, he was gone.
The funeral took place on the day of a blizzard, but more than 300 people attended, a testament to how much he would be missed. Many of the young men from the seminary class served as pallbearers, giving final service to the man who had served them.

Running along the beaches near Santa Cruz, California, can be an invigorating experience—the pulse of the waves, the soft sand, the salty air, the boundless ocean. But when you reach the rocky point at the end of the beach, you have to turn around and run back the other way.
Unless, of course, you swim around it.
And that’s exactly what Makena Madsen does. Each year this 16-year-old from the Capitola Ward in the Santa Cruz California Stake participates in an event called a Run-Swim-Run. In this race along the coast from one pier to another, the sandy beach is interrupted by a harbor and two rocky points, which the racers must swim around.
All in all, the race amounts to about six miles of running and one mile of swimming. Makena can complete the strenuous course in just over an hour—one of the best times for her age group.
Though the race takes great athletic ability, for Makena, it represents more than just an athletic contest. For one thing, it raises funds for a local nonprofit group that sponsors positive and wholesome activities for youth. For another thing, it is a chance to learn lessons about life, the gospel, and herself.
The race has taught Makena about many things, including preparation, overcoming obstacles, and making good choices.
She has learned to look ahead for danger, as well. The run along the beach is relatively easy. But once you reach the point where you have to swim, there are a number of things to watch out for.
“Depending on the swell, the swim can be dangerous,” she says. “Sometimes you have to make sure that the waves won’t slam you into the rocks.”
“One time I went through the seaweed,” she says. “It probably would have been faster for me to go around. It’s hard to get through it because it pulls on you and scratches you all up and you can’t swim through it. And it hurts.”
She compares this experience to choices that entangle us in worldly or destructive behaviors and cause us to get stuck instead of making progress. Such choices are like shortcuts that seem easy at first but aren’t the right way to go.
Makena has many influences in her life that help her make good choices. She credits her parents with having taught her Heavenly Father’s plan, which has helped her realize the importance of making choices on her own.
“I like learning about the plan of salvation, which is my dad’s favorite thing to teach us,” she says. “It shows you the whole picture, so you actually know why you’re here, and you have a reason to be good, not just because your parents told you to.”
By following her parents’ counsel, Makena, who is the oldest in the family, is also setting an example for her younger sister and brothers to follow. For instance, she has taken to heart what she has learned about personal prayer.
“I like to pray,” she says. “That’s a good thing. I like to be able to pray wherever I am, in any situation.” Prayer even works in school, she says. Once she was intimidated by a history teacher who would ask questions and assign homework if you gave the wrong answer. “I prayed she wouldn’t call on me or that I would know the answer,” says Makena. She wasn’t called on, but more importantly, she says, “I felt peace.”
In seminary she has appreciated the lessons that have helped her better understand and relate to the scriptures—like the time the teacher had them carry some “golden plates” around the neighborhood when they were learning about how Joseph Smith protected the Book of Mormon record.
Makena is also grateful for her youth leaders. “Our leaders do a lot for us,” she says. “They spend a lot of time to make fun activities on Mutual night. And I like the Young Women lessons. They have a lot to do with our daily lives.”
In addition to parents and adult leaders, Makena says that her friends help her keep her standards high—both those who are Church members and those who aren’t.
“All the girls in our ward are friends,” she says. “It’s good to have friends who have the same standards as you.” And though there aren’t many LDS students at her school, that isn’t a big issue. “At school everyone knows I’m Mormon,” she says, “but a lot of them have similar standards.”
In this community, teenagers like Makena make a lot of friends across school boundaries, as well. And she feels that she and her friends all support each other and help each other make good choices.
Makena participates in several different clubs, sports, and other activities at school and in the community, including soccer, volleyball, and dance. And she keeps up on her studies, too. She’s already thinking about college, though she’s not exactly sure where she wants to go.
One thing is sure, though. No matter what challenges and obstacles may present themselves, Makena knows that with her faith in the gospel, she can overcome them—even if she has to swim around them.

Even when we think we are doing no harm by our critical remarks, consequences often follow. I am reminded of a boy who handed a donation envelope to his bishop and told him it was for him. The bishop, using this as a teaching moment, explained to the boy that he should mark on the donation slip whether it was for tithing, fast offerings, or for something else. The boy insisted the money was for the bishop himself. When the bishop asked why, the boy replied, “Because my father says you’re one of the poorest bishops we’ve ever had.”

