Gospel Story Finder

I peered diligently at the microfilm of church records and read name after name of my ancestors from northern Spain, written generations ago in elegant Spanish penmanship. These families had lived in peace in their little fishing village for centuries. They loved the Lord and one another. Their village was nestled on a little coastal inlet and surrounded by rolling hills of eucalyptus trees, a setting that provided a serene and quiet sanctuary for their families. Few were ever drawn away from its simple beauty and warmth of spirit. Most were related to one another by blood or marriage.
These records had special meaning to me—my grandfather Andres Sanchez had saved them from destruction during the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s. I grew up knowing his story, but my connection with it became evident only as I began my search for the records. Although I never knew my grandfather, I felt his spirit as I read these names and dates. Together we had become a team that made it possible to provide temple ordinances for more than 10,000 of our ancestors.
This day, however, like most days of the last few years, was also filled with pain and sorrow over my daughter and the direction her life was going. I cried out in the depths of despair to my Heavenly Father, pleading for His help in my daughter’s behalf against odds that seemed impossible. My heart was filled with emotion—though I was working faithfully to provide saving temple ordinances for my ancestors, I could do little to save my own child. Then I felt the strength of past generations joining with me in an effort to save my daughter, and I found a measure of peace at the microfilm reader as I lost myself in extracting the precious names and dates from church records.
Now I sat in a large dim room in the Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, reading a copy of that microfilm. As I proceeded with the tedious task of searching through names so foreign to me, I was drawn to these people. A feeling of family unity grew in my mind and heart.
My husband and I drew inspiration, courage, and hope from the example of my grandfather, who willingly sacrificed for future generations. In turn, we felt the strength of past generations joining with us in our efforts to help our daughter.
It was in March 1999, the same week President Gordon B. Hinckley dedicated the Madrid Spain Temple, that I submitted my first 6,000 family names to the temple file in the Bountiful Utah Temple, as complete as possible and within their proper families. Now my next 4,000 names were ready. The names of an entire community of people were available at the temple for their temple ordinances to be performed. The work of salvation for a faithful little Spanish village had begun.
As temple ordinances were performed for my ancestors, it seemed to my husband and me that the heavens were weeping and praying with us in our daughter’s behalf. In time our daughter realized that she needed to change her life and rediscover the peace that had been missing for so long. She began the arduous process of repentance, and gradually we saw the light enter her countenance again. At long last, our heartfelt, pleading prayers were being answered. She enjoyed the healing intervention of a loving Heavenly Father, who is mindful of all of His children.
On a beautiful evening, I sat in the Bountiful temple, my eyes wet with tears of joy. Beside me was my daughter, there to receive her own endowment and to be sealed to a worthy young man.
But the story does not end there. As family and friends gathered to participate in this glorious event, the sister at the desk handed out the proxy names to those attending the session. By coincidence, the names she gave us were some of the same names I had submitted to the temple file. Indeed, it was a double celebration—we rejoiced as we served as proxies for our Spanish ancestors, and in turn they must have rejoiced with us as our daughter was sealed to her husband for time and all eternity in the house of the Lord. In that moment, we could feel the circle of eternal family uniting the past and the present. We were one.

I’ll share another personal reflection. Many years ago when I was a young intern, we had a wonderful neighbor lady named Netta Davis. She had a serious heart condition—a diseased mitral valve—destroyed in her youth by the ravages of rheumatic fever. Her husband, Don, was a fellow physician. Because he and I were usually at the hospital, Netta and my sweetheart, Dantzel, became very close friends. Sadly, as the years went by, Netta’s strength ebbed. Her congestive heart failure worsened. Her little body finally died because of this malfunctioning valve.

This was long before the advent of surgical repairs within the heart. Such was hardly dreamed of in those days. But Netta’s passing changed my life. I determined that her death was not to have been in vain.

Then I joined forces with a small team of researchers at a well-known university. Together we embarked on a project to develop an artificial heart-lung machine, as I mentioned earlier. The ultimate purpose of this effort was to allow repairs to be made within the empty heart while the circulation of the patient’s blood was temporarily maintained by the apparatus we were developing.

