Gospel Story Finder

One of the most poignant stories involves a missionary who considered his mission a failure because he had merely baptized a “ragged little boy” in Dublin, Ireland. Years later, the missionary was approached at a stake conference session by a man who had heard the missionary speak while serving in the field. The man, Elder Charles A. Callis, was a member of the Council of the Twelve, the same “ragged little boy” the elder had baptized in Ireland.

Another story involves Ruth, a seminary student, who felt she had no occasion to exercise her free agency. At home she was a servant to her inactive and very demanding mother and stepfather. At school she had been placed in a specific seminary class without any choice on her own part. She decided to drop the seminary class as part of her decision to use her free agency. After two weeks away from the class, she returned—she had made a decision with her agency, and it was a decision she felt good about.

Joseph and his brother eagerly dug the potatoes out of the moist ground. Food had been scarce for many months in the little Smith home, and for many days there had been nothing to eat but nettle greens, thistle, or sego roots. Now as they worked, they could almost taste the fluffy white vegetable mounds they were certain their mother would prepare for the family. Maybe there would even be butter to go with the potatoes!
Just as they finished, the boys’ mother came out with the news that the best potatoes were to be loaded into a wagon so they could take them to the tithing office. The boys, who had already learned that their mother could not be talked out of doing what she felt was right, silently loaded the wagon. They carefully selected the best potatoes for tithing and saved the others for their own use.
Years later when Joseph became the sixth president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, he vividly remembered the incident and told it in these words:
I was a little boy at the time and drove the team. When we drove up to the steps of the tithing office, ready to unload the potatoes, one of the clerks came over and said to my mother, “Widow Smith, it’s a shame that you should have to pay tithing.”
He said a number of other things, too, and then my mother turned on him and said, “William, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Would you deny me a blessing? If I did not pay my tithing, I should expect the Lord to withhold His blessings from me. I pay my tithing not only because it is a law of God, but because I expect a blessing by doing so. By keeping this and other laws, I expect to prosper and to be able to provide for my family.”

As my mother grew into her twenties, she prayed longingly to be able to marry a member of the Church and somehow be sealed in the temple.
Our family of five was sealed together in the Cardston Alberta Temple in October 1976. My mother had set her sights on this day over 20 years earlier and finally, in a country and language that she would have never imagined as a youth, her prayers were answered. I was then almost eight years old, and I have wonderful memories of my parents’ sparkling eyes and smiles as we children entered the sealing room.

Others were called upon to speak, and near the close of the meeting, the president suggested that I take the remainder of the time. “Have you had any inspiration?” I asked. He said that he kept thinking of the mayor. (The voters in that large city had elected a member of the Church to be mayor, and he was in attendance.) When I told him we could have a greeting from the mayor, he whispered that the man was not active in the Church. When I suggested that he call upon him anyway, he resisted, saying flatly that he was not worthy to speak in that meeting. At my insistence, however, he called the man to the stand.

The mayor’s father had been a pioneer of the Church in that region. He had served as bishop of one of the wards and had been succeeded by one of his sons—a twin to the mayor, as I recall. The mayor was the lost sheep. He came to the pulpit and spoke, to my surprise, with bitterness and with hostility. His talk began something like this: “I don’t know why you called on me. I don’t know why I am in church today. I don’t belong in church. I have never fit in. I don’t agree with the way the Church does things.”

I confess that I began to worry, but he then paused and lowered his eyes to the pulpit. From then until his talk was over, he did not look up. After hesitating, he continued: “I guess I just as well tell you. I quit smoking six weeks ago.” Then, shaking his fist in a gesture over his head towards the congregation, he said, “If any of you think that’s easy, you have never suffered the hell I have suffered in the last few weeks.”

Then he just melted. “I know the gospel is true,” he said. “I’ve always known it was true. I learned that from my mother as a boy.

“I know the Church isn’t out of order,” he confessed. “It’s me that’s out of order, and I’ve always known that too.”

Then he spoke perhaps for all of the lost sheep when he pleaded: “I know it’s me that is wrong, and I want to come back. I have been trying to come back, but you won’t let me!”

