Gospel Story Finder

I was over in England a while back and a bishop asked me, “What is the Church’s stand on cola drinks?” I said, “Well, I can’t remember the exact wording of the bulletin, but I remember seeing the bulletin when I was a stake president. The Church, of course, advises against them.”

He said, “Well, I have read the Priesthood Bulletin, but that isn’t what it says to me.”

And I said, “Would you get your Priesthood Bulletin? Let’s read it together.” And so we found under the heading “Cola Drinks”: “… the leaders of the Church have advised, and we do now specifically advise, against use of any drink containing harmful habit-forming drugs. …” (The Priesthood Bulletin, Feb. 1972, p. 4.)

He said, “Well, you see, that doesn’t mean cola.”

I said, “Well, I guess you will have to come to your own grips with that, but to me, there is no question.” You see, there can’t be the slightest particle of rebellion, and in him there is. We can find loopholes in a lot of things if we want to bend the rules of the Church.

My son Tanner taught me this one day when he was eight years old. Tanner had decided to switch from skiing to snowboarding that year, and it was his first day on the slopes. Now, those of you who have snowboarded know that the first day is typically horrible and painful. In fact, most instructors say that you can’t make a decision about whether you like snowboarding unless you’ve tried it three days, because most people still hate it after the first two days. I still haven’t tried snowboarding, and I’m not sure I ever will. But if I do, I will have to rent one of those giant sumo costumes with all the extra padding just to protect myself from all the falls! I haven’t done it yet.
Well, Tanner’s first day on the snowboard proved to be like most first days—very painful and frustrating. Initially he started down the mountain with his older brother, who knew how to snowboard. But every two or three feet Tanner would fall down, catching a toe and landing on his stomach or sliding his heels too far and landing on his rear end. He was crying and yelling the entire way down the mountain! He got to the point where he didn’t even want to try standing up anymore; instead he just slid down the mountain on his bum. And after what seemed like two hours, he finally reached the bottom of the hill. He was exhausted physically and mentally. He was in pain, and I was very tired of dealing with my cranky son.
Fortunately we were staying in a lodge at the base of the resort, so we decided to take a break. I figured Tanner was done for the day anyway. So, after a good lunch and sitting around a bit, I was surprised when Tanner said he wanted to go out again. I asked him if he remembered what the morning had been like. But he said he wanted to try again anyway. I don’t know what happened, but that afternoon his attitude was completely different. He kept getting up every time he fell, and by the end of the day he could butter down the hill pretty well. And today he can carve a line down any hill his older brothers can ride.

I was told once of a young man who for many years was more or less the brunt of every joke in his school. He had some disadvantages, and it was easy for his peers to tease him. Later in his life he moved away. He eventually joined the army and had some successful experiences there in getting an education and generally stepping away from his past. Above all, as many in the military do, he discovered the beauty and majesty of the Church and became active and happy in it.

Then, after several years, he returned to the town of his youth. Most of his generation had moved on but not all. Apparently, when he returned quite successful and quite reborn, the same old mind-set that had existed before was still there, waiting for his return. To the people in his hometown, he was still just old “so-and-so”?—you remember the guy who had the problem, the idiosyncrasy, the quirky nature, and did such and such. And wasn’t it all just hilarious?

Little by little this man’s Pauline effort to leave that which was behind and grasp the prize that God had laid before him was gradually diminished until he died about the way he had lived in his youth. He came full circle: again inactive and unhappy and the brunt of a new generation of jokes. Yet he had had that one bright, beautiful midlife moment when he had been able to rise above his past and truly see who he was and what he could become. Too bad, too sad that he was again to be surrounded by a whole batch of Lot’s wives, those who thought his past was more interesting than his future. They managed to rip out of his grasp that for which Christ had grasped him. And he died sad, though through little fault of his own.

Most of my brothers and I were influenced by our mother and joined the Church one after another. As we attended church, our lives changed through the gospel and the help extended to us from the brothers and sisters at church. We became better sons and brothers. We started helping one another more and found life to be enjoyable. Four of us later preached the gospel as missionaries in various parts of Japan. When one of my older brothers, who had moved away from Okinawa, saw the fine stature of one of his younger brothers who was serving a mission, he said, “I can’t believe this is my younger brother who used to be so wild.” Then of his own initiative, he sought out the Church and was soon baptized and confirmed.

