Gospel Story Finder

The summer I was 15, a new family with teenage daughters moved into the ward. While my family was considered “goody-goody,” this family, though they were active, was definitely not goody-goody. The teenage girls always seemed to be having fun, and I felt awkward and left out when I was around them. But when it was time for girls’ camp that summer, I, of all people, was assigned to their cabin. I was determined to prove that I was not as goody-two-shoes as I seemed.
The campground where we had girls’ camp was used by other groups throughout the summer. On the rafters of the cabins, some of them had written their names and the year they were at camp. We were on the top bunks, reading some of the names, when one of the girls said, “We should put our names up there too.”
“Sure!” I agreed.
“No way you would do that,” said the other girl.
“Sure, I would,” I said. I decided that one more name wouldn’t really be noticeable. I also noted that the other girls thought it would be something on the edge—a thing they might do, but not something a straight arrow like me would do.
We pulled out some markers and began. The other girls wrote their names in small letters and with little flourish. I, however, wrote my name, the date, and “Girls’ Camp” in 5-inch-high flowing script with a decorative flower finish. The other girls were impressed, and we went to bed. I thought no more of it.
Others did, however. During cabin inspections, our decorations were discovered, and we were given bleach, water, and sandpaper to try to repair the damage we had done. I couldn’t erase my ink, which had penetrated the rough wood beams. After the fruitless scrubbing, the other girls were dismissed, and I got a lecture.
I heard how my actions would hurt the Church’s reputation. I heard how disappointed the leaders were that I would do something like that. “We wouldn’t expect it of you,” I heard over and over. And every evening, my name glared at me from the rafter overhead, shaming me in brilliant blue.
I was allowed to stay at camp and eventually stopped hearing about my transgression. But I heard more once I got home. The camp staff had called my parents.
My mom didn’t get angry, but her disappointment was deep. She asked why I did it. I explained how I felt left out and how I wanted to do something to show I could walk on the edge.
After talking to my mom I realized that I had done to my family and to myself the same thing I had done to the Church. By plastering my name where it shouldn’t have been in an act of vandalism, I had demeaned my parents’ good name.
I also realized that when I pursue popularity at the expense of respect, I am in danger of dishonoring the name of Christ or giving others the impression that I don’t belong to His family.
Since this experience I have often thought what a blessing it will be if, at the end of this life, we can give a good report to our Savior when He asks what we have done with His name. None of us will want to admit that we sold our good name for social acceptance or that we gave it up for a questionable video, for a girlfriend or boyfriend, for a bottle of beer, or for the laughter of friends. I know we will want to say that we have preserved our name by standing for truth and righteousness at all times—when it’s easy and fun and even when it’s not.
What’s in a name? As I realized that summer at girls’ camp, it can be quite a lot. When I think of my name blaring bright blue to future generations of campers, I remember the blessing and responsibility of carrying a good name, both for my mortal family and for the Church and family of Christ.

When I was 17, I began taking philosophy classes in high school. One day the teacher said to the class, “Surely there isn’t anyone here who believes that Adam really existed!” Then he scanned the room with the look of an inquisitor, ready to pounce on whoever dared to admit to such belief. I was petrified! However, my desire to be loyal to my faith was even stronger. I glanced around to see that I was the only one of those 40 students to raise a hand. The teacher, taken by surprise, changed the subject.