Of course we would let him come back, but somehow we hadn’t let him know that. After the meeting the congregation flooded up—not to us but to him to say, “Welcome home!”

On the way to the airport after conference, the stake president said to me, “I’ve learned a lesson today.”

Hoping to confirm it, I said, “If we had done what you wanted to do, you would have called on this man’s father, wouldn’t you, or perhaps his brother, the bishop?”

He nodded in affirmation and said: “Either of them, given 5 minutes, would have presented a stirring 15- or 20-minute sermon to the approval of all in attendance. But no lost sheep would have been reclaimed.”

My advice has not always been followed. For example, a few months ago a young neighbor who is a returned missionary drew a tag to kill a moose in the mountains of Utah. Later, his father told me about the hunt. His son was successful in shooting a moose, and then phoned his father to come and help him drag out the huge animal. When the father finally got to the remote location, his son said, “Of all the advice Elder Oaks has given, this is the advice I didn’t follow and wish I had.” He remembered my telling him, “If you’ve got a moose tag, kill the moose near the road.” My young neighbor had shot his moose over a mile from the road, downhill.

What of marriage responsibility? Are there some who delay marriage for fear of the responsibility? When my wife and I were married, we had the magnificent sum of 20 English pounds between us. Although young, we felt ready for the challenges and responsibilities that we knew lay ahead. What a glorious experience it has been now for almost 40 years to shoulder responsibility and struggle together in building a happy home and a wonderful family of ten precious children.

This story took place in Zimbabwe.
Tashi took a deep breath as his teacher gave the students their tests back. Even though it was only a practice exam, he was nervous about seeing his scores.
It was Tashi’s last year of primary school, and he had lots of exams. Besides tests in maths and science, he also had to take language tests. In Zimbabwe, they learned to write and speak in English and Shona. Shona was the hardest for Tashi.
“Here you go, Tashi.” Tashi’s teacher handed him his scores. He scored well on maths! And pretty well in English. But then Tashi saw his score for Shona, and his stomach dropped. He didn’t do well at all!
Tashi looked at the ground the whole walk home from school.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
“I got a bad grade on my practice exam for Shona,” Tashi said. “I’ve always been bad at Shona. What if I fail the real exam?”
Mom sat down with Tashi. She looked at his scores. “It looks like you need more practice.”
Tashi groaned.
“What if you set a goal to work on writing in Shona?” Mom pulled out Tashi’s Children’s Guidebook. Then she read the scripture on the first page. “And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man.”* She smiled at Tashi. “Jesus grew a little at a time, and so can you.”
“OK,” Tashi said. “Do you think Heavenly Father will help me?”
“I know He will.”
That night, Tashi said a prayer. “Dear Heavenly Father, please help me to pass my Shona exam. Please help me to learn and get better. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Tashi was grateful that he could pray for help. But he knew he needed to work hard too. Every day, Tashi practiced writing in Shona. He got extra help from his teachers. Sometimes he wished he could play with his friends or do something else. But he kept practicing.
“You are improving so much,” Tashi’s teacher said.
Tashi felt proud of himself for working hard.
Soon the day of the exam came. He said one more prayer and asked for Heavenly Father’s help.
The teacher gave the exams to the students, and Tashi picked up his pencil. As he began to write, he felt a warm, peaceful feeling. He knew it was the Holy Ghost. Heavenly Father was comforting him and helping him.
When the test was over, Tashi was excited to tell his parents about it. He didn’t know what his score was yet, but he felt good about it. He had done his very best.
“I’m proud of you,” Mom said.
“Thanks!” Tashi smiled and pulled out his Children’s Guidebook to read the scripture again. But he changed one tiny part. “And Tashi increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man.”
Illustrations by Pauline Gregory

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

I once asked a man in a fireside group what he would like to do more than anything else if he could just do whatever he wanted. His face lit up, he sat on the edge of his chair, his hands came to life, and he told me that he’d just love to have a whole room full of power tools and bring all the kids in the neighborhood in to help them build birdhouses, playhouses, chicken coops, or anything in the whole world they wanted to build. He loved kids; he loved tools; he loved building things; his whole face was aglow with it. I asked him what he was studying at school; the light went out, and he told me he was studying to be a civil engineer. Why? Because his father was one, it paid good money, and so on. I knew he had the capability of being a good civil engineer, but I asked him, “Have you ever thought about teaching shop instead and spending all day working with power tools and teaching kids how to build things?” He just about fell off his chair. His mouth hung open. His eyes lit up again. It had simply never occurred to him to take stock of what he really liked to do, of what really mattered to him in choosing a career. He had never stopped to think that his wonderful love for young people might be there for that kind of a purpose. He had decided the biggest part of the rest of his life with his eyes closed.