To make connectors for tubing, I learned quite a bit about glassblowing. And I learned how to operate lathes, drill presses, and other machines required to make pumps, valves, and cylinders. With my associates, I also had to learn the physiological requirements for oxygenation of the blood and the requirements for blood flow to and oxygen consumption of the tissues. We had to learn how to anticoagulate the blood and then reverse the anticoagulation so normal clotting could again be restored. And we learned the hard way that bacterial contamination could destroy an otherwise successful experiment. Incidentally, the conquering of that problem was the project for my Ph.D. thesis.

Long years elapsed before we were able to graduate from the laboratory to practical application in the operating room of a hospital. But finally it happened in 1951. The human heart could be opened. In the years that followed, thanks also to research in laboratories and clinics at many other universities, defective valves and other components could be repaired. The pioneering road was long and rugged. More than eight years elapsed from the time I received my doctor of medicine degree before I performed the first successful open-heart operation in Utah in 1955.

Netta Davis did not die in vain. Her desperate need motivated me as nothing else could. I thought of her the day I operated upon the heart of President Spencer W. Kimball. In a real sense, it was partially because of Netta that I was able to perform that operation President Kimball needed.

Talofa! Hello!
Recently our Primary got to do community service to help the environment. I almost couldn’t go because I live far from the church, but I’m so grateful that my Primary leaders were able to help me get a ride.
When we got to the project site, it was muddy, cold, and wet. But that didn’t stop us! Each child was given one tree to plant, and our Primary leaders showed us how to plant them. As we worked, we learned why trees are so important.
I learned that trees help protect the earth. They give us fruits, medicine, and wood. They also give us oxygen to breathe.
My message to everyone is that we should plant more and more trees! And look for ways to help serve in the community. I’m grateful for this experience and all it taught me.

I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
This is scary! The fog is so thick I can’t see where we’re going.
Neither can I. Please say a prayer for safety.
Dear Heavenly Father, the fog is so thick that we can’t see where we’re going, and we’re scared. Please keep us safe. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
The fog is still thick.
I can see just well enough to pull off the road and safely park. And I feel I should do exactly that.
Later …
The fog’s a lot thinner.
I can see the road now.
So can I. Let’s go on.
When we prayed, I thought maybe Heavenly Father would make the fog go away.
He could have done that, but He kept us safe in a different way.
I’m glad I have a mom who listens.
And obeys.

Sister Rose Polvado of our ward tells the story of going crabbing as a little girl. Her job was to hold the bucket with the crabs. When crabs were caught and put in the bucket, she stated her concern that there was no lid, and the crabs would crawl out of the bucket and escape. However, her dad assured her that they would not because whenever one would start to climb out, another would climb on him and cause him to fall back. Sometimes people are like this. They do not want others to be “better than they are,” so they pull them back. A true friend would realize that the greatest blessing is eternal life and would never do anything but help you to get it. The minute you see someone trying to get you to break your covenants, you know they do not have your real interest at heart. Leave them and find someone else that does. This earth life is a test. It does not last too long, and then we live the rest of eternity with the results of our decisions here.

But on Sundays, Alba takes on a role unlike most other 14-year-olds. Stop by her Spanish-speaking branch in Ogden, Utah, and you may find her sitting in a side pew, whispering English words into a tiny microphone attached to headphones atop her head.

Even at 14 Alba isn’t a newcomer to the world of interpreting. In fact, Alba has been interpreting for everything from sacrament meeting to stake conference since she was just 11 years old. And long before that, Alba was interpreting for parents, teachers, and students at her elementary school.

Eventually Alba started translating for her Spanish branch. In the beginning, she would sit behind English-speaking visitors (such as the stake Young Women presidency), and whisper the translation to them. It wasn’t until a few years later that the branch started using headphones with microphones.