It would be years before that singular moment in time would make sense to me. I was in England, serving with my husband who was President of the England London South Mission. It was June 18, 2008 – you know how events are imprinted in your mind and in your heart; this was one of those. I was in the kitchen doing what every good mission mother does, I was making cookies when my husband came into the room and said the phone was for me. The phone was never for me. We didn’t even have a phone in the kitchen. I only got phone calls if it was some poor missionary who had just gotten dumped by his girlfriend back home.
He continued rather seriously, “Heidi, it’s President Monson.”
I said quickly, “What missionary thinks that’s funny.”
And then he soberly said, “It really is President Monson and he wants to talk to you.”
All I could think of was “What have I done?”
I picked up the phone with some trepidation and said with a tremor in my voice, “Hello.” On the other end of the line came that all familiar voice we know from the pulpit, “Heidi, how are you?”
I thought to myself, “I don’t know. How am I?”
President Monson then began to chat. That’s what he does. He reaches into your heart and finds a spot and settles in speaking with genuine interest. It’s like he is pulling a chair up to the kitchen table and saying, “How are you today?”
After more than 30 minutes of chatting, me terrified the whole time, he explained that he had pondered and prayed and he wanted me to write his biography.
I remember asking him one day, “President, why did you ask me to write your life story? I was not in your inner circle.” He responded immediately, “There are 14 million in my inner circle and you are one of them.”
And so the next two and a half years, one of them while I was on the mission, I worked at shaping his life into a narrative for you and everyone else to read. He had only been the prophet for a few months when I began. We needed to know him, to learn from him as we follow him, the sixteenth president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I should like to read you a letter. It is of a kind that we occasionally receive. A man writes:
“I feel compelled to write to you after reading your comments from the April general conference. I was especially moved by your comments on ‘Converts and Young Men.’ I was reading the article on the Internet and was touched by your words. Your perception of converts and their special needs was especially moving to me since I was a convert to the Church. I wanted to write to you and tell you that I agree with all of your statements, and that had more members been aware of the needs of a convert I would probably have stayed in the Church.
“I was converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1994. This was after a long period of time in which I was searching for the true church. I had explored just about every denomination and church but never found what I was looking for. From my first contact with the missionaries, I knew that they were presenting something to me that would change my life. I listened to what they had to say, and I heard what I was looking for all those years. I don’t know if there are words to describe how I felt after hearing their message. I was finally at peace. It all made sense. I earnestly studied the Church and felt as if I had found a ‘home.’ I decided to be baptized on October 8, 1994. It was one of the greatest days of my life.
“However, after my baptism, things with the Church changed. I suddenly was thrown into an environment where I was supposed to know what was going on. I now was not the focus of attention but just another member. I was treated as if I was in the Church for years.
“I had been told that there would be six discussions following my joining the Church. They never took place. At this same time, I was feeling intense pressure from my fiancée to not be in the Church. She was extremely anti-Mormon [in her] beliefs and didn’t want me to be a part of it. We fought often about the Church. I thought that I could make her see my side of the story. I thought that if I just had more time to participate in the Church, she wouldn’t think of it as a bad thing or as a cult. I thought that she would see from my example that this was the true Church and she would come to accept it.
“I used the missionaries for a lot of support. They helped … to think of ways to convince my fiancée that I had made the right decision. That worked until the missionaries were transferred. They moved away, and I was basically left alone. At least, that is how I thought. I looked to the members for support, but there was none. The bishop helped, but he could only do so much. I gradually lost my ‘warm, fuzzy feeling’ about the Church. I felt like a stranger. I began to doubt the Church and its message. Eventually, I started to listen more to my fiancée. Then I made a decision that maybe I had rushed into the Church too quickly. I wrote my bishop and asked that my name be removed from the Church records. I allowed this to be done. That was a low point in my life.
“Now, it’s two years since I left the Church. I have gone back to [my old church] and haven’t been involved with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints since then. I am constantly praying and asking God to guide me. I know in my heart that He will guide me to His true Church. However, I don’t know if that is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints or if it even exists at all. I regret that I left the Church and had my name removed from the records, but at the time I felt that there was no other option. The experience left a bad impression with me, and it would be difficult to overcome.
“As the Church prepares to implement a program for the retention of new converts, I wanted you to know … that I think a lot of new converts may have similar experiences to mine. I know that there are people who are joining the Church against the advice of friends and family. This is a big step for them, and they should be supported at this critical time. I know from my past that had the support been there, I would not be writing this letter to you.
“Thank you for your time,” and he signs the letter.