When missionaries returned to Iceland in 1975, Sveinbjörg Gudmundsdóttir was one of the first Icelanders to investigate the Church. She spoke fluent English, and soon after her baptism in 1976, she began her 20-year career as a translator for the Church. “My first assignment was to translate the Book of Mormon,” she recalls. “I knew I wasn’t qualified—I had never really translated anything but pamphlets for the missionaries.” She spent many hours on her knees in humble prayer. “I knew I could not do it without the help of the Lord,” she says. The task was overwhelming, but Sister Sveinbjörg felt the guidance of the Holy Ghost. The Icelandic Book of Mormon was published in June 1981.

Waiting for the realization of that dream was an exercise in faith. In 1981, Sister Sveinbjörg had been assigned to go to Salt Lake City to translate the temple ceremony; However, that translation was never recorded. A decade passed before she made that long journey once again—this time to update the translation and prepare it for recording.

During those 10 years of hoping and waiting, the Church in Iceland was growing. Testimonies were being nurtured, and new members were continually adding their strength. Gudmundur Sigurdsson and his wife, Valgerdur Knutsdóttir, were baptized in 1982. He was called to be the Reykjavík Branch president in 1983, and he became the first Icelandic district president in 1986.

Gummi (as he likes to be called) remembers the struggles they faced as the Church was gaining a foothold in Iceland. “We felt so isolated because we had no background for the Church in Iceland—we had no one to ask how things should be done. Sometimes people would offer to help me, but the problem was, I didn’t know what to ask for! Now we have built a base of leadership, and they are ready to be of assistance as new leaders are called.”

One of those more recently called leaders is Bárdur Á. Gunnarsson, current president of the Reykjavík Branch. He, too, first heard of the Church in 1982, but that was a time in his life when his thoughts were far from religion. Even though his lifestyle was not so different from most other young men in his country, he had many obstacles to overcome. “I tried several times to quit smoking and drinking, but I didn’t have the strength to do it,” Bárdur recalls. He had a family, but it was one that began without the blessing of a marriage ceremony. Finally, four years after the elders first knocked on his door, his desire to unite his family and to seek forgiveness led him to be married to Ólöf Bjarnadóttir, the mother of his three daughters. Ólöf was not ready to be baptized at that time, but she did give her consent for him to take their three little girls to church every Sunday. “My patriarchal blessing told me I would go to the temple with my wife and children, and I worked very hard to make this happen,” said Bárdur.

Bárdur’s dream of uniting his family began to come true in 1994 when word was received that the Icelandic temple ceremony was scheduled to be recorded in the Salt Lake Temple. In May of that year, Ólöf accompanied him to Salt Lake City, along with the small group who had been called to make the recording. While there, surrounded by their friends, Bárdur baptized his wife in the baptistry of the Salt Lake Tabernacle. They were sealed in the London Temple one year later.

After five days, the recording project was completed. Before the group who did the recording left the temple, they were allowed to view a small portion of the finished product. “Seeing just a part of the film and hearing those first few words in our own language touched me deep in my heart—it was something I will never forget,” said Gummi. “That increased our fervent desire to share this wonderful experience with all our brothers and sisters at home.”

It was now possible to think about organizing a trip to the temple for the members of the Reykjavík Branch. There was much preparing to be done—in addition to becoming worthy for temple recommends, branch members had to do genealogical research to find family names, and they had to save money for the trip. When whole families were planning to go, this became a sizable amount!

“There was a wonderful excitement, an extra amount of love and care shown among the members as they prepared for this experience,” recalls district president Ólafur Einarsson. “It brought a feeling of unity to the branch that we had not felt before.”

The necessary preparations were completed, and 38 members of the Reykjavík Branch—adults and children—journeyed to the London Temple in June 1995. For a week, they devoted themselves to the work of the Lord. “It was an unforgettable experience to see the joy on the faces of our group as the Spirit touched our hearts,” recalls one branch member. “The love and kindness we felt toward one another continued to grow as we shared the joy of our temple experiences.” They returned to their homes and families with strengthened testimonies and a renewed love of the gospel.

As the Church becomes stronger, the saga of the Saints in Iceland continues. In June 1996—still filled with memories of their experiences the previous year—some of the members of the Reykjavík Branch made a second trip to the London Temple. There, they once again were blessed to participate in holy ordinances as they renewed their covenants with the Lord—in the language of their Viking ancestors.