When Thor and Solvor Torgersen of Hosle, Norway, traveled to the United States on a business assignment in November 1993, they planned to take a short vacation before returning home. Although they were not members of the Church, one of the three places they planned to visit was Salt Lake City to hear the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
After their visits to the other two places, their vacation time was almost over. “But something kept telling me that we needed to go to Salt Lake City before we went home,” says Solvor.
Acting on the misunderstanding that the Tabernacle Choir rehearsed on Friday nights, the Torgersens flew to Salt Lake City on a Friday evening—their last night in the United States. As soon as they reached Salt Lake City, Thor recalls, “We quickly rented a car and drove to Temple Square. We hurried to the Tabernacle, but there was no one there.” The door was locked!
“It was late,” Thor says, “but we started knocking—actually, we started banging on the door. For some reason, we felt we had to get inside.”
Fortunately, someone was inside the Tabernacle and heard the persistent banging. A Temple Square missionary, Elder Wilmer Taylor, kindly invited the Torgersens in and showed them around the very quiet Tabernacle. He also informed them that the Choir rehearses on Thursdays, not Fridays.
“We can’t wait until next Thursday!” Solvor pleaded. “Our plane leaves for Norway tomorrow, and we have come all this way just to hear the Choir!”
Not knowing how to solve this problem, Elder Taylor suggested that the Torgersens return the next morning, and he would rearrange his schedule to take them on a tour of Temple Square.
So that crisp fall morning, Solvor and Thor heard for the first time about the temple, the pioneers, Moroni, and the Book of Mormon.
At the conclusion of the tour, they visited the Tabernacle again and heard more about the historic building. Just as they were about to leave, a Choir recording began to play. “It was as though I had been hit on the shoulders at that very moment,” Solvor recalls. “I sat down and started crying. I couldn’t stop. Thor tried to attribute my strange behavior to being overcome by beautiful music, but I didn’t tell him what really happened, because I couldn’t speak. Elder Taylor simply said, ‘That was the Spirit.’
“I didn’t know the song the Choir was singing, but two thoughts kept crossing my mind—” Solvor continues, “first, I felt a deep desire to know what the members of this church had, and second, I felt a great longing to become a member of this church.”
As Solvor and Thor left the Tabernacle, they barely had time to catch their 11:00 A.M. flight. But as they were hurrying to leave, Elder Taylor asked, “Would you like missionaries to come to your home?”
Solvor and Thor’s answer was an immediate “yes.” They left their address with the missionaries and walked away from an experience they could not yet understand.
They returned home full of questions and started to read some of the literature given them in Salt Lake City—a Book of Mormon, some missionary pamphlets, and a copy of A Marvelous Work and a Wonder. Eager to know more, they called the Church in Oslo. On 10 January 1994, two elders knocked at their door.
On that first visit, Elders Landon Wright and Kurt Elison answered many of Solvor and Thor’s questions. Many visits followed. Thor and Solvor listened, and their hearts were touched as they learned gospel truths. They had some concern when they learned about the First Vision. “I wondered about Joseph Smith,” Solvor said. “At first I thought it was a strange story, but then I realized it wasn’t strange at all.
“I remembered a long night 35 years earlier—just before I gave birth to my first child. During a sacred experience that night, I was told that my baby would stay with me for only a short while—that he would soon be taken back into the presence of our Heavenly Father. I was devastated and prayed that it would not be true. But in the morning my child was born with severe medical problems, and the doctors confirmed what I had been told. I will never forget the despair I felt.”
After reliving that experience, Solvor thought again about the account of the First Vision and realized that what the elders had told them was true—that Joseph Smith had seen the Father and the Son and that they had spoken to him. “I believe now that my conversion actually began 35 years before we found the Church,” she says, “and that my child, lost to me so long ago, had been waiting for this moment.”
Before Easter, Solvor had made her decision to be baptized. When Thor was still reluctant to make a commitment, the elders asked him, “Can you give us one good reason for not being baptized with Solvor?”
“Solvor and I talked until 1:00 A.M. about my decision,” Thor remembers. “I felt I needed to be alone for a while, so I went out in the middle of the night and worked on my car. I worked—and I prayed. I prayed that it would become clear to me that this was the right way to go. After two long hours, I received the confirmation that I needed. I knew there was not one good reason that I should not be baptized with Solvor.”
Thor and Solvor were baptized on 17 April 1994. One year later, they were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple. Robert, the child lost to them 36 years before, was also sealed to them on that day. “I will never forget that moment,” says Solvor. “Robert was there in spirit—everyone in the room felt his presence.”
Solvor smiles as she recalls her feelings after her first visit to Salt Lake City. “When I walked on the grounds at Temple Square that cold November, I felt I was a whole new person. I came to Temple Square as a tourist, but I left as a Mormon. Elder Taylor said it was the Spirit that touched me that morning in the Tabernacle, and Thor said it was the music. They were both right! God knew what kind of instrument he should use to instruct me—it was the Choir!”
Solvor and Thor can now identify the music they first heard the Choir singing—“God Be with You Till We Meet Again” (Hymns, number 152). Since that time, they have added many Tabernacle Choir recordings to their music library and have even heard the Choir in a live performance. But of all the glorious music in the Choir’s repertoire, none will ever touch their lives so profoundly as did that first sweet hymn of faith: “Till we meet at Jesus’ feet, … God be with you till we meet again.”

Recently my wife and children were very ill from an unusual bacterial infection. I gave them blessings and prayed for them. Then, not wanting to expose anyone else to their sickness, I arranged my work schedule to be able to be home to care for their needs. It was soon apparent that my acts of service to help them through three weeks of illness became a strong binding force for us. Such struggles in life sometimes push marital partners apart, but crises can serve as the training ground for commitment. We often perform such acts of service because we are committed beforehand, but in many instances service precedes commitment. It is in serving each other that we become committed to each other.

When I was a young missionary in Tonga, my companion and I went to help a grandmother who was tending her very sick young granddaughter. It was Christmas Eve and very hot in Tonga. The child had a high fever and the grandmother had been caring for her. For several days and nights she had been placing wet cloths on the fevered brow, giving her water and fanning her, trying to reduce the fever.

We gave the child a Priesthood blessing. The fever continued so we told the grandmother to get some rest and we would care for her granddaughter. As the night wore on we became very tired and decided we should alternate each hour, with one of us caring for the child and the other one getting some rest. We set an alarm clock and began. I remember taking my turn from 2:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m., then waking my companion to take his turn while I laid down to rest.

The next thing I remembered was feeling sunlight streaming into my eyes. I jumped up and asked, "What time is it?" ?Six o'clock." ?You were supposed to wake me at four. Why didn't you?" ? He smiled broadly and replied, "Oh, you looked so tired. I turned the alarm off and decided to let you sleep. Merry Christmas." ? He glowed with goodness. As a deep feeling of love and gratitude washed over me, I knew I was looking into the eyes of one filled with pure Christlike love. Later that morning the child's fever broke and all was well.

While serving as a mission president in the Philippines, my oldest grandson Tanner, who is seated on the stand with us today, was asked to give a talk in his sacrament meeting on how to prepare to become a missionary. He was 13 years old at the time and had some questions himself on how best to prepare. He quickly sent off an e-mail to me for my advice.

