Gospel Story Finder

Years later, Sister Nadauld and I were called to preside over the Switzerland Geneva Mission—also a French-speaking area. Many of our missionaries had musical talents, and we soon saw that music training and learning a foreign language, especially one as lyrical as French, were complementary skills. We shared with them my experience of singing before teaching and invited them to learn simple hymn duets that they could sing before beginning their gospel lessons. They reported back that it had the same wonderful impact on teaching with the Spirit that Elder Robertson and I had experienced some 40 years earlier.

There is a story of a group of Relief Society sisters making candy called “divinity” at the home of one of the sisters. Two little boys in the family were allowed to eat all of the divinity they could scrape from the spoons, pans, and bowls. It was the weekend of general conference and, as the family listened to the talks one of the speakers said, “There is a spark of divinity in each of us.” One of the little boys jumped up and said, “A spark of divinity? Wow, I’m full of it!”

Not long ago at the end of fall semester, my advanced composition class decided to have a gift exchange. Because we had worked hard to have the spirit of unity in the class, we thought that we might stretch ourselves to give gifts in the spirit of the Zion classroom. That semester in two classes we generated more than $200 for the Perpetual Education Fund. One student, Aaron Bahn, gave me a gift I will always treasure. It is a mission pin from his mission in Peru. To it was attached a note: Early in my mission in Peru, my native senior companion had only two or three pair of garments. I gave him a couple of mine; he gave me all he had--this mission pin. I would like you to have it in love and memory. Aaron's gift, both to his companion and to me, illustrates spiritual mindedness because to him service and giving exceeded the desire for personal possessions.

For instance, a busy young mother in Arizona, USA, wondered what she could do to help a newly arrived refugee family in her community. She soon learned that she could give them a few things for their empty apartment. When she and her children visited the family to bring the items, she realized that the mother had no purse to carry her personal belongings. She knew that she and many of her friends had extra purses, so she posted a request on social media. That simple beginning has blossomed into a warehouse full of items needed by just-arriving families and helped create a sweet bond between these women of different faiths.

I went outside and saw some new neighbors moving in. One of the kids was my age. Her name was Hannah. I remembered there was a Primary activity that very day, so I asked her if she wanted to go. She asked, “What time?” I said, “four o’clock at the church.” She asked her mom and then said OK. I knew at that moment that Jesus and Heavenly Father were happy that I was being kind, because I felt warm inside. Now Hannah and I are best friends.

She thought back to the first time she had seen them—two young men, “boys” to her, who were about the same age as some of her grandsons. She had been trimming the hedge when she saw them come out of the alley and turn toward her, two well-groomed young men in suits. The sight made her lift her eyebrows in mild surprise and curiosity. It seemed different to see decent kids again, she had thought, picturing her own grandsons who had that awful long hair and were doing things that kids just shouldn’t do. “But,” she said, addressing the hedge, “they are still the best grandkids around.”

She wondered what these two young men did in their suits and on bikes at 9:45 in the morning. She wasn’t left to wonder too long. When they got to where she was working, they stopped. One called out, “Howdy, ma’am.” She stopped snipping and tilted her head way back so as to get a better view of them through her glasses, which always dangled precariously on the tip of her nose.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“Ma’am, my name is Elder Blackburn and this is my companion Elder Lyon.

“We are representatives of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, more commonly known as the Mormon church.” (With the mentioning of the word Mormon, her mind reeled with the many things she had heard. Pictures of wild-eyed religious fanatics with long, flowing beards and thousands of wives raced through her head.)

“Have you ever heard of the Mormon church?” the one called Lyon asked.

“Wha-what was that?” she stammered, as her thoughts popped like an over-occupied toy balloon.

“Have you ever heard of the Mormon church?”

“Well,” she began slowly, trying to think of a way to get out of the situation, “yes, I have, but I’ve got my own church.”

“That’s wonderful,” the one called Blackburn said, cutting her off before she had the chance to say she wasn’t interested. “We are new in the area of Rosmont, and today we are going around talking to our new neighbors. We live over on Richardson Street, behind Mrs. Garrett. Do you know Mrs. Garrett?”

“I know her quite well. I’ve lived here for 48 years.”

Lyon began again: “We are also talking with our neighbors about a visit that the Sav—” This time it was her turn to interrupt.

“Boys, I hate to be rude, but I’ve got a lot to do, and I’m really not too interested right now, but thank you for saying hello. That is very sweet. More young people need to be as nice as you. Good-day.”