The fictional character Mary Poppins is a typical English nanny—who happens to be magical.1 She blows in on the east wind to help the troubled Banks family of Number 17, Cherry Tree Lane, in Edwardian London. She is given charge of the children, Jane and Michael. In a firm but kind manner, she begins to teach them valuable lessons with an enchanting touch.
Jane and Michael make considerable progress, but Mary decides that it is time for her to move on. In the stage production, Mary’s chimney sweep friend, Bert, tries to dissuade her from leaving. He argues, “But they’re good kids, Mary.”
Mary replies, “Would I be bothering with them if they weren’t? But I can’t help them if they won’t let me, and there’s no one so hard to teach as the child who knows everything.”
Bert asks, “So?”
Mary answers, “So they’ve got to do the next bit on their own.”2

Cristina watched President Thomas S. Monson on the screen in her stake center during general conference. He was talking about being kind to others. Cristina had a warm feeling as she listened. She knew President Monson was a prophet of God. She thought about Leah, a girl at school who was unkind to her. She decided she would be nice to Leah and try to be her friend. Cristina wanted to follow the prophet’s teachings.

We see great blessings as we follow direction from prophets. I remember a very significant example that occurred less than three weeks after my wife, Jill, and I were married. We attended a devotional where the President of the Church at the time, Spencer W. Kimball, spoke about marriage.1 It seemed as if he were speaking directly to us. That one talk helped us set some patterns as we began our marriage and family, and it has helped us avoid the pitfalls the Lord inspired him to warn against. I have reflected over the years how blessed we were to receive that guidance at such a crucial time for us. Now, 47 years later, we are still being blessed because of that counsel we received as a young married couple.

“You never know until you try,” said 16 year-old Camela Lines of the Yuma Fourth Ward, Yuma Arizona Stake. With that, she entered a local speech contest and ended up winning a trip to Seattle plus a $500 scholarship.
Her speech was entitled “Our Waste, Our Challenge,” and it was about what people can do in their own homes to help the environment. “Speaking to a large group of strangers in a very formal setting is a much different experience that giving a five minute talk in sacrament meeting to friends,” Camela said, adding that she was “scared to death.”
Camela is the Sunday School chorister, vice president of the Cibola High Chapter of the National Honor Society, and the oldest child in a family of ten.

On June 10, 1953, my wife and I had the privilege of being married in the Salt Lake Temple. After President Harold B. Lee, then an apostle, concluded the beautiful ceremony, he had us stand in the center of the sealing room. Looking to the left into the mirrors that reflect off one another to show hundreds of images, he said, “On the left are the eternities you came from, and on the right the eternities to which you are going.” We looked and could see our images. Then he brought our thoughts back to the sealing room where we were and said, “This is like the world. It is but one step to all the eternities.” We were lovingly advised to stay true to the commitments of chastity, to obey the law of sacrifice and the law of consecration whereby we give all of our time, talents, and everything with which we are blessed to the service of the Lord. Then he said, “Make sure you understand that an argument never solves problems. As you stand here today, commit yourselves to having and expressing love and appreciation for each other.” It was a great teaching moment in our lives that we have never forgotten.

When I was 15 years old, I spotted two missionaries in front of a supermarket. One of them invited me to come to church. I wasn’t very interested, so I told them, “Maybe someday,” and walked away.
The next day, my aunt called and asked my mother to come to her house to hear a special message. My mother and I ran over and saw the same missionaries I had seen the day before sitting in my aunt’s house! My mother was interested by their message, and I started listening as well. However, when the missionaries asked me if I believed in a living prophet, I responded with a resolute no. One of the elders held up a picture of Thomas S. Monson and testified that President Monson was a prophet. They invited me to come to general conference the next day to decide for myself. Curious, I agreed to come.
The next day, we reached the chapel just as the opening prayer was finishing. As I walked into the room, I saw President Monson come onto the screen. He smiled and said, “My dear brothers and sisters, I greet you …”
As soon as President Monson opened his mouth, a strong feeling swept over me, confirming that he was a prophet of God. At the end of conference, I told the missionaries, “I want to be baptized.” I have since served a mission myself and have taught many others the wonderful truths of the restored gospel.
I know that God has blessed us by calling prophets again. God loves us and speaks to us through modern-day prophets.
Maicon B., São Paulo, Brazil

I have always tried to honor and obey my parents. During my teenage years, when I went home at night I would report to them. Mother would always be awake. Coming home with a clear conscience and being able to tell her where I’d been meant a lot to me. Some of my friends didn’t have to check in with their parents, but I’m grateful that I was expected to be accountable to mine. They helped protect me against temptation.