One day my friend was over, and we were playing with my hamster, Nibbles. We built him a house out of building blocks. My friend said that he needed a car. So she went in my room and put him in my doll’s car and ran down the hall, pushing him in the car.
The next thing we saw was Nibbles lying in the middle of the hall. He was hurt badly. He had fallen out the back of the car. I picked him up and ran crying to my mom. My friend went home.
Mom said that he was probably going to die soon. At dinner, I was still crying. I hardly ate anything. After dinner, I went to my room and said a prayer that Nibbles would be all right. When I woke up the next morning, he was OK. At that moment, I knew that Heavenly Father had helped my hamster live. He is still alive today. Heavenly Father can help you, too.
Rebecca Dawn Bingham, age 9Layton, Utah

I am an 18-year-old exchange student in Mexico, and I really have to thank you for the New Era. I always get it on time—in more ways than one, come to think of it, because it always answers a current problem or doubt.
Practically everything in the September issue held a special meaning for me. The Mormonad inspired me to share the gospel with some friends, especially some other exchange students who were starved for English reading material. Soon my New Era began making the rounds, closely followed by tracts and visits to the local LDS chapel.
Needless to say, October’s missionary issue really came in handy. One special friend has continued attending Church with me regularly and taken the missionary discussions.
November’s article “Self Denial” was extremely appropriate since it was a big temptation to spend Sunday afternoons going to parties or picnics with my friends instead of going to Church.
December’s issue taught me with new clarity what living the gospel means. It’s not something to be thought of once a year but an integral part of our lives. That issue really helped me through the Christmas season. I’ve thanked Heavenly Father hundreds of times for the New Era and my mother for the subscription she was inspired to send me here in Mexico.
Edna F. GuzmanSaltillo, Coahuila, Mexico

He once shared this precious counsel concerning both discipline and work with a group of missionaries. One missionary had said, “I don’t like to work. I don’t like to tract.” This great leader responded:
Oh, is that so? I thought every missionary just loved to tract. . . . Didn’t you know that the worthwhile things of life are not the things . . . you . . . want to do, they are the things you ought to do because they are right. Did you just love to study everything that was assigned at the University? . . . Isn’t there anything in the world you do because you ought to do it? . . . My goodness, my boy, you’re headed for a total loss if you are only doing things you want to do.
Then Elder Kimball shared an experience from his early life. He said,
I wanted to go on a mission. I was scared to death, a little fellow coming from a country district.
I wondered if I could do it. I was quite sure I would have difficulty and yet I began to . . . remember specific friends that had done it. I thought, I can play basketball better than they can, . . . maybe I can do it. At any rate, I decided I wanted to go on a mission as I had been taught all my life.
I pause here to emphasize this great secret in his life so you may use it to bless your own. He made up his mind only once to resolve a particular challenge. From then on he used his energy to keep the resolve, not to reanalyze it repeatedly under every new circumstance. Elder Kimball continued:
So when I got near the end of my high school, I went to Globe, Arizona, to get a job so I could begin to save money, because . . . my father was having a little problem with a large family to support. I had earned money for my school for my last . . . three years, and then I earned it for my mission.
He then described how he raised a black colt to become a handsome stallion. He sold it, putting every penny into his mission account. He then described his work at the dairy.
I found that the work at the dairy wasn’t easy. I didn’t like it. I would milk the cows and then go in and do the washing of the cans and bottles. We would use scalding water when our fingers would get somewhat used to it. Then when I would go out to milk the cows the next time, my fingers would crack and bleed.
I went . . . to the Globe Ward every Sunday night. I would walk about two miles down the railroad to get there. I would hold up my hands above my head as we walked so that the weight of the blood in my fingers wouldn’t crucify me. It hurt terribly . . . I guess people thought I was giving up, but . . . I wasn’t surrendering, I was just on my way.
So my fingers bled every day, but every night I went back and milked . . . somewhere between twenty and twenty-eight cows . . . every night and every morning with my hands, not with machines. In between, we would turn the cows into the field, and we took a square-pointed shovel, and you know what we did with that shovel, we cleaned up after the cows. . . . It was about the filthiest job I ever had, but I had to do it . . . it was part of my job.
So then Elder Kimball said to this boy:
So you don’t like to tract. Well, for heaven’s sake, what do you like to do that will pay dividends? Think about that . . . If tracting is hard and other visits are hard and teaching the gospel is hard, and study is hard, so what? It pays big dividends.

