Gospel Story Finder

My dad is taking me to the movies on Sunday. Want to come?
Sorry, Laura. We can’t. We go to church on Sundays.
Oh. OK.
But thanks for asking us!
Can’t you come after church?
Well, Sunday is a holy day for us. We use it to remember Jesus Christ.
But do you want to come to a Church activity with us next week?
We’re going to do crafts! It’ll be fun.
OK! I’ll ask my dad.
At the activity …
I’m glad you could come.
Me too! Thanks for asking me.

This story happened in the USA.
Jessica fidgeted nervously in the car on the way to her aunt and uncle’s ward. Christmas was only a few days away, but she didn’t feel like celebrating.
Earlier that week there had been a fire at her house. Everyone was safe, but their home was damaged. Many of their things were ruined. Jessica and her mom, brother, and two sisters had moved in with her uncle and aunt until their house could be fixed.
Jessica’s aunt smiled at her. “I know you’ll have a great time in our Primary,” she said.
Jessica wasn’t so sure. She was nervous to go to a different Primary. I won’t know anyone, she thought. Will they be nice to me?
Jessica tried not to think about the fire as she walked to Primary. She held her little cousin Sam’s hand and helped him find his seat. The Primary sang Christmas songs about Jesus. Jessica thought about how Joseph and Mary were away from their home when Jesus was born. She wondered if they felt lost and alone, like she felt right now.
When it was time for class, Jessica felt even more nervous. Another girl smiled at her. “Hi, I’m Anna. Do you want to sit by me in class?”
Jessica smiled back. “Sure.”
In class they read in the scriptures about when Jesus Christ was born. The teacher, Sister Rios, said that the Savior was Heavenly Father’s greatest gift to the world. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son,”* she read to the class.
Jessica had never thought about Jesus as a gift before. She thought about their Christmas presents that had been ruined in the fire. She loved getting presents and was sad hers were gone. But she loved Jesus even more and knew He would never go away.
At the end of class, Sister Rios took out a few small boxes from her bag. Each one held a tiny carving of baby Jesus.
“I have a gift for each of you.” Sister Rios started passing out the boxes. “It can help you remember that God loves you so much that He sent His Son for you.” Then she looked at Jessica. “Jessica, I’m so sorry. I don’t have one for you. I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
Jessica looked down at her hands and tried not to cry. She didn’t know she was going to be here either. She wished she could be in her own home, in her own Primary class for Christmas.
Just then, someone placed a box in her lap. She looked up and saw Anna smiling at her. “Merry Christmas! You can have mine.”
Jessica gently touched the tiny baby Jesus figure. “Thank you! Merry Christmas to you too!”
After church, Mom gave her a hug. “How was Primary?” she asked.
“Good! I got this as a present.” Jessica smiled. “And I learned that Jesus is the best gift of all.”

Recently at the funeral of a friend, I visited with two distinguished brothers—former surgical colleagues of mine—whose lovely companions had both passed away. They said they were going through the most difficult period of their lives, adjusting to the almost unbearable loss of their partners. These wonderful men then told of their cooking breakfast for each other once a week, sharing that rotation with their sister, trying to lessen their loneliness imposed by the doors of death.

That was in June 1974. One year later there was another change of a historic nature. It was announced that Churchwide June Conferences held in Salt Lake City would be discontinued. One of Ruth’s most memorable experiences came during the last June Conference session held in the Salt Lake Tabernacle. Traditionally, every year the leaders of the MIA sang “Firm as the Mountains Around Us” during the opening session. It was the last time that Ruth May Fox’s hymn for youth would be sung in such a setting. The song was announced, and then the conductor arose. But instead of raising his arms to lead the singing, he called for President Funk to come forward. “Because of her great love for youth and her dedication to them, we feel it only fitting that she conduct this song at this special time.” Surprised but willing, she was assisted by the Brethren nearby to climb onto the conductor’s stand. With exuberance she led the thousands of leaders packed into the Tabernacle in singing: “O youth of the noble birthright, Carry on, carry on, carry on!”

Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to a small group of islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.

I promise you young men that if you will commit and prepare to serve a mission, it will be the most rewarding and exciting experience of your lives. Yes, there will be many and varied experiences—yes, even humorous experiences, like the elder who shared with me how he and his companion got on the bus, and as they sat down, in the seat in front of them was a grandfather with a young grandson who was having a temper tantrum. Missionaries being as ingenious as they are, these two elders decided they would see what they could do to quiet the little boy down and help the grandfather.
The boy had a baseball cap on. The elders proceeded to take the cap off his head and made a gesture like they threw it out of the window, but instead they quickly hid it under their seat. They then told the boy, as he felt his head, that if he wished hard enough he could wish it back on his head. The boy looked at his grandpa, wondering what was going on, and as he did, the elders quickly put the cap back on his head. The boy immediately felt the cap on his head, took it off, looked at it again, and then proceeded to throw it out the window, saying, “Do it again, Grandpa!” I think the elders got off at the next stop.