I decided to ask my 160 full-time missionaries. In a weekly letter to all my missionaries, I explained the situation and asked what they thought was the very most important thing Tanner could do and teach others on how to prepare to serve a mission. The next week all of my missionaries responded. I was a bit surprised that the number one preparation recommended was to have a sincere desire to serve. Becoming begins with desire.

Fast-forward to more recent times, about two years ago. David Palmer, having spent several years teaching at the Safford High seminary, had recently become principal of the Thatcher High seminary. Brother Palmer had been playing rec league basketball, where he became acquainted with Brandon. Brandon learned that Brother Palmer’s son, Matthew, age 8 at the time, was about to have surgery to remove a lump in his jaw. Doctors feared it might be cancer.
“Brandon asked if he could visit my son after the surgery,” Brother Palmer explains. “When he visited, he gave him a note and said if Matt would let him know when he came to a game, he’d make a three-point basket and then point to him in the stands.” Sure enough, when the next Thatcher versus Safford basketball game rolled around, there was Matt in the stands with his father. On the first play, Brandon was open for three, sank the shot, and then turned and pointed to his young friend.
Brandon scored 30 points that night, with several baskets from beyond the arc. Each time he scored a three, he pointed at Matthew. That cemented Brandon as a hero to Matt.
That night in family prayer, Matt started asking Heavenly Father to guide Brandon to join the Church. The Palmer family had already been praying to find someone who would want to learn the gospel, and Matt was sure Brandon was an answer to that prayer.

When I was a boy, we lived in the summer on a fruit farm. We grew great quantities of peaches—carloads of them. Our father took us to tree pruning demonstrations put on by the Agricultural College. Each Saturday during January and February we would go out to the farm and prune the trees. We learned that by clipping and sawing in the right places, even when snow was on the ground and the wood appeared dead, we could shape a tree so that the sun would touch the fruit which was to come with spring and summer. We learned that in February we could pretty well determine the kind of fruit we would pick in September.

Let me describe for you a recent situation involving good choices. I have been an advisor for several years for an extracurricular project involving mostly undergraduate students from BYU, the University of Utah, and Utah State University. They have been designing, building, and testing large hybrid rockets.

The latest rocket was scheduled to be launched September 13 of last year. Years of effort, including designing, building, and testing the various components of the rocket, had preceded this scheduled test. The events of September 11 postponed the test but gave additional time to refine details of the design and operation of the rocket.

In mid-April of this year we assembled the rocket out in the middle of the test area located in the west Utah desert area of the air force’s Utah Test and Training Range. The years of planning and building, of component testing and refinement, and of repeated safety and operational evaluations to meet the air force’s requirements for operation on their property had culminated in a completed rocket, detailed test and launch plans, and our being at the launch site. Every contingency had been considered and included in the launch plans. All of the procedures for preparing the rocket and launching and recovering it were in place. We assembled in the blockhouse a hundred yards from the launch site and began the countdown. The air force had three remote cameras and a tracking radar focused on the rocket, prepared to track it in its flight to the planned altitude of 10,000 feet above ground. Later, after we had demonstrated our ability to control the rocket, we hoped to launch this same rocket to an altitude of more than 100,000 feet.

The countdown proceeded: five, four, three, two, one, zero. The motor fired at zero. A cloud of dust enveloped the launch site, and we waited to see the rocket emerge and accelerate for the seven seconds the engine was supposed to burn. Seven seconds later, data was still coming from the rocket and black smoke was appearing on the video screens showing the launch site. The rocket was still sitting in place on the launch rail. Forty seconds later the engine stopped. Fire engulfed the end of the launch rail and the trailer it was sitting on.

What went wrong? Obviously, despite all of our good planning, design, and testing, there was something more that we should have done. We were not totally successful, despite all of the good work that had been done on the rocket. The air force people were very sympathetic, telling us that million-dollar programs often do the same thing.

Yes, and even the rocket launch attempt wasn’t really a failure because of all the good things we learned from it. How we will strive even more to get it to work!

A convert to the Church, I grew up in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Although my parents were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I look back with gratitude upon how they have influenced my life. My mother was born with a congenital heart defect and was told that having children would endanger her life. She waited eight years to have me; I am the only child in the family. Mother was a loving and compassionate person. She always spoke good of everyone and ingrained that teaching in me. In spite of health complications, she lived life to the fullest before she passed away at age fifty.
I often think of the sayings Mother taught me; they come back to me just as if someone had turned on a tape recorder. Among them are these:
Trouble is very easy to get into and very hard to get out of.
Be the labor great or small, do it well or not at all.
Once a job is begun, never leave it until it’s done.
Mother instilled in me a work ethic and a desire to pursue excellence. She had a profound effect on my life, and I had a great relationship with her, as I did with my dad.