I carried a tray of food, prepared by my mother-in-law, into a cluttered and dusty home. The sole occupant sat where she always sat, on a big armchair positioned so she could see out the window. Her swollen legs were stretched in front of her and her cane, which she used only with great effort, leaned against her arm. She smiled when she saw me, thanked me for the food, and apologetically asked who I was. As I sat next to her and listened to her stories, I was filled with warmth and peace.
Three years later, I was on the floor with my two young children, bouncing them on my legs and singing a racehorse tune. Only a few feet away, my kitchen was in disarray and toys were scattered across the floor. I suddenly felt a reassurance from the Spirit that I was right where I needed to be. Warmth and peace flooded my soul, filling its worn edges and giving energy where there was none.
Another two years forward, I was lying on the bed. A pile of laundry was visible on the floor, and a stack of papers littered the desk to my left as I fed my newborn son for the fourth time that night. I brushed my fingertips against his long lashes, felt his soft bald head, and was thrilled when fingers curled around the lace of my shirt. I was so filled with warmth and peace that I didn’t even mind that I was sometimes awake at three in the morning.
In each of these cases, the Holy Ghost was with me, telling me I was in the right place and doing the right thing, and in each of these cases, I was in a messy home.

President Wilford Woodruff recounted the difficulties of early missionary work:
“In my early missions, when preaching in the Southern States—Arkansas, Tennessee, and Kentucky—I have waded swamps and rivers and have walked seventy miles or more without eating. In those days we counted it a blessing to go into a place where there was a Latter-day Saint. I went once 150 miles to see one; and when I got there he had apostatized, and tried to kill me. Then, after travelling seventy-two miles without food, I sat down to eat my meal with a Missouri mobocrat, and he damning and cursing me all the time. … In those days we might travel hundreds and hundreds of miles and you could not find a Latter-day Saint.”