Brother Bennett likes to recount a conversation he had with a newspaper reporter during the South Pacific Games of 1979. Intrigued over the Tahitian captains’s refusal to play on the Sabbath, the journalist sought an interview. During the discussion, he asked, “Who is the person, alive today, that you admire most?”
“He sat back and waited for me to answer,” Brother Bennett recalls. “I guess he expected me to name some outstanding athlete. Instead, I told him the man I admired most was eighty-three year-old Spencer W. Kimball, president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I said I wanted to shake his hand one day. The rest of the interview was mainly about the Church!”
Erroll Bennett did eventually shake President Kimball’s hand. On 13 February 1981, the president visited Tahiti to break ground for the Tahitian Temple. Assigned to assist in handling security for the Church leader was Erroll Bennett.
Today, Brother Bennett, 32 and the father of five, is still at the top of Tahitian soccer. Shelf space in the lounge room of his home in suburban Papeete is occupied by a dazzling array of trophies. He has been the top scorer in Tahiti every year for the past ten years.
It is intriguing to observe the effect Brother Bennett’s courage has had on the image of the Church in the islands. Mission President C. Jay Larson has not been slow to use Brother Bennett in Church meetings attended by investigators. Jean Tefan, recently released public communications director for the Tahiti Region, muses: “Of course, not all people agree with the Church’s stand on the sanctity of the Sabbath. But I believe it’s fair to say they respect us for it. Many admire the fact that there are people who are still prepared to stand up for a principle. And there are countless Tahitians today—not only footballers themselves, but thousands of their supporters—who are now with their families on Sundays instead of at a game because of the character of a Latter-day Saint.”
Perhaps the most important question still remains. Why was a man with the stature of Napoléon Spitz willing to go to such extraordinary lengths to back Erroll on the Sabbath issue, when he did not share the player’s religious conviction? What did this president of the powerful Comité Territorial des Sports, this president of the Football League of French Polynesia and recently elected first vice president of the French Polynesian legislative assembly, see in Erroll Bennett that he so admired?
“For Erroll, I knew that it was a matter of deep religious conviction, and I respected him for it,” Mr. Spitz says. Then, as he leans back in his chair in his political office in the Assembly building, he adds with feeling:
“Erroll Bennett is more than just a soccer player. I believe he is the greatest Tahitian soccer star of all time—as a player, his attitude and his spirit mark him as a great man. If he had these qualities before he became a Mormon, he has them to an even greater degree now. Not once in his career has he ever been cautioned for bad behaviour.”
No one knows how much longer Erroll Bennett will be playing soccer. He could still be at the top five years from now. Yet one senses that an honourable retirement may not be too far distant. In the division of the Papeete Tahiti Stake on June 20 last year, Erroll’s former bishop, Lysis Terooatea, was called to preside over the new Pirae Tahiti Stake, and Erroll was called as a member of the stake high council. True to form, high council meetings come before practice sessions. For his part, Napoléon Spitz is hopeful that Erroll can keep going until the South Pacific Games scheduled for Apia, Samoa, this year.
Of his own life in the past hectic five years—of the pressures he has faced, the principles he has stood for, and the lives he has touched—Erroll Bennett says simply: “I’ve been truly blessed.”

A temple trip to do baptisms for the dead took on new meaning for the youth of the Oklahoma City Oklahoma Stake. To prepare for their temple trip, the youth worked in the name extraction program and personally performed the baptisms in behalf of the people whose names they had extracted.

The Young Women worked in pairs. One would read and the other would print the information on extraction cards. The girls began to feel a close relationship with the people on the film. They prayed for guidance when names were not legible and often were able to decipher the writing.

The Young Men became interested in the program and began participating in name extraction in preparation for the temple trip. The Young Women helped train the Young Men in the correct ways of filling out extraction cards.

When the youth traveled to the temple, they felt the significance of what they were doing because they had been involved through the whole process.

“You must have a personal conversion to the gospel, especially if you are going to share it with someone outside of the Church,” says Torfin Christensen, 18, of Kent, Washington.
Share your beliefs.
In the summer of 1991, Tor went to work for AnaMarie Hollenbach, a 72-year-old invalid confined to a wheelchair. He still does odd jobs around her house and brings her groceries in every Friday evening. He says, “At first, she was just curious about the Mormons, and we would talk about our beliefs with each other. Then a few months later, she asked for the missionary lessons. She accepted everything right down the line and gave up a lifelong habit of smoking.” On March 26, 1992, Tor baptized Sister Hollenbach.
As first assistant in the priests quorum of the Kent Third Ward, Kent Stake, Tor sees that Sister Hollenbach receives the sacrament in her home at least once a month since her health does not allow her to attend Church services on a regular basis.
Tor is working and saving money and hopes to be in the mission field by fall of this year. He says quietly but with conviction, “I believe the gospel. I live it. I’ve never experienced life without it, and I don’t ever want to.”
Live the gospel.
Here are a few more of the teachings of the gospel Tor lives by:
Service: His mother, Sherie Christensen, says, “Tor is keenly aware of the needs of others, and he is always doing something for someone. Here at home, if he sees something needs to be done he gets right after it without being asked or told.”
Scripture study: Tor graduated from seminary and continues to fit daily scripture study into his busy schedule. He feels that his seminary experience has given him a more thorough understanding of the gospel and has better prepared him for a mission.
Tithes: The first thing out of each paycheck is Tor’s tithing. He works at an apartment complex doing maintenance projects to earn money for his mission and personal needs.
Self-sufficiency: Tor worked to pay for a small truck he uses to help ease his own, as well as the family’s, transportation needs.