I chose to speak about hope today because I have learned a lot about it over the past several years. There were other serious health issues, other surgeries, and other miracles. However, our trudge up Rocky Ridge in the face of the icy winds of adversity began on the afternoon of February 1, 2006, when we received the shocking news from Kansas that our daughter Laycee was in a hospital in a coma. She died the next day. We will be eternally thankful for the rescue parties the Lord sent in the form of loving family and friends. Truly they fulfilled the admonition of Alma “to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9). We are especially thankful for the anonymous individual who allowed us to purchase a gravestone immediately after Laycee’s death. This brought a great deal of comfort.

It was months before I began to see color in a life that had become gray. I feared that I might forget how to laugh or that I might never feel genuinely happy again. A day still does not go by that I do not think about Laycee several times. She was too well loved to ever be forgotten. Gradually the road became less steep and rocky. However, real healing, for me, did not come until 18 months later, after I climbed one more section of our own Rocky Ridge.

To set the stage for this experience, I will start by telling you that I have kept a daily journal for years. Writing in my journal is somewhat therapeutic. I record my thoughts and feelings along with events in my life. I also need to tell you that my career has caused me to travel a considerable amount. These trips involved many airline carriers, both foreign and domestic, to nearly every continent in the world. During all of this traveling, I had never lost a bag until one trip about six months after Laycee’s death.

I was on a long trip that took me from Argentina to Chile to Ecuador, back to the U.S. through Miami, and then to Reno before I returned home to Provo. All of the bags made it through to Miami; however, somewhere between the nonstop flight from Miami to Reno, one bag was lost. I always put my journal in a carry-on bag so that it is with me at all times—I cherish my journals. However, for reasons that I cannot explain, I inadvertently packed it in a checked bag for the trip from Quito to Reno. As you might have guessed, my journal was in the checked bag that was lost. Against high odds, that bag was never recovered by the airline.

At the time it was lost, that volume of my journal included daily entries for the six months following Laycee’s death. I was devastated. The loss consumed me for months. “Why did this happen?” I wondered. After my experience with the aneurysm, I had firsthand knowledge that God is very much involved in the details of our lives. I knew that God knew where that bag was, but repeated prayers, often accompanied with fasting, did not bring it back.

Eventually I accepted the fact that the journal was not coming back and that there must be a reason for it. It wasn’t until a little over a year later, near the end of a sabbatical leave at the University of Iowa, that I learned the reason for the loss of my journal. I was telling my wise bishop, Val Sheffield, of the loss of the journal—pining over the experience again and wondering why.

He stopped me and said, “I know why. It’s because what you wrote following your daughter’s death wasn’t right. It didn’t accurately represent how you should respond to what happened.” He went on, “You need to write how you feel about her death looking back from the perspective you have now; it’s a more accurate one.”

I was stunned. He did not know that over the past year I had been engaged in diligent study, pondering, and prayer about faith and hope, but the Lord knew. I went back to my apartment and thought about that for most of the night. I did rewrite my feelings about Laycee’s death. It turned out to be a sacred and singular experience. Although I can’t recall what I originally wrote in my lost journal, I am confident that it contained much of bitterness and anger. I am now glad that it is gone.

As my wife and I journey on, the depth and vitality of our faith and hope in Christ grows. We believe Christ when He tells us He has the desire and power to save us. That steadfast faith is the bedrock of our bright hope that through our temple marriage we will realize our goal of an eternal family, which includes Laycee. We have an assurance that the struggles involved in getting back home will seem “but a small moment” (D&C 121:7). We have cleaved together in a way that perhaps is not possible without the extreme heat and pressure of adversity. We can see that good can come from adversity if we have a hope in Christ.

by J. I. H. Porras
Service and love cannot be separated when you talk about the young women of the Badalona Ward in Badalona, Spain, a suburb of Barcelona. These young women serve one another, their families and friends, and people they don’t know with equal enthusiasm.
The Young Women take it upon themselves to see that each girl is contacted about every activity, a difficult challenge since most do not have telephones and live more than 30 miles from the chapel. When someone is absent, the others make sure that nothing is wrong.
Laura Ferreras, 17, learned of this love when she came to church one Sunday with her recently baptized mother. “The things that impressed me most were the love and caring among the members,” Laura said, “especially with the girls my age. I felt great joy in finding a place so full of unselfish love.” Laura was baptized a short time later.