The Komadinas look back to their first trip to the Fiesta as their incentive for getting involved in the sport.
“Seven years ago, 1977, we had just moved back to Albuquerque from California,” Steve Komadina, Jenny and Amy’s father, explained. “In Albuquerque you see balloons floating by almost every day. So naturally I wanted to take the family to the Fiesta. I couldn’t believe it when we got there. I felt like Gulliver in the land of giants, surrounded by these giant balloons. I went home wishing that somehow we could be a part of it.”
In 1978 Brother Komadina contacted a friend who owned a balloon and asked for a ride. Everything was set, but then it rained. (Balloons only fly in calm, clear skies, usually in the morning before the sun creates thermal drafts.)
In 1979, the family decided to buy Dad a balloon ride for a Christmas present. “It was everything I hoped it would be,” he said. “Peaceful. Quiet. Like standing on a cloud.”
Time for a family council.
“I thought it would be a good way to have a hobby the whole family could get involved in,” Brother Komadina explained. “But the only way I could see to make it work was to include it as part of our family company.”
That meant everybody would have to help. But that’s something the Komadina children are used to. Their family company also rents out rafts for river runners and llamas for backpacking, and organizes rafting and hiking trips. And every child has a job, even if it’s just helping make sandwiches or picking up trash. (Amy, 12, Becky, 10, Spencer, 8, Neal, 6, and Mark, 4, complete the family crew. Mom’s name is Penny.) Dad has another job, too. He’s an obstetrician at Presbyterian Hospital.
The Komadinas were able to purchase two used balloons for about the cost of a mid-sized car, then pay for them by selling rides and advertising. Their favorite advertisement is a stork permanently stitched to the side of one balloon—a plug for what Dr. Komadina does for a living.
In their four years of flying, the Komadinas have three claims to fame.
“The second year we were in the Fiesta, Dad won second place in the roadrunner-and-coyote contest,” Jenny said. In other regions, that’s the hare-and-hound chase. One balloon takes off and tries to lose others. The pursuers try to keep on its trail and land next to it. The coyote that lands the closest wins.
That year the family also won a second place in the parade that rolls through town following the first mass ascension.
But it was in 1982 that the Komadinas made ballooning history. It started out as a service to the elderly in the Albuquerque 5th Ward, where the Komadinas live and where Jenny was at the time Beehive president.
“There was one couple, Brother and Sister Pat Miller, who had never been able to get out to the Fiesta,” Jenny said. “We thought it would be fun if we brought the Fiesta, or at least part of it, to them.” So instead of launching their two balloons at Cutter Field the Komadinas inflated them at the ward parking lot.
The youth of the ward sponsored a “balloon breakfast” and provided transportation for older members who might not otherwise have a chance to see a balloon up close.
“I can still remember what it felt like to touch the fabric, look at the basket, and watch them use hot air to make it fly,” Brother Miller said. “It was wonderful to think the youth would organize something so we could have a chance to see.” The breakfast also helped to fund a temple trip for the Young Men and Young Women.
After breakfast, many of the ward members joined the chase crew—the people and vehicles who follow along behind the balloon on the ground and assist when it lands. That’s where the history comes in. The Komadinas hold the record for the Fiesta’s largest chase crew ever—97 people in 23 vehicles. “Everywhere you looked you’d see them following you,” Amy said.
The whole event typified the family’s attitude about ballooning: sharing. The balloon has been used to give rides at a regional youth conference. It has been used to help the Boy Scouts, even to the point of forming an Explorer post with a ballooning specialty. It has provided an opportunity for the family to share the gospel with other balloonists, especially when explaining why they leave weekend activities early in order to be home for church on Sunday. It’s even been the site for family discussions: “They can’t get away from you up there,” Brother Komadina laughed.
More than anything, it’s been a chance for the family to share with each other. “The emphasis is really zero on ballooning and 100 percent on family,” Sister Komadina said. “This is something we all can do, and it’s exciting enough that the children’s friends want to do it with them, too. At first I didn’t want to get involved with it. But now I enjoy it, except for getting up early.”
Sharing, Komadina style, doesn’t end with the balloon. “We have family home evening every week and family councils all the time,” Amy said. “We read out of the Bible every night together.”
“My father’s my friend,” Amy said. “We have a lot of the same interests. I feel like I can talk to him. He took me out backpacking on my birthday, just so we could be together. He’s busy because of all his patients, but he tries to give us all the time he can.”
“Besides,” Jenny added, “if you can trust your father enough to go up in a balloon with him, you can trust him with almost anything.”
It is a scary thing, going up in a balloon for the first time. But it’s hard to worry too much, because there are so many things to do in advance.