Bus drivers came and went on the school bus. Then, when Mr. Turner took over the job as the newest driver, people said, “He won’t last till Christmas! Those kids are the noisiest bunch in the world. They’re enough to drive any driver crazy!”
But this bus driver came and he stayed. The first day, when the noise got to the explosion point, he stopped the bus and stood facing the children, wearing a big smile. This really scared all the kids. No bus driver had ever smiled at them before.
“Watch it,” whispered one boy. “He’s going to take us hostage.”
“You’ve been watching too many news broadcasts,” commented another.
Suddenly there was a flash of lightning and then a roll of thunder. Huge raindrops were pelting the top of the bus. “Do any of you know ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’? I always sing that song when it rains,” said Mr. Turner. “The back three rows will lead off, the middle three rows will go second, and the rest of us up front will finish off the round. All right now, one time through. Row it!”
The kids were so startled by this strange turn of events that they were already sitting with their mouths open. It was just natural for them to let the words come out, and they began to sing.
Mr. Turner took his seat—still singing in a booming voice—and continued driving toward school in the midst of a happy, glorious sound.
Well, soon these kids found out that there were a lot of things that Mr. Turner always did. Besides singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” when it rained, he always waited a bit longer at each stop if some girl had to make a mad, wet dash for the bus. He always sang “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight” on very cold days. He would sneak a hand warmer to children who had to walk the farthest to the bus stop or had holes in their mittens.
Mr. Turner was no doubt the biggest tease in all the world. When someone got on the bus, he’d say, “What are we having for lunch today? I appreciated that apple yesterday, for I was getting downright burned out from a steady diet of caviar sandwiches. Don’t you kids eat anything but caviar? Boy! I’d settle for a mustard-soaked sardine once in a while.”
No one had really given him an apple. And no one ever gave him their lunch, but it never stopped him from teasing. It kept them guessing and it kept them quiet, just wondering what he was going to say to the next one who got on. He begged for everything, from peeled turnips to frog legs. He accused them of being blackhearted scoundrels for not bringing him toasted croutons and bib lettuce. “Yuck!” he snarled. “One more of your egg salad sandwiches and I’ll turn in my driver’s license.”
When it came Christmastime, the children sang carols loud and long. And Mr. Turner would say, “Hold back a little. You’re getting too good. Let’s hear a rusty note or two. You have the whole countryside jealous already, and if you come out with just one more perfect pitch, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir will be on our backs. OK, let’s hear some Gravel Gerties now!” So everyone tried even harder to sing beautifully.
Right before Christmas, he demanded that they walk through “security” like at airports, so he could X-ray their lunch boxes for any hidden Christmas goodies. He placed a tall, round wastebasket just inside the front door and demanded that they empty all their goodies into it. No one did. They laughed and threw in gum wrappers instead.
Mr. Turner mocked, “Now you kids cut that out. I can only take so much laughter and then I break out in hives.”
The children stopped laughing long enough to whisper. But soon their whispers became so rapid, so intense, that their driver grumbled, “Cut that out! You sound like a bunch of bees when their hive has been mortared shut. I can’t stand secrets. It brings out the worst in me.” He didn’t scare anyone.
The last day before school closed for Christmas vacation, the kids got on the bus, put their noses in the air, and walked silently by him, even while he begged for strange foods, threatened them with wild punishments, and flashed his pretend X-ray machine at them.
When they came to the first stop on the trip home, the rider didn’t get off. He stopped short of the door and said, “All right, Mr. Turner, this is it. We’re a bunch of wild and woolly kids, and we’re not going to let it get out that you lasted as our bus driver until Christmas.”
All the other kids leaped from their seats and shouted agreement. The shouts were so loud that Mr. Turner grabbed some earmuffs from one of the boys and socked them onto his own ears. Then he demanded, “What’s this? You kids hijacking my bus?”
“Nope, Mr. Turner, we’re hijacking you. Turn around and don’t move and …
“HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!” they all shouted.
Instantly two girls’ umbrellas went up and tinsel dropped from the ribs, making fascinating Christmas trees. Lunch boxes were opened and out came a marvelous array of Christmas cookies. Some were shaped like sardines, others like frog legs or mushrooms, and just about every other silly thing he had teased them for. When someone pounded on the front door of his bus, Mr. Turner was forced to open it. There stood some mothers with a thermos of hot chocolate, cups, and Christmas napkins. Then the singing of carols began.
“Stop the music! Stop the music!” I can’t have this sort of thing happen to my perfect record. I’ve never gotten a child home late this year, and now you’re throwing a blast that is shooting my record right through the roof.”
But everyone kept on singing, and Mr. Turner kept on stuffing cookies into his mouth, his shirt pockets, pants pockets, and a couple even into the tops of his snowboots.
Said one of the mothers, “A man that crazy just might last as our kids’ bus driver until June.”

When we arrived at the Fort Hall Road, [Idaho], James Spicer, the man I was traveling with to California, was informed that several wagon trains had been attacked by Indians. He decided to change his plans and go through Utah.

“I’ll die brave,” I told him, naturally supposing the Mormons would kill me or worse.

Up to this time the members of our company were ignorant of my parentage. I decided I’d better tell Spicer.

“I have a father in Utah.”

“Who is it?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered. It was the truth. I didn’t know, but I knew there would be trouble.

“They’ll probably try to take me prisoner,” I said.

“We can’t take the Fort Hall Road,” he answered. “Too dangerous. We have to go through Utah.”

Spicer smiled. “You’ll be all right.” He climbed back into his wagon and started his team, turning them north toward the Utah trail.

It was a nightmare. We were too far out for me to turn back alone. The thing I had feared the most all of my life was coming true. I had grown up with a bitter prejudice and intense hatred toward the Mormons. The name was synonymous for me with that of an ugly and dangerous monster. Often in my dreams I had imagined I was captured by them, and in my waking moments I pictured to myself a life of captivity among them—caged like a wild beast.

