Gospel Story Finder

“Look at how squished together the houses are!” Richard’s younger brother, Michael, said, pointing to a row of matching doors. “Are there any kids my age around here?” he asked.
“I’m sure there are,” Mom said, pulling another box from the car.
“Yeah,” said Richard. “Look at all the toys and bikes in the yards.”
Erika stroked Jewel and tickled her tummy as she carried the purring cat to the front door. “I think Jewel likes it here!” she said.
Richard knew why his family was moving here. It was close to the hospital where Erika was getting treatments.
Even though Erika was older than Richard, she looked smaller and skinnier because of her cancer treatments. The treatments also made her hair fall out. That’s why she always wore a bright yellow hat.
“Almost as sunny as her smile,” Mom sometimes said.
Suddenly Michael yelled from the hill up the street. “A playground! We have a playground!”
“A playground?” Erika started walking up the street, her smile even bigger. “Let’s go see it!”
As they got closer, Richard saw a big sign on the fence: “UNSAFE—DO NOT PLAY.” The swing set was broken, and a few rusty pipes were lying around.
“That’s sad!” Richard said. “I bet there are lots of kids around here who would love a place to play.”
“We could fix it!” Erika said. She sounded excited, like she could already see the way it would look.
“Could we, Mom?” Richard asked.
Mom shrugged. “I don’t know, kids. That would be really difficult.”
Erika looked at the playground. Her smile had faded, but her hat still looked bright and sunny.
Richard turned back to Mom. “Can we try?”
Mom finally gave in. But it would take lots of work.
After they got settled in their new house, Richard and Michael started looking for neighborhood kids to help. Mom called businesses to ask for donations. Before long kids were cleaning up trash and planting flowers. They painted benches with castles, spaceships, and dragons—Erika’s favorite. The whole neighborhood was helping make Erika’s dream come true!
As months went by, Erika got sicker and sicker. But even when she couldn’t help fix things up anymore, she and Jewel came out to cheer the helpers on.
“Remember, we want plenty of ramps for wheelchairs,” she said. “This will be a playground everyone can play on!”
On the day the playground was finally opened, Erika wasn’t there. She had already returned to Heavenly Father. But Richard, Michael, and Mom were there?—along with tons of other kids. There were kids in wheelchairs, kids on crutches, and even kids from other neighborhoods!
A new playground sign said “Erika’s Dream Park.”
Richard sat on a bench covered with paintings of dragons and watched everyone run and jump and swing. He knew Erika was in heaven and that she wasn’t sick anymore. But it was still hard watching all those kids play without her there.
The sun was bright and yellow like Erika’s hat. Richard could feel it warm him from head to toe. He thought maybe he was feeling warm for another reason too. Like maybe the Holy Ghost was telling him that things would be OK. He knew he would see Erika again. And when she was resurrected, her body would be healthy and strong. A smile spread across Richard’s face.
“Come on, Richard!” Michael shouted from the top of the slide.
Richard jumped off the bench and ran into the sunshine to play.

The next morning I sat shyly, uncertainly, on a big wooden kitchen chair, Oscar, my teddy bear, on my lap. I looked across the table at a long, tall newspaper with a strong hand clutching each side. I knew it was Grandpa because when I had walked down the stairs and peeked timidly around the corner, he had lowered the paper and winked at me.
“Would you like some hot chocolate, dear?” Grandma had asked in her quiet voice.
I jumped slightly at her question, chewed on Oscar’s ear, and tried desperately to think of an answer. It shouldn’t have been so hard, but you see, Grandma was very quiet, and I was a little afraid of her.
“Yes, dear,” I heard the deep voice from behind the newspaper answer.
Oh, I thought, embarrassed. I was glad I hadn’t answered. I soon learned that Grandma would never ask me if I wanted some. If I did, I had to ask her.
I drove thoughtfully around corners, through child-infested residential areas, almost afraid to arrive at my destination.
Grandma had sounded as quiet as ever on the telephone. “You’d better come,” she had said. As usual her voice confused me. She gave only words. I could never see what was in her mind, in her heart. If only she would cry or something to give me a clue.
“Come now,” she said. So I came. But I was afraid.
What if Grandpa looked less than majestic? I didn’t want to remember him the rest of my life as small and shriveled, perhaps even senseless. Oh, how I longed to sit on his lap once again, to place childish arms securely around his neck, hear a story, share a laugh. Why hadn’t I come back last year when I had planned to? Why had I waited till now when … I shook my head angrily. I had been having too much fun. And in my mind there had been no rush. Grandpa would be there forever. I couldn’t imagine it any other way. And his lively, colorful letters brought him into my apartment weekly.
Suddenly I saw a flash of blue before me. My hands gripped the steering wheel; my foot reached for the brake. Screeching, I stopped just inches short of the boy on his blue bicycle. My head pounded, my palms sweat, but he just pedaled by, his hands in the air, unafraid, cocky. It seems like everyone has a nice bike these days. With a smile I remembered mine.
It was the most beautiful bicycle I had ever seen. Next to it the twinkling Christmas tree looked dim. It was shiny lavender and white, with coal-black seat and tires, sparkling spokes, and what surely would have been the envy of every kid at home—lavender plastic tassles dangling gaily from the handlebars. My eyes laughed. My mouth didn’t utter a sound, for there was more, even more, and my little heart could hardly stand it. There in the center of the handlebars, strapped securely in place, was a dainty, white, woven basket with two purple plastic flowers on the front. It was too much, really too much. Why, I knew kids back home who would’ve been glad to come in Christmas morning and find anything that had two wheels and could move by their Christmas tree. I used to have a friend named Sara who never sat down while riding her scratched, squeaky bicycle because it had no seat. In fact, I knew an older boy back home, well he was at least 12, who had picked up junk from the junkyard and made his own bike. It was a strange looking thing, but it worked.
I caressed my shiny new handlebars. I turned and grinned at Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma stood quietly, with a hint of a smile about her mouth. Grandpa beamed. I had been suspicious lately of this man, Santa Claus. I mean he never did get anything right and he always gave more to the kids whose parents had money than he gave to poorer families, and it seemed like it should be the other way around. Seeing Grandma and Grandpa like they were that Christmas morning, I decided once and for all that Santa was not responsible for this wonderful surprise. Grandma was too pleased, Grandpa too proud. This was one of those times that my mama had told me I’d have someday when I would cry with happiness and wisdom.
The difference between me then and many kids now is that I knew how truly lucky I was to have that bike.
I remember another morning, a summer morning that dawned slowly on me, slow and dimly gray … different. I pulled my blankets over my shoulders. My room felt cool and clammy. The sunshine that fell across my bed seemed shrouded, not glorious like a Saturday morning. My mind was foggy. My eyes studied the room, wall to pink wall, corner to corner.
“Is this Saturday?” I blinked and tried again. A clear, glassed window answers all kinds of questions. I hated the window in the bathroom. It was made of some fuzzy, bumpy kind of glass, and you couldn’t see through it at all. My bedroom window was my world. I could see green through it. I could see blue. I could vaguely see the colorless, transcendental, sparkly shine, but it was having a hard time getting through those raindrops on the window. Raindrops! I threw back my covers, swung my feet to the floor, and ran to the window.
“It is Saturday and it rained last night!” Tears sprang to my eyes, and I knew, I just knew that my bike would be nothing but a big pile of rust.
Who would have thought last night when the full moon fell all over the yard and the clear, black sky stretched on forever that clouds would sneak in and drench everything during the night? I ran hysterically down the stairs, holding my big, poofy nightgown in one fist around my waist so I wouldn’t trip. I ran to the kitchen window and threw back the curtain. A little bubble popped in my chest—my bike hadn’t disintegrated to rust yet. I grabbed a dish towel from Grandma’s apron. Grandma looked up questioningly from spattering bacon and eggs. I ran out the door.
Oh my bike, my bike, it was wet! Wet all over, wet white and lavender, wet droopy tassles, wet little basket, wet, wet, wet! I could hardly see it through my tears as I wiped madly with Grandma’s dish towel. Soon the salty droplets were one with the raindrops. My face was wet and cold.
I didn’t hear the door bang shut. I didn’t hear the footsteps. I only saw the hand, the big, masculine hand clenched around another dish towel gently wiping up raindrops. I looked up. He hooked a bit blurry. No questions, no amused grin. Grandpa helped me dry my bike.
The hospital was tall, five stories tall. It was a new building with hundreds of windows in uniform rows. I stood before it, my head bent back as my eyes scanned the top row of windows. So many windows, each with a personal story behind it. Which one housed my grandpa, my childhood, my life? I looked to the pavement below my feet and slowly shook my head. My hand wiped away a tear, and I entered the modern, colorful house of birth, of joy, of pain, of loneliness, and … I shuddered … and hoped I would never have to come here again.
“Room 363, intensive care.” The woman’s face was blank, expressionless. Again I felt the tightness in my chest. Something wanted to explode there. I leaned against the elevator wall, my eyes shut tight.
The nurse was a little more human. “You’ll have to wait a moment, dear. The doctor is with him,” she whispered. The hall, the air was hushed and still. At the end of the hall in the corner, a quiet bottle rack stood with rows of empty pop bottles. It made me think of Grandpa’s store. Grandpa kept all the empty pop bottles in a bushel basket just inside the back door. It didn’t take me long to figure out that if I went in the back door, took a couple of bottles, went out the back door and around to the front door, I could give Grandpa the bottles and buy a candy bar. Then Grandpa would take the bottles out back and put them into the bushel basket to wait till the next time I got a craving for a Hershey bar. Back home we had to search up and down the streets, in and out of alleys, through garbage cans to find an empty pop bottle. Life was just easier all the way around here with Grandpa and Grandma.
Thinking of Grandma made me feel a little apprehensive. She was in with Grandpa now, but sooner or later I would have to see her, I would have to say something. It doesn’t seem possible that two people could live in the same house together for 13 years and still be strangers. How could she be so unlike Grandpa? She’d never been cross or impatient, but I couldn’t talk to her. I secretly suspected that she’d been relieved to see me go. I sighed tiredly. Grandma wouldn’t understand my hurt. How could she? She didn’t know me.
I had finally come to know myself. I remember a day when, 15 and confused, I borrowed Sandy’s jeans. Sandy was everything I wished I was—cute, popular, self-confident. Somehow I guess I thought that if I wore her jeans, I’d be more like her. But her body, shapely for 15, was about three sizes bigger than my wiry one. I guess I looked pretty silly with her pants hanging on me like a bag, held tight around my waist with a belt, then ballooning out like a clown’s costume. I remember Grandpa’s face, so serious, so gentle: “Honey, why do you wear Sandy’s clothes? Why do you talk like her and laugh like her?” Embarrassed I looked to the floor, at the pants that hung inches past my feet.
“Why not be yourself?” he said.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I sobbed. “How can I be myself? I don’t even know who I am.”
Grandpa held me on his lap as if I were a child again, quietly, till the crying stopped and the tears dried. With a smile he looked into my eyes. “You used to know,” he said. “But we all forget sometimes. Take Sandy’s pants back to her. Together we’ll rediscover you. Then you can be yourself.”
Grandpa knew me. He hadn’t forgotten who I was. I soon remembered who I was. But Grandma had never known.
The door swung silently open. The doctor walked through the doorway and looked kindly at me. “You must be Janie,” he said. “Your Grandpa has been asking for you.”
I let out a long breath and stood. I felt light-headed. My legs felt like jelly. I looked to the doctor for strength. But he didn’t know me either. He smiled and walked down the hall.
I entered the room. Grandpa was not small and shriveled. He was not senseless. He smiled at me. He looked very pale.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I cried and ran to his open arms. He held me, patting my back.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I have no regrets.” I looked at him with a teary face. His eyes were clear. He looked tired.
“Don’t cry, Blondie Boo. Don’t cry.” His eyes closed. He held me a moment longer, then his hands, his arms, relaxed. They lay heavy on my back.
“Grandpa,” I sobbed. I could see him lying still. But someone’s warm hands were on my shoulders. I turned to look into Grandma’s face.
“For the first time in his life he was wrong,” she said. “It’s all right to cry.” Surprised, I saw that she was crying, too. I could only stare.
“Come stay with me for a while,” she said suddenly. I was confused.
“Please,” she said. “It will be kind of like wiping up raindrops. I’ll help you … and you can help me.” I couldn’t believe it. She did understand. And in her quiet way she probably always had.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll stay.” I had a grandmother to get to know.

