Gospel Story Finder

The idea to investigate the general area of Lehi’s journey was presented to Lynn M. Hilton and his wife Hope by the editors of the Church Magazines. In past years, the Hiltons had made dozens of trips to Europe, the Middle East, Africa, and Asia as owners of a travel agency and as part of Brigham Young University adult education travel study program. They loved the Middle East, had many friends there, and had visited its cities often. They had studied its languages, history, and culture but did not have advanced degrees in Middle East studies. They loved the Book of Mormon and had sincere testimonies of its truthfulness. Brother Gerald Silver, a photographer for the Church’s daily newspaper, Deseret News, was asked to accompany the Hiltons to record the scenes of the adventure.
Just consider the scope of the challenge given to us! We were to follow a trail that had been cooling for more than 2,500 years—a trail that lay half a world away in war-torn territory now divided between Oman, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Israel. All the clues to Lehi’s route are contained in a mere 18 chapters that Nephi wrote years after his journey; and the main purpose of the record was not to record geography and caravan routes but those marvelous visions given to his father and later to himself. But we had an assignment, we know that the Book of Mormon is true, and thus started from the premise that what Nephi wrote actually happened. Inspired by God, Mormon had included Nephi’s own record without abridging it. Inspired by God, Joseph Smith had translated it, literally and faithfully. The hypothesis and confusions that we will present, of course, are tentative; but the story of our search for Lehi’s route is an exciting adventure that has resulted in some basic conclusions about actual places mentioned in the Book of Mormon.
As we prepared to make our journey, we wrote letters to over one hundred Arab friends in seven Middle East countries, explaining our plans. We were astonished and overwhelmed with gratitude at their enthusiastic responses and offers to help.
As important as the information we collected from our research were the interpretations of that research and the insights and information shared willingly by a host of friends. We especially would not have been able to succeed without the second-mile efforts and cooperation of Salim Saad of Amman, Jordan; Angie Chukri of Cairo, Egypt; Hassibe Dajani of Jiddah, Saudi Arabia; Sheik Helwan Habtar of Abha, Saudi Arabia; Sa’adi Fatafitah of Tarqumia, Westbank via Israel; and Nabeel Mustakim of Jerusalem, Westbank, via Israel.
Thus armed with the advice of many, we immediately began doing library research.
Interviews with Middle East scholars of both the University of Utah and Brigham Young University prepared our minds for the task ahead.
Gradually a clear picture began to emerge. We realized a cursory reading of the Book of Mormon might give the impression that Lehi and his family traveled into a desert vacuum, barren of people and civilization; yet a more careful reading of the text contains several clues indicating inhabited regions. Lehi could not travel without food and water for his family and his beasts of burden. Nephi records no miraculous manna descending to feed them—they had to work hard for their food and sometimes complained because of hunger. No waters are reported gushing miraculously from their own rocks of Horeb as Moses had produced with the touch of his rod. The family, therefore, must have traveled and survived as other travelers of their day did in the same area, going from public waterhole to public waterhole. (Of course, they also had the heaven-sent Liahona to help them.) As we traveled through the Middle East, we never saw a fresh-water source devoid of people; where water is so precious, it is unlikely that many waterholes are unknown.
Thus our research ended. The route and the chronology as we pieced it together had Lehi joining one of the most heavily traveled routes of antiquity, the frankincense road originating in Salalah, Oman. For us, this explains the presence of named water sources, the direction the group traveled, and the people they undoubtedly met.
Now, we were ready to test the hypothesis by driving over the ground, checking distances, seeing for ourselves the existence of the frankincense trail, and examining this centuries-old area which fit so well the description of Bountiful. We were ready for Arabia! (To be continued)

Elder Gerrit Walter Gong knows the power of prayer and that Heavenly Father has a plan for His children. When Elder Gong was young, his mother was once seriously ill. He remembers praying “in little-boy words and feelings” that she would live.
“Prayers are answered differently at different times in our lives, but on that occasion, gratefully, I felt and knew that she would be better,” Elder Gong says. “I have never doubted from that time that Heavenly Father does hear our prayers and, in His own wisdom and ways, answers them.”