Learning Church words in English was like learning a whole new language for Alba. “It was totally new for me because as a child I had never read the scriptures in English. I had never done anything that had to do with the Church in English—only in Spanish,” she says. “So it was really weird for me to learn all these English words—like the different levels of the priesthood—all these words I had never heard before.”

For the first few years, Alba really struggled with some of the English terms. But now she is in an English seminary class and has read the Book of Mormon in English. She says this has really helped.

Even though she still makes mistakes once in a while, Alba has overcome a lot of the self-consciousness she used to feel. She says she still gets nervous for the big events, but mostly she thinks it’s fun and exciting that she can help out.

Alba loves helping other people feel the Spirit and better understand the messages in sacrament meeting. She also thinks that interpreting for her Spanish branch has helped her stay in tune with the Spirit.

“It has really helped me a lot, because in sacrament meeting, sometimes it’s easy for my thoughts to wander,” she says. “But now I pay attention more, I am more focused, and I understand what the speaker is trying to say.”

I too was questioned by my friends, classmates, and even my teachers in school about our standards. They said that our Church standards are so strict. Instead of arguing with them, I asked for their time to share with them all about our Church standards. I simply showed them that I am very happy and comfortable living with our standards. I also did not use our standards as an excuse to miss some school activities. Instead, I suggested some ideas for the school activities to follow our Church standards. I also shared with them the advantages of following those standards.
Ailyn L., 19, Davao, Philippines

A young medical student in Italy, a friend of mine who is now a cardiovascular surgeon, expressed his feelings about the temple this way:
“Doing temple work, especially for your loved ones, is an edifying and spiritual thing. You feel the gospel in action; you feel the love of God and the sense of the wonderful plan He made just for us, His children.
“Two days ago, I was at the hospital working when an eighteen-year-old boy came to me, asking for news of his father, who was undergoing coronary bypass surgery. At 5:00 p.m. came the news: his father’s heart ceased to beat. I’ll remember for the rest of my life how miserable and void of hope is a life without the comfort of the certainty of resurrection, of being eternally sealed as a family, of having the opportunity again to be with Heavenly Father.”

I am acquainted with a family which came to America from Germany. The English language was difficult for them. They had but little by way of means, but each was blessed with the will to work and with a love of God.

Their third child was born, lived but two months, and then died. Father was a cabinetmaker and fashioned a beautiful casket for the body of his precious child. The day of the funeral was gloomy, thus reflecting the sadness they felt in their loss. As the family walked to the chapel, with Father carrying the tiny casket, a small number of friends had gathered. However, the chapel door was locked. The busy bishop had forgotten the funeral. Attempts to reach him were futile. Not knowing what to do, the father placed the casket under his arm and, with his family beside him, carried it home, walking in a drenching rain.

If the family were of a lesser character, they could have blamed the bishop and harbored ill feelings. When the bishop discovered the tragedy, he visited the family and apologized. With the hurt still evident in his expression, but with tears in his eyes, the father accepted the apology, and the two embraced in a spirit of understanding. No hidden wedge was left to cause further feelings of anger. Love and acceptance prevailed.