“I can’t believe people go to work this early,” someone says, watching the lonely headlights of a car appear and then quietly disappear down the streets of the still-sleeping town. It is dark, early-morning dark, in the church parking lot. The coolness of the early hour inspires thoughts of sleep and warm beds rather than the day of work ahead, but work is what everyone has come out to do. After all, this is no ordinary Saturday morning; it is the beginning of the second annual Wood Run.
In the lumberjack country of Oregon or the thick pine forests of Washington, a project to cut and stack timber would raise no eyebrows. But when youth from Kanab, Utah, decide to hold an annual Wood Run, eyebrows are raised. The surrounding countryside poses some problems. The sage-covered flatlands, dry gulleys, and beautiful but barren red bluffs that characterize the small southern Utah community make it easy to wonder how far you would have to travel to find lumber, especially enough to satisfy this eager group.
The Wood Run originated when the Young Women of the Kanab Second Ward said they could stack and haul more wood than the Young Men could. And just one year ago, in the first official Wood Run, they proved it.
This year, as they stand waiting in the church parking lot, the young men say things will be different.
As the last cars pull in and the sun begins to rise, the dark shapes in the parking lot take on identity, and a spirit of competition begins to whisper through the crowd. In the new light the Laurel and Beehive advisers look around and confer.
“Do they have more people than we do?”
“I think so.”
“We’re outnumbered!”
“Well,” concludes Charlene Swapp, Beehive adviser, “there are more boys this year, but we’ll still beat them.”
The girls seem to agree. “Are we going to whop ’em?” asks the Young Women’s president, Jo Anne Goodfellow. “Yeah!” comes the resounding chorus from a group of enthusiastic young women.
The men are not in agreement, however. Loral Linton, teachers quorum adviser, stands by, listening to the boasts with a knowing smile on his face. “We’ll get even this year,” he says smugly.
This attitude seems to prevail among the young men and has resulted in a slight alteration of the event’s original name. Among themselves the event has become known as the Revenge of the Wood Run.
Soon everyone in the parking lot has piled into cars and trucks to head for the Kaibab National Forest to make good their claims of victory.
“That’s where we’re going,” someone says, pointing to a smooth, flat-topped hill of purplish hue that rises in the distance across the border into Arizona. “That’s the Kaibab.”
“That’s the Kaibab?”
The words of a lifelong resident, a man who homesteaded his own land out here and really knows the area, come to mind. “Kaibab is Indian for mountain lying down,’” he’d said, looking off in that direction and adjusting his cowboy hat.
Well, the Indians were right.
From this distance the level swell on the horizon hardly resembles the picture that the word mountain conjures up. Where are the jagged cliffs, the snow-capped peaks, the single vertical summit rising up to pierce the clouds?
It’s hard to believe that this level mountain stretches out to form the towering north and south rims of the Grand Canyon. And harder still to believe that it provides enough wood to keep one of the largest sawmills in Utah and Arizona in business.
But as the caravan of cars and trucks works its way closer to the Kaibab, the sage-covered plains give way, almost imperceptibly at first, to hills sprinkled with pine. The caravan climbs higher, and the air becomes cooler. Sparse pine becomes forest. Suddenly you’re a believer.
After bumping over dusty dirt roads, the caravan stops, and everyone climbs out. Instructions are brief. “Women stack on the right side of the road and men on the left. Three chain saws to a team. The winner is whoever stacks and loads the most wood onto the trucks before lunch.” Within minutes chain saws are buzzing, chips of wood and sawdust fly, and the strong scent of freshly cut pine fills the air.
“This is all waste wood that loggers have left piled up,” says Bishop Jack Frost, referring to the large, unkempt piles of wood and brush that are being cut into with a vengeance.
The young women have quickly formed a log-passing brigade, and from what looks like just a pile of brush come the beginnings of what will soon be a healthy-sized stack of clean, much-needed wood. According to Bishop Frost, the cutting and stacking are just the beginning of the project. Once the wood is taken home, it must be split and then delivered throughout the winter to those that need it for fuel.
Last year Mary Jo Morrison and her daughter Jodi received some wood from the project. “Normally, we would have had to buy the wood,” says Mary Jo. “I was very appreciative. It was not just logs, either. The wood was cut, and split, and ready to burn. I work full-time, but this year Jodi is able to go up and help. Those kids work hard.”
“It gives you a good feeling to be doing something for people who can’t go up and chop the wood themselves,” says Jodi, a first-year Beehive.
Although much of this year’s Wood Run still lies ahead, for now everyone seems intent on gathering as much wood as they can. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s the best service project I’ve ever been on,” says Bishop Frost. “The kids all get a sense of usefulness out of it. They feel like they’ve accomplished something. And they have. It’s hard work to gather this much wood.”
Nobody would argue with him on that point. Across the road and farther up from where the girls are working, the young men are diving into their pile of wood in a less organized but equally effective manner. As soon as the chain saw has rendered a log into chopping size blocks, the blocks are thrown onto a pile and then loaded onto a truck.
Echoing the bishop’s feelings, Chad Goodfellow, teachers quorum president, says that the Wood Run is a better service project than most he’s been on. “There’s a lot done here. This is an activity, but it also does some good for everybody else.” He’s right. By the time the project is over, nearly everyone in the ward will have had the opportunity to take part in helping others.
And their help doesn’t go unappreciated. “I’m a widow, and usually I’ve bought my wood,” says Nedra Baughman, who received some wood last year. She was surprised one day to find a truck and some of the youth from the ward in front of her home. “There they were, two unloading the wood, some splitting it and others stacking it,” she says. “I was overwhelmed. It makes you feel humble and very grateful.”
With this kind of response awaiting their work, the workers find the day goes quickly.
Before long the trucks begin to fill with wood, and lookouts are sent to spy on the opposing team. Extra sweatshirts or jackets are laid aside or tied around waists as the morning’s cool edge melts into afternoon.
The log-passing brigade formed by the young women continues to function but at a slightly slower pace—slow enough, anyway, to allow a good sawdust fight and accommodate plenty of laughter and talking.
“It’s very hard work,” says Shelley Allen, a Mia Maid and veteran worker from the previous year, “but it’s fun when you’re all working together. And when you take the wood to people’s houses, they like it. That’s the neat part.”
Jamie Leavitt, Beehive president, shakes some clinging bits of sawdust from her hair and agrees that delivering the wood to people who need it really does make all the hard work worthwhile.
Of course, hard work or not, none of the young men is so tired that he can resist climbing the sides of the huge diesel truck to scale the mountain of wood it holds and shout claims of victory to those below.
The deadline that seemed years away while the workers were standing sleepily in the cool morning dark at the church parking lot has arrived. It is time to declare a winner.
The noisy crowd gathers. Dusty gloves are dropped to the ground and then joined for a rest by their equally dusty wearers. Examining the cuts and scrapes on her uncovered arms, one young woman suggests that the winners be determined by comparing the number of scratches on the arms of the opposing teams. Seeing the dirt embedded in the young women’s shirts and ground into the knees of their jeans, someone else suggests the winners be judged by the amount of dirt they’ve accumulated. If dirt is the criterion, the young women are certainly the day’s winners!
Although some claim the wood got heavier as the day wore on and some reactions to getting up so early were not always positive, the young people feel good about the work they’ve done.
“This has really been fun,” says Andy Compas, first assistant in the priests quorum. “Last year I got to deliver the wood, but I didn’t get to come out here.” For Andy, as for most of the youth, the real magic of the project is in the delivery of the wood. “Just to see their faces when we took it to them,” he says of the year before. “They couldn’t tell us how much they appreciated it.”
For Dan Allen, who operated a chain saw, the day’s experience is nothing new. He works for a logging company, so the cutting, stacking, and hauling of the wood are all part of a normal day’s work to him. The difference seems to lie in giving up an otherwise free day to help someone else. “It’s a lot more fun to cut and stack wood when you’re doing it as a service for someone else,” he says.
Most of the day’s work is done now, and everyone takes advantage of the free time to relax. Well, almost everyone.
What may prove to be the toughest job of the day is still waiting. It belongs to Bishop Frost, who must judge the work and come up with a winning team. Both sides feel they’ve won.
“I don’t know if you dare judge,” counsels one adviser. But drawing on the wisdom and the example of Solomon, the bishop thinks it over and makes his decision.
In an odd twist guaranteed to satisfy both teams, the bishop declares the young men to be the official winners, but before any cheers can be raised, the bishop gives the young women the honor of having worked the hardest. It seems to work.
Lunch is cleared away, jackets and gloves are retrieved from tree stumps, and everyone gathers for one last picture by the side of the huge diesel truck. The edge of competition so evident earlier that morning in the church parking lot has faded. They are friends.
After all, everyone here knows what the real meaning of the project is. They know it goes beyond the difficulty of rising early, stacking wood, and loading trucks. They know it even goes beyond the momentary thrill of victory. The work may give a sense of accomplishment and the competition may provide some fun, but everyone who participates knows it is the giving that makes it all worthwhile.