The bus came, and Abba found a seat near the front. A small girl sitting nearby was crying while her mother was trying to quiet a fussy baby.
Abba reached into her bag and handed the girl a present.
Abba’s mother told the girl in her best Spanish, “It’s a gift for you. Open it!”
The little girl looked at her mother, then quickly opened the gift when her mother nodded yes. Soon she was sitting quietly, playing with a small doll.
The people on the bus were all smiling.

When James R. Heap accepted his mission call, he was well aware of the years of college, medical school, and residency lying ahead. Still, he wasn’t worried that a mission break would hinder him professionally. Upon returning home he quickly made up for “lost” time. After three years of college he was accepted to medical school—the first year of medical school was applied to his graduation requirements—and he became an M.D. at the age of 26, the same age as many others who had gone straight through. (Incidentally, he was serving in the branch presidency of a student branch at the time.) He then took a three-year residency at Scott Air Force Base Medical Center in Illinois and is presently established as a family practice specialist in Phoenix, Arizona.

During those years of internship and residency, he continued his Church service, fulfilling many responsible callings, among them executive secretary, Sunday School teacher, and high councilor.

Dr. Heap feels that his mission contributed in a large way to his success as a physician. When he returned to college, he found that his capacity for learning, and the speed with which he did it, were increased. More importantly, devoting his time and talents to full-time missionary work brought about an increased love and concern for others. “Intelligence alone is not enough,” he maintains. “Intelligence plus a Christlike love for mankind is the perfect combination for a successful and respected physician.”

In addition to his present responsibilities as husband, father of five, and physician, Dr. Heap still finds time to serve as the ward music chairman, ward organist and choir accompanist, family relations teacher, and temple preparation seminar teacher. He has done more, at the relatively young age of 30, than many do in a lifetime.

How does he manage it, one might wonder.

“The more I give, the more I’m blessed and the more I’m able to do effectively,” he answers. “Happiness has come into my life through service to my God, my family, and my fellowmen.”

John and Bonnie Newman, like many of you, are recipients of the spiritual blessings President Nelson promised. One Sunday, after attending church with their three young children, Bonnie said to John, who was not a member of the Church, “I cannot do this on my own. You need to decide whether you come to my church with us or you choose a church that we can go to together, but the children need to know that their dad loves God too.” The following Sunday and every Sunday after, John not only attended; he also served, playing the piano for many wards, branches, and Primaries over the years. I had the privilege of meeting with John in April 2015, and in that meeting, we discussed that the best way he could manifest his love for Bonnie was to take her to the temple, but that could not happen unless he was baptized.

After attending The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for 39 years, John was baptized in 2015. A year later, John and Bonnie were sealed in the Memphis Tennessee Temple, 20 years after she had received her own endowment. Their 47-year-old son, Robert, said of his dad, “Dad has really, really blossomed since he received the priesthood.” Bonnie added, “John has always been a happy and cheerful person, but receiving the ordinances and honoring his covenants has enhanced his gentleness.”