I’d never seen a Mormon, and I couldn’t remember my father. What I knew about them I’d learned from my grandfather and his family. My father had left for Utah when I was only about 12 months old, leaving two wives (my mother, Clarissa, and her sister, Emily) and my brother Isaac and me with my grandfather, Alpheus Cutler. Only three women accompanied that first group. Most wives were left behind in the care of a trusted relative or friend and came to Utah during the next few years.

About two years later my mother died, and a few months afterward my Aunt Emily also died. My grandfather moved to Manti, Iowa, and established his own church there. He put himself in as its leader and called it “The True Church of Latter-day Saints.”

He denounced polygamy and the law of tithing. He taught his followers that Joseph Smith was a true prophet of God, but that Brigham Young was not his successor. He declared himself to be the true leader, holding the authority to carry on the latter-day work.

My brother Isaac and I were ill-treated by my grandfather’s family. We were persecuted and called names for being from a polygamist family. On even the slightest provocation they would threaten to send us to Utah, telling us the Mormons would soon settle [dispose of] us.

We were taught that if we stayed in the woods too long the Mormons would catch us and carry us off. More than once when gathering berries we were alarmed by some rustling noise in the underbrush. We would drop our baskets and run like frightened antelopes, never looking back until we were home.

In the spring of 1862 I was sent to Hamburg, Iowa, and stayed with my uncle Edwin Cutler for a week. While I was there he asked me if I would be interested in going to California with him. I told him I would be glad to go.

The trip went well until we passed the town of Julesburg, [Colorado] on the Platte River. I had slept a little longer than usual one morning and failed to get up before sunrise. My uncle shook me awake and told me he had not brought me along for him to wait on me, but for me to wait on him. He said he was glad to have me along as a servant.

A few days later my aunt asked me if I knew where my uncle was taking me.

“California,” I answered. “Where else?”

“He’s taking you to your father in Utah,” she said.

I decided to leave my uncle as soon as possible. When we reached Laramie, Wyoming, James Spicer, who had been traveling with our company for a short time, motioned me over to his wagon.

“I understand you don’t want to go to Utah,” he said.

I told him he was right. He said he was taking the Fort Hall Road that went around Utah and that he’d noticed my uncle had misused me on the trip. He told me I could travel with him if I wanted to.

Two days later my uncle came to me and said, “Abe, [Abraham] get the cattle together. There’s a company leaving this afternoon, and we can travel with them.” I told him I wasn’t going with him any farther, that I was going to California with Spicer.

After my uncle realized there was nothing he could do to keep me from going with Spicer, he told me he planned on telling every Mormon he saw that one of Heber C. Kimball’s lost boys was on the road behind him. I’d heard Heber C. Kimball was a Mormon leader, and this made me even more afraid to go to Utah.

Now I was traveling toward Utah. There was no turning back. I would meet my doom.

At the Green River Ferry, [Wyoming], there was more trouble. We met a Mormon, Lewis Robinson, and when he heard my story he asked me if I planned on seeing my father when I reached Salt Lake City.

“Not if I can help it,” I told him.

“Your father’s a good man,” he said. “He will be very pleased to see you. I’m leaving for Salt Lake City in the morning on horseback, and when I get there I’ll tell your father you’re coming.”

We didn’t encounter any more Mormons until we reached Silver Creek, near Parley’s Park, Utah. When we arrived there I learned that William H. Kimball lived at Parley’s Park. I was told that he was my half brother.

I was approaching a desperate situation. I decided to put on a bold front and to prepare for the worst. Feeling I might as well meet trouble head-on, I decided to pay my half brother a visit. I armed myself with a revolver and quid [a chewable sized piece] of tobacco and said my good-byes, believing it would be the last anyone would ever hear of me.

William recognized me from the description my uncle had given him.

“Hello Abe [Abraham],” he said. “Where did you come from?”

He seemed very glad to see me and asked me to come up to his house with him. I suspected this would be a trap. Keeping my hand close to my revolver at all times I was ready for action. In that house William introduced me to his family and to two more of my brothers, Charles and Solomon. I was invited to dinner. It was the first civilized meal I’d had in months. My relatives in Parley’s Park left a favorable impression on me. The only thing even close to torture they came up with was an attempt at questioning me to death.

It took us two more days to reach Salt Lake City. We camped at Emigration Square that night, and in spite of the good impression my relatives had made, I was still terrified of the Mormons. I expected to fall into their hands in the morning. All of my old fears of captivity and torture came back to me. It was a long night.

At noon Spicer asked me what I was going to do. “I don’t think things with your father will be anything like you’ve been told they will be,” he said. “It’s important to have a family.” Spicer hesitated. We had become good friends. “I’ll be at Fort Floyd for the winter, and if you come there or if you find me in California you’ll always have a home.”

We said good-bye to each other, both of us shedding tears. I stayed at the square as long as I dared, alone, watching Spicer’s outfit move down the road.

If I’d been called to mount the gallows I would have done it with less reluctance than when I went to meet my father. I didn’t dare talk to anyone, so instead of going down the sidewalk I walked up the middle of the road. I still believed it was a trap, that the Mormons wanted to catch me.

I crossed City Creek and stopped at a house to ask directions. I had decided my father must live in the area, so I asked for my half brother, Charles Kimball, instead. The woman who answered the door was Charles’s wife. She told me her husband was at his father’s barn, not far from there.

As I crossed the yard people were staring at me from windows and doorways. I must have looked a little odd. The clothes I was wearing, though they were my best, were old and worn: a hickory-colored shirt, white ducking pants eight inches too short, a pair of shoes and no stockings, and an old rimmed hat.