“Well, it has been nice talking with you, ma’am.” It was Blackburn again, and with that they were gone to the next house.

So then she knew who they were and what they were doing. As the days went by, she would see them leave between 9:30 and 9:45. They always waved as they passed and said hello. They even stopped every once in a while to chat. In a few months a new face took Elder Blackburn’s place. He was introduced as Elder Daringjer. (Same first name again, she thought.) The one called Daringjer had been a horticulture major before coming on his “mission” as they called it. They became instantly talkative, and she showed him all of her little plants and beauties.

One Monday morning she was surprised to find them in ordinary clothes, waiting in the garden for her. Elder Daringjer explained that they would like to work with her and help if they could. Elder Lyon mowed the lawns and trimmed the walks and hedges, while she and the other cared for her little fragile babies. While they worked, she found out many things about who these boys were and why they came out on missions. She also found out that they didn’t really all have the same first names; it was only a title.

By noon what would have taken her days to finish had been completed. They had wanted to come over and show her a film-strip on something or other, but she had politely refused. The fact that they didn’t push things at her seemed to make her think of them with more curiosity than before. She was thinking of them almost daily.

“Why do I bother with fanatics,” she asked a row of carrots one morning after several weeks of letting the elders come and weed, trim, and talk to her. She was very amazed when they told her that both of their families had vegetable gardens back home, and that their prophet had counseled the people to raise gardens, fix yards, repair homes, and care for their farms.

As the days went by, instead of holding her breath when they turned out of the alley toward her like she had during the first few weeks she had known them, she found herself holding her breath hoping they wouldn’t turn away.

“I wonder what makes young men spend two years visiting with people about a religion that doesn’t even have a professional clergy to give sermons? It sounds rather hastily set up. Some day I’ll just have to ask them inside to talk a little more.”

By 9:00 her morning work was done, and she was kneeling in her chrysanthemums, acting very busy with weeding, looking for any evil little bug that would bring harm to her small, delicate beings. Her thoughts kept wandering to the events that had happened just last week.

Her morning had started as usual, but at 7:30 her phone rang and it was bad news from her daughter. Her grandson, one of those with the long hair and bad habits, had been involved in what started as a stay-out-of-Africa rally and ended in a blood bath between students with rocks, signs, and knives and a local garrison of guardsmen with their clubs, shields, and guns. The rally ended with one dead national guard member and five dead students, of which her grandson had been one.

The shock lingered long after the telephone call. She sat staring at the kitchen wall for an hour, and finally she had dragged herself down to her flowers. There she sat, trying to forget. It was then she looked up, and instead of seeing two young men in suitcoats and on bikes turn out of the alley, only one was coming. His white shirt was missing its usual tie, and his bike and coat were gone. With head down and hands jammed hard in his pockets, clenched in fists of frustration, he was kicking rocks and old cans as he stomped toward her. She could see that he was talking to himself, and as the distance narrowed, she caught snatches of the angry words he was saying.

She sat and listened as he began having a mental battle with himself. First he’d mumble a scripture on patience, or brotherly love, or humility, then a quick comeback on patience being gone, and brotherly love destroyed by this or that, and humility nonexistent. The more he talked, the more the scriptures began to win until he was murmuring only pieces of scriptures and phrases of hymns that she had never heard before.

There had been a disagreement of some sorts; that was obvious. By the time he had reached the spot where she sat staring in the chrysanthemums, he had slowed and stopped. He stood looking at his scuffed shoes, totally unaware of her presence, his mind frantically searching for what to do. Pride said go, but love said stop. The hardness of his brow softened, the firmness around his mouth that had kept his gritted teeth solidly in place weakened, and she could see his eyes fill with tears. She became very conscious of her position and wished she were one of her beautiful little flowers blowing in the breeze.

Then from the alley a voice boomed: “Elder, wait! I—I’m sorry!” The young man near her slowly turned and looked where his partner was standing in his stocking feet.

For what seemed enough time to plant and harvest a section of wheat, the air remained empty of human sounds or movement. Then Elder Scuffed Shoes looked at her and, in a rather husky voice, asked if he could please have a flower. “A flower of forgiveness,” he had muttered. Mutely she clipped one for him and watched as he retraced his steps until he stood in front of the other. They were too far off for her to hear what was said, but she saw the flower exchange hands and watched as they walked back to their apartment in the alley, each with an arm around the other’s shoulder.