In the opening exercises of our priesthood meeting, the bishop announced that many of the teachers would be assigned new senior home teaching companions. Filled with the gentle excitement that accompanies such changes in assignment, I left the chapel wondering who my new companion would be. I strolled down the hallway hoping that I had been chosen as the companion of one of the young, dynamic elders in the ward. I looked in the open classrooms that lined the hallway and imagined working with a powerful, spiritual man intent on fulfilling his calling. At the end of the hallway was the Relief Society room where the high priests met.
Turning to go up the stairs, I looked into the room and my eyes caught a glance at an old man sitting in an almost tattered gray suit. He was sitting alone, thoughtfully, with his fingers intertwined. He wore round, wire-rimmed glasses and had a slightly blotchy, leathery complexion. I had seen this brother before, but I did not know him by name. And it seemed to me at the moment that he represented the companion I would like not to have. Please not him, I said to myself. He’s too old.
Upstairs the teachers quorum adviser informed me that I would be the companion to a brother Oliver Johnson. The name did not mean anything to me, but he was soon described as an elderly high priest who had round glasses, often wore a gray suit, and kept bees. That was him. That was the man I had seen downstairs a minute before. I was deeply disappointed. I reasoned that I deserved it after what I had thought about him, but that did not diminish my dissatisfaction. If anything, it made my yearning for a powerful young man—someone I knew—even greater.
Though I wanted to be a good home teaching companion, I still begrudged my assignment as the companion of this old, slow-walking, slow-talking brother. I remember in particular how critical I was of his driving. I was in the process of getting my long-awaited driver’s license, and I thought there was no better driver than myself. The first time we went out as companions, Brother Johnson drove up in a 20-year-old worn out car. In that outdated vehicle it seemed to me that he drove well below the speed limit.
But to accompany the slow, steady pace of his driving, he talked slowly and steadily, perhaps sensing my impatience and reluctance—my youth. As we visited our families monthly, I came to realize that dressed in that gray suit and tattered old hat was a man whose power was experience. He talked about the mission he and his wife had been called on. (During the course of the mission his wife had died, but after she was buried he returned to finish his calling.) He talked about Indian trails, about his bees, and about people who seemed to me to be out of another time period.
The more we talked the less critical I became. The slow driving no longer irritated me. It gave us more of a chance to talk. His old car, his funny glasses, his withered hat, and his pocket watch with the broken crystal no longer bothered me. It was as if he got younger, and as his years shed in my mind, some of them must have fallen to me.
Of all the topics we discussed, I was most drawn to Brother Johnson’s activities as a beekeeper. One early summer day, he called me and told me that he was going up the canyon to see how some of his bees were doing. He asked if I would like to come. We drove casually up the canyon, and he told me how he had started in beekeeping and what he did to help the bees produce their honey. We drove off the paved road, up a bumpy dirt road, through some streams. Periodically I had to get out, open sheep fence gates, let Brother Johnson drive through, and join him after I closed the gate.
We finally got to the hives. He gave me an old veil—a hat with material mesh that came down in front to protect my face from the bees. He told me to be sure my long-sleeved shirt (which he had warned me to wear) was buttoned at the wrists. Then he gave me some rubber bands to put around the wrists. He told me to push my pant legs inside my socks. As Brother Johnson did these things himself, he explained to me that if the bees flew or crawled up a sleeve or pant leg, they would not be able to get out, so they would become afraid and sting. I marveled that he did not wear any gloves. As he got the smoker ready with which he subdued the bees, I asked him if he got stung very often.
“Oh, you get stung every once in a while—usually if the bee gets scared or doesn’t know you. Or they may sting if you don’t know what you’re doing. And they sting if they get trapped.” As he said that he looked at me, and from beneath that distorting veil I saw the bright, shining eyes and the quick smile of one who knew what he was talking about. Brother Johnson was slow, methodical, careful as he lifted the tops off the hives and puffed in the smoke to relax the bees. Some landed on him, crawled on his gloveless hands. Some even buzzed agitatedly around his head, but he never cringed or moved away. I kept a safe distance where I could watch. I was not going to let bees crawl on me and have a chance to sting me.
Some of the hives were doing better than others, and I marveled that Brother Johnson could tell what was wrong, why some hives were not producing, and then correct the problem. He did not take any of the honey that day, but he promised me that when he did he would bring me some. He told me that you chewed the honey out of the honeycomb and spit the wax out. He said it was better than eating the honey itself because you had to work for what you got. I didn’t understand then how that could be. But once I had tried it, I knew.
A few years later in the mission field, I received a letter from my mother with a newspaper clipping. At the top of the clipping was the picture of the man who had so kindly taught me something of bees, something of aged men, and something more. The face in the picture of that obituary notice was strangely lifeless—so unlike the face I had seen in the Relief Society room the first time I remember seeing him, but much more unlike the face behind the beekeeper’s veil that day in the canyon. And though I could ask with Paul, “O death, where is thy sting?” I felt a quick pain of regret and sadness at the passing of this gentleman, this brother. And yet my mind is ever soothed by the memory of that rich, sweet honey he encouraged his bees to produce and which he gave to me—with the wax to chew out for myself.