After I got a concussion playing [American] football, I started having headaches daily. I had a hard time not focusing on the pain I was feeling. One day I felt an impression from the Holy Ghost that happiness doesn’t come from our circumstances but from our focus. I realized that my focus was always on my pain instead of the daily blessings I receive from God.
I started to wonder, what else was stopping me from growing spiritually? With a humble heart I asked Heavenly Father this question. I knew I could not come up with the right answer on my own, but our Heavenly Father has all of the answers.
The answer I received seemed very simple, but it was customized to what I needed: “Get out of bed and exercise again.” I started exercising despite the constant pain I felt. I found myself moving closer to God.
God has given me so much love. By exercising both physically and spiritually, I grow closer to Him. Being close to Heavenly Father is my biggest comfort and form of peace. When you take the sacrament, I invite you to focus on the spiritual growth you can make in the coming week. The Holy Ghost will give you the personal guidance you need.

On October 5, 2017, a year and two months into my mission was the day I received news from my mission president that my mom had passed on the day before. The pain I felt was beyond explanation, I was tempted to tell my mission president that I wanted to go home. My mission president and wife, being the loving parents they are, asked that I stay with them a few days at the mission home with hopes that I would be comforted.
In the course of my stay, my mission president gave me a priesthood blessing and I was prompted to revisit some of the scriptures my mission president had expounded during one of our zone conferences on the plan of salvation and so I did. I read Alma 42:6 that reminded me that death is inevitable and that “it was appointed unto man to die.” I also read Alma 40:11–12 where it teaches that a righteous soul who crosses the veil will be in a state of rest and peace.
As I read, I felt my pain waning gradually and I continued to read it repeatedly. I was reminded that my mom was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who had gone through the ordinances of baptism and receiving the Holy Ghost by my hand two years before her passing. That reminder kept me going and I left the mission home the next day to return to proselyting.
As I kept teaching the plan of salvation to my investigators from the Book of Mormon, my joy knew no bounds. Thanks to the Book of Mormon, I have moved on and am almost done with my mission. I am more than grateful for the principles taught in the Book of Mormon indeed, it contains the fullness of the gospel, for I have received a witness of its truthfulness.

Trent sat high in the oak tree, dangling one leg over a thick branch. When Jared and Tom called to him from below, he didn’t even hear them. He was daydreaming about a book he had been reading. His Grandma Jessop had given him Pioneer Children for his birthday. After reading the book for a while, he had left it on his bed and climbed the tree to think about the pioneer children and their amazing experiences.
One boy in the book had saved his two little sisters when their house and fields caught fire. Another had found food for his family because his father was away fighting in a war.
The stories told about the many dangers that the pioneer children faced—bears, coyotes, starvation. Trent wished that he had lived then. He would have met the challenges! He could scare away coyotes and bears. He had learned in Scouts how to make a cave in learned in Scouts how to make a cave in the snow where he could keep himself and his little brother warm if they got lost, just like a girl had done in one of the stories. He would share a piece ot bread with a hungry child, even if it were all he had.
But it would never happen to Trent. His mother could buy him anything he wanted in the market—any type of bread, fresh fruits and vegetables throughout the year, even treats.
Finally, the voices below broke through Trent’s reverie.
“Trent! What’s the matter with you?” Jared called. “Have you gone deaf or something?”
“No. Why?”
“We’ve been shouting at you to come down,” Tom said.
“What for?”
“Who knows? We’ll just walk around till we find something to do.”
I’m sure you will, Trent thought. Jared and Tom were his best friends, but lately they were often into some kind of mischief. Trent climbed part of the way down the tree and then dropped to the ground.
“What were you doing up there, anyway?” Jared asked.
“I was thinking about this book I’ve been reading,” Trent answered. “It’s all about—”
“A book!” Jared sneered. “Don’t you have anything better to do than read books?”
Trent looked searchingly at Jared, trying to see beyond the dark eyes and freckles that he had come to know so well. Tom, too, was almost as familiar as a brother, although he had moved into the neighborhood only six months ago.
“What’s wrong with you, Jared?” asked Trent. “You used to like to read. You used to like the other things I like too.”
Jared just ignored Trent’s question.
“Hey, look,” Tom said, pointing. “Here comes Reggie. Let’s have some fun with him.”
Trent winced.
Reggie was working hard to pedal his bicycle up the hill, sweat gathering on his forehead, a paper sack held tightly in one hand. Reggie tried his best, but he just couldn’t do a lot of things very well, and he attended a special class for slow learners.
“Hey, you,” Tom said as Reggie neared them, “stupid kids like you aren’t allowed on this street. You’ll have to go back around the other way.”
Reggie stopped pedaling and put his feet to the ground. He looked around, confused.
“What’s the matter?” Tom went on, “Don’t you know the way?”
Jared giggled. Reggie was older than they were. He was bigger, too, but he looked afraid.
“What’s in the sack?” Tom asked.
“Candy.”
“Oh, let’s see,” Jared said, grabbing the sack away from Reggie. “Maybe you have my favorite kind of candy in there.”
Jared dumped out the candy, and he and Tom began dividing it between them.
Reggie blinked a few times, and Trent saw tears in his eyes. “My daddy gave me the money,” Reggie quavered. “I earned it.”
“Ha!” Tom jeered. “What did you have to do to earn it? Tie your own shoelaces?”
“Button your own shirt?” Jared added.
Trent felt tears starting in his own eyes. He didn’t want to go against his two best friends, but he knew what he had to do. “Stop it!” he shouted.
Tom and Jared looked at him, surprised. Even Reggie looked surprised. Trent grabbed the candy out of his friends’ hands.
“Come on,” Tom said. “We’re just having a little fun.”
“Well it’s not much fun for Reggie, is it?” Trent asked as he handed the sack with candy back to Reggie.
“No,” Reggie said, wiping the tears off his cheeks.
“Come on,” Trent said, his hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “I’ll walk with you.”
As they walked, balancing the bike between them, Trent and Reggie talked. They talked about bicycles, and Reggie told Trent about his new puppy.
When they waved good-bye, Trent felt good about what he’d done. He realized that although he hadn’t faced starvation or bears, as the pioneer children in his book had, by acting against his friends to help Reggie, he had acted with courage too. It was just another kind of courage.