These good friends made a big difference, but not having the gospel taught in my home with a supportive family still put my ongoing conversion process at risk. My gospel interactions in the Church became even more crucial to my growing conversion. Then two additional angels were sent by the Lord to help.
Another angel sent to help me was the Young Men president, Marco Antônio Fusco. He was also assigned to be my senior home teaching companion. Despite my lack of experience and different appearance, he gave me assignments to teach in our priests quorum meetings and home teaching visits. He gave me the chance to act and to learn and not just be an observer of the gospel. He trusted me, more than I trusted myself.

Thirty years ago, while I served as a missionary in the Near East, my companion and I were assigned to visit a branch that had been torn apart by apostasy. We approached our assignment humbly and prayerfully. A crucial meeting was scheduled involving the disaffected parties. After we had fasted and prayed earnestly, my companion stood with confidence and spoke with the tongue of an angel. That young, inexperienced elder’s words healed wounds festering in the hearts of men much older than he, prompted confessions, and literally saved a branch of the church.

Brigham Young sent several messengers to Washakie to assure him that the members of the Church were willing to assist the Shoshones in learning to raise crops. One of the messengers, James S. Brown, recorded the meeting with Chief Washakie. He said that they were taken to the chief’s lodge and invited to sit with a group of tribal leaders. Brother Brown read a letter from Brigham Young, proposing to furnish seed and tools and some men to demonstrate how to plant and cultivate. He also presented the group with a copy of the Book of Mormon. The leaders passed the book around the circle and declared that it was of no use to them. Washakie let the council members speak and waited until they were finished talking. Then he reached for the book, leafed through it, and spoke to his group.
You are all fools; you are blind and cannot see; you have no ears, for you do not hear; … These men are our friends. The great Mormon captain [Brigham Young] has talked with our Father above the clouds, and He told the Mormon captain to send these good men here to tell us the truth, and not a lie. They have not got forked tongues. They talk straight, with one tongue, and tell us that after a few more snows the buffalo will be gone, and if we do not learn some other way to get something to eat, we willstarve to death. Now, we know that is the truth, for this country was once covered with buffalo, elk, deer, and antelope, and we had plenty to eat, and also robes for bedding, and to make lodges. …
The time was when our Father who lives above the clouds loved our fathers who lived long ago, and His face was bright, and He talked with our fathers. His face shone upon them, and … they were wise and wrote books, and the Great Father talked good to them; but after a while our people would not hear Him, and they quarreled and stole and fought, until the Great Father got mad, because His children would not hear Him talk.
Then James Brown said that Chief Washakie drew a contrast between the Indian’s way of life and the white man’s, telling his people that they could gain much by learning from the settlers. The chief went on to say,
We feel that it is good for them to come and shake hands. They are our friends, and we will be their friends. Their horses may drink our water, and eat our grass, and they may sleep in peace in our land. We will build houses by their houses, and they will teach us to till the soil as they do. Then, when the snow comes and the game is fat, we can leave our families by the Mormons, and go and hunt, and not be afraid of our families being disturbed by other Indians, or by anybody else, for the Mormons are a good people (James S. Brown, Giant of the Lord, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1960, pp. 373–74).
Brother Brown reports that without a vote being taken, each man in the group gave his assent to the chief’s decision.

Last December I was discouraged and did not want to decorate my house or celebrate Christmas. Then I read an article in the December 2011 Liahona that described how the pioneers celebrated Christmas: dancing to a whistled tune because they had no musical instruments—in spite of having no gifts and too little to eat (see “Christmas for the Early Pioneers” in “Small and Simple Things,” 9). That article helped me change my attitude and take heart. Sometimes we do not recognize or value all that we have.
Ana Rosa de Melo Ferreira, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

I would like to tell you a story of a young man who sought out a wise man who was recognized far and near for his good judgment. He asked for his expert advice on how to attain new heights of achievement in his field of endeavor.
“Come with me,” said the wise man. Taking the youth to a nearby stream, he immersed him and held him under the water. When the young man was released, he was nearly drowned and came up fighting for breath, gasping, “Air, air, give me air!”
“There,” said the wise man, “that’s the first lesson. When you want to succeed as badly as you wanted air, you will attain your goal. You will succeed!”