Many years ago I boarded a plane in San Francisco en route to Los Angeles. As I sat down, the seat next to mine was empty. Soon, however, there occupied that seat a most lovely young lady. As the plane became airborne, I noticed that she was reading a book. As one is wont to do, I glanced at the title: A Marvelous Work and a Wonder. I mustered up my courage and said to her, “Excuse me. You must be a Mormon.”
She replied, “Oh, no. Why do you ask?”
I said, “Well, you’re reading a book written by LeGrand Richards, a very prominent leader of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
She responded, “Is that right? A friend gave this book to me, but I don’t know much about it. However, it has aroused my curiosity.”
I wondered silently, Should I be forward and say more about the Church? The words of the Apostle Peter crossed my mind: “Be ready always to give an answer to every [one] that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you.” I decided that now was the time for me to share my testimony with her. I told her that it had been my privilege years before to assist Elder Richards in printing that book. I mentioned the great missionary spirit of this man and told her of the many thousands of people who had embraced the truth after reading that which he had prepared. Then it was my privilege, during the remainder of the flight, to answer her questions relative to the Church—intelligent questions which came from the heart, which I perceived was a heart seeking truth. I asked if I might have an opportunity to have the missionaries call upon her. I asked if she would like to attend one of our wards in San Francisco, where she lived. Her answers were affirmative. She gave me her name—Yvonne Ramirez—and indicated that she was a flight attendant on her way to an assignment.
Upon returning home I wrote to the mission president and the stake president, advising them of my conversation and that I had written to her and sent along some suggested reading. Incidentally, young men, I recommended that rather than sending two elders to this pretty off-duty flight attendant and her pretty roommate, two lady missionaries be assigned to call.
Several months passed by. Then I received a telephone call from the stake president, who asked, “Brother Monson, do you remember sitting next to a flight attendant on a trip from San Francisco to Los Angeles earlier this fall?” I answered affirmatively. He continued, “I thought you would like to know that Yvonne Ramirez has just become the most recently baptized and confirmed member of the Church. She would like to speak with you.”
A sweet voice came on the line: “Brother Monson, thank you for sharing with me your testimony. I am the happiest person in all the world.”
As tears filled my eyes and gratitude to God enlarged my soul, I thanked her and commended her on her search for truth and, having found it, her decision to enter those waters which cleanse and purify and provide entrance to eternal life.
I sat silently for a few minutes after replacing the telephone receiver. The words of our Savior coursed through my mind: “And whoso receiveth you, there I will be also, for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.”

Bishop Edgley has told you a basketball story. I think I’d like to tell you a baseball story. I was reminded of it while watching a program on the Public Broadcasting System one evening not long ago. It was a program on baseball, once the great American pastime.
I recognize that baseball has little interest for people in most nations of the world, but I speak of it to highlight a principle that has meaning for people everywhere.
The event of which I speak occurred in the World Series of 1912. It was an eight-game series because one of the games was called at midpoint because of darkness. Playing fields were not electrically lighted at that time. It was the last game and the score was tied 1–1. The Boston Red Sox were at bat, the New York Giants in the field. A Boston batter knocked a high-arching fly. Two New York players ran for it. Fred Snodgrass in center field signaled to his associate that he would take it. He came squarely under the ball, which fell into his glove. It went right through his hand and fell to the ground. A howl went up in the stands. The roaring fans couldn’t believe it. Snodgrass had dropped the ball. He had caught hundreds of fly balls before. But now, at this crucial moment, he dropped the ball. The New York Giants lost. The Boston Red Sox won the series.
Snodgrass came back the following season and played brilliant ball for nine more years. He lived to be eighty-six years of age, dying in 1974. But after that one slip, for sixty-two years when he was introduced to anybody, the expected response was, “Oh, yes, you’re the one who dropped the ball.”

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Hey, Mandy, you won’t believe what Amber did!
If it’s something nice, tell me about it.
Nice? No way! It got her grounded forever. She—
Don’t tell me!
Why not?
I’m trying to stop gossiping, and I don’t want to hear it.
This isn’t gossip. It’s the truth!
Unless we’re going to help Amber, we’re just being entertained by her problems. It is gossip, and it’s unkind.
Well …
And are you sure it’s the whole truth? What about Amber’s side of the story?
Besides, I mess up sometimes, and I don’t want everybody talking about it.
Same here. So let’s stop gossiping and go play with Amber.

Many years later, Diane had a friend named Lynn who was taught by missionaries. Diane saw how happy Lynn was. At Lynn’s baptism, Diane heard the name “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” She remembered her friend Emma. That was the name of the church Emma went to!
Diane wanted to know more. She read the Book of Mormon and asked Heavenly Father if it was true. She felt happy, just like Emma had said she would. On the day of her baptism, she was so thankful for Emma, the friend who told her about the Church while playing hopscotch.