On a typical launch day, the Komadinas and anyone accompanying them gather in the family living room for prayer. Then Amy and Jennifer give talks, much like stewardesses preparing passengers for takeoff on an airplane. They discuss safety (it’s important not to get in or out of the basket unless told to, because ballast is critical), preparation for landing (it’s important to remember to bend your knees to help absorb the impact), and flying techniques (the balloon drifts with the wind, but by ascending or descending, the pilot can usually find a breeze headed in the direction he wants to go).
At the launch site, two or three people unpack the balloon and spread it on the ground. Around the top of the fabric “envelope,” velcro strips are fastened together to keep flaps closed until the balloon stands upright. The mouth of the balloon is held open and a large fan is used to blow air into the nylon or polyester envelope. The propane burner then heats the air, which rises inside the envelope, inflating it even more.
The balloon then tries to assume an upright position. But if that happens too fast, the balloon will not inflate properly, so crew members use a “crown line,” a rope attached to the top of the envelope, to pull against the force of the air. It’s a tug-of-war that two adults or six kids never win.
While all this is going on, the pilot checks gauges which indicate fuel quantity, altitude, rate of climb or descent, and air temperature inside the envelope. As the balloon becomes more buoyant, he will have passengers join him to act as an anchor while he adds more hot air. Finally, when everyone’s ready, he blasts still more hot air into the envelope until the balloon begins to rise. To keep rising, he heats the air, to come down, he can let it cool off or he can pull a rope that allows air to escape.
Any fear a passenger has disappears quickly. It is as though the balloon remains where it is and the earth moves away. The only sound is the occasional hissing of the burner. The only feeling of height comes when you look down and suddenly realize that you’re 1,500 feet in the air!
It is flight without wings, flight without a runway or the whine of jet engines. Because the balloon floats with the breeze, there is no sensation of motion. It is, indeed, like standing on a cloud, quietly watching the earth beneath.
“When I’m up here, I think about Heavenly Father,” Jennifer said. “I feel close to him, peaceful, when I see the world he’s created and how big it is. You somehow know he’s in charge.”
Her father agreed. “You get some idea of who you are and how small you would be on your own. But you also get a feeling for what Heavenly Father has made, what he can help you accomplish if you have him on your side.”
Jennifer and Amy talk freely about what’s going on at school and in the ward. They had been in the same Beehive class for a little while, but now Jennifer is a Mia Maid, a freshman at Valley High School active in the ski club, speech club, student council, and orchestra. “I ran for student-body treasurer and lost,” she said, “but don’t put that!” She also talks about how she invited some non-LDS friends to a youth conference and “now they want to come to all the dances and activities.”
Amy, who attends Taft Middle School, enjoys chorus, putting on plays, and, during the Fiesta, launching the balloon from the school yard, much to the delight of her classmates. “We get permission from the principal first,” she said, grinning. Of course, they talk about ballooning, too.
“Nobody doesn’t love a balloon,” Amy said. “We fly over people’s houses that we know, and you can see everything. People come running out in shower caps and bath robes just to wave. If you drop down low, you can hear the dogs barking and see horses run back and forth, but nobody complains.”
“People here are used to balloons,” Jenny added. “It’s a mutual benefit. Pilots love to fly them, and people on the ground love to watch them float by.”
“Sometimes I get cold and grouchy early in the morning,” Amy said. “But then I remember my first flight. We went over to the West Mesa where it’s flat and there aren’t any power lines or roads to worry about. It’s a good place to learn. There was snow on the ground. We came down and skimmed the bushes and saw some jackrabbits, then went back up again. Every time we go it’s fun like that. I want to be a balloonist for a long time.”
Even in the Land of Enchantment, the propane supply only lasts about two hours, so eventually the flight had to end. Visions of dragon fire captured in a sack, of jeweled seeds sprouting into towers of color, of Christmas ornaments decorating the sky, would all fade back into a normal world as soon as the balloon touched down.
Even the princesses would be transformed, from lead roles in a fantasy to supporting roles in a family. Floating with them through the sky, it had been easy to imagine Princess Jennifer and Princess Amy as benevolent daughters of the king of balloon land. Now, chatting with Jennifer, Amy, and their father, knowing we would soon be landing, it was like talking to any happy LDS family anywhere. They could have been in the chapel foyer after sacrament meeting, or sitting at home eating their family favorite, pizza with everything, or even doing homework around the kitchen table.
Except that they were up in the sky, standing on a cloud. And even though the Komadinas are just like a lot of other close-knit LDS families full of love, that distinction makes them unique.