But it was while playing the cello that he could hear the symphony in his heart, and he kept perfecting his performance so that those listening could hear it too. And now as he performed, in the back of his mind he kept hearing another theme, quiet but constant. It sang of restoration, truth, angels, and light, of prophets, revelation, and the Holy Ghost. And even though his love of music had already filled him with a personal symphony, this new refrain brought clarity and fire to his soul. It reminded him of a favorite song:
We are as the army of Helaman.
We have been taught in our youth.
And we will be the Lord’s missionaries
To bring the world his truth.
(“We’ll Bring the World His Truth,” Children’s Songbook, 172)
The symphony in his heart was swelling, and as he heard the music in his soul, he knew the time for a full-time mission had come.
Many at school thought Zack was crazy. Other students studying with the same teacher had graduated to become the principal or assistant principal cellist with symphonies in Chicago and Seattle. Was Zack now abandoning a similar future for a strange cause?
It wasn’t strange to Zack. “For my entire life I’ve wanted to go on a mission,” he said. “It’s not a sacrifice, because I know I’ll be blessed. I keep thinking of the power of that phrase—‘to bring the world his truth.’ Sure, I’m setting aside the cello for two years, but I know it’s what the Lord wants me to do.”
Soon he received his call to the Scotland Edinburgh Mission, and as he read the letter from the prophet, the symphony sounded again. This time the melody reminded him of the Savior. “When you study music, you always want to learn from a master, someone with a higher knowledge than you,” Zack said. “As I read my call to serve, I realized that on my mission I would be serving the true Master, and that in His service, there is always much to learn.”

Through the long hours of the night, I kept a lonely vigil by the nursery window. Inside the nursery, a tiny boy struggled for breath. The day before, we had rushed nearly 160 kilometers from our ranch to the hospital. The baby was born shortly after our arrival, six weeks premature. He looked like a fine, healthy boy, but the doctor told us that his lungs had been slow in developing and that he was fighting a desperate battle for air.
A few hours before, I had given Matthew his name and a father’s blessing. As I had blessed him, the Spirit had assured me that he would someday be a part of our family.
Little Matthew continued to cling to life until his mother was able to come to the nursery to see him. He died before we left the room. It seemed to me that he had only waited for her to have one look before he returned to his heavenly home.
The shock of our son’s death left my wife in such a daze that she could not cry. It was only after the small graveside service, when we had returned home to the ranch, that she was finally able to release her grief. She wept for a long time.
The emptiness of losing a baby after those long months of expecting him was very hard on her. She wasn’t really happy again until the next baby, a fine healthy boy, arrived.

Jennifer twirled in front of her bedroom mirror in her sparkly red Christmas dress. She pictured herself standing center stage under the bright spotlights and giggled with excitement. She couldn’t wait to sing in the community Christmas program tonight!
Jennifer loved to sing. She especially loved singing Christmas songs! She had spent a lot of time practicing with her mom at the piano to get ready for her big solo. And now the day was finally here!
She hummed happily as she brushed her fingers through her curly hair. Then there was a quiet knock at the door.
“Come in!”
Mom opened it and stepped inside. Her eyes looked a little puffy. Jennifer could tell that she had been crying.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Jennifer asked.
Mom put her arm around Jennifer’s shoulder. They sat down on the bed.
“Grandma just called,” Mom said softly. “Grandpa Hoyt passed away.”
Jennifer couldn’t stop the tears that immediately came rolling down her cheeks. She loved Grandpa Hoyt! Jennifer had visited him nearly every day. They played his favorite games, watched old shows on TV, or just talked. He had been sick for a long time and used an oxygen machine to breathe. But she couldn’t believe that he was really gone.
Mom pulled Jennifer into a tight hug while Jennifer sobbed.
“You don’t have to sing tonight if you don’t want to,” Mom said in a quiet voice. She wiped away some of Jennifer’s tears.
Jennifer nodded. Maybe Mom was right. Jennifer missed Grandpa so much it made her heart hurt. Maybe she didn’t feel up to singing anymore.
Mom wiped away some tears of her own. “I guess this gives us a special chance to remember why we really celebrate Christmas,” she said. “The Savior was born to give us light and hope. Even when we are sad.”
Jennifer took a deep breath. “And because Jesus was resurrected, Grandpa Hoyt will be resurrected too,” she said bravely. “Because of Jesus, we’ll see him again.”
Mom gave Jennifer’s hand a squeeze. “That’s exactly right, sweetheart.”
Jennifer felt like a warm, fuzzy blanket had been wrapped around her. She knew it was the Holy Ghost testifying that what she said was true.
Suddenly Jennifer had an idea.
“I want to share the light and hope Jesus gives us,” Jennifer said. She was determined. “I’m going to sing for Grandpa.”
Mom smiled through her tears. “I’m sure that would make both Jesus and Grandpa Hoyt very happy.”
“Can we say a prayer?” Jennifer asked.
Mom nodded, and the two of them knelt down by the bed. Mom prayed for Jennifer to have comfort, strength, and courage to sing.
After saying “amen,” Jennifer wrapped her arms around Mom in a big hug. “Thanks, Mom.”
When it was time to go on stage, Jennifer squared her shoulders. She smiled as she walked up to the microphone under the bright lights. The music started playing. Jennifer felt peace. And in her best singing voice, she sang about Jesus—the One who made it possible for her to see Grandpa Hoyt again.