I think also of Father Maximilian Kolbe, a Polish Catholic priest imprisoned in the Nazi concentration camp at Auschwitz during World War II. Upon his arrival at the camp in May 1941, Father Kolbe was informed by an SS officer that the life expectancy of priests there was about a month. He was assigned to the timber detail, required to carry felled tree trunks from one place to another. When he collapsed from overwork and starvation, he was kicked, beaten, given fifty lashes with a whip, then shoved into a ditch, covered with branches, and left for dead. Miraculously, Father Kolbe survived. But a greater horror awaited him. A prisoner from Barracks 14, where Father Kolbe was housed, managed to escape. The prisoners from that barracks were paraded before the commandant. After a day standing in the sun, during which many fainted and were shot, the commandant, a monster named Fritsch, levied sentence. “Ten of you will die in the starvation bunker.” The starvation bunker was the horror of horrors: both food and water were denied; many prisoners spent their dying days howling, attacking each other, clawing the walls in a frenzy of fear. After a couple of days in the bunker, the inhabitants frightened even the guards.

Fritsch walked down the lines of prisoners, selecting his victims. One poor wretch, whose number—5659—was on the list, groaned and cried out: “My poor wife, my poor children, what will they do?”

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the ranks. A prisoner had broken out of line, calling for the commandant. That alone was enough to ensure his death. Though Fritsch had his hand on his revolver, he did not shoot.

“Halt!” he called. “What does this Polish pig want of me?”

The prisoners gasped. It was Father Kolbe who had spoken. He was much loved; he shared his last crust and comforted the dying. Surely, he would not have to die.

The frail priest spoke softly to the Nazi butcher. “I would like to die in place of one of the men you condemned.”

“Why?” shouted the commandant.

Father Kolbe sensed that he must not seem to be asking Fritsch to reverse his order. The priest bowed his head: “I am an old man, sir, and good for nothing.”

“In whose place do you want to die?”

“For that one,” Kolbe responded, pointing to the weeping prisoner—number 5659—who had cried for his wife and children.

“Who are you?” asked Fritsch, as though he saw Kolbe for the first time. The prisoner looked back at him, a strange fire in his dark eyes. “I am a priest.”

“Ein Pfaffe!” the commandant snorted. He nodded to his assistant. Number 5659 was crossed out, and number 16670—Kolbe’s number—replaced it.

Father Kolbe died as he had lived, serving and loving others. From the death cell came not the sounds of frenzied despair but the faint sounds of singing. This time, the prisoners had a shepherd to lead them through the shadows of the valley of death. (Story adapted from Chuck Colson, “The Volunteer at Auschwitz,” in The Book of Virtues, William J. Bennett, ed. [New York: Simon and Schuster, 1993], pp. 803–8.)

We were so happy, every Sunday attending sacrament meeting and seeing the love the members of the Church showed us. My mom and I waited for my father who was working in Dubai to come and be baptized, and my brother was studying in Vijayawada where there is no Church. Fortunately, a home group was started in Vijayawada and missionaries from Rajahmundry went there and taught him. I baptized him. The day came that my father arrived from his work the missionaries met him, taught him, and invited him to be baptized, but he had an issue with the Word of Wisdom. Finally, he overcame it with the help of the missionaries and he also joined the Church. My brother baptized him. Now all four members in our family have joined the Church and have seen many miracles in our lives.

Due to his autism, my younger son was afraid of being in large groups and meeting new people, but the ward welcomed us with open arms and did everything they could to accommodate our needs. The members set aside a special room at the back of the chapel just for my son, and they fulfilled our request to avoid making eye contact with him until he felt more at ease. Even when one of my children would disrupt sacrament meeting, we were treated with the utmost respect and kindness.
I saw my sons unfold in the warmth of the ward’s embrace. They quickly made new friends, and my sons even started to attend Primary classes on days that I was unable to attend church.
We were eventually baptized, a memory that still brings tears to my eyes. At the baptismal service, the ward members—understanding my children’s fear of crowds—tiptoed into the back of the room after the boys had been seated to avoid frightening them. Afterward, we were offered a mountain of congratulatory sweets, and the love in the room was so palpable that my sons remarked, “I want to be baptized again!”