The young man walked through the door, then stopped, not quite sure what to do next. He had an important question to ask, but he didn’t know who to talk to.
Marion Peterson, the education vice-president of the Utah office of the American Cancer Society, went into the hall to help him.
“He asked me,” said Marion, “if I would look in his mouth and see if he needed to be worried. He had been using chewing tobacco for a while. He pulled down his lip, and it looked horrible, suspiciously like cancer. I told him he had to get help immediately. But he said his mother didn’t know about his habit, and she would find out if he went to the doctor because of their insurance. I begged him to go to a clinic. But he left, and I never knew his name.” Marion still worries about this boy and wonders if he got help in time.

Elder James E. Talmage, a man who is remembered for his doctrinal teachings, showed great kindness to a neighbor family in distress. They were complete strangers to him. Before he was an Apostle, as a young father he became aware of great suffering at a neighbor’s home whose large family was stricken with the dreaded diphtheria. He did not care that they were not members of the Church; his kindness and charity moved him to act. The Relief Society was desperately trying to find people to help, but no one would because of the contagious nature of the disease.
When he arrived, James found one toddler already dead and two others who were in agony from the disease. He immediately went to work, cleaning the untidy house, preparing the young body for burial, cleaning and providing for the other sick children—spending the entire day doing so. He came back the next morning to find that one more of the children had died during the night. A third child was still suffering terribly. He wrote in his journal: “She clung to my neck, … ofttimes coughing [germs] on my face and clothing, … yet I could not put her from me. During the half hour immediately preceding her death, I walked the floor with the little creature in my arms. She died in agony at 10 a.m.” The three children had all departed within the space of 24 hours. He then assisted the family with the burial arrangements and spoke at the graveside services. This he did all for a family of strangers. What a great example of Christlike kindness!

Illustration by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Mandy: Let’s have a thankful contest.
Matt: That’s one I’m sure to win.
Mandy: I’m thankful for trees.
Matt: I’m thankful for dogs.
Mandy: I’m thankful for pumpkin pie.
Matt: I’m thankful for mashed potatoes.
Mandy: This could go on forever.
Matt: Yeah, neither of us will ever win.
Mom: Maybe you’re both winners for having so many blessings.
Mandy: Congratulations, winner.
Matt: Thank you, winner. Same to you.

I was born on a little dry farm in northern Utah in 1934. By the time the doctor drove the thirteen miles from Logan to our house, I had already arrived.
I was born blue because I wasn’t breathing right. The connection between my heart and lungs was not very good, and doctors told my parents that I would have serious health problems. My family prayed hard that I would be healthy, and none of the things the doctors predicted happened. In fact, I was six feet tall by the time I was thirteen! I know that this was a blessing from Heavenly Father.