Insights for others. While responding to the challenge, I read Mosiah 18 and couldn’t get it out of my mind. About two days later I sat down with a new member (I served as branch president). This brother wanted to know again why he needed to be baptized into the Church when he had previously been baptized in another church. Without hesitation, I opened to Mosiah and asked him to read in chapter 18. When he finished we were both silent for a while. Then the brother told me that he had felt prompted to counsel with me. I silently bowed my head and thanked Heavenly Father for the gift of a prophet and his challenge to reread the Book of Mormon. Akingbade A. Ojo, Ijebu-Ode, Nigeria

The memory of that year is still strong. I can remember the smells, the colors, the people, the way the air felt and tasted. I was young, quite young then, but I can still remember.
The transition of summer fading into winter had already begun. The air was cold enough at night to leave a frost on the windows. The leaves of the poplar trees had turned from green to bright yellow, and the potawatomi plums were ripe.
I’d gone down to a thicket of potawatomi trees that grew near Grandma Gleaves’s place with two of my friends. The fruit was warm and fragrant from lying in the sun and was juicy and sweet. We sat under the trees eating and watching Grandma Gleaves’s house. The juice, the color of ripe canteloupes, streamed down our faces.
“I wonder if she’s in there.”
“She never leaves the place.”
“Come on, she’s gotta go out sometime.”
“Nope, Mr. Wilson brings her groceries to her every Saturday.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve watched him. I sat right here.”
“Ever see her?”
“I saw something move through a window once, and I heard her say something to Mr. Wilson when he was bringing her a load of coal.”
“What did she say?”
“It was too far away. I couldn’t hear too well.”
“It’s not that far.”
“I bet you can’t hit it from here.”
Kim reached down and picked up a bright red globe and then stood up.
“I wonder what she looks like.”
He leaned back and threw. The potawatomi arched up into the blue sky and then dropped down, splattering on the ground in front of the porch.
“I can do better than that.”
“Maybe she’ll come out.”
“Naw, she never comes out.” Rick stood up and threw. A fiery golden streak came down and smashed against the side of the house.
“Not bad.”
“Try for the window. Maybe she’ll look out if you hit it.”
I carefully picked out a potawatomi, one that was just a little green, a little harder than most of them. I wound up and put my weight into the throw. It hung in the sky, a second golden sun, and then flashed down.
“Oh, oh!”
The sound of the breaking glass was small and fragile. Reflected pieces of blue sky and of the yellow weeds that grew around the house dropped from the window frame, leaving a dark, jagged hole bordered with waving lace curtains.
We stood frozen, breathless, paralyzed by curiosity. A dark form moved in the broken window.
“Run!”
Rick and Kim turned and ran. I hesitated. The door opened, and in the time it took me to gulp a deep breath of air, I saw her, an old woman, thin, pale, and frightened.
I crashed into the sharp, black branches of the thicket. Potawatomis were crushed under my feet, making my footing slippery. I fell and scrambled, crawling out the other side of the trees, and then ran into a grain field, my heart pounding, the image of the old woman still in my mind.
The grain was bent down, showing the trail that Rick and Kim had made. I followed. Something caught my leg and I fell, tumbling. Rick and Kim were laying in the thick grain laughing.
“Great shot.”
“Got it on my first try,” I said, trying to forget the old woman.
Rick reached over and slapped me on the back.
“If your arm gets tired of patting yourself on the back, I’ll take over. You look like you saw a ghost. Did you see her?”
“No.”
“Do you think she saw us?”
“I doubt it.”
I knew I was in trouble as soon as I got home that night. My father was waiting for me. He wasn’t smiling.
“Where have you been?”
I looked him in the eye brazenly.
“Nowhere.”
“It looks like you’ve been eating potawatomis.”
“Maybe.”
My shirt and pants had orange stains on them.
“There are some potawatomi trees down by Mrs. Gleaves’s, aren’t there?”
“I guess.” I knew I was caught.
“You broke Mrs. Gleaves’s window, didn’t you?”
“I … we …”
“Somebody saw you do it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
My heart was beating so hard now that it felt like a bird in a cage trying to get out. My legs were weak. It wasn’t that I was afraid of being punished. I was just embarrassed that I’d been caught.
My father, the muscles in his jaw flexed tight, watched me quietly for a few minutes.
“I don’t know what’s happening to you, Danny, throwing tomatoes at cars last week, letting that snake loose in the movie house, letting McLuhan’s sheep out during the Pioneer Days parade. You weren’t like this before. Ever since your—”
He stopped abruptly and looked away, silent. We’d never talked about it. It was never mentioned. He hadn’t cried during the funeral, not before and not after. He had just sat silent. After the funeral he’d taken everything that was hers and put it in boxes, taped them shut, and carried them to the basement. Everything about her he had taken and hidden. All that was left was the pain.
“You’re going to apologize to her.”
“No. I won’t.” This wasn’t the punishment I’d expected. I could still see the thin face and the white hair and the fear. It was too much. I couldn’t go back there and face her. I’d rather walk through the cemetery at night, alone. I knew he wouldn’t think much of having me walk through the cemetery at night for punishment, though.
“You can ground me for a month. I’ll sit in my room and I’ll only leave to go to school and church.”
“I don’t see that you have any choice.” His face hardened.
“I’ll rake all the leaves. I’ll clean the garden up.” I was getting desperate. “I’ll wash the dishes for two months.”
“I want you to go down there in the morning.”
“Three months.”
“I want you to tell her that you’ll replace the window and that you’ll help her with her yard work or any other work she needs done every Saturday for a month.”
“That’s too much for one window.”
“It takes a lot of good to make up for something bad. I’ll pick up the glass, and tomorrow after I get back from work, we’ll put it in. Tell Mrs. Gleaves we’re coming.”
It was early when my father dropped me off at the lane that led to Mrs. Gleaves’s house. My father smiled at me when I opened the car door to get out.
“Don’t forget to tell her we’ll be by to put the window in tonight.”
I closed the door, and he drove off leaving a thin vapor trail of dust hanging over the gravel road. I watched until the dust settled and the air was clear again. I kicked a furrow in the soft, dry earth and then started walking slowly toward the house. The fence posts and the trees that lined the lane cast long shadows. A rooster pheasant with his head ducked down ran across the road in front of me and then vanished into tall, yellow grass.
As I walked, I remembered vividly a story about two Mormon missionaries during the Mexican Revolution.
“Will you deny the truth?”
“No. Never.”
“Blindfold?”
“No. I don’t need one.”
I imagined walking bravely to the wall in front of the firing squad. I had reached the gate on the picket fence that surrounded Mrs. Gleaves’s house. I turned around and faced the firing squad. The guns exploded.
Mortally wounded I fell to the ground. I stood up again and looked at the gate. It couldn’t have been any worse for the missionaries to face the firing squad than what I had to do. I felt terrible. It wasn’t just that I felt bad about breaking the window. It was also that I’d been caught doing it.
I walked through the gate. The fence was gray with age and several pickets were broken. There was a large cottonwood tree in the front yard. The bark at the trunk and in spots on up the tree was the same gray color of the fence and was wrinkled like elephant skin. The tree was ancient looking. Everything about the yard looked old, neglected, forgotten.