The choppy waters of the North Sea gently rocked the Speedwell anchored at Delfshaven, Holland. Crowding the ship’s deck were the passengers, along with their families and friends who had come to say good-bye.
Roger gathered his little sister Ellen into his arms. “Be happy that you are going to America,” he said. Ellen wrapped her arms around his neck, and her tears wet his cheek. Releasing herself, she ran to her parents, Kathrine and Edward Howard.
“Oh, Papa! Mama!” she exclaimed. “I don’t want to go away and leave my sister and brother behind.”
“Don’t worry, little sister,” Sarah said, comforting her. “Roger and I will come to America before long. Just wait and see. And remember, Ellen, although you’re almost the littlest Pilgrim on board, you must be brave, because you’re going to a brave new world.”
“Sarah, why are Pilgrims so poor?” Ellen asked. “If we were rich enough, our whole family could go to America. Then I wouldn’t feel so awful.”
“Come on, Ellen, dry your tears. I’ll tell you what—let’s play one more game of pretend before you go. Let’s pretend that I have lots of bags of gold,” suggested Sarah.
Ellen liked to play pretend with Sarah. “What are you going to do with lots of bags of gold?” she asked.
“I’m going to buy a whole fleet of ships. I’ll tell all the Pilgrims to get aboard, and I’ll take them across the ocean where they can never be persecuted again.” Sarah’s smile broadened. “Better still, let’s pretend that I’m a genie. I’ll wrap a magic web around King James, and I’ll say, ‘Aye, Your Majesty, you’re going to be banished to a faraway island where you can never rant and rave and thunder at people or throw them into prison or hang them or clap them into the stocks again. Never again will you tell people how to worship, for they will belong to any church they like.’ And then I’ll sit and watch while he flies into a rage. His beard will bristle, and his face will turn red. Then he’ll spin off into the air to an island of peacocks and apes.”
As Ellen giggled, Sarah hugged her and said, “See, it’s better to laugh than to cry.”
Edward Howard had gone down the plank for one more piece of equipment. When Ellen saw him returning with a strange, heavy load, she asked, “Papa, why are you bringing that big iron screw clamp onto the ship?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but something tells me we’re going to need it.” Papa had worked at the docks for the twelve years they’d been in Holland; he understood about ships.
Sarah and Roger were small when their parents had fled from England to Holland with a group of Separatists, or Pilgrims, but they still remembered the persecutions of King James I. Ellen had been born in Holland, and she loved it because it was home to her. The Dutch people were good to the Pilgrims, allowing them to worship as they pleased. But now the Pilgrim children were speaking mostly Dutch, and the older ones were marrying into Dutch families.
“No one would ever know you’re a little English girl,” Mama once said to Ellen.
“We need to find a country of our own,” Papa declared.
In church on Sundays Ellen bowed her head and listened to Elder Brewster pray. He always thanked Heavenly Father for the kindness the Dutch people had shown them, but lately he had been adding, “Please don’t let us lose our English heritage. Guide us to a land where we can worship as we desire and where we can bring up our children as Englishmen.”
Finally, the prayers were answered, and everyone knew that America was to be their land of promise. A London company agreed to pay their passage there in return for furs, fish, and lumber from America. A patent was given them to settle in the northern part of the Virginia colony. What the Pilgrims didn’t know was that the settlers in Virginia were still bound to the Anglican Church, because King James was not interested in granting freedom of worship to any of his subjects anywhere. However, the king was very interested in the wealth that the English emigrants would send back to England from America.
Since not everyone could go to America at once, it was agreed that Elder Brewster would go with the first group. Pastor John Robinson would remain with those who planned to come later.
So on a July morning in 1620, the emigrants gathered on the deck of the Speedwell and knelt with Pastor Robinson. He stretched his hands toward heaven and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, commended them to the Lord. Then he disembarked.