She had sat there in the flowers trying to figure out how one young man could know so much about love and have such an abundance of it, while another lay lifeless on a mortician’s table because of his gross lack of it. Both had been searching for what life really was. One had found it; the other hadn’t. Why? She couldn’t answer her own question. Finally she got up and left to prepare for a funeral many miles away. Even as she left, she knew she had to find the answer to “Why?” when she returned.

She was kneeling in the chrysanthemums when she saw them coming.

“Turn up!” she whispered. “Turn up!” They looked right and left, they both saw her and waved, and then together they turned away. Her heart sank like a rock in a lake. She felt as if a building was falling on her, making her hands and mind feel heavy. She watched silently as they rode a little way and then stopped. They were talking to one another. She just sat in the flowers thinking that they were gone and she’d have to try again tomorrow. She considered just going to their small apartment to talk with them.

“I could bring something nice like fresh cookies,” she whispered to her small spade, knowing that she would never find the strength to do it.

The elders sat on their bikes looking back at their neighbor.

“What makes you think she wants to talk to us, Elder? The only things she talks about are her flowers.”

“I know, but did you see the way she was watching us? Did you see her eyes? I have a little sister who used to wait by the big window every day when I came home from work, and I could see in her eyes that she wanted to tell me what had happened to her in kindergarten that day.”

“So?”

“Well, Elder, look at her eyes, and besides that, she didn’t even wave at us. She always waves.”

“Maybe she’s mad.”

“I don’t really think so. Let’s just ask her if we can help her in some way. Look, she’s still watching us.”

“Okay, let’s go chat.”

They turned their bikes around and came back. When they stopped, Elder Lyon said, “Ah, ma’am? Could we help you?”

She just looked at them, and her eyes filled with tears. “Yes, Elder,” she said, through a slightly cracking voice. “Let’s go in the house, and you … well … I’ve got some questions I need some answers to.”

They walked up the stairs and onto the front porch. Before they went in, a thought came to her, and she said, “I hope this won’t take all morning, because there is an old man I must see today, an old man who suffered a stroke in the early spring. He must be awfully depressed watching his beautiful lawn go unattended. I think I’ll take him some flowers, flowers of forgiveness.”

At the age of 14, John entered the world of work to receive formal training for a vocation. The apprenticeship system in England then required young men to work for several years with a master of a particular craft or trade before they could themselves be certified as capable of practicing the trade on their own. John followed naturally in his father’s footsteps and was apprenticed to a cooper, or barrel-maker, in Liverpool. Unfortunately, John’s master apparently failed in business less than a year after the new apprentice arrived in the city, and John returned home to the family farm at Hale. He next turned his attention northward and apprenticed himself to the carpenter in Penrith where he worked for the next five years, completing his apprenticeship to become a fully-qualified carpenter himself in 1828.

The subject in the family relations class I taught in my ward Sunday School was how to communicate with teenagers. When I asked the class members—all parents of teenagers—to identify the most important issues or concerns they had in dealing with young people, the question at the top of the list was: “How can I get my son or daughter to talk with me? I know they are facing problems that worry and trouble them, but when I ask them ‘What is the matter?’ they respond with something like ‘Nothing,’ or ‘You wouldn’t understand.’”
These parents also identified a wide range of other issues and concerns, but the consensus was, “If we could just talk over all these things, we might be able to help our teenagers cope better with the problems in their world.”
Is there anything parents can do to improve communication with their teenagers?
First, parents need to remember that children rarely initiate discussions on matters of concern, then ask for parental advice. I asked the parents in my class how many of them, as teenagers, had gone to their parents to talk over problems. Most had never done it. I asked why. The answers: “I was afraid it would embarrass me and my parents,” “I didn’t think they would understand,” and “They would have told me that I worried too much, or that everything was going to turn out just fine.”
One father reported that he had asked his teenage son, “Why don’t you ever come to me to talk over your problems?”
The son had answered, “Did you ever talk things over with your dad?”
“No,” the man replied.
His son said: “Things aren’t so different now.”
If teens don’t come to discuss serious things with parents, what can parents do? A common strategy is to try to get the young people to “open up.” This usually results in questions they interpret as prying. “Why are you so moody?”
“What happened at school today?” “Why did you get such a poor grade on that test?”
A better approach is to find an opportunity to share your own experiences with your son or daughter. The young people may not talk much, but they will usually listen with interest if you talk about how you felt when you failed an exam, or didn’t get a date, or disliked your math teacher, or didn’t get invited to a party. Just talk and share; let them know about you and learn what they will from your experiences.
Two mothers in my class tried this, with somewhat different results. One knew her son was upset because he had not done as well as he wanted on a school project and in a musical program for which he had to play an instrument. She found occasion to talk about how miserable she had been when she got a bad grade, feeling down on herself; but she had finally accepted the fact that she could not always be perfect. She told him she knew that he probably got some of his perfectionism from her, and she hoped he would be able to deal with mistakes better than she had. Her son listened with interest and afterward said, “Thanks, Mom, that was a real help.”
The other mother said she had tried to talk with her son about some of her experiences as a teenager and had told him she had felt that sometimes her parents and teachers didn’t understand what she was going through. When she finished, her son asked, “Is that all?” She said yes, and he left without another word.
She interpreted his response as rejection and felt that what she had said to him had no impact at all. My own feeling is that he may have been impressed more than she knew; at least he listened all the way through and did not become defensive, as often happened when she asked him questions or lectured.