To the left and in front of the house was the thicket of potawatomi trees sitting red and gold in the morning sunlight. In a direct line from the thicket was the broken window, a dark vacant hole surrounded by the sky and clouds. The house was made of square-cut logs that were fitted together and chinked with plaster. The wood was black-brown from years of exposure to the sun. It made the house look ominous.
I knocked on the door. From deep within the house something stirred, and then the house was silent again. A small wind came up, rustling the leaves that covered the grounds around the house. A few leaves drifted down from the cottonwood tree. Clouds drifted slowly across the sky. The steady sound of a thrasher working an unseen grain field could be heard in the distance.
Finally, after what seemed like several hours, the door opened a crack.
“Who is it?”
“Danny Anderson.”
“What do you want?” Her voice was distant and soft.
“I broke your window yesterday.”
“Window?”
“I broke your window yesterday. It was an accident.”
“Window.” The door closed a little.
“My father and I will come back tonight to fix it. And to pay for it, I’m supposed to do yard work for you.”
She opened the door a little more.
“I’ll be by on Saturday to do the work.”
She closed the door, and I backed off the porch.
That evening, after we finished replacing the window, my father went into Mrs. Gleaves’s house and talked to her while I waited outside.
“She’s expecting you on Saturday,” he said when he came out.
“She’s weird,” I said.
“She kind of withdrew into herself when her husband was killed in an accident. That was 20 years ago. I don’t think she’s been out of her house more than a couple of times since then.” My father was quiet the rest of the way home.
Saturday came too soon. She opened the door and handed me a small bucket.
“Fill it with potawatomis and bring it back to me.”
A few minutes later I handed her the bucket filled with the ripe plums. She took the bucket.
“You can rake the leaves.”
The leaves were almost half a foot deep and covered most of the yard. I’d finished my second pile when the most delicious aroma I’d ever smelled came from the house. It was the fragrance of bread baking and of something wonderfully sweet simmering. I had to rake harder to keep from thinking about it.
At about noon she came out onto the porch and waved to me to come over. She was carrying a plate with two three-inch thick slices of steaming homemade bread covered with melting butter and a golden-red jam. The aroma was indescribable.
She pointed to the porch steps with a hand that held a large glass of milk.
“Sit.”
She handed me the plate and sat down next to me. She watched me quietly as I savored the fragrance of the bread and then took a large bite. Hot homemade bread, fresh butter, hot homemade potawatomi jam—it was delicious. I smiled at her.
“It’s good.”
A smile cracked on her face and then faded. She turned and looked out at the yard.
“It looks awful now. No one has worked on it for a long time. It was once beautiful. We painted the fence every year.”
She pointed to the fence line.
“There were roses there, and in the back we had a garden. The best one in the valley. We had the biggest watermelon in the state once. It took first prize at the state fair. It was as long as you are. We had all of our friends here after the fair. We sat under that cottonwood and ate the melon.”
She sat silent for a long time looking at the yard. I finished the milk and set the glass down. I looked at the yard, trying to see what she was looking at. A small wind blew in short puffs stirring the leaves on the ground and starting more falling from the trees. The air was cool and smelled of fall, and the sun was bright and warm.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful it was then,” she said. She wasn’t exactly talking to me.
“I’d better get back to work. My father will be here at 2:00.”
I stood and picked up the rake I’d leaned against the porch.
“Thanks for the bread and jam. I’ve never had potawatomi jam before.”
“It was John’s favorite. He planted the trees.”
That fall passed quickly. The following week while I chopped down the patches of tall yellow weeds and piled them, she made pie from apples I had picked from the tree that grew out behind the house. The week after that she made cookies filled with blueberries. I’m not sure when or why I started looking forward to Saturdays. I even enjoyed the work.
On the fifth Saturday my father came along to help. We brought paint that we had left over from painting our house. He repaired broken pickets while I painted. At noon Mrs. Gleaves brought out sandwiches and fresh-made doughnuts and milk. We sat underneath the old cottonwood tree while we ate. It was a cool day. The air was cold, but the sun was warm. Mrs. Gleaves had a sweater wrapped around her shoulders.
“It looks good,” she said. “The yard is looking real good.”
My father touched me on the shoulder.
“Mrs. Gleaves was my Sunday School teacher,” he said. Mrs. Gleaves laughed.
“That was a long time ago. Your wife was in the class too. She wasn’t your wife then, was she though?”
My father was silent. He kept eating like he hadn’t heard her.
“She had a temper, didn’t she? I remember we were building models of the city of Bethlehem out of Epsom salts one Sunday. I don’t remember what you did, but she got mad at you and dumped the whole bucket of salt on you right there in church.”
My father looked up laughing.
“I’d forgotten about that. She didn’t get angry very often but when she did. … When we were first married, I told her that the mashed potatoes she’d made were burnt. She picked up the bowl and walked over to me. She smiled and opened my shirt front and dumped the whole mess in. ‘You don’t have to eat them,’ she said.”
We all laughed. My father suddenly stopped. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. A tear streamed from an eye. My throat felt raw, like something was caught in it.
“She died, didn’t she?”
My father nodded, still looking down at his hands.
“I thought I remembered hearing that. It’s a hard thing.”
My father stood.
“I’ve got to be going,” he said. “Dan can finish with the painting.”
After he’d left, she said, “He took your mother’s death pretty hard, didn’t he?”
I nodded. She sat silent, looking at me.
“He’s lucky he has you.” She continued. “You’re a good boy.”
She stood up slowly, kneeling first and then bracing herself on the tree. My father had told me that she was at least 80 years old.
“John and I never had any children.” She looked up at the sky and held the sweater tight around her shoulder. “The snow will be here before next Saturday,” she said. “You’ve done good work with the yard. Thank you.”
She closed the door going into her house. I was alone. The air was growing even colder than it had been. The sky had clouded over and was a dark, slate color. The whole valley seemed to have darkened. I looked over at the potawatomi trees. Deep, deep inside of me a pain was swelling up. I walked over to the thicket. A covey of quail were feeding on the soft, overripe plums. They ran single file back into the thicket as I approached. The branches on the trees were dark, bare skeletons now. I reached down and picked up one of the plums. It smelled sweet and earthy.
I hadn’t helped my father. I looked at the window that reflected the dark clouds and the barren fields. I’d hurt him, maybe not intentionally, but just the same I’d hurt him. I’d been too busy feeling my own pain to help anyone, him or even myself.
The potawatomi squashed in my closed fist. The fragrant juice squeezed out between my fingers. I wiped my hands on my pants and went back to finish the fence.
The next week the fence looked good in the snow, white on white. A few leaves had fallen from the trees after the snow had come, coloring the white with gold. I helped Mrs. Gleaves bring coal in for her stove. I helped her with the coal and with her groceries the rest of that winter. Mr. Wilson was glad to have the help. He was getting old himself. And sometimes on particularly cold nights I would go to her house in the evenings and sit next to her old-fashioned stove, feeling the radiant warmth and talking, and sometimes my father came with me.