The people on shore were also crying as they watched the departing ship. Aboard the Speedwell, the rails were crowded with excited, heavyhearted passengers frantically waving a last farewell to those still lining the quay. Ellen waved at Sarah and Roger until they were finally lost from view.
They sailed for England where the Mayflower awaited them. From there the two ships started for America but had to turn back when the Speedwell began leaking badly. The passengers on the Speedwell had to board the Mayflower. Finally the Mayflower, with 102 passengers and its crew, set sail for America on September 16, 1620. Of these voyagers, only thirty-five were Pilgrims. The others were either members of the Anglican Church or strangers and had no intention of changing their religion.
Master Christopher Jones was a rough seadog, as sea captains sometimes had to be. He was also good and kind. He loved his stout, chunky Mayflower and said of her, “Aye, she is apple-cheeked, double-decked, and a fine, sweet ship.”
Closely packed below deck were the stores and livestock of the colony—goats, swine, poultry, bread, butter, cheese, eggs, fish, vegetables, clothing, books, cooking utensils, farm implements, muskets, armor, cannon, and goods for trade with the Indians. The ship’s cargo was so heavy that she rode very low in the sea.
While the Mayflower skimmed westward with the breeze in her sails, Ellen played on deck with four-year-old Mary Allerton, the youngest passenger on board.
“Mary,” Ellen said, “shall we play pretend?”
“How do we play pretend?” Mary asked.
“Well, first, you make believe you’re my sister. Now I need to find a brother. Let me see … John Howland will be just right.” Walking briskly up to him, she said, “Ahoy, mate. A jolly good day it is.”
“Righto!” replied John, grinning. “That it is.”
“Aye, and a jolly good day for pretending,” Ellen added. “Would you like to pretend you’re my brother?”
“I’d like that very much,” the boy answered.
“Then it’s all settled. We are a family. Families stick together on ocean voyages and help each other.” Pretending helped ease Ellen’s homesick longing for Sarah and Roger.
One day a gale came shrieking out of the north. It tugged at the rigging, and the ship strained and groaned. Below deck, the passengers huddled together and comforted each other.
Clinging to her father, Ellen cried, “Papa, is the ship going to sink?”
“No,” he replied. “The Lord wants us to arrive in America.”
“How do you know, Papa?”
“Because He saved us once before when we fled from England and were driven by storms on the North Sea. When the water washed over us, the mariners cried out, ‘We sink! We sink!’ With divine faith, Elder Brewster cried, ‘Yet, Lord, thou canst save!’ The ship recovered, the violent storm ceased, and the Lord filled our minds with much comfort.”
Just then a wall of water lashed across the deck of the Mayflower. Wood cracked and splintered, and the main beam buckled, pulling deck boards with it. Water seeped through to the lower deck.
Cries of terror went up. “The ship is sinking!” a seaman cried.
“Brewster,” a stranger sneered, “I’ve heard about the miracle on the North Sea. See if your prayers can save us now.”
Elder Brewster looked the man in the eye and said, “We know for a certainty the Lord can save. But right now we need to combine work with faith. Come, let’s be up on deck.”
Strong and lusty seamen were struggling against the winds and the waves. The passengers ran to help them push boards against the fractured beam, trying vainly to press it up and together again.
“This iron muscle will help!” Edward Howard shouted. He came forward carrying the great iron screw clamp he had brought from Holland, and the mast was soon repaired. In gratitude the Pilgrims knelt while Elder Brewster committed them once more to the Lord.
For several days the Mayflower wallowed in the subsiding storm. At the first hint of sunshine, Ellen tugged at John Howland’s hand. “I need you to walk on deck with me,” she said.
“All right, little sister, we both need the fresh air.”
On the upper deck, Ellen admiringly patted the main beam so securely mended with her father’s clamp. At that moment a capricious wave sloshed over the deck, and John was washed overboard. Clinging to the mast, Ellen screamed and screamed. Swiftly sailors came. Miraculously John had caught hold of the topsail halyard (rope) that was dangling over the side. The halyard ran out at length, but John held on tightly, and the sailors hauled him in.