Sarah Thompson was hurrying to gather the laundry so she could get everything finished before her husband, Ted, got home from work. She opened Melissa’s bedroom door and hurried toward her closet to retrieve the multitude of shirts, blue jeans, and socks for the washer. When she turned to leave, she realized that she wasn’t alone in the room.
“Why, Melissa, I thought you were outside playing with the rest of the children. What’s the matter, dear?”
Melissa had obviously been crying, and it took a while for her to choke out the words: “I—I don’t want to get baptized on Saturday.”
Sister Thompson quickly joined her daughter on the bed and took her in her arms. “Melissa, dear, it’s all right. But you’ve been talking about your baptism for months, and you could hardly wait for your eighth birthday. Why have you changed your mind?”
“I’m scared.”
Sister Thomspon smiled. “Melissa, you’ve been to baptisms before. What is there to be afraid of? Besides, your friends Ann and Sarah will be baptized on Saturday too. Won’t they help to give you courage?”
“But they’re different from me,” Melissa said in a soft, unsteady voice. “They’ll have their dads there to baptize them.”
Sister Thompson knew that Melissa’s nonmember father couldn’t baptize their daughter, but she had thought that Melissa was pleased that their home teacher had promised to do it. “I thought you liked Brother Adamson, dear,” she said. “He’s such a special man.”
“I love Brother Adamson,” Melissa sobbed, “but it’s not the same. He’s not Dad.”
“Sweetheart …” Sister Thompson tried to comfort her daughter. She loved her husband very much, but at the same time her own heart was breaking. She thought of all the times she had wanted to share special spiritual experiences with her husband but had been unable to. Now it was hurting their child. Maybe she had made the wrong decision when she had listened to the missionaries and had decided to be baptized. Yet she had received a strong testimony, and she had been sure that Ted would soon realize how true and good the gospel was. But that had been three years ago, and he still showed no sign of ever wanting to become a member of the Church.
“Melissa,” Sister Thompson began again gently, “do you enjoy going to Primary?”
“Oh, yes! I love the stories, and my teacher, Sister Westover, is so nice.” Melissa had stopped crying.
“Do you believe those stories?” Sister Thompson continued.
“Yes, of course I do,” Melissa answered confidently. “I know that the Church is true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet.”
“How can you show that you know it is true?” her mother urged.
Melissa realized what her mother was trying to tell her, and she knew that she would be baptized on Saturday. But without her dad to share it with—it just seemed kind of scary. Melissa smiled at her mother and said, “Maybe Dad will come to see me get baptized on Saturday. I’m going to ask him just as soon as he gets home.” Melissa went outside to wait for her dad.
Sister Thompson remained sitting on the bed, deep in thought. Ted hasn’t attended a Church meeting yet. He has gone with us to several church socials, but nothing about the gospel has really interested him. She hoped that Melissa wasn’t in for another disappointment.
Melissa saw their car turn into the driveway, and she ran across the lawn to meet her father. Ted Thompson got out of his car, took his daughter in his arms, and gave her a big hug. “What’s my little one so excited about today?” he asked with a smile.
“Oh, Daddy! I’m getting baptized on Saturday, don’t you remember?”
Mr. Thompson suddenly grew serious, “Yes, your mother told me about it.”
Melissa hurried on, not noticing her father’s concerned look. “Dad will you come and see me—will you, please? Everybody else’s father will be there. You’ll come, won’t you?” Melissa pleaded.
Mr. Thompson was caught off guard, and he didn’t know what to say. Finally he mumbled, “We’ll see. We’ll see. It’s still a long time until Saturday.”
Melissa was disappointed, but she decided that a “we’ll see” was better than a “no.” She gave her dad a final squeeze and ran next door to play with her friends.
Saturday was a beautiful, clear day, and Melissa thought that it was a perfect day for her baptism. She hadn’t talked to her father about coming with her since that day in the front yard. But he hadn’t said anything, so she assumed he would be there.
That afternoon Melissa took a long, hot bath, and her mother helped her get dressed in her prettiest Sunday dress. Hanging in the hallway waiting to be put into the car was the lovely white baptismal dress Sister Thompson had made for Melissa. When they were ready to go, Sister Thompson said, “We’d better hurry, dear, or we’ll be late.”
“I’ll get Dad,” Melissa replied. But when she entered the living room, Melissa saw that her father was still in his work clothes, reading the newspaper. “Dad, aren’t you ready for the baptism? We’ll be late!”
Mr. Thompson looked at his daughter’s anxious face and said, “Melissa, dear, I can’t go to your baptism. I’d feel out of place. I just don’t belong there. Please don’t be angry with me.”
Melissa was out of the room and running for the car before he had even finished. Sister Thompson saw the tears in her daughter’s eyes, and for the second time that week she wondered if she had made a mistake in joining the Church.
There was great excitement in the girls’ dressing room as Ann, Sarah, and Melissa changed clothes for their baptism.
“I’m so excited!” Sarah exclaimed. “Dad gave me my very own Book of Mormon. It has a leather cover, and it has my name on it and everything!”
“That’s really neat,” said Ann. “My whole family’s going over to my grandma and grandpa’s after the baptism. Grandma promised to help me start on my Book of Remembrance.”
Sarah and Ann noticed that Melissa was very quiet. “What are you going to do afterward, Melissa?” Sarah asked.
“Well, I’m not sure.” Melissa knew that they would just be going home, but she added, “Mom and Dad are probably going to surprise me.”
Melissa slipped her white dress off its hanger, and as she began to pull it over her head, she noticed a piece of paper pinned inside. She unpinned it and saw that it was in her father’s handwriting! “My dear Melissa,” she read, “I’m sorry that I won’t be there with you today. I want you to know that I am very proud of you. You have made a very important decision in your life. I only hope that I can have enough courage to make that same decision some day. Please remember that I love you very much. Daddy.”
Melissa wiped the tears from her eyes as she finished dressing. When Brother Adamson helped her down the steps of the baptismal font, Melissa had the most radiant smile that her mother had ever seen. Sister Thompson knew then that she hadn’t made a mistake three years before when she, too, had entered that same baptismal font.