My husband’s sister Lilly, her husband, Robert, and their two children had come from the United States to visit us in Sweden, and I wanted to do something special. We decided to spend an afternoon at a water park. I felt it would be a safe activity since there would be four adults to watch the children.
But there must have been some misunderstanding about who was to look after Leonard, my five-year-old son. When we realized he was missing, we frantically began looking for him. Suddenly my husband, Henri, screamed, “Leonard has drowned!” Lilly, who is a trained lifeguard, dived into the pool, pulled him from the bottom, and immediately began resuscitation efforts.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. I wondered if my son was to be taken back to Heavenly Father. I prayed intensely for the Lord’s will to be done. In the middle of the chaos, Henri put his hands on Leonard’s head and gave him a blessing. During the short blessing, a burning feeling came over me. I have no words to explain it, but I know it was the Lord comforting me. I somehow knew that if I exercised faith, things would be all right. Just as Henri finished the blessing, Leonard took one breath.
The ambulance came and took Leonard to the hospital. He was still unconscious, and the doctors warned us that if he awoke from his coma, there would likely be brain damage. But I believed he could be healed if that was the Lord’s will. I concentrated on the task of having faith.
Two days later Leonard awoke—scared but well. Feelings of relief, happiness, and gratitude flooded over us. We had been blessed with a miracle through the power of the priesthood and through exercising our faith.