One such pioneer who was guided by the “fire of the covenant” was Stillman Pond. He and his family were among the last to leave Nauvoo in September 1846. Having already endured much persecution and harassment from the enemies of the Church, the Pond family was ultimately driven from their Nauvoo home at the point of a bayonet. Without adequate preparation for their trek, they were left without proper food, clothing, and shelter. Their trek across Iowa to Winter Quarters was fraught with almost unimaginable suffering and heartache.

Snow came early to the Iowa territory that year, making travel extremely difficult. Weakened from trudging through the deep snow, Stillman’s pregnant wife, Maria, who had already been afflicted with consumption, then contracted malaria. She, along with every member of her family, suffered greatly from this sickness. Bowed down with grief and aching from the pain and fever of malaria, Maria could no longer walk. Amidst these grim circumstances she gave birth to twin boys who were named Joseph and Hyrum. They both died only a few days later. The deaths of these children coming across the plains from Nauvoo to Winter Quarters were only the beginning of the sacrifice and trials of Stillman Pond.

With all of the members of the Pond family sick with malaria, Stillman, who was unable to walk or even sit up, lay on his stomach in the bed of his wagon. Bracing himself with one arm and extending his other over the dashboard to hold the reins, he drove his team the last 150 miles. On October 16, 1846, they arrived at Winter Quarters. During the winter there the Pond family continued to suffer. In the space of five days, three more children died. A sixth died a few weeks later:

Laura Jane Pond, age 14, died of “chills and fever” on December 2, 1846. Harriet M. Pond, age 11, died “with chills” on December 4. Abigail A. Pond, age 18, died “with chills” on December 7. Lyman Pond, age 6, died with “chills and fever” on January 15, 1847.

Having survived the heartache of burying all of her children, the hardships of the trek across Iowa, and the hunger and privations of a long, hard winter, Stillman’s beloved wife, Maria, finally succumbed to her sicknesses on May 17 at Winter Quarters. Yet despite all this, Stillman Pond journeyed onward in the pioneer company led by Elder John Taylor, arriving in the Salt Lake Valley in the early fall of 1847. His testimony of the gospel, his faith in the Lord, and the fire of the covenant that burned in his soul gave him the strength to go on. “I am perfectly satisfied with the authorities of the Church,” he wrote in February 1846, “and consider it my indispensable duty to give heed to all things.”

It wasn’t until years later that I learned one reason why the Lord wanted me to know this story by heart.
I was living in Tokyo, Japan, with my wife and one-year-old daughter. One cold, stormy day, I walked to the train station to catch a train. I pushed through the masses of people and umbrellas, and I made my way down the flight of stairs where I saw a young woman holding a screaming baby. Tears streamed down the mother’s exhausted face, but the people passing them only walked on, muttering about the pair.
Immediately I remembered the story of President Kimball. The memory came to me with such force that I immediately stopped and asked if I could help. Once I assured her of my sincerity, she let me hold her baby and told me her story.
She was waiting for her husband to return from making a phone call about a possible job offer. He had been out of work for months, and they were homeless and living in a park.
Just then, her husband returned. Once his wife and I explained who I was, he slumped against the wall. The phone call had been fruitless. He was still jobless, and they were still homeless.
I didn’t have a stick of gum to offer anybody, but I wanted to help. Knowing that Church leaders can sometimes help in these situations, I called my stake president and asked if he could meet with them. He quickly agreed to see us that evening. After I hung up, I gave them what money I had and instructed them to buy food and to meet me later. None of them had eaten in over 24 hours.
Later that night, we walked to the stake center, where the stake president warmly greeted them and ushered us into his office.
As we talked, the father told us that after months of living in hunger and desperation, he and his wife decided that if he didn’t get a job that day, they would leave the baby at a police station and take their own lives.
As I listened, I felt a wave of gratitude for the example and teachings of prophets. I silently thanked Heavenly Father for stories that I had once found boring and repetitive. Without that repetition, I doubt the story of President Kimball would have come to me with enough force to guide my own actions that night.
The stake president introduced them to the bishop of their area, and they helped the family get basic necessities. Eventually, the entire ward rallied around this little family while they got back on their feet to become self-reliant again. Over time, they learned about the restored gospel, and then I had the blessing of baptizing the father and mother and then watching the stake president confirm them as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I don’t consider my role in this to be anything great, but I know that I was prepared for that stormy day in the train station. There was a reason I heard stories from and about prophets throughout my youth. Heavenly Father knew that someday I would need that story about President Kimball and that it would be used to bless someone else.