Joseph F. and his wife Julina welcomed their first child, Mercy Josephine, into the family.7 She was only two and a half years old when she passed away. Shortly after, Joseph F. recorded: “It is one month yesterday since my … darling Josephine died. O! that I could have saved her to grow up to womanhood. I miss her every day and I am lonely. … God forgive my weakness if it is wrong to love my little ones as I love them.”8

Elder Soares: I had a brother two years older than me who had a hearing problem. He had a lot of difficulty communicating, and I can remember how I essentially became his companion, helping him to do things and communicate with people. I had to learn to communicate with sign language at church. For example, he once received an assignment to give a talk in church. However, he wasn’t able to speak. But I sat with him, and I, speaking to him with signs, helped him to write a talk. In sacrament meeting, he stood beside me at the pulpit as I read the talk that he prepared.

One of our fine young men, living in the eastern part of this country where he was one of few Latter-day Saints in his high school, received his mission call. As he prepared for his mission he asked his parents’ permission to invite twenty-five of his nonmember friends to come to the home for a farewell party. During that party the young missionary showed his friends Man’s Search for Happiness, explained why he was going on a mission for his church, and bore his testimony to them. They all in turn hugged him and let him know they loved him and sustained him.

When I was about 13 years old, Latter-day Saint missionaries came to our home. They answered all of my questions and taught me about Jesus Christ. They told me there was a church where I could learn more about the gospel in special classes for people my age. They taught me how to pray. They told me about the Book of Mormon. When I was baptized, none of my family came.
I felt lonely, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I was introduced to a new life—a life of hope, happiness, faith, and love. My peers, I knew, were seeking solace in drugs and immorality. I found mine in a loving Heavenly Father and the gospel of His Son. After my baptism I knew that the Lord had been aware of me my entire life.
I learned a lot about the gospel. I met people who shared my beliefs. Some of the members got to know a little bit about my life when they visited me at home. They generously helped me buy clothes and shoes for church and notebooks for school. I babysat regularly for Church members and made more money than I ever had before. Because I was so young, it might have been easy for me to stray from the gospel. But with the support of Church members, I remained firm in my newfound faith.
The gospel truly changed my life. After I was baptized, I felt I had more energy to learn in school. I learned a lot and became a tutor. If I did not know a subject, I would study until I knew it so well I could teach it. I used the money to help at home.