The setting for my final example of one who persevered and ultimately prevailed, despite overwhelmingly difficult circumstances, begins in East Prussia following World War II.
In about March 1946, less than a year after the end of the war, Ezra Taft Benson, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, accompanied by Frederick W. Babbel, was assigned a special postwar tour of Europe for the express purpose of meeting with the Saints, assessing their needs, and providing assistance to them. Elder Benson and Brother Babbel later recounted, from a testimony they heard, the experience of a Church member who found herself in an area no longer controlled by the government under which she had resided.
She and her husband had lived an idyllic life in East Prussia. Then had come the second great world war within their lifetimes. Her beloved young husband was killed during the final days of the frightful battles in their homeland, leaving her alone to care for their four children.
The occupying forces determined that the Germans in East Prussia must go to Western Germany to seek a new home. The woman was German, and so it was necessary for her to go. The journey was over a thousand miles (1,600 km), and she had no way to accomplish it but on foot. She was allowed to take only such bare necessities as she could load into her small wooden-wheeled wagon. Besides her children and these meager possessions, she took with her a strong faith in God and in the gospel as revealed to the latter-day prophet Joseph Smith.
She and the children began the journey in late summer. Having neither food nor money among her few possessions, she was forced to gather a daily subsistence from the fields and forests along the way. She was constantly faced with dangers from panic-stricken refugees and plundering troops.
As the days turned into weeks and the weeks to months, the temperatures dropped below freezing. Each day, she stumbled over the frozen ground, her smallest child—a baby—in her arms. Her three other children struggled along behind her, with the oldest—seven years old—pulling the tiny wooden wagon containing their belongings. Ragged and torn burlap was wrapped around their feet, providing the only protection for them, since their shoes had long since disintegrated. Their thin, tattered jackets covered their thin, tattered clothing, providing their only protection against the cold.
Soon the snows came, and the days and nights became a nightmare. In the evenings she and the children would try to find some kind of shelter—a barn or a shed—and would huddle together for warmth, with a few thin blankets from the wagon on top of them.
She constantly struggled to force from her mind overwhelming fears that they would perish before reaching their destination.
And then one morning the unthinkable happened. As she awakened, she felt a chill in her heart. The tiny form of her three-year-old daughter was cold and still, and she realized that death had claimed the child. Though overwhelmed with grief, she knew that she must take the other children and travel on. First, however, she used the only implement she had—a tablespoon—to dig a grave in the frozen ground for her tiny, precious child.
Death, however, was to be her companion again and again on the journey. Her seven-year-old son died, either from starvation or from freezing or both. Again her only shovel was the tablespoon, and again she dug hour after hour to lay his mortal remains gently into the earth. Next, her five-year-old son died, and again she used her tablespoon as a shovel.
Her despair was all consuming. She had only her tiny baby daughter left, and the poor thing was failing. Finally, as she was reaching the end of her journey, the baby died in her arms. The spoon was gone now, so hour after hour she dug a grave in the frozen earth with her bare fingers. Her grief became unbearable. How could she possibly be kneeling in the snow at the graveside of her last child? She had lost her husband and all her children. She had given up her earthly goods, her home, and even her homeland.
In this moment of overwhelming sorrow and complete bewilderment, she felt her heart would literally break. In despair she contemplated how she might end her own life, as so many of her fellow countrymen were doing. How easy it would be to jump off a nearby bridge, she thought, or to throw herself in front of an oncoming train.
And then, as these thoughts assailed her, something within her said, “Get down on your knees and pray.” She ignored the prompting until she could resist it no longer. She knelt and prayed more fervently than she had in her entire life:
“Dear Heavenly Father, I do not know how I can go on. I have nothing left—except my faith in Thee. I feel, Father, amidst the desolation of my soul, an overwhelming gratitude for the atoning sacrifice of Thy Son, Jesus Christ. I cannot express adequately my love for Him. I know that because He suffered and died, I shall live again with my family; that because He broke the chains of death, I shall see my children again and will have the joy of raising them. Though I do not at this moment wish to live, I will do so, that we may be reunited as a family and return—together—to Thee.”
When she finally reached her destination of Karlsruhe, Germany, she was emaciated. Brother Babbel said that her face was a purple-gray, her eyes red and swollen, her joints protruding. She was literally in the advanced stages of starvation. In a Church meeting shortly thereafter, she bore a glorious testimony, stating that of all the ailing people in her saddened land, she was one of the happiest because she knew that God lived, that Jesus is the Christ, and that He died and was resurrected so that we might live again. She testified that she knew if she continued faithful and true to the end, she would be reunited with those she had lost and would be saved in the celestial kingdom of God.8

I remember as a young boy feeling carefree as I walked to the church for a Primary meeting. When I arrived, I was surprised to see all of the parents there for a special program. Then it hit me. I had a part in this program, and I had forgotten to memorize my lines. When my turn came to say my part, I stood in front of my chair, but not one word came from my mouth. I could remember nothing. So I just stood there and then finally sat down and stared at the floor.

After that experience, I made a firm resolve never to speak in any Church meeting again. And I held to that resolve for some time. Then one Sunday, Sister Lydia Stillman, a Primary leader, knelt down at my side and asked me to give a short talk the following week. I said, “I don’t give talks.” She responded, “I know, but you can give this one because I’ll help you.” I continued to resist, but she expressed so much confidence in me that her invitation was hard to refuse. I gave the talk.

That good woman was a messenger from God, who had a work for me to do. She taught me that when a call comes, you accept it, no matter how inadequate you might feel. As Moroni did with Joseph, she made certain that I was prepared when the time came to give that talk. That inspired teacher helped save my life.