My brother was hitching horses to a wagon. He was surprised to see me.

“Abe, [Abraham] I was just going to look for you. I’ll unhitch and take you to father.”

I wished then the earth would open and swallow me up. When we got close to the house I saw a man I supposed was my father. I was very much afraid of him.

“Here’s your boy,” Charles said.

My father stood six foot one, and he had keen, piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to penetrate my thoughts. He spoke to me in a kind, fatherly voice. He tried to embrace me, but I wouldn’t have any of that. He told me he was glad to see me and asked me if I knew he was my father.

I told him I didn’t know and didn’t care, and I hoped he would let me go as soon as possible. He said I was free to go if I wanted to and then invited me into his house. He looked at me for quite a while without saying anything.

“Do you have any good clothes?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Michael Garfield, a priest in the Plymouth Ward, stood his ground last summer when his soccer team was about to go into the state tournament. His coach wanted him to return the next season, but that would mean Sunday matches. The state tournament was also on Sunday. Michael had told his coach he could not play on Sundays already, and he was about to explain to him the importance of the Sabbath day. But before he could explain, one of his nonmember teammates, whom Michael had explained the Sabbath to before, jumped in and told the coach about the importance of the Sabbath day. “My coach understood better because he heard it from someone else,” Michael says. He was glad he had explained to his friend the sacredness of the Sabbath.
Michael has decided not to continue playing on the soccer team because of all the Sunday games. Keeping the Sabbath holy and having family time is more important to him, he says.

“My dream was to be a humanitarian, and this was the door to it,” Loni reflected. “Working in the library, I always wanted to give back . . . but I didn’t see the [opportunity] until Cyclone Gita hit [Tonga].”
It was in the aftermath of Cyclone Gita, that Loni’s engagement on the national level began. Being a librarian and also Tongan, and well-known for her work in the T?maki community, she was asked to help establish the first public library in her beloved island nation of Tonga and serve as the first librarian.
With schools and educational resources destroyed, Loni worked tirelessly with founders, Kahoa and Brendon Corbett, as donations of thousands of books from over 50 Auckland Council libraries, as well as computers, and even bicycles, were brought to the renovated community fale (centre).
The library opened in October 2019, in the village of Kolovai, with plans for a second library underway in a nearby town.
Loni paid her own fare on her trips to Tonga, lived by herself, and donated her time and talents to establish the library. She started weekend English classes, children’s programs, computer and family history classes, job application skills classes, and even bicycle rentals.
She says, “Tongans now understand that a library is more than a building—it is a safe place for growth and development, connections, and learning for many different reasons.”

The winter of 1922 spanked Bentley, North Dakota. A whack of freezing winds mean enough to make your eyes water followed swats of icy rain. Finally the cold set in deep, relaxing into magnificent pillows of snow twelve feet high. The drifts froze so solid that a brave man or loyal horse could climb them like hills—if he could get out the door!
For once, Albert was glad to have five brothers and sisters. It was easy to stay warm when the family gathered to read in front of the potbellied stove. If only Mama wasn’t so depressed about winter! She hadn’t smiled in a week. Even the breakfast prayer had been quieter than usual. “I miss getting mail,” she said a few minutes later, staring into the rag rug.
“Mmm,” Papa said. “Not worth getting frozen. And I’ve just warmed up after morning chores.”
Mama sighed. “We’re out of matches. And salt.”
“All right.” Papa rummaged in his pockets for coins. “Which of you boys will go get Mama’s mail?”
“Me!” Albert shouted, dropping his book to the floor.
“I’m older,” Ernest said. “And Kuchen needs exercise.”
“Kuchen’s my horse,” Otmar spoke up. “I’ll go.”
“Albert will go,” Papa said. “Here’s thirty cents. Get salt, matches, and the mail. Ride Kuchen.”
The path Papa had cleared to the barn was shrinking as the wind swept snow across it. Knowing that a saddle would be too cold, Albert mounted Kuchen bareback and plunged into the drifts. Five miles was not a bad ride, unless—like today—the temperature was forty degrees below zero. Kuchen knew the way, even though most landmarks were buried in snow. They met two other riders heading back from town, so when Albert arrived, his ruddy face and iced eyelashes were not an odd sight to the grocer.
“Hello, young fellow! What do the Kilzers need today?”
The boy tugged at the hat half-frozen to his head and answered, “Our mail, please. Oh—salt and matches too.”
Mr. Strubert tucked a packet of letters into the burlap bag, then turned and deftly climbed a ladder to a top shelf. Albert wandered up and down the aisles. Buttons, fabric, patterns, crackers, tinned fish—wait! A wonderful splash of natural green glowed inside the glass icebox. Six beautiful heads of lettuce, barely brown on the edges, were stacked in a pyramid. Albert hadn’t seen a leaf of lettuce in months. If only Mama could taste some! She loved crisp chunks of lettuce, even plain. In summer, when she made Papa’s sandwiches of thick bacon, she’d slip a lettuce leaf in, then munch a few leaves herself.
“That’ll be ten cents,” Mr. Strubert announced.
“How much is a head of lettuce?” Albert asked.
“Pretty expensive—twelve cents.”
Albert’s whole body warmed with the thought of Mama’s smile when she’d see the lettuce.
“I’ll take it!”
For the whole five miles riding back, Albert clutched the neck of the burlap bag with one hand, and Kuchen’s mane with the other. One mile from home his teeth ached with the cold. A half mile away his fingers seemed frozen together in their mittens. At the barn, Albert carefully rubbed Kuchen warm and dry, giving her an extra pitchfork of hay for her efforts. He trudged back across the path now covered in a foot of snow. Triumphantly he unhooked the iron door latch and entered the great room.
“Gone a while, boy,” Papa said, not looking up from his book. “Getting higher out there?”
“Yes, sir,” Albert answered, placing the eight cents change on his father’s reading stand, then heading to the kitchen.
Mama stood at the table, rolling out sourdough for bread. Albert was too impatient to wait until she noticed him.
“Here’s your mail, Mama. And a surprise too!”
She looked up as Albert dumped the burlap bag upside down on the table. The perfect ball of lettuce hit the table with a crash and broke into a thousand crystal green pieces. It had frozen solid on the ride home!
“What was that?” Otmar called from the loft.
“Who broke what?” Papa shouted.
The twins still napped, but little Opal cried at the uproar.
Albert could not stop his tears. “Oh, Mama, I’m sorry!” he sobbed. “I wanted to surprise you. I know how you love lettuce.”
Mama hugged Albert so hard that he finally felt warm again. “It’s a treasure! Don’t cry.”
“B-b-but it’s all broken. And it cost twelve cents. Papa will be—”
“Papa will be nothing. Don’t worry. I love it! It’s a reminder of summer on this dark, cold day. Your gift is perfect! You are a very special son.”
Albert knew that she meant it. After all, she kept the frozen fragments in the ice chest till spring. She called them her winter emeralds and smiled every time she saw them.