Sophie didn’t feel well as she sat down for breakfast on Sunday morning.
Sophie, I’m sorry. You are too sick to go to church today.
Sophie started to cry.
But I want to go to Primary.
Maybe we can do something special at home.
Sophie was sad. She went to her room and covered her face with her blanket. Then she got an idea.
Maybe we can have pretend Primary at home today.
As Sophie’s brothers got ready for church, Sophie put on her own Sunday clothes. She also dressed her dolls and stuffed animals in pretty dresses so they could come to pretend Primary too.
After the rest of the family left for church, Sophie and Mom made the living room into a pretend Primary room. Sophie taped pictures of Jesus to the wall and got the Children’s Songbook from the bookshelf. She also got out crayons and scriptures.
Sophie sat on the couch with her dolls and stuffed animals. Mom said an opening prayer. Then Sophie and Mom sang “I Am a Child of God” and “I Love to See the Temple.”
Sophie was happy during pretend Primary. Even her dolls and stuffed animals sat still.
After pretend Primary was over, Mom laid Sophie in her bed for a nap.
Thanks for having a pretend Primary with me. But I can’t wait to go to real Primary next week!

My best friend in high school was an agnostic. My friend said he didn’t know if there was a God, but if a God created us, He must have gone far away and left us all alone. Why else would so many bad things happen in this world? How could a God who watched over His children let them be hurt so much?
I understood why some people did bad things. I knew about agency and the effects of choices we make. My widowed mother had taught me about those things at home. I knew the gospel was the right way to live. I saw it work for my mother in her life, and I knew in my mind that it was the way Heavenly Father wanted us to live.
But I didn’t know this where it really counted—in my heart. I thought I was sure of the truth, but sometimes I had my own “why” and “what if” questions about God and His plan for us. I wasn’t so sure of what I “knew” that I could tell my friend and mean it with every part of me.
That kind of knowing did not come until I took a Book of Mormon class while I was in college. Sister Irene Spears taught the class as if the Book of Mormon were completely new to us. In a way it was for me; I had never read the book all the way through. When I reached the end, I found Moroni’s promise to readers: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:4). I knew this promise was to me. I got on my knees beside my bed to ask.
I didn’t expect an answer to be so strong or to come so fast. Before I could finish the words of my prayer, I knew that the Book of Mormon was the word of God and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. If those things were true, then David O. McKay was also a prophet, and he had said that every young man who was able should go on a mission, so I was going on a mission.

Some of us went on a 30-mile hike that took two days. Some of us just stayed at Cooper House and floated in the stream. One day we made a raft from the inner tubes, but it had a tendency to throw its passengers. Another day we tried to use inner tubes, plastic bags, and ropes to walk across the river on top of the water. Paul Anderson of Billingham Ward walked the farthest. He had inner tubes tied to his hands and knees.

Some years ago, I was with President Marion G. Romney, meeting with mission presidents and their wives in Geneva, Switzerland. He told them that 50 years before, as a missionary boy in Australia, late one afternoon he had gone to a library to study. When he walked out, it was night. He looked up into the starry sky, and it happened. The Spirit touched him, and a certain witness was born in his soul.
He told those mission presidents that he did not know any more surely then as a member of the First Presidency that God the Father lives; that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, the Only Begotten of the Father; and that the fulness of the gospel had been restored than he did as a missionary boy 50 years before in Australia. He said that his testimony had changed in that it was much easier to get an answer from the Lord. The Lord’s presence was nearer, and he knew the Lord much better than he had 50 years before.

When I was a young missionary assigned to the British Mission, my first area of labor was in what was then the Bristol District. One of the local Church leaders emphasized that missionaries serving in that area needed to be “shipshape and Bristol fashion.”

Initially I didn’t understand the point he was making. I soon learned the history and meaning of the nautical phrase “shipshape and Bristol fashion.” At one time Bristol was the second busiest port in the United Kingdom. It had a very high tidal range of 43 feet (13 m), the second highest in the world. At low tide when the water receded, the old ships would hit bottom and fall on their sides, and if the ships were not well built, they would be damaged. In addition, everything that was not carefully stowed away or tied down would be thrown in a chaotic fashion and ruined or spoiled. After I understood what that phrase meant, it was clear that this leader was telling us that, as missionaries, we must be righteous, follow rules, and be prepared for difficult situations.