The sisters’ strong faith induced in them a willingness to sacrifice for worthy goals. After two of her children had been born, Barbara Ann Phelps Allen’s husband was called on a preaching mission to the Southern States. He left in June, and Barbara Ann milked from eight to ten cows while he was gone. Nine years later, by which time she had six children, he was called on another mission to the Eastern States, and she performed the same task. To cap it off, after their children were reared, she and her husband filled a mission together.21

Joseph, Sr., endured ridicule and persecution because of his prophet son’s experiences and claims. Yet he was unwavering in his loving support and defended his son.
He saw and handled the plates of gold from which the Book of Mormon was translated and testified throughout his life to the truthfulness of that sacred book. His name remained firmly affixed, with those of the other witnesses to the Book of Mormon, in the front pages of that second witness of Jesus Christ. On one occasion he was imprisoned and told he would be released if he would deny the Book of Mormon. Not only did he not deny it, but he converted two persons during his 30-day confinement.
At the time of his death, Joseph Smith, Sr., was described as “a man faithful to his God and to the Church in every situation and under all circumstances through which he was called to pass” (History of the Church, 4:192).

Many years ago, Walton, my teenage son, and I were assigned as home teachers to the Brown family (name has been changed). Brother Brown had become disaffected with the Church and turned his back on the gospel. His wife, two teenage daughters, and a young son remained active. We prayed deeply to seek inspiration on how we could help this family. Prior to losing his way, Brother Brown was a very faithful brother who held prominent Church callings. When I served in the bishopric, he was the executive secretary—and he always performed his duties with diligence.
The first few visits were a bit awkward as he would ask us “strange” gospel questions. The good thing is he allowed us in his home. We did not pressure him to return, we just persevered as we ministered with love. He knew we were genuine and deeply interested in him and his family. We eventually became good friends and he would look forward to our visits. His wife and children did not hesitate to call us when they needed any help—be it transportation or to give priesthood blessings. We promptly availed ourselves all the time. We became like family and we were happy to serve. Brother Brown did not respond immediately, but we continued to minister, trusting in the Lord’s timing. We prayed and fasted often, pleading with the Lord to soften his heart and seeking for guidance on how we could bless, strengthen, encourage, and inspire the family.
After a number of years, the miracles unraveled as he started taking his son to Church activities. It was great to see how close he became to his son in the process. Then slowly but assuredly, he started attending church again. It was sweet to witness since many had given up on him. The family was thrilled. We as home teachers quietly felt that our visits had eventually opened the door for his return. Today he is an active participant again. Perhaps more importantly, he worships in the temple every Friday for five hours. He, without fail, attends two endowment sessions and then serves as a veil worker.
A few years ago, I accompanied Elder Carl B. Cook of the Seventy to split the Pretoria Stake. After the conference, Brother Brown beckoned me to come over to him; we embraced for what felt like an eternity, then in between sobs, he uttered the words “It’s because of you that I am here today to witness this and partake of the fruits of the gospel. It’s because of you; thank you, thank you.” I sobbed with him and meekly responded, “It’s not because of me. My son and I were only instruments in Heavenly Father’s hands.” It was an unforgettable moment where we both strongly felt of His Spirit.
Walton and I were genuine friends to him and his family. We were anxiously engaged—ours was not to fulfill an assignment. It was a sacred calling where we visited at the very least once a month, meeting the needs of the family. President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) said, “A friend cares. A friend loves. A friend listens, and a friend reaches out.”1 We tried to be all of the above and as a result the family members called us ‘home teachers’ instead of our actual names. Up to this day, whenever we meet anyone of them, the greeting is always, “Hello, my home teacher!”
While serving as a member of the Seventy, Elder James M. Paramore said, “When God’s love is known and felt and His commandments followed, the results are always the same. There is a newness of life—a spiritual awakening—that comes to man.”2 I strongly feel that this was the case with Brother Brown.
I feel this great joy every time I see Brother Brown. I can attest as President Monson promised that the blessings of eternity await us as we actively participate on the stage of service. And that as we love our God, as we love our neighbor, we can be the recipients of our Heavenly Father’s love.