You see, when the Latter-day Saint missionaries first came to England in 1837, they began their labors in Preston. At that time the city was in the midst of a grand celebration of Queen Victoria’s reign. As the missionaries alighted from their coach, they saw a banner overhead proclaiming in bold gilt letters “Truth Will Prevail.”
It became a widely-used phrase in the Church and appeared in various publications. One elder, reporting on his mission to Indiana, wrote in a letter published in Nauvoo’s Times and Seasonsin 1841: “Although the Lord has chosen the weak things of this world to preach his gospel, truth will prevail, and will prosper.”1
Trusting the Lord, I turned in my mission papers. On my 21st birthday, along with my birthday post, came my call to serve in the England London South Mission. Due to my years of inactivity, I still felt weak and inadequate. Only later would I understand what that early missionary understood: the Lord may choose the weak things of this world to preach His gospel, but truth will prevail and will prosper.
I went in faith to the temple to be endowed. When I came out of the temple, I met two missionaries who had served in my home ward. As we talked, I described my experience out on the moors. One of the elders smiled broadly and explained that on a particular preparation day, he and his companion had hiked up on the moors and at a certain point felt impressed to place some rocks across the hillside spelling out the familiar phrase “Truth Will Prevail.”
Tears streamed down our faces as we realized what had happened. Those familiar with the area know there are miles and miles of trails amongst the moors. Yet I happened to choose the very spot where the missionaries had placed those rocks. I knew there and then that the Lord had answered my prayer in the hills that day.

Illustrations by Craig Phillips
While talking in history class about different religious denominations, my friend asked me about my CTR ring. Without hesitating, I explained that CTR meant “choose the right” and that my parents gave it to me for my birthday. He asked which church I belong to, and I told him I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or a Mormon. Until then I hadn’t realized that people don’t actually know much about the Church, but he seemed sincerely interested to learn more and asked me if I was an altar boy. I had no idea what that was, so he explained, and then I told him we had something similar called deacons.
We proceeded to ask each other questions, including, “Can your bishops marry?” and “Who is your archbishop?” He also asked, “You use the Bible, right?” To that, I explained our beliefs in the Bible and the Book of Mormon, which complement each other. The next day, I offered him a copy of the Book of Mormon. Inside the cover, I told him where he could get a CTR ring, because he was interested in getting one. My friend carried that Book of Mormon to school for about a week and said he couldn’t put it down. Though he never came to church with me, I’ve learned that a great way to share the gospel with others is to find common ground and to be interested in their beliefs as well. Throughout this experience, I learned a lot about what my friend believes, while he learned what I believe, and we’ve come to respect each other’s beliefs. I know one of the best ways to share the gospel is just to open our mouths and talk to our friends.

My father worked long and hard practically every day of his life. I’m certain that on the Sabbath he would have enjoyed just being at home. Rather, he visited elderly family members and brought cheer into their lives.
One was his uncle, who was crippled by arthritis so severe that he could not walk or care for himself. On a Sunday afternoon Dad would say to me, “Come along, Tommy; let’s take Uncle Elias for a short drive.” Boarding the old 1928 Oldsmobile, we would proceed to Eighth West, where, at the home of Uncle Elias, I would wait in the car while Dad went inside. Soon he would emerge from the house, carrying his crippled uncle in his arms like a china doll. I then would open the door and watch how tenderly and with what affection my father would place Uncle Elias in the front seat so that he would have a fine view, while I occupied the rear seat.
The drive was brief and the conversation limited, but oh, what a legacy of love! Father never read to me from the Bible about the good Samaritan. Rather, he took me with him and Uncle Elias in that old 1928 Oldsmobile along the road to Jericho.