8. Share the good times, but also share the bad. Some of the loneliest moments in life come when you have to feel crummy all by yourself. The heartaches, the all-night term papers, the unexpected expenses—all these unwelcome events are made a little more bearable when you can talk about them. I remember one Saturday evening after my roommates and I had all returned from a fireside. Suddenly, Carol was standing in the hallway with tears streaming down her cheeks. As we clustered around her, she said softly, “Sometimes don’t you just feel like crying?” We agreed, and pretty soon we were all there crying together. Thanks to a roommate who wasn’t afraid to be herself and share her emotions, our apartment grew a little closer that night.

Another example
Upon graduation from BYU-Idaho, my son Brady and his wife Erika decided to go to China and teach English for six months until they could begin their masters programs in Colorado. Upon arrival in China, they were met by their Chinese sponsor who took them out to dinner, then to their apartment where they were left on their own. School wouldn't be starting for another two weeks so they had a lot of free time. Their sponsor said if they needed anything, she would be happy to show them. However, they didn't want to be a nuisance nor did they know what they needed, so they remained at home.

The first several days were very lonely because they couldn't speak the language which hindered them getting around to do some sightseeing. They had a difficult time buying groceries because they couldn't read the labels, and the food they did have, they didn't know how to cook. The help they received from the Chinese teachers seemed like just enough to get by. Needless to say, they were feeling pretty alone and isolated. They began to wonder what in the world they were doing there. They also began praying that the Lord would help them and bless them to know what to do.

One day, a knock came on their door. It was a woman from Australian and her two daughters who had previously taught at the Chinese school. The family had heard that Brady and Erika had just moved in and felt impressed that they should come by to introduce themselves and give them an introduction to living in China from a foreigner's perspective. The daughters were so happy and willing to teach them how to get around and what to do. It was somewhat of an instant friendship. Was it a chance meeting or a coincidence? They didn't think so and neither do I. You see, Brady served his mission in Australia and so there was somewhat of an immediate link with them. This family helped them to be able to get out and use the transportation system, find their way around, shop (even finding a Wal-Mart), and find food to eat and actually figure out how to cook it. They were soon ready to begin the school semester. The most interesting part of it all was that the Australian family was preparing to move to a different area and only remained in town a couple more days. They didn't need to come over and introduce themselves but something led them to do so. It was just a short time after this that another couple arrived from Canada. Brady and Erika were able to pass on their knowledge and befriend this couple. If you ask them, they will tell you that they truly felt the Lord's hand reach down into their lives and bless them as a direct answer to their prayers. In return, they knew they were to be His hands in helping someone else.

Grant was only six weeks old when his father, H. Grant Heaton, was called to preside over the Southern Far East Mission. Unlike most children in the United States, Grant spoke his first words in Chinese. His little sister, Lisa Lee, who was born a year and a half after the family moved to Hong Kong, also learned Chinese first.
The mission home was filled with happiness until March 1958, when Grant was three years old. One day his neck became stiff, and there was pain in his chest. Soon he could not walk on his legs. President and Sister Heaton asked the missionaries to fast and pray for their son, but still his condition grew worse.
Grant’s father gave him a special blessing before taking him to the hospital. After tests, the illness was diagnosed as paralytic polio. The doctors said Grant would soon need an iron lung to help him breathe. Polio is not common among the Chinese, however, and the only iron lung in the country was being used by a British sailor.
By the end of a week in the hospital, Grant was completely paralyzed. Only his eyes moved, and the little body that had seemed healthy just a week before was quickly wasting away.
One morning Sister Heaton was with Grant. It was so hard for him to breathe that she thought surely he would soon return to our Heavenly Father. Two men came to the hospital that morning. They represented the Chinese Saints who had held a special fast and a prayer meeting the day before.
Both men had been members of the Church less than a year and neither held the priesthood, but they wanted to help. They asked permission to pray for Grant. Sister Heaton readily agreed and bowed her head to join them. She felt the faith of these humble Chinese men as they knelt beside Grant’s bed and prayed that this little boy’s health might be restored.
As they rose to their feet and left the room, Grant’s mother followed them down the hall. She thanked them and then went to the refrigerator where special food for Grant was stored.
Just as she opened the door, a familiar little voice called from down the hall and she turned around quickly to see Grant coming toward her.
“Look, Mommy,” he exclaimed with a happy smile. “I can walk!”
The doctors were amazed, but when the polio symptoms did not return, they let Grant go home. President and Sister Heaton and the missionaries gratefully acknowledged the power of the Lord and the faith of the Chinese Saints in behalf of their son.
Grant is now eighteen and lives with his family in Salt Lake City, Utah. He doesn’t remember his illness in China. His strong legs that helped him make the football team and wrestle for his high school don’t remember either!