Relieved, Ellen buried her face in her hands. “Lord, thank Thee for helping John get hold of the halyard,” she whispered.
Waves and wind were gentle at last. Sailors climbed rope ladders up the mainmast and loosed the sails. While the Mayflower sailed smoothly under the stars, the passengers sweetly slept.
When Ellen awoke, she heard the cry of a newborn baby. Her feet swiftly pattered past the cabin doors until she came to the bedside of Elizabeth Hopkins. Wrapped in a blanket beside her lay the tiny baby. Ellen stared in wonder.
Little Demaris Hopkins grinned and announced, “He’s my brother!”
“Just imagine, Demaris, having a brother born in the middle of the ocean!” Ellen exclaimed.
Steven Hopkins, the baby’s father, patted Ellen on the head. “Guess what we’re going to name him! We’re going to call him Oceanus (Latin word for ocean).”
“Oh, my!” Ellen exclaimed and ran swiftly to tell her mother.
Every day Elder Brewster led the daily prayers, in spite of jeers and complaints. If mighty King James had not intimidated the Pilgrims, however, surely the strangers on board could not.
One of the worst tormenters was a huge, brawny seaman. “Aye, I’ll be burying half of you praying psalm singers at sea,” he taunted. Often he cursed and swore at them bitterly. Then one morning he was stricken. By afternoon he was dead, and his lifeless body was lowered over the side of the ship.
For sixty-six long days and sixty-six long nights, they sailed westward. On the dawn of November 10, 1620, the lookout spied a faint dark line off the starboard bow and raised a cry: “Land, ahoy!” Excitedly the passengers crowded the rail, peering toward the horizon. “Aye, there she is!” Edward shouted. Encircling his wife and little daughter in his arms, he said, “We’re almost home. There is our first glimpse of America.”
All about them people were laughing and crying. As the promised land came closer into view, the Pilgrims burst into songs of joy.
The Mayflower now dropped anchor in Provincetown Harbor, at the tip of Cape Cod. The Pilgrims were heartened, for they had reached the land they had sought so long. But winter was approaching, and they knew they must find a place to settle before the storms came.
A party of men set out to explore the coast. They found a sheltered harbor and a spot where a brook met the sea. There they chose to build their homes. On December 25, they began erecting the first house, and before long the settlement was called Plymouth.
There, through the long, cold winter, the Pilgrims endured hunger and sickness. Many died, but the survivors helped one another and kept their faith.
In the spring, the Pilgrims met the Indians, who taught them how to plant corn and hunt. By autumn the harvest was plentiful, and Governor Bradford proclaimed a day of thanksgiving to the Lord for their blessings.
And so the little girl who had played at pretending with her brother and sister had lived to see her people’s prayers answered. The Pilgrims had found a home where they could worship God in freedom.

Chad Bybee, now a returned missionary from the Japan Okayama Mission, ran four years on the Mountain View team. He took second at state in 1989, leading the boys’ team to its first cross-country title. Looking back, Chad realizes how much cross-country helped prepare him for his mission.
“I learned dedication, self-motivation, and self-discipline,” he says. “It also made me fit.” Chad remembers an experience on his mission where his running experience paid off. “One time, our bishop was sick, and he asked us to give him a blessing. My bike got a flat as we were going up the hill to the bishop’s house. So I ran the final 100 to 200 meters up the hill while my companion rode his bike,” Chad says. “Then I ran three-quarters of a mile to a discussion afterward.
“But I knew I could do it because of cross-country,” he continues. “Cross-country taught me how to push myself.”

I want to thank you for the article “Why Am I Running?” in the January 1991 issue. I am a 27-year-old male who is currently serving a prison term. I am here as a direct result of “running.”
As a teenager I became too concerned about what others thought of me. I began to do things that were not socially acceptable. By the time I was an adult my free agency belonged to those I was constantly trying to impress.
I am trying to return to the gospel, but old habits die hard. Please use your agency wisely. The road back is tough, so stay on the straight and narrow path.
K. T.Clallam Bay Corrections Center, Washington