One of the special memories of my life is an experience that occurred during the early years of my marriage. I was attending Brigham Young University (in Provo, Utah,) and we had just moved into our first home with our first baby.
Since we had a new baby, my wife was no longer working and we were seriously troubled financially. One month we figured out that if we payed our tithing in addition to the other bills we had to pay, we would be left with exactly fifty cents. But we really didn’t struggle with that decision very long because we believed what the Lord had told us through the prophet Malachi. (See Mal. 3:10–12.) We paid our tithing.
The following Monday I was downtown looking at picture frames on display in a store. One of our friends at Brigham Young University had given us a beautiful etching to hang in our home, but of course I could not afford to buy a frame. As I turned to leave, though, I felt impressed to go back and ask the young man behind the counter if he knew of anyone who was looking for a house painter. My father had been a painter, and his father also, and I had been trained in the trade. I didn’t think there was much chance of getting a job because it was winter and because there was not much work anywhere. Nevertheless, I heeded the urge and asked the clerk about employment.
He said, “You know, one of our customers was in here just this morning looking for a well trained painter.” He gave me the man’s address, I called him within the hour, and by afternoon I was earning two dollars an hour as foreman of a painting crew. That was high wages at the time, and I have never been out of a job since.

President Nelson: When my grandfather A. C. Nelson was a young husband and father, just 27 years old, his father died. About three months later, his deceased father, my great-grandfather, came to visit him. The date of that visit was the night of April 6, 1891. Grandfather Nelson was so impressed by his father’s visit that he wrote the experience in his journal for his family and friends.
“I was in bed when Father entered the room,” Grandfather Nelson wrote. “He came and sat on the side of the bed. He said, ‘Well, my son, as I had a few spare minutes, I received permission to come and see you for a few minutes. I am feeling well, my son, and have had very much to do since I died.’”
When Grandfather Nelson asked him what he had been doing, his father answered that he had been busy teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ in the spirit world.
“You cannot imagine, my son, how many spirits there are in the spirit world who have not yet received the gospel,” he said. “But many are receiving it, and a great work is being accomplished. Many are anxiously looking forth to their friends who are still living to administer for them in the temples.”
Grandfather Nelson told his father, “We intend to go to the temple and get sealed to you, Father, as soon as we can.”
My great-grandfather responded: “That, my son, is partly what I came to see you about. We will yet make a family and live throughout eternity.”
Then Grandfather Nelson asked, “Father, is the gospel as taught by this Church true?”
His father pointed to a picture of the First Presidency hanging on the wall of the bedroom.
“My son, just as sure as you see that picture, just as sure is the gospel true. The gospel of Jesus Christ has within it the power of saving every man and woman who will obey it, and in no other way can they ever obtain salvation in the kingdom of God. My son, always cling to the gospel. Be humble, be prayerful, be submissive to the priesthood, be true, be faithful to the covenants you have made with God. Never do anything that would displease God. Oh, what a blessing is the gospel. My son, be a good boy.”
A. C. Nelson, grandfather of President Russell M. Nelson.
Illustrations by Bjorn Thorkelson
Sister Nelson: I just love all those B’s. “Be humble, be prayerful, be submissive to the priesthood, be true, be faithful to the covenants you have made with God. … Be a good boy.” Six B’s brought to you by your departed great-grandfather. He certainly sounds a lot like President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) with his six B’s.1
President Nelson: He does, doesn’t he? It’s so precious to me that my grandfather would leave that record for us. We learned that his father’s children were subsequently sealed to him. So the reason for his visit was accomplished.
President Nelson: A name of great significance in the scriptures explains why the family is so important. That name is Elijah. EL-I-JAH in Hebrew literally means “Jehovah is my God.”2 Think of it! Embedded in Elijah’s name are the Hebrew terms for both the Father and the Son.
Sister Nelson: Elijah was the last prophet to hold the sealing power of the Melchizedek Priesthood before the time of Jesus Christ. Elijah’s mission was to turn the hearts of the children to the fathers, and the hearts of the fathers to the children, so they could be sealed, or else “the whole earth would be utterly wasted at his coming” (Joseph Smith—History 1:39; emphasis added). That’s pretty strong language.
President Nelson: I like to think about the spirit of Elijah as “a manifestation of the Holy Ghost bearing witness of the divine nature of the family.”3 According to the Bible Dictionary, “The power of Elijah is the sealing power of the priesthood by which things bound or loosed on earth are bound or loosed in heaven” (“Elijah”).
Sister Nelson: So when we say that the spirit of Elijah is moving upon people to encourage them to seek after their kindred dead, we’re really saying that the Holy Ghost is prompting us to do those things that will allow families to be sealed eternally.
President Nelson: It’s wonderful to turn the hearts of the children to their fathers by telling important family history stories in ways that are accessible and memorable. Perhaps having family history documents, stories, photos, and memorabilia always before our eyes can strengthen our testimonies (see Mosiah 1:5). As we place them on our walls, our tables, our computers, our iPads, and even our cell phones, maybe we will be prompted to make better choices and draw closer to the Lord and to our families.
If we leave it at that level, however, we really haven’t done enough. As Church members, our interest in family history work has been motivated by instruction from the Lord that our ancestors cannot be made perfect without us and that we cannot be made perfect without them (see D&C 128:15). That means we are to be linked together by the sacred sealing ordinances of the temple. We are to be strong links in the chain from our ancestors to our posterity. If our collections of stories and photos should ever become an end point in themselves—if we know who our ancestors are and know marvelous things about them, but we leave them stranded on the other side without their ordinances—such diversion will not be of any help to our ancestors who remain confined in spirit prison.
Sister Nelson: Preserving ancestral stories is important, but it should never be at the expense of completing our ancestors’ ordinance work. We need to make time for our ancestors’ ordinance-qualifying information.
President Nelson: And that means sacrificing time we normally spend on other activities. We need to be spending more time in the temple and in doing family history research, which includes indexing.
Sister Nelson: Sacrifice does indeed bring forth the blessings of heaven.4 I have been blessed to find many ancestors who I feel confident were ready to make covenants with God and to receive their essential ordinances. Over time, I realized that if I was working on an overwhelming project and I was out of time, energy, and ideas, if I would make a sacrifice of time by finding the ordinance-qualifying information for some ancestors or by going to the temple to be proxy for them, the heavens opened and the energy and ideas started flowing. Somehow I had enough time to meet my deadline. It was totally impossible, but it would happen every time. Temple and family history work bring me a joy that is truly not of this world.
President Nelson: If I were a missionary today, my two best friends in the ward or branch where I served would be the ward mission leader and the ward temple and family history consultant.
People have an inborn desire to know something about their ancestors. That becomes a natural opportunity for our missionaries. As missionaries learn to love the people they teach, they will naturally ask about their families. “Are your parents living? Are your grandparents living? Do you know your four grandparents?” Conversations flow easily when those who are drawn to speak with the missionaries are invited to talk about the people they love.
At that point it can be natural for the missionaries, including member missionaries, to ask, “Do you know any of your great-grandparents? Do you know their names?” The probability is that investigators will not know the names of all eight of their great-grandparents.
Then the missionaries can make this suggestion: “I have a friend at our church who can help. If we could find the names of some or maybe even all of your great-grandparents, would it be worth a couple of hours of your time to find out who your great-grandparents are?” That friend at church, of course, is the ward temple and family history consultant.
Sister Nelson: I think it can be comforting for missionaries to know that they are never alone when they are finding and teaching those who are receptive to the truths of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. President George Q. Cannon (1827–1901), who served as a counselor to four Presidents of the Church, taught that in these latter days, those who are joining the Church are joining precisely because their ancestors have been praying for one of their posterity to join the Church so that they, the ancestors, can receive their essential ordinances by proxy.5
President Nelson: Exaltation is a family affair. Only through the saving ordinances of the gospel of Jesus Christ can families be exalted. The ultimate end for which we strive is that we become happy as a family—endowed, sealed, and prepared for eternal life in the presence of God.
Sister Nelson: Each Church class we attend, each time we serve, each covenant we make with God, each priesthood ordinance we receive, everything we do in the Church leads us to the holy temple, the house of the Lord. There is so much power available for a couple and for their children through the sealing ordinance when they keep their covenants.
President Nelson: Every day we choose where we want to live eternally by how we think, feel, speak, and act. Our Heavenly Father has declared that His work and His glory is to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of His children (see Moses 1:39). But He wants us to choose to return to Him. He will not force us in any way. The precision with which we keep our covenants shows Him just how much we want to return to live with Him. Each day brings us closer to or farther from our glorious possibility of eternal life. We each need to keep our covenants, repent daily, and seek to be more like our Savior. Then and only then can families be together forever.
Sister Nelson: It is my testimony that however fabulous your life is right now, or however discouraging and heartbreaking it may be, your involvement in temple and family history work will make it better. What do you need in your life right now? More love? More joy? More self-mastery? More peace? More meaningful moments? More of a feeling that you’re making a difference? More fun? More answers to your soul-searching questions? More heart-to-heart connections with others? More understanding of what you are reading in the scriptures? More ability to love and to forgive? More ability to pray with power? More inspiration and creative ideas for your work and other projects? More time for what really matters?
I entreat you to make a sacrifice of time to the Lord by increasing the time you spend doing temple and family history work, and then watch what happens. It is my testimony that when we show the Lord we are serious about helping our ancestors, the heavens will open and we will receive all that we need.
President Nelson: We can be inspired all day long about temple and family history experiences others have had. But we must do something to actually experience the joy ourselves. I would like to extend a challenge to each one of us so that the wonderful feeling of this work can continue and even increase. I invite you to prayerfully consider what kind of sacrifice—preferably a sacrifice of time—you can make in order to do more temple and family history work this year.
We are engaged in the work of Almighty God. He lives. Jesus is the Christ. This is His Church. We are His covenant children. He can count on us.