The youth of the Bountiful Utah Central Stake were planning a youth conference for the first week in June. They were planning some exciting events right in their own area. They planned a day at a water slide, an evening barbecue, a day of workshops, a dance, and more. It was going to be great fun. But the week before their youth conference, mud slides and floodwaters had inundated dozens of homes in Bountiful. It didn’t seem quite right to be planning an activity when so many people needed help. The youth decided to cancel their youth conference and offer their time and strength in helping their neighbors.
Julie Merrill, Lisa and Lori Dearden, Michelle Reading, Jim Summers, Bob Foster, Betsy Ann Wiscombe, and Adam Birmingham and nearly 100 percent of the youth in their wards turned out dressed in old clothes and with shovels over their shoulders to be assigned a home to help clean. This group was shown to a home where mud had filled the bottom level.
At first the group gingerly waded into the mud careful not to get too much on their clothes, but as bucket after bucket was filled and lifted in a bucket brigade out of the house, they didn’t hesitate to get dirty. As the group was working, one boy called out, “I know a song we should sing. We should sing, ‘Give Said the Little Stream.’” His suggestion was met with groans. The heavy mud started to take its toll on young muscles, but their good spirits won out. Someone missed the bucket with a shovelful of mud. Another retaliated, and soon everyone was yelling to stop the mud fight, but since everyone was already covered, it did little damage.
The youth went back the next day and the next until the home they were working on was as clean as they could get it and ready for reconstruction work.
How did they feel about shoveling mud instead of having fun at their youth conference? Julie Merrill said, “It was nice to help other people. I was worn out, but I felt like I was helping. I didn’t really mind the change of plans.” Lori Dearden actually preferred the change of plans. “I’m still a Beehive so I couldn’t go to some of the joint activities at the youth conference, so I didn’t mind the change of plans. It was hard work, but we were really excited to finally see the floor. We left it really clean with all the walls washed down. It felt good to help.”

Maybe the great temptation entered my life the day a girl at school casually asked me who the Lamanite was that I’d been walking with. It had been my mother; and suddenly I realized that I didn’t look like an Indian, that I looked white. I didn’t lie, but said something evasive, “Oh, that is O Kin Yan Cante,” and changed the subject.
The knowledge was still resting somewhere in the back of my mind when I packed my boxes to go to nurses’ training in Salt Lake City. College was a dream beyond my mother’s power to realize for herself, and to see it coming true for me was equally exciting to us both. I worked hard and liked school; when the chance for a summer job in the obstetrical department came up, I took it and O Kin Yan Cante agreed—even though I know how much she had looked forward to seeing me again. It would mean enough money to pay my expenses for the whole year.
That fall, another family from our town was bringing their daughter up to school. They insisted that O Kin Yan Cante come with them. There would be plenty of room for her in the home of the Salt Lake relative they were staying with. Her reluctance to come was overcome by her desire to see me.
But my desire to see her was almost overcome by my reluctance to have others see us together. Lacking in self-confidence, I had never mentioned that I was part Indian, even though one of the most popular girls at school—and a good friend of mine—was a Lamanite from Arizona.
O Kin Yan Cante called, her voice calm but tired, when they got to town. (She had never been more than 180 kilometers from home in her whole life and to Reno, Nevada only twice, to family funerals.) I took a cab to the house—a large white house with a green roof, trimmed hedges, and carefully kept grounds—and a doorman! I had never seen such wealth. I embraced my mother, waiting for me just inside the door, the first tears I had ever seen her shed glistening in her eyes.
But I also saw the people in the house staring at us, shocked. They must have never seen a Lamanite before, and I, her own daughter, looked at her with their eyes and felt myself withdraw from her.
Our Nevada friends held a hurried conference and O Kin Yan Cante was seated at the dining room table with us instead of in the kitchen where they had planned to put her; but I felt completely isolated during the meal, burning with shame and humiliation—not on their behalf but on my mother’s. That night she was given a pillow, a blanket, and a cot in the kitchen.
Our Nevada friends decided to return the next morning instead of sightseeing for a couple of days as they had planned. O Kin Yan Cante had always wanted to see the temple but didn’t get the chance. I could not speak; but she smoothed my brow with her golden brown hand and said, “Be all you can be, my daughter; be like these fine people who are so gracious to me.” She really meant it! A knife would not have cut so deeply. After she left, I cried and cried.