I thought that righteousness was no more nor less than doing everything and anything asked of me by leaders of the Church. I guess I thought righteousness was somehow a system, a set of rules. So, I made this my goal and began. I filled a mission, married in the temple, was almost immediately ordained a high priest and called as a counselor in a bishopric, and subsequently held many other callings. I tried to regularly attend the temple, learn and do genealogy, hold family home evenings, pay tithes and offerings, give to the ward budget and building fund, and simply do whatever my bishop asked.
I could not deny that the rewards from these activities were great. But I also could not claim that I became wonderfully righteous as a result. Somehow, I was still troubled by feelings of guilt and unworthiness. I was still retaining the little character faults and other evils in my soul. Church activities alone didn’t seem to be eradicating my sins.
My first reaction when I realized all my efforts weren’t getting rid of my sins was to redouble my effort. I found myself increasingly concerned with obtaining some measure or recognition of success in the Church. Like many of us, I was mistakenly assuming that a call to high position was equivalent to the Lord’s approval. It took me several years to get rid of this misconception.
Another result of my goal to do everything I could in the Church was that I found myself feeling frustrated and guilty at times because I could not understand all the instructions I was receiving from Church leaders. Sometimes I heard, “Do this; it is most important.” Other times it seemed that something else had priority. When I felt torn between two “good,” my goal to simply do whatever I was asked didn’t help me make those hard decisions. Frustration and guilt set in when I found I simply didn’t have time to fulfill every church and family responsibility in a satisfactory way every time.
In time, I realized some important things. First, I realized that although my goal—righteousness—was still there, I had been mistaken in the means of achieving it. I had sought for external evidence rather than internal assurances from my Heavenly Father. I also saw that fulfilling the expectations of other people was not only not fully possible, but did not make me feel totally righteous. So I began again.

I was 11, shivering in a flurry of pre-dawn snowfall, staring from the edge of the Grand Canyon into the black void below. Behind me, the other Scouts were pulling on their packs and horsing around, ignoring the Scoutmaster who was trying to get everyone organized for the long hike. As the youngest—and smallest—of the group, I was intimidated by the older boys and the task that lay ahead.
“Are you ready?” my dad asked then, coming up behind me and laying a strong hand on my shoulder. My heart pounded in my chest and part of me wanted to say no, but I didn’t want to look weak in front of the other Scouts, so I nodded. A few minutes later, we hefted our packs and started down the winding trail to the river far below.
Slowly, the sun rose into the sky. The snow turned into freezing mist and then into a light rain that formed puddles in the red dirt. At last, it evaporated into a sweltering heat. We shed our jackets, applied sunscreen, and marched on.
The hours ticked by. Sweat dripped down my face, and every inch of my body ached. Blisters began to form on my feet. The pack, towering over my head, grew heavier with every step.
Miles inched past: first one, then two, then three. When we stopped for lunch, we had barely passed the halfway point and my legs were already turning to jelly. I dropped my pack to the ground and gratefully plopped onto a large rock beside the trail to eat my smashed peanut butter sandwich.
Relieved of their load, my muscles shook uncontrollably. I longingly watched a mule train pass on its way to the bottom. What would it be like to ride instead of walk? Much sooner than I would have liked, the Scoutmaster signaled the end of the break. I staggered as I hoisted my pack, but my dad caught me and helped me get it into place.
We started down the trail again and, almost immediately, I started having problems. Instead of resting my sore muscles, the break had tightened them. I almost stumbled with each aching step.
Ten minutes passed. My pack seemed to drag behind me, pulling me down and making it impossible to lift my feet. Still, I forced myself forward. I couldn’t show weakness in front of the other Scouts. I had to keep moving.
But a few minutes later, I could go no farther. My heart beat faster as I gathered my courage to call for a stop. In my mind, I could see the disappointment and frustration of the older boys at having to stop for the baby who shouldn’t have been allowed to come in the first place. Tears welled up, and I choked back a sudden lump in my throat.
That was when my pack lifted and I suddenly felt lighter than air.
My father, who had been following close behind, had seen my distress and, just when I was about to give up, had reached out, grabbed the bottom of my pack, and lifted it with his strong arm. With the load gone, I suddenly felt like I could run down the trail.
We continued like this for several minutes, with me walking ahead and my father following close behind, lifting the pack from my shoulders. When he at last lowered the pack and removed what must have been a very sore arm, I had regained my strength and could continue on.
Over the years, the memory of that hike and what my father had done for me had faded. But as I stared into the valley that last morning before leaving on my mission, it came rushing back.
In that moment, I saw that my father had shown me an incredible example of how the Savior works. He lets us live our lives and make our own decisions. He lets the weight of the world gather on our shoulders as we face choices and circumstances that test our faith and dedication. And then, when we can go no further, He reaches out with His strong arm and lifts our packs so we can continue on.
Staring into the valley now, I no longer feared the long journey ahead or the trials I would face on my mission or at any other time in my life. I knew that the Lord would always be close behind and that, when I had done all I could, He would reach out and lift my pack.