I hope it is not presumptuous of me to place into the record of this conference, and therefore into the history of the Church, a note to complete the record of the last one.
In the last session of October conference, Elder A. Theodore Tuttle gave a touching and inspiring sermon on faith. He spoke from his heart, with scriptures in hand, without a prepared text. When he had concluded, President Hinckley, who conducted that session, said:
“I should perhaps be guilty of an indiscretion, but I think I will risk it and say that Brother Tuttle has been seriously ill and he needs our faith, the faith of which he has spoken. It will be appreciated if those who have listened to him across the Church would plead with our Father in Heaven, in the kind of faith which he has described, in his behalf” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1986, p. 93).
President Ezra Taft Benson, who was the concluding speaker, endorsed what President Hinckley had said and appealed himself for fasting and prayers of faith for the recovery of Brother Tuttle.
But Brother Tuttle did not recover. He died seven weeks later.
Now, lest there be one whose faith was shaken, believing prayers were not answered, or lest there be one who is puzzled that the prophet himself could plead for the entire Church to fast and pray for Brother Tuttle to live and yet he died, I will tell you of an experience.
I had intended to tell this at his funeral, but my feelings were too tender that day to speak of it.
One Sunday when Brother Tuttle was at home, confined mostly to his bed, I spent a few hours with him while Marné and the family went to church.
He was deeply moved by the outpouring of love from across the world. Each letter extended prayers of faith for his recovery. Many of the messages came from South America, where the Tuttle family had labored for so many years.
That day we reviewed his life, beginning with his birth in Manti, Utah, to an ordinary Latter-day Saint couple. We talked of his father, whom I knew, and of his mother, a faithful temple worker.
He talked of his mission, his college days, his marriage to Marné Whitaker, and his heroic service in the Marines.
Then we relived our days teaching seminary in Brigham City and supervising the seminaries and institutes of religion.
He talked of his seven faithful children and the flock of grandchildren whom he always described as “the best kids in the world.”
He spoke of his call to the First Quorum of the Seventy and the assignments that followed. Soon the Tuttle family was called to South America. They were hardly settled back home when the Brethren interviewed him about returning.
Others could say, “Of course, if you should call us, we would go.” But not him, nor Marné, for they had made covenants. Without complaint, his wife and family followed him back time after time for a total of seven years.
No matter that he had never recovered from serious physical troubles which began on his first assignment there. That day Brother Tuttle spoke tenderly of the humble people of Latin America. They who have so little had greatly blessed his life.
He insisted that he did not deserve more blessings, nor did he need them. Others needed them more. And then he told me this: “I talked to the Lord about those prayers for my recovery. I asked if the blessings were mine to do with as I pleased. If that could be so, I told the Lord that I wanted him to take them back from me and give them to those who needed them more.”
He said, “I begged the Lord to take back those blessings and give them to others.”
Brother Tuttle wanted those blessings from our prayers for those struggling souls whom most of us hardly remember, but whom he could not forget.
The scriptures teach that “the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much” (James 5:16).
Can you not believe that the Lord may have favored the pleadings of this saintly man above our own appeal for his recovery?
We do not know all things, but is it wrong to suppose that our prayers were not in vain at all? Who among us would dare to say that humble folk here and there across the continent of South America will not receive unexpected blessings passed on to them from this man who was without guile?
May not lofty purposes such as this be worked out in our lives if we are submissive?
Now, I know that skeptics may ridicule such things. But I, for one, am content to believe that our prayers were accepted and recorded and redirected to those whose hands hang down in despair, just as Brother Tuttle had requested.
In any case, ought we not to conclude all our prayers with “Let thy will, O Lord, be done”?
During his last weeks he was always pleasant, invariably comforting those who came to comfort him. I was present when he called his doctors to his bedside and thanked each one for the care he had received.
He was determined to live through Thanksgiving Day lest his passing cast a shadow of sorrow upon his family on that holiday in future years. That evening he saw each of his children, called those who were away, expressed his love and blessings, and bade them farewell. It was very late when they reached Clarie, who lives in Alaska, but his parting must be delayed until that was done.
Early the next morning, without resistance, with a spirit of quiet anticipation, he slipped away. At that moment, there came into that room a spirit of peace which surpasseth understanding.
Marné had been before, was then, and has been since, a perfect example of serenity and acceptance.
Now, to draw a lesson from this experience.
Brother Tuttle served twenty-eight years as a General Authority. He traveled the world. He supervised the work in Europe for a time. But with all the places he would go and all of the things he was to do, he repeatedly said that the crowning experience of his ministry was his service as president of the Provo Temple with his beloved Marné at his side.
Few know the demanding schedule of a temple president. The day may begin at three in the morning and end only too close to that same hour.
It was not that he was presiding over the temple but that the calling allowed him to be in the temple. He would have been quite content to serve under another. His feelings about that assignment were due not so much to his understanding of what a call is, as to his understanding of what a covenant is.
A covenant is a sacred promise, as used in the scriptures, a solemn, enduring promise between God and man. The fulness of the gospel itself is defined as the new and everlasting covenant (see D&C 22:1; D&C 66:2).
Several years ago I installed a stake president in England. In another calling, he is here in the audience today. He had an unusual sense of direction. He was like a mariner with a sextant who took his bearings from the stars. I met with him each time he came to conference and was impressed that he kept himself and his stake on course.
Fortunately for me, when it was time for his release, I was assigned to reorganize the stake. It was then that I discovered what that sextant was and how he adjusted it to check his position and get a bearing for himself and for his members.
He accepted his release, and said, “I was happy to accept the call to serve as stake president, and I am equally happy to accept my release. I did not serve just because I was under call. I served because I am under covenant. And I can keep my covenants quite as well as a home teacher as I can serving as stake president.”
This president understood the word covenant.
While he was neither a scriptorian nor a gospel scholar, he somehow had learned that exaltation is achieved by keeping covenants, not by holding high position.
The mariner gets his bearing from light coming from celestial bodies—the sun by day, the stars by night. That stake president did not need a mariner’s sextant to set his course. In his mind there was a sextant infinitely more refined and precise than any mariner’s instrument.
The spiritual sextant, which each of us has, also functions on the principle of light from celestial sources. Set that sextant in your mind to the word covenant or the word ordinance. The light will come through. Then you can fix your position and set a true course in life.
No matter what citizenship or race, whether male or female, no matter what occupation, no matter your education, regardless of the generation in which one lives, life is a homeward journey for all of us, back to the presence of God in his celestial kingdom.
Ordinances and covenants become our credentials for admission into His presence. To worthily receive them is the quest of a lifetime; to keep them thereafter is the challenge of mortality.
Once we have received them for ourselves and for our families, we are obligated to provide these ordinances vicariously for our kindred dead, indeed for the whole human family.
Now, there are those who scoff at the idea of vicarious ordinances performed for the salvation of souls. They think it all to be very strange.
No thinking Christian should be surprised at such a doctrine. Was not the sacrifice of Christ a vicarious offering for and in behalf of all mankind? The very Atonement was wrought vicariously.
The Lord did for us what we could not do for ourselves. Is it not Christlike for us to perform in the temples ordinances for and in behalf of those who cannot do them for themselves?
Genealogies, or family histories, as I prefer to call them, are an indispensable part of temple work. Temples are nourished with names. Without genealogies, ordinances could be performed only for the living. Searching out the names of our kindred dead is a duty of consummate importance. There is a spirit which accompanies this work very similar to that which attends us in the temple itself.
Missionaries and those with small children may not be able to devote much time to this work at present, but you can keep the spirit of it. You can talk to the old folks and record what they say, keep family records, attend the temple.
There is the tendency on the part of some to regard genealogical work as a tedious, onerous burden. And they are quite content to leave it to the aged or to others “who have an interest in such things.”
Be careful! It may well be that those who have that interest in such things have chosen the better part. And I would say to you, if you are called to other service, or do not have an interest in genealogy, do not belittle or stand in the way of those who do. Give them every encouragement; contribute what you can.
The Prophet Joseph Smith said: “The doctrine or sealing power of Elijah is as follows:—If you have power to seal on earth and in heaven, then we should be wise. The first thing you do, go and seal on earth your sons and daughters unto yourself, and yourself unto your fathers in eternal glory” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, sel. Joseph Fielding Smith, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1938, p. 340).
The Spirit of Elijah of which the prophets have spoken is very real and accompanies those who seek for the records of their kindred dead.
The more I have to do with genealogical work, the more difficulty I have with that word dead. I know of no adequate substitute. I suppose departed would suit me as well as any. I have had too many sacred experiences, of the kind of which we never speak lightly, to feel that the word dead describes those who have gone beyond the veil.
Temple and genealogical work are visible testimonies of our belief in the resurrection and atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ. Should we doubt that we live again beyond the veil, what reason would we have to do the things we are doing?
This work is our witness of the redemptive power of the sacrifice of the Lord Jesus Christ.
Now what of Brother Tuttle or of his family? I remind you that it is a veil, not a wall, that separates us from the spirit world. He kept his covenants. Veils can become thin, even parted. We are not left to do this work alone.
They who have preceded us in this work and our forebears there, on occasion, are very close to us. I have a testimony of this work; it is a supernal work in the Church. I am a witness that those who go beyond the veil yet live and minister here, to the end that this work might be completed.
God grant that we who have an opportunity to have part in it might seek that opportunity and labor with all our might, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The air was charged with excitement as the families with their wagons, oxen, sheep, and other livestock gathered at the Missouri River to start the long trek westward early in the spring of 1852.
As twelve-year-old Albert Dickson wandered among the wagons, he saw many children. He even discovered several boys his own age. It was good to know that he would have friends on the long trip ahead.
Albert was just one of thousands of children pioneers who crossed the continent in the migration to the western states in the late 1840s and early 1850s. There were four other children in the Dickson family at that time, including his fourteen-year-old sister, Samantha; his nine-year-old brother, Judson; Alvina, who was six; and two-year-old William.
In Albert’s journal he wrote, “We crossed the Missouri on a large flatboat. Two wagons went on each trip, with three men to the oar and one at the rear to steer. They would land down the river about one mile from the starting point, then pull the boat back with oxen.” Like any twelve year old, he found adventure in each new phase of the trip.
When the entire party had gathered on the other side of the river, there were sixty wagons, which were divided into groups of ten, and each group had a captain. At least half the company were children. The older ones usually walked beside the wagons; some herded the sheep. Even the small children walked part of the day but were allowed to ride as they tired.
Usually from ten to fifteen miles were covered each day while crossing the prairies, and about half as many when the Rocky Mountains were reached. A lot depended on the weather and the terrain being traveled.
The group followed the Mormon Trail, which had been cleared in 1847 as a route for the migration of Church members to the Salt Lake Valley. It followed the north side of the Platte River to the fork of the North Platte and South Platte, then ran along the North Platte to Fort Laramie, where the pioneers crossed the river and followed the Oregon Trail to Fort Bridger. From there they traveled down Weber Canyon and Emigration Canyon into the Salt Lake Valley. The entire trip was about 1100 miles.
Disease was one of the first challenges faced by both children and adults. Albert wrote: “At the first camp on the Platte River, cholera broke out and two of our number succumbed to the dread disease, which did not leave our company until we reached Loup Fork.” By then ten more had died.
As the company moved forward a few miles each day, the monotony was broken by unusual events. The first herds of buffalo (bison) seen, for instance, created considerable interest. Some men in the company wounded one, and the Dickson family dog took up the chase. As a result of the chase, the old dog died, leaving a family of children to mourn his loss.
A couple of days later, the first buffalo was killed and the fresh meat was distributed among the people. After that, there were thousands of the animals; the travelers would stop the wagon train and watch the vast herds pass.
Then, of course, there were lots of buffalo bones, and the travelers began to learn about the advance companies from messages written on buffalo skulls and left by the trail. Albert’s company would sometimes leave their own messages on buffalo skulls for those yet to come.
The trail was well marked and well traveled. Albert’s company was the fourteenth to leave for the west that spring.
Contrary to many stories, Indians did not present much of a problem on the journey. They often visited the camps and were generally given gifts such as beads and fishhooks. Because of the friendly attitude of the Mormon pioneers toward them, the Indians did not attack the wagon trains.
Each day started early. At five in the morning the camp was awakened. Families held morning prayer, cooked breakfast, fed and harnessed the horses and oxen, and were ready to move by seven o’clock. At night, the wagons were drawn into a circle and the horses and cattle were tethered inside it. After supper, evening prayers were held in each wagon at eight thirty; everyone was expected to be in bed by nine o’clock. The children didn’t need much coaxing—everyone was tired from the long day and ready for a good night’s rest.
The pioneers usually traveled six days but always camped and observed the Sabbath. It was a welcome treat for everyone, but especially for the children. There was time to attend Sunday School with their friends, sing, listen to stories, visit with the other children, and explore the nearby countryside.
Sometimes the wagon train camped for a day or two to rest the animals, repair wagons, and do laundry.
Billa Dickson, Albert’s father, was a blacksmith, and his services were often needed to repair wagon wheels and axles. Albert worked with his father, learning the trade. They also hunted together to help secure fresh meat for the company. All the older boys were expected to work with the men and to help do the camp chores.
By midsummer the company had reached the halfway point, Fort Laramie. They wouldn’t reach the Salt Lake Valley until the first of October.
Pioneers are generally thought of as adults, but the majority of the western pioneers were actually children like young Albert Dickson, who trekked the westward trails and settled in the valleys of the mountain west. As they grew older, they became the leaders of many thriving communities that were literally carved out of a barren and hostile land.
Albert Dickson eventually moved to Morgan county and became the first bishop of the Richville Ward. He served in that position for thirty-seven years. His strength and leadership qualities, along with those of other early Church leaders, were undoubtedly developed by his experiences on the journey west.