When a sister in our ward started coming to church again after six years, my mother told my brothers and sisters and me that we should be friends with the sister’s two children. Their dad had died just a year before, and they were still very sad. One of the children, Evelyn, was a little younger than I am.
Mama asked me, “Monahra, will you be Evelyn’s friend? Heavenly Father has asked you to be a member missionary. Be loving and friendly, and be sure that she is not left alone.”
I told Mama that I would, and since that day, I have tried to be a member missionary for Evelyn. Because I want to be a full-time missionary when I grow up, I am trying my best to be a missionary now.
Evelyn is a great friend, and she smiles a lot now. We play, go to Primary, and sing hymns together. Sometimes we have family home evening together at her house. I know that Heavenly Father is happy because I have tried to be a member missionary and a friend. I am grateful to have Evelyn as a friend.

Horace Mann, that great educator somewhere back in the time of Abraham Lincoln, told how he was the speaker at the dedication of a great boys’ school, and in his talk he said, “This school has cost hundreds of thousands of dollars; but if this school is able to save one boy, it is worth all that it cost.” One of his friends came up to him at the close of the meeting and said, “You let your enthusiasm get away with you, didn’t you? You don’t mean what you said that if this school, costing hundreds of thousands of dollars, were to save just one boy, it was worth all that it cost? You surely don’t mean that.”
Horace Mann looked at him and said, “Yes, my friend. It would be worth it if that one boy were my son; it would be worth it.”

Each time I think of sharing a copy of the Book of Mormon, I am reminded of a young lady in Texas who was introduced to the gospel by my daughter. This prospective convert had a difficult time accepting the teachings presented by the missionaries in the first few discussions, and at one time—when informed that her previous baptism, conducted by a Protestant church, was invalid—walked away from the mission home vowing never to return. Weeks later, however, because of some faith-promoting experiences, the young lady did return to hear more and was baptized into the Church.

After her baptism I asked, “What brought you back?”

“It was the book,” she said, “the Book of Mormon.” The Book of Mormon and Church magazines are great missionary tools—they should be shared liberally with others. They help to teach and testify of the truth even while you and the missionaries sleep.

Sister Madsen: First, Catherine Smith Salisbury, the Prophet's sister.
She told her granddaughter that she was present at home when her brother, Joseph Smith, came in nearly exhausted carrying the package of gold plates from which the Book of Mormon was translated. He was carrying the package clasped to his side with his left hand and arm, and his right hand was badly bruised from knocking down at least three men who had leaped at him from behind bushes or fences as he ran until out of breath. She said he entered the house panting from his extraordinary exertion. "She told me Joseph allowed her to heft the package but not to see the gold, as the angel had forbidden to show them at that period. She said they were very heavy.
She told me her brother Joseph was six feet tall, athletic and fair and loved to wrestle. She said that he was not in the least snobbish but treated all he met with kindness, consideration, and respect; she said that on her rare visits to Nauvoo, the Prophet treated her and her family with great generosity and sent her home laden with food, money, and clothing.