While Henry was longing for his mother, she was thinking constantly of him and Mary. In Utah she worked long hours, sewing, tailoring, and making hats. After three years she had earned enough to send for her children.
But Henry could not be found! He was nine years old by the time Church leaders in England found him. On April 30, 1866, he and his sister Mary boarded the sailing ship John Bright with about seven hundred other Latter-day Saints.
The voyage was a mixture of terror and fun. Violent storms brewed at sea, lasting as long as three days. Other days were calm and cloudless. On those days the passengers sometimes sang, danced, and played games on the deck. Henry often played marbles with other children when the ship was steady enough for the marbles to stay in the ring. He and Mary ate food they had brought with them, such as bread and pickled fatty bacon that had turned green.
After the ship landed in New York on June 6, Henry and Mary still had a long way to go. They travelled to Nebraska by boat and train, often riding in cattle cars. The bedding and equipment sent by their mother were not waiting for them in Nebraska, so on July 13 they set off in a Church wagon train with only the clothes on their backs.
To make matters worse, Henry lost his wooden clogs when he crossed the Platte River. Not wanting to wait for the rest of the wagon train to reach the river, Henry got up early and left by himself—something he knew he was not supposed to do. When he reached the river about noon, he was tired and fell asleep. When he woke up, he saw the last of the wagons pulling up on the other side of it.
He shouted, and William Henry Chipman, the captain of the company, told him to swim across the river. Taking off his heavy coat and wooden clogs so he could swim, Henry plunged into the water. When the current carried him downstream, Captain Chipman rode his horse into the water. Henry grabbed a stirrup and held on while the horse swam across.
He was safe, but he had to walk across the remaining plains barefoot. His feet became black, hard, and cracked from the journey; blood often oozed from the cracks. Sometimes at night Mary cried in sympathy as she pulled spines of prickly pear cactus from his feet.
Near Fort Laramie, Wyoming, the Saints lost many cattle in an Indian raid and had little food, but a relief train from Salt Lake City kept them from starving.
When Henry and Mary entered Salt Lake City on September 15, 1866, it had been more than four years since they had seen their mother. Henry walked proudly at the head of the train, his clothes in tatters, his hair sticking out in all directions. In honor of the occasion, he was wearing a pair of boots, many sizes too large, that he had discovered in a burned-out pony express station.
His mother was nowhere to be seen. When the company halted for the last time, Henry sat on a crate in a wagon, heartsick, watching the happy reunions between loved ones. At last he saw a woman in a red and white plaid shawl approaching. He went to her and said, “Hey, Mother.”
“Is that you, Henry?” she asked. “Where is Mary?” Mary was hiding inside a wagon, ashamed of her ragged clothing. The family was finally reunited. However, there was sad news. During her journey to Utah, Sister Roberts had watched her baby, Thomas, weaken and die. She had buried him in a donated breadbox coffin along the way.
When Henry arrived in Utah, he couldn’t read or write, but he learned very quickly. Brigham, as Henry was now called, helped to support his family by farming, herding cattle, training horses, prospecting, mining, and blacksmithing. One night he and a friend shot a 550-pound (250-kg) grizzly bear. They sold the hide, and Brigham used his share of the money to help pay for his education at the University of Deseret (now the University of Utah). He finished his two-year course of study in one year, graduating in 1878 at the head of his class.
Brigham, or B. H. as he was often known in later life, went on to achieve great things. He served missions in the United States and Great Britain. He presided over the Southern and Eastern States Missions. He wrote many books, including the six-volume Comprehensive History of the Church. He became famous for his eloquence in preaching the gospel. He served in the First Quorum of the Seventy and was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives. The poor boy sleeping in doorways, yearning for his mother’s love, had grown into one of the most loved and respected men in the Church.

I first saw Karen Aydlotte at a multi-stake fireside at BYU. She was the speaker. She was smiling and joking and telling us that there was a good chance she might not live much longer, that she had cancer, an often incurable form of it.
Several weeks later I met Karen through a mutual friend. She was very open with her feelings. We talked a good deal about life and death. For me, for most of us, it is easy to put the reality of death into what Shakespeare aptly phrased as “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.” For Karen death was hard reality. She had to reconcile living with dying.