Hannah and Ellen Joy trust that the Holy Ghost can guide them. Hannah said, “The Holy Ghost can help me anywhere! I have to wash my hands a lot and be careful and listen to the Holy Ghost to help me.”
When Ellen Joy was five, she wanted to eat her friend’s chicken nuggets. But she got a feeling that she shouldn’t, so she ate her own lunch. She found out later the chicken nuggets had milk in them and could have made her sick.

One of the most challenging experiences of my life happened shortly after the passing of our 10-year-old daughter from brain cancer. The saying “You can’t take it with you” came with clarity as we looked around her room one Saturday afternoon.
Clarissa was gone, but her room still held the identifiable remnants of her earthly stay. We now had the daunting task of deciding what to do with her personal belongings. I knew that parting with a single item would not be easy, especially for my wife.
Dealing with the whirlwind of details associated with hospitals, chemotherapy, and radiation had left us little time to clean and organize.
Memories came as we packed up items she’d arranged on her headboard or bookshelf. They all held heartfelt meaning—from her favorite blanket, book, or necklace to her stuffed animals, schoolbooks, and football. My wife sobbed as we asked what to do with each item.
We gathered many of Clarissa’s books and took them to her elementary school for other children to enjoy. We gave her dresser to a neighbor. Some of her clothes went to cousins. Focusing on others helped make the difficult situation of parting with her things a little easier.

We can each be blessed and happy in our own lives if we keep our baptismal covenants and follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost. Since we all make mistakes, the Holy Ghost will prompt us to repent. Eight-year-old Stacie Brook Peck of Payson, Utah, was taking part in a competition. A coach told her to tell the judges that she had sewn the letters on her costume herself, though she had not. She obeyed the coach but felt so bad about lying that she told her mom what had happened.

“Mom asked me if I wanted to find a judge and tell him about the lie. I thought about it a long time. I felt very sad and scared. I thought the judges would get mad at me. I thought my team would be mad because the judge would have to take points off our score. However, telling a lie felt so horrible that I said yes.

“We told my coach about my decision. She felt really bad that an eight-year-old girl had to remind her that honesty was more important than winning.

“My coach came with us. When we found a judge and told him about my lie, he said that he would do something about it. I never found out what the penalty was, but my team still won first place and I was glad of that. But mostly I was happy because I had made the right choice, even though it was very hard. I know that it was the Holy Ghost who helped me to choose the right. I also know that Heavenly Father has forgiven me, because whenever I think about what I did, instead of being embarrassed, I am happy that I chose the right. I feel good inside, and I want to always choose the right.”

A few years ago, my friend Jack swore a lot. I knew that Jesus and God didn’t want that. I asked him if he could stop swearing around me, and he had enough respect to stop. We’re best friends now.
Now whenever he hears someone swearing around me, he’ll apologize to me and ask them to stop. I think that’s really cool. He’s come to church a few times and even said a prayer. I asked the missionaries for a Book of Mormon and gave it to him.