It had been several years since my husband, Jerold, passed away. The cancer had come quickly and aggressively, and in three months he was gone. Now I was thinking of him as I worked in my yard.
As I was repotting a plant, I had a thought. Before I intervened, the plant was doing OK. It was at home in the pot it was already in, but it was not flourishing. I knew if I didn’t repot it at some point, it most likely would stop flowering and maybe even stop growing. It certainly wouldn’t be able to do its best.
So, I decided to give the plant room to grow by transplanting it to a larger pot. Not a great big pot—one that was just two inches larger in diameter. If I gave it too much space, it could end up overwatered and die from root rot.
I expected the plant to struggle as it tried to adapt. It had been quite comfortable, all snug in the pot that it had become accustomed to. It wasn’t aware that change would help it to keep growing. I needed to nurture it along, giving it proper light, water, and the extra nutrients required during this time of adaptation. I knew it would, eventually, flourish and flower again.
As I thought about my life as a widow, I realized that I was like that plant. I had been comfortable. I had been doing fine. But when my husband passed away, I heard the Spirit whisper that I was entering a new phase of growth. I still had things I needed to learn and do in this life.
Over the next two years, seven other men in our ward also passed away. I started asking my newly widowed friends to get together, to talk, to visit, to serve others—so that each of us could feel just a little less lonely. None of us would have chosen to be “repotted.” But as I adapted to mortal life without my husband, I found that I could provide support to others who faced a similar challenge. I also found there were many opportunities to spend time with children and grandchildren and reassure them that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, in the next life our family can be together again.
I never would have anticipated the growth that would come to me because of the loss of my spouse. But Heavenly Father stepped in and “repotted” me, giving me room to grow by placing me in a little bit larger pot—a new challenge that provided an opportunity for growth.
I still miss Jerold every day. Years later, I still struggle as I am trying to adapt to the change of being without him. But I know the Lord will nurture me along the way. With time, and with trust in Him, I will flourish and flower once again.

One situation featured the Donald Mabey family. Brother Mabey had moved his family from Salt Lake City to North Bay, Ontario, because of a business transfer by his company. Don was an elder in the Church but had been less than fully active in priesthood callings. He was about thirty-five years of age at the time and had a lovely family. The North Bay Branch was a struggling unit desperately in need of priesthood leadership. When I attended that branch and recognized this fact, I held an interview with Brother Mabey and said to him, “I am calling you to serve in the presidency of the North Bay Branch.”

He replied, “I can’t do it.”

I asked, “Why?”

He answered, “I have never done it before.”

“That’s no hindrance,” I responded. I took fresh hope from Don’s name, Mabey, and the words of a once-popular ballad, “Please don’t say no—say maybe.”

Brother Mabey said yes. Today he is a high priest living here in the West. All of his family members have entered temple doors and have received temple blessings.

Hello! My name is Megan, and I live in Mexico. I want to tell you about a very special time in my life—the day I was baptized.
I was baptized on my eighth birthday. It was a very important day because I celebrated my birthday by being baptized.
Getting baptized was a beautiful experience. My mom made me a notebook with different activities to prepare. It helped me learn about the importance of baptism and the covenants I would make with Heavenly Father.
Many people who love me came to my baptism. I felt very happy that they came. I wore a white dress, and the water was warm.
After my dad baptized me, I dried off and changed clothes. Then I received the gift of the Holy Ghost. I was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by holders of the priesthood. I felt so much peace, love, and joy.
I will always remember that day. It was very special because I made my first covenant with God. I promised to follow Jesus and obey His commandments.
If you are nervous about what your baptism day will be like, don’t worry. Heavenly Father will be happy about the choice you made!
Illustrations by Olga Lee

He soon revived and was on his way with 500 of the Saints under the care of Captain Daniel Thompson of Fillmore, Utah. William’s journal paints a vivid picture of the means of transporting travelers across the plains in those days:
“Eighty-four sturdy wagons pulled by ox-teams met us there on the Missouri. They were accompanied by splendid teamsters and a very fine captain dedicated to his calling. When all was loaded up, including my own things, we departed for The Valley, but not before we knelt and prayed to the Almighty. The days, weeks, and months to follow were filled with events the heart and mind shall never forget. The evenings were filled with singing and dancing which caused the mind and body to forget the hardships of the day. There was also sickness and death of the fragile which grieved us.”
William chose not to dwell on the subjects of sickness and death; nor did he choose to mention much about the “walking blisters” he doctored every night by the light of the campfires. He certainly had found a good use for the healing salve he’d brought all the way from England. He would remove his “foot soldier boots,” wash out his socks, and soak his feet in a bucket one of the good sisters loaned him. His soaking bucket was not exclusively his, however, as there were others who needed it too. After the soaking process, the bucket was gratefully returned to its place in the back of a wagon until the next evening. William took pity on another young fellow with the party whose shoes were in much worse shape than his own. One evening he took his dress shoes from his bag and gave them to his friend. He would get another pair when he reached his destination, after he had worked and earned enough to buy them. Slits had to be made in the sides as they were too narrow for the boy’s feet, but they were a welcomed gift, nonetheless. Not long after that incident and near the end of the journey, someone noticed blood oozing from William’s boots, leaving a marked trail on the sand and rocks behind him. He was ushered to the back of one of the wagons and made to ride for the remainder of the day. It was his first ride, and he felt guilty and uncomfortable for accepting it. He knew the oxen were already pulling their limit and hated to add to their burden. The soles of his boots were gone, but they had served him well as his father had said they would. He would finish the journey with gunny sacks wrapped around his swollen, bruised feet.
He was not one to complain. Instead he wrote: “I was among the best of company. I was treated like a son and brother, which indeed we were brothers and sisters in the gospel. When tragedy or discomfort struck one, and it did many times, it struck us all.”
Emmigration Canyon was ablaze with her fall attire of reds and golds as the weary but rejoicing Saints descended her well-cut and marked paths that first day of October in 1866. The travelers were warmly received by others who fully understood all that had transpired over the past three months for they, too, had endured and conquered the obstacles that arose between the point of departure and the scene of arrival. Now they stood together in the winners’ circle, ready for the next challenge. William must write home to his family who were anxiously awaiting the news that “Zion had been reached!” Little did he know that they had heard his ship had gone down and were grieving his loss. Oh, how welcome his letter would be! It would inspire new faith and hope.