The first pioneers who came to the Salt Lake Valley struggled hard to raise crops in what had been reported to them earlier to be only a desert wasteland.
As the Saints traveled west, Brigham Young recorded in his journal that Jim Bridger, an early explorer of the West, offered to give $1,000 for the first bushel of corn grown in the valley of the Great Salt Lake. This rugged explorer claimed that the late frosts in the spring and the early frosts in the fall made it impossible to raise corn. Brigham Young replied, “Wait a little and we’ll show you.”
The Saints were full of joy when they found the soil was rich and that they could raise vegetables, fruits, and grains of almost every kind.

I work at a summer camp. Kids come for five days, and we do lots of educational activities with them. We cut and decorate wood cuts from real logs, play in the stream and learn about aquatic life, find and collect wildflowers, go on hikes, learn about the mining history of the town, and lots of other super fun stuff.
At the end of the week, we do an activity called “affirmations.” The kids sit in a circle and close their eyes. They take turns getting up and tapping other kids on the shoulder as the counselors say different things like “This person helped me feel welcome,” or “This person helped me cut wood.” At the end of the activity, we say, “This person has potential,” or “This person has a bright future.” Then the counselors tap every single kid.
One week, as I was tapping the kids and saying awesome things about them, I felt the Spirit witness to me that they were all children of God. I didn’t even know all of them that well, but I felt such love for them. It was a really neat experience that witnessed to me that everyone we interact with really is a child of God. He really does care about each of us.
Stephen J., Utah, USA

“Hey, Willard, we’ve got a favor to ask of you,” I mentioned one afternoon as we were changing the oil in Brad’s car. “We’re in charge of a dinner over at the church this weekend.” I shrugged and felt my cheeks turn red. “The kids in the ward are putting on a dinner for some senior citizens. Now I don’t mean that we think you’re a senior citizen or anything like that,” I quickly added, “but we wanted you there. Will you come?”
Willard looked up. His eyes went to each one of us, and then he stared down into the car’s engine. For a long time he didn’t speak. Slowly he pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands. A feeble smile on his lips. “The last time I was in church was when my wife died. That’s been more than three years. And it was a lot longer before that. There have been times when I wanted to go back, but I couldn’t think of a good enough reason. And there’s nobody there I know.”
“You’ve got an excuse now. We’re having good food. And you know us. We’ll be there,” I pointed out.
“Why would you want me to go to a nice, fancy dinner with you?” he asked without looking at us.
For a moment I didn’t answer, pondering the question. “Because you’re our friend,” I answered simply.
He shook his head. “I don’t know if I could. People would stare. They’d wonder why—”
“You’ll be with us,” Brad spoke up. “The whole time. We promise.”
We all waited, holding our breath. Willard thought for a long time. Finally his face softened into a smile and he said, “Well, I’ll think about it.”
The night of the dinner I was nervous. Brad had promised to bring Willard while Chris and I helped get things ready at the church.
“Did you invite anyone tonight?” Brother Loder asked as I was carrying food from the kitchen to the serving table in the cultural hall.
“Willard Watts.”
Brother Loder sighed. “When are you going to get over this Willard Watts idea?” He smiled and shook his head. “The day you get old Willard inside this church I’ll buy you the biggest meal you’ve ever had in your life.”
Just then Chris and Brad came through the doors on the far side of the cultural hall with Willard between them. Brother Loder had his back to them so he didn’t see them approach until they were right behind him. When he turned around, his jaw almost dropped to the floor he was so surprised.
“Brother Loder,” I started out, “I’d like you to meet a good friend of ours, Brother Watts.”
For a moment Brother Loder could hardly speak. Then he held out his hand and greeted Willard. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he stammered. “The boys here have talked about you a lot.” He looked at the three of us and then back to Willard. “I guess I can believe everything they’ve told me.”
Willard nodded his head. “They’re good boys. I think you can believe what they say.”
As Brad and Chris led Willard away, Brother Loder turned to me and muttered, “I would have never believed it. I guess I owe you a big dinner.”
I shook my head and struggled to control my emotions. “Forget it,” I smiled. “Some things you don’t do to win a meal.”