Feeling the urge to get up and dance, friends Reagan N. and Lauren A. of Pennsylvania, USA, came up with the idea to organize a dance for all their friends. They also thought this would be a fun opportunity to fulfill a 10-hour Personal Progress value project for Choice and Accountability. They planned and organized everything needed, from invitations and decorations to refreshments and a disc jockey. But what made this dance stand apart from others is that this was a dance for charity.
Everyone attending the dance brought a nonperishable food item to act as an admission ticket. There was even a prize for the person who brought the most cans. The dance was a big success. Reagan and Lauren collected over 180 cans of food, which they donated to a local homeless shelter. They also completed a 10-hour project that helped the community and provided a fun evening for everyone who attended the dance.

Like Elizabeth generations before, Rosalene soon found herself crossing an ocean to settle in an unfamiliar culture when her husband took a position in Hong Kong.
“Some people thrive on change and adventure, but it was almost too much for me,” Rosalene says.
She again found strength in her Savior and in God’s plan for her. With the support of her family and dear sisters in her ward, Rosalene came to love and treasure her new surroundings and experiences.

When I was serving as president of the Philippines Quezon City Mission, one day Elder Jones* arrived at the mission home wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes and carrying his suitcases. “I want to go home, President,” he told me.

After listening to his concerns, I told him: “Leaving your mission is a reactive response, which will diminish the control you have over your life. And if you continue to be reactive, you will have problems dealing with difficulties you encounter after you return home.” I also advised him to talk with other missionaries about his concerns.

After further discussion Elder Jones changed into his missionary clothing and returned to his area. He talked with other missionaries, and he prayed for strength to overcome his challenges. The next time I met with him, he expressed gratitude that he had persisted through his difficulties.

When my wife, Sandra, and I were called to serve in the South Africa Durban Mission, we began looking for a community service project. I had been a member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir for over 20 years, and my wife, a library aide, had conducted story time in an elementary school. When our mission president decided to open missionary work in a nearby township, we knew this was our chance.
We visited the township and discovered that there were no libraries in the schools, just a small community library in the town. The young elders introduced us to the library director. We explained to her that we would like to hold a weekly story time for children. She was skeptical, but after some thought she agreed to get the word out and we could try.
On the first day five children attended. Gradually more came. After several months we enlisted the help of a young lady, a recent convert, who spoke beautiful English and Zulu. Attendance at story time grew, and the director and parents were excited about what was happening.
The Zulu people love to sing, so we added simple songs and rhymes to our story time. By the end of our mission, we were holding two or three sessions of song and story time a week to accommodate the more than 100 children who attended. What a blessing it was when we would see the children elsewhere and they would start singing our songs and reciting our rhymes to us.
Another blessing came out of our service in this area. As the local Church membership grew and we needed a place to start holding our Sunday meetings, the library director insisted that we use the library at no charge.
We are so grateful that the Lord helped us find a way to use our talents, serve the community, and help open an area of the mission.

If you want to be in our gang, you have to prove your courage,” Tyler said. “Just peek into the Crazy Man’s workshop and then tell us what you saw.”
I swallowed hard and looked at the little yellow house and white workshop almost hidden among oak and elm trees. There was a chain link fence all around them, and the gate was locked. A big sign said KEEP OUT!
“Who is the Crazy Man?” I asked, barely getting the words out in a wheeze, “And why does he live alone in that creepy old place?”
“Because he’s crazy,” Royce snorted.
“So why do you want to bother him?”
“You’re chicken!” Tyler muttered, turning away.
“I’m not either!” I protested loudly, but I felt an aching in my stomach.
“Do it then. He won’t catch you. He eats supper at this time of day.” Tyler wasn’t smiling.
Royce grinned. It wasn’t a friendly grin, but I was new here, and these were the only friends I had. I didn’t want to lose them.
“Will you wait for me?” I asked.
Royce nodded. “Yeah—we want to hear about it. Now get going.”
Slowly I crossed the street. All I knew about the Crazy Man was what Royce and Tyler had told me. He lived by himself and carried a heavy walking stick and didn’t talk to anybody. All day long he could be heard pounding and sawing and talking to himself inside his shop.
All the kids were afraid of him. They said that he was making coffins in there. They said that if anybody went into his yard, the Crazy Man would beat him with a stick and lock him in an underground dungeon. I didn’t quite believe all that, but I didn’t really want to find out, either.
I stopped at the fence and peered into the yard. There was no grass, just lots of weeds and brush and trees. I studied the house. The blinds were closed, and nobody seemed to be looking out, so I pulled myself over the fence and dropped behind an oak tree.
The sun was going down, and huge, creepy shadows were everywhere. Hunched over, I crept through the bushes and weeds to the workshop behind the Crazy Man’s house. I was just standing up to look in a window, when I heard a screen door bang. Then I heard someone coming—someone who was talking to himself! Without really thinking, I tried the door of the workshop. It wasn’t locked, so I opened it and went in to hide.
The workshop was almost completely dark because there were only two small windows. I leaned against the wall, sucking in big gulps of air. Then the door was flung open, and in walked the Crazy Man!
He didn’t see me at first, because I was behind the door and everything was still dark. He slammed the door and walked to the middle of the shop and pulled a string. A bright light flooded the shop.
I wanted to run and never stop, but I was too scared to move. The shop was filled with parts of beds and dressers and cabinets and all sorts of things. I couldn’t see any coffins.
The Crazy Man started working with his back to me. Then he turned to grab a board and saw me standing there. I could feel my eyes swelling up until I was sure they were going to pop right out of my head.
The Crazy Man was old. He had deep wrinkles in his face and black bushy eyebrows. He looked as mean and crazy as Tyler and Royce had said he was. “What’re you doing here, boy?” he growled, taking a step toward me. “Who let you in here?”
I tried to think, but the only thing that came into my head was a picture of the Crazy Man dragging me down into his dungeon.
“Can’t you talk?”
“I came to see you,” I finally managed to whisper.
“What for?”
I shrugged.
“Well, I don’t like kids bothering me while I work. You aiming to bother me?”
I shook my head furiously.
“And I don’t let kids just hang around and do nothing. Are you going to help me?”
“Wh-What do you want me to do?”
“I need that four-by-four in the corner.”
I didn’t waste any time. I grabbed the four-by-four and took it to the Crazy Man, and he started working on it. He talked the whole time. He asked me about my family—why we’d moved, who my friends were. Sometimes he just muttered to himself, complaining about the wood, the tools, the light, or anything else that bothered him. He made me work, too, but I didn’t mind. I figured that as long as I was working, he wouldn’t throw me in his dungeon.
“Boy,” the Crazy Man growled at me, “there’s a big box of old scrap boards in the back corner. You could make yourself useful and haul them to the woodpile outside.”
I breathed a sigh of relief—I could slip away without the Crazy Man knowing. I hurried to the back of the shop and found the box. As I grabbed an armful of scrap boards, a stick caught my eye. It was round and long, with neat carvings all over it: flowers, people, animals, suns. I pulled it from the box and studied it. It was one of the prettiest pieces of wood I’d ever seen. “You don’t want to throw this away, do you?” I asked, holding it up.
The Crazy Man squinted toward me. “What is it?” he demanded, coming over to where I stood. He grabbed the wood from my hands, looked at it, then tossed it into the box again. “That’s nothing,” he muttered. “Throw it away.”
“But it’s pretty,” I protested, reaching for the stick again. He shook his head. “It’s just something I practiced on.”
“Practiced for what?”
He waved his hand about. I had been too scared to look closely at the things in the shop before. Nearly all of them had carvings on them. Beautiful carvings. There was a huge bed headboard with a giant smiling sun in the middle. There was a dresser with flying geese carved in the front.
“You made all these things?” I gasped.
The Crazy Man nodded.
“Wow! That’s great carving for a crazy m—” I stopped suddenly and covered my mouth with my hand. I thought I was going to faint.
The Crazy Man started to laugh. “Crazy, eh? Is that why you came, to see what a crazy man was like?”
“I didn’t mean … ,” I croaked, but the rest of the words got caught in my throat.
The Crazy Man went back to his work. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I won’t hurt you.”
I glanced at the door, then back at the pile of scrap boards. After a moment I started hauling the boards out to the woodpile. When I was finished, I watched him work on a small table.
“My name’s George,” he said suddenly. “George Blake.”
Funny—once the Crazy Man had a name, I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. “I’m Jimmy—Jimmy Johnson.”
A while later, Mr. Blake said, “Do you think it’s right to trespass on private property?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of boy who would play tricks on an old man. Whose idea was this?”
I told him about Royce and Tyler without using their names.
“They thought I was dangerous,” he said, “but I didn’t see them rushing in to save you. Do you think that they’re really your friends?”
I shook my head. “Could I come again tomorrow?”
“If you want to.”
The next day after I had helped Mr. Blake for a while, he nodded toward a back corner. “There’s something there that you might want to look at.”
I looked in the corner and found a walking stick just my size. The bottom part was smooth and round. It got thicker near the top. The very top was carved into the smiling face of a boy, and there were small carvings beneath that. Jimmy was carved down the stick.
“The varnish is still drying, and it needs another coat. But it should be ready by tomorrow. That one wasn’t for practice. You can keep it. It’s for helping me yesterday.”
While we worked together, Mr. Blake said, “Listen, boy, I know it’s hard being new in town. But stick to what’s right, and you’ll find friends who feel the same way. Then you and I can teach them how to make walking sticks and lots of other things.”
I grinned. “You’re pretty nice for a crazy man.”
“Hand me that chisel,” Mr. Blake growled, but I knew he wasn’t really angry. Yesterday he had been “the Crazy Man.” Today he was my friend.