When we visited Suriname, we met most of the members and learned that the missionary couple serving there, Elder and Sister Limburg, had taught them the gospel using a series of simple teaching and learning methods. They had no momentous or spectacular events or activities, only daily spiritual experiences resulting from their sensitive response to the promptings of the Spirit.
A new missionary couple, Brother and Sister Don Rapier, arrived in Suriname one day ahead of Elder Didier and me, so they met the Saints for the first time along with us. We held four sacrament meetings in homes of the Saints on the Sunday we were there. Elder Rapier shared his feelings about blessing the sacrament in the humble home of one of our new converts. He said:
“This was the most humble circumstance that I had ever been in in my life. The house was made of mostly short pieces of lumber. No electricity, no running water. The roof was corrugated sheets. The house and the yard were clean. The place where we held our sacrament meeting was under the overhang in front of the house. The members and the Brethren sat on wooden boards that were laid on bricks. The sacrament table was a small wooden stand that was set on top of a piece of linoleum covering the dirt floor. The sacrament cloths were very simple and very clean.
“As I knelt down to bless the sacrament, I was overwhelmed with the spirit of love that I had quickly developed for this people. I thought surely our Savior was pleased that He was being remembered in such humble circumstances. I thought of our chapels at home. I could never have appreciated the sacrament there like I can now after this special experience. I also observed that it might take several years before these sweet, humble members would fully realize the significance of having two General Authorities, one an Apostle, in their home, blessing them and their family.”
Brother Rapier’s experience touched deeply each one of us who was there. After the fourth sacrament meeting, my mind reflected upon the words of the Lord: “Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great” (D&C 64:33).

My great-grandparents buried a child on the trail from Far West, when they were driven to Nauvoo, and another at Winter Quarters, when they were driven west.

Another great-grandmother, a teenager, was pushing a handcart along the south banks of the Platte River. They sang:
We’ll find the place which God for us prepared,
Far away in the West,
Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid;
There the Saints will be blessed.

Across the river they could see the sun glinting on the weapons of the soldiers of the army.

In St. Louis my great-grandmother bought a little enameled pin of the American flag. She wore it on her dress for the rest of her life.

I never forgot Elder Lee’s advice. I came to Salt Lake City, Utah, on furlough and went to the Salt Lake Temple. After I left the military and went to college, I saved money for a mission. During my mission, I was able to open the Okinawa area, where my father was from, for missionary work. Later, serving as president of the Tokyo Temple, I had the wonderful blessing of seeing many of the Japanese Saints receive their temple endowments. Seeing the joy in the faces of those being sealed was a great blessing.

I once attended a funeral for a young missionary who was killed in an accident. The missionary’s father spoke in the service and described the heartache of an unexpected mortal separation from a beloved child. He forthrightly declared that he personally did not understand the reasons or timing for such an event. But I always will remember this good man also declaring that he knew God knew the reasons and timing for the passing of his child—and that was good enough for him. He told the congregation that he and his family, though sorrowful, would be fine; their testimonies remained firm and steadfast. He concluded his remarks with this declaration: “I want you to know that as far as the gospel of Jesus Christ is concerned, our family is all in. We are all in.”
Though the loss of a dear loved one was heart-wrenching and difficult, the members of this valiant family spiritually were prepared to prove that they could learn lessons of eternal importance through the things that they suffered.