When I was eight, my two cousins and I were sent to a nearby town to get groceries. Looking back, I am amazed how much confidence my grandmother and my aunt and uncle had in us. The morning skies were bright and clear as we left on our three horses.
In the middle of the prairie, we decided to get off our horses and play marbles. We were so interested in our game that we did not look up to see the dark clouds covering the sky. By the time we realized that a storm was coming, we didn’t even have time to get on our horses. Heavy rain and hail hit us so hard that all we could do was unsaddle the horses and take cover under the saddle blankets. Then our horses ran away.
Horseless, wet, and cold, we started walking as fast as we could toward a nearby town. It was late when we found a home and knocked on the door. The family there dried us off, fed us delicious bean burritos, and then put us to bed in a room with a dirt floor.
My cousins and I woke up in the morning to a bright sun and beautiful sky. A man knocked on the door looking for three lost boys. I will never forget what we saw on our way home—a crowd of people who had been looking for us all night. In front of them all were my loving grandmother and my uncle and aunt. They hugged us and cried, happy they had found their lost children.

It was just an old board Kristen and I had found—maybe 10 feet long and just wide enough to sit on. The desert sun had already started to turn the board gray. But, even faded, it was the perfect addition to our makeshift playground. In fact, other than a lot of sand and a few toy trucks, it was the only thing in our playground. Laid across a big rock sticking up in the backyard, that old board became a teeter-totter, kind of like the one at the park by Grandma’s house. Of course, our teeter-totter didn’t go as high as the one at the park. But it was ours.
One day we were teetering and tottering when a couple of men came to visit. I didn’t know what they wanted, but they talked to Mom in the kitchen for a while. Kristen, who was a year older than I was, said they were from church—the new one we had just started going to. One of them was young, and the other had white hair and a white beard. He was the oldest man I’d ever seen. As they were leaving, the old man walked over to us and watched as we went up and down on the teeter-totter.
“That’s a nice looking board you have there,” he said. “Would you mind if I took it with me for a while? I could sure use a board like that.”
We both looked at Mom, who was standing by the kitchen door. She told us to give the man the board. So Kristen and I got off our teeter-totter, and the man put the board in his truck. He and the man with him said good-bye and drove away.
“Mom, what were those men doing here?” I grumbled.
“They’re our home teachers; the church we went to on Sunday sent them to make sure we’re okay.”
“I’m okay, but I was better when I had my teeter-totter.”
Mom ran her fingers through my hair. “I know, honey. It’s almost dinnertime. Go inside and wash up.”
Most kids would have probably put up a fuss when someone took their favorite toy, but we knew if Mom said it, we should do it.
That night, Morn said the old man’s name was Brother Andelin. My four-year-old mouth had to work to get his name right. Mom said Brother Andelin lived on the other side of town but would come and visit again.
A few days later, I was on the porch when Brother Andelin’s truck came rattling up the drive.
“Hello, Bobby. Would you like to see what I built out of that board you gave me?” he said, getting out of his truck.
I ran behind him to the back of his truck. He pulled out the board, now painted green with a seat and handle at each end. In the middle, on either side, were some steel rings. Also in the truck was a big, wooden, pyramid-shaped box, painted the same color as the board.
“Is your sister here?” Brother Andelin asked. “Run and get her while I set this up in the yard.”
I ran into the kitchen and down the hall. “Kristen,” I yelled, gasping for air. “Brother Andelin brought our board. But he, he—come see.”
Mom followed as Kristen and I ran outside. Brother Andelin had fastened the board on top of the box.
“It’s a real teeter-totter,” Kristen whispered to me. “Is it for us?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“You ask him.”
“Brother Andelin,” I said, stepping closer, “is this for us? For keeps?”
“It’s your board, isn’t it?” he said. “Besides, what am I gonna do with a seesaw? My kids have all grown up.”
Kristen and I climbed on the new teeter-totter. It wasn’t like before. When we went up, we went off the ground way up in the air. Brother Andelin laughed as we played, his teeth smiling from behind his long, white beard.
After that, when Brother Andelin visited, Kristen and I didn’t keep playing. We would go inside to listen to his stories about growing up in Utah, about his pioneer grandpa, and about this new church we were going to.