It was like a big fair day in the town of Preston, England, that warm day of July 22, 1837. People everywhere were rejoicing as they looked forward to the rule of Queen Victoria. She had finally been crowned and, to the joy of all her people, had ordered new elections for Parliament. Everyone hoped for honesty in their new government.
The celebration was in full force. Signs reading “Truth Will Prevail!” decorated the roads. Everywhere people lined the streets, listening to bands and waving flags.
To Jed it was a time of excitement. Never in his fourteen years had he seen people look to the future with so much hope. It truly was a time of rejoicing.
In the midst of the turmoil, three modestly dressed men stood and stared at the commotion around them. Jed could tell that they were strangers, because they didn’t seem to know what the celebration was about. Then to Jed’s amazement, the men read the banners and shouted, “Amen! Thanks to God, truth will prevail!”
Jed watched them thread their way through the crowd and disappear in the jubilant throng. As the fun of the festivities continued, he forgot the men and enjoyed the rare day of vacation.
When Sunday rolled around, the excitement was still high. In Jed’s family everyone was up early, as usual, preparing for their day. Mother had a fire going in the fireplace and was cooking breakfast. Jed’s little brothers and sisters were sitting by the fire, rubbing their sleepy eyes and waiting to be fed. Jed had already been to the town pump for water. He set the buckets on the bench by the back door.
“Thank you, Jed,” Mother said. The soft Scottish lilt could still be heard in her voice, even though they’d lived in England for over ten years. “Now you can wash for breakfast.”
Jed took a basin of water up to his room. He was thankful that it was summer. Winters were so cold that he couldn’t wash fast enough! Carefully he washed, then rejoined his family.
His mother dished up a steaming bowl of porridge, which he eagerly ate, then asked for more. Mother laughed as she dished up another bowl for him. “Well, Jed, you surely have an appetite! I hope that you can last until dinnertime. Are you going to the meeting with me today?”
Before he could answer, his father came in with the milk pails. “I’m sorry, Molly,” he said. “I need the boy today. Da’s (Father’s) cow is sick, and I’ll need Jed to hold her whilst I give her the draught (medicine).”
“But, Tom,” Mother protested. “Can’t Da help you? I would really like one of you to come with me.”
“Da’s arm hasn’t healed properly,” Father answered. “He doesn’t have the strength for the job. I’m truly sorry. We’ll both try to go with you the next time.” He put his arm around her and gave her a hug. He knew that religion was important to her. She had been looking for the true church for years. He and Jed had gone with her from church to church, looking for the truth. She was convinced that she’d soon find it.
She smiled at her men. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Tom. And I’ll expect Jed to come too.”
She took the younger children with her. After leaving them in their Sunday School classes, she slipped into the Vauxhall Chapel to listen to Reverend James Fielding. A member of his church ever since he had started preaching there, she had been drawn to him because of his belief that the true church of Christ was not on the earth at this time but would come before the Savior returned.
Mother had listened to Reverend Fielding tell of a church in America that his brother and sisters had joined. It was reported to be like the one Christ established long ago. The minister was expecting to hear more about this church, and he had asked his congregation to pray for the truth to be brought to them.
That morning as Mother sat in the front of the chapel and listened carefully to Reverend Fielding’s sermon, he spoke forcefully about a need for prophets and a latter-day church. Then he told of three preachers here from America who were personal friends of his family in America. He invited everyone to return at three o’clock and listen to them preach.
Mother sat up even straighter in her seat. This was it! She just knew that what she’d been waiting for was about to happen. As soon as the meeting was over, she slipped out of the chapel and almost ran for home, pulling the little ones behind her.
“Tom! Jed!” she called. They still weren’t home from Da’s. Leaving ten-year-old Ann in charge, Mother ran from house to house, leaving a message with her neighbors: “Preachers from a new religion in America are going to speak at the Vauxhall Chapel. Everyone come!”
Never had she been so excited! Jed could feel the excitement when he walked through the door. Mother twirled Father around, and then Jed. “My prayers have been answered!” she exclaimed joyfully. “They’re here! The men from America. You must come with me!” After she calmed down enough to explain, they quickly agreed to go with her.
Knowing that there would be a crowd, they left early for the chapel. They found seats toward the front and squeezed in next to neighbors and friends who were already waiting eagerly for the meeting to begin.
When the hour for the meeting arrived, the door near the pulpit opened, and Reverend Fielding stepped through, followed by three men. Jed immediately recognized them as the three men he’d seen in the streets during the queen’s celebration. The sounds of “Truth will prevail!” echoed in his ears as he remembered. Now he knew what truth they had been shouting about.
He heard his mother gasp as she squeezed her husband’s arm. “Those are the men!” she whispered urgently. “The ones that I told you about—the ones in my dream!”
All around them whispers and murmurs were heard. Behind them to the left, Jed heard a man say reverently, “I saw those faces as I slept. These are the men sent to teach us the truth!”
One of the men stood up and introduced himself as Elder Heber C. Kimball. Jed didn’t know that this man was called the “Herald of Grace” by the Prophet Joseph Smith, but Jed did know that he bore a powerful testimony of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Elder Kimball told of John the Revelator’s prophecy that the Lord’s Church would again be restored to the earth. He explained that it was the complete church as Jesus had organized it, with apostles and prophets and so forth. He told them of the need for all people to repent, to believe in Jesus Christ, and to be baptized by someone with the divine authority to do so.
The second man, Elder Orson Hyde, bore testimony that the true Church had been restored. The third man also preached. Jed sat very still. He didn’t want to miss a single word.
It was announced that the elders would be preaching again that night. Jed and his family went to that meeting, too, and to the one held Wednesday evening.
Jed was surprised when his mother angrily announced the next day, “Reverend Fielding has refused to let the elders preach anymore in his chapel! He’s been preaching for years that the true church had to be restored. Then when it happens, he’s afraid that he’ll lose his job! Well, we who believe know what to do!”
From that night on, the American elders preached at Jed’s home and in the homes of their friends. More and more people came to listen. They were like thirsty plants drinking in pure rainwater.
The time came when Jed, Mother, and Father were to be baptized. Jed grinned later as he thought back on the first baptism in England. He and his family had attended, and two of their neighbors had a footrace to see who would be first to reach the river and have the great honor of being the first person baptized in Christ’s Church in England.
When Jed himself was baptized, he felt a glowing sensation that what he was doing was right. He remembered again the day when he saw the three elders shouting for joy in the streets that truth would prevail. He felt great joy, himself, at being there when the truth had come to England.

Mindy pressed her nose against the frost-decorated window. “One, two, three,” she counted.
Mom stepped out of the den. “What are you doing, dear?”
“I’m counting the sparkly snowflakes. Four, five, six. … Mom, why is everything sparkly at Christmas?”
Mom sat beside her. “What do you see that is sparkly?”
“Snowflakes, angels, tree lights, wrapping paper, sugar cookies, …”
Mom took a tiny glass angel from the tree. “Some Christmas things have lights inside them, like the tree lights. But other things, like this angel, reflect the light—see? That’s what makes them sparkle.”
Mindy held the angel near the blinking lights. Star drops bounced around it. “That’s the sparkliest angel I have ever seen,” she whispered.
“Do you know where one of my sparkliest angels is?” Mother asked.
Mindy shook her head.
“Right here.” She hugged Mindy. “You are filled with more light than all these things.” She got up and hung the angel in its place on the tree. “Now, I have to get back to work. If you need me, just call.”
When Mom was gone, Mindy gazed at her reflection in the window. Am I really sparkly? she wondered. If I am, where is the light?
She nudged the angel. Its dress twinkled.
I wonder what light feels like. Mindy put her hands on her face. She knew she felt happy, but was happy the same as sparkly?
She touched the angel again. It danced. Mindy lifted her arms high above her head and danced too. When she stopped, her face felt warm and tingly. Her body felt strong. Is this what light feels like?
Suddenly something tugged her shirt. “Play?” asked two-year-old Kate.
“Not now. I’m busy. Why don’t you watch the tree?” Mindy suggested. “See the pretty lights?”
Kate’s lower lip curved toward her toes, and Mindy didn’t feel very happy anymore. “I’m sorry. Yes, I will play,” she said. Flashing her fingers open—shut—open—shut, she sang a sparkly Christmas song that Dad had taught her.
When she finished, Kate clapped her hands. “‘Gain!” she begged.
Mindy sang the song again and again and again.
Finally Kate jumped into her arms and gave her a big hug.
Mindy grinned. She felt happy, tingly-warm—and sparkly.