“I’m impressed with the five goals you scored in today’s game.” Collin turned around and realized the man was talking to him. “I’m starting a new soccer team and want to know if you would like to be on it.”
“Would I ever!” Collin thought. Collin was nine, and he enjoyed playing soccer. When he and his parents attended the first planning meeting for the new team, the coach explained that they would be playing in many tournaments on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. “Not on Sunday,” Collin thought.
After talking with his parents, Collin told the coach he wanted very much to be on the new team, but he would not play soccer on Sunday. He thought the coach would be mad and not let him be on the team. The coach paused for a moment and told Collin that he still wanted him to play. Collin felt peace in his heart and knew he had made the right decision. He was glad he had made the team. His parents reminded him that even if he had not been allowed to join the team, he had made the right decision.

A few weeks after the temple dedication, Louisa Pratt and her daughters started west with a company of Saints. Ellen was now fourteen, Frances was twelve, Lois was nine, and Ann was five. They had two yoke of oxen, two cows, and a wagon loaded with new clothes and provisions.

Before crossing the river into Iowa, Louisa called at the post office and found a long letter from Addison dated January 6, 1846—five months earlier. Addison reported that he was now in Tahiti with some Tubuaian friends, the married couple Nabota and Telii, on their way to help his fellow missionary Benjamin Grouard with missionary work on the nearby Anaa atoll. He had sent Louisa sixty dollars and loving words for her and the children.

Addison expected to serve among the island Saints for many years to come, but not without his family. “If you can get any books,” he wrote, “and have any leisure time, I think you and the children had better attend to the studying of the Tahitian language, for in my opinion you may have use for it within a few years.”32

The letter pleased Louisa, and she found her journey west surprisingly joyful. The spring rains had ended, and she liked riding horseback beneath clear skies while a hired man drove her wagons. She rose early every morning, gathered up stray cattle, and helped to drive them during the day. Occasionally she worried about how far she was traveling from her parents and other relatives, but her belief in Zion comforted her. The revelations spoke of Zion as a place of refuge, a land of peace. That was what she wanted in her life.

“Sometimes I feel cheerful,” she wrote in her journal on June 10. “The Lord has called us, and appointed us a place where we can live in peace and be free from the dread of our cruel persecutors!”33

Five days later, Louisa and her company arrived at Mount Pisgah, one of two large way stations the Saints had established along the Iowa trail. The encampment hugged the base of some low, sloping hills crowned with a grove of oak trees. As Brigham had envisioned, the Saints there lived in tents or log cabins and cultivated crops to supply food for companies who would arrive later. Other areas of the camp provided pastureland for the livestock.

Louisa selected a site in the shade of some oak trees for her family. The place was beautiful, but overhead the sun beat down on the encamped Saints, many of whom were exhausted from the rain and mud they had battled that spring.

“May the Lord reward them for all their sacrifices,” Louisa thought.34
Farther ahead on the trail, Brigham and the Camp of Israel stopped at a place called Mosquito Creek, not far from the Missouri River. They were hungry, two months behind schedule, and desperately poor.35 Yet Brigham still insisted on sending an advance company over the Rocky Mountains. He believed that a group of Saints needed to finish the journey that season, for as long as the Church wandered without a home, its enemies would try to scatter it or block its way.36

Brigham knew, however, that outfitting such a group would strain the Saints’ resources. Few had money or provisions to spare, and Iowa provided limited opportunities for paid labor. To survive on the prairie, many Saints had sold prized possessions along the trail or worked odd jobs to earn money for food and supplies. As the camp moved west and settlements thinned, these opportunities would only become harder to find.37

Other matters also weighed on Brigham. The Saints who did not belong to the advance company needed a place to spend the winter. The Omahas and other Native peoples who inhabited the land west of the Missouri River were willing to let the Saints camp there over the winter, but government agents were reluctant to allow them to settle on protected Indian lands for a long period of time.38

Brigham also knew the sick and impoverished Saints in Nauvoo were depending on the Church to take them west. For a time, he had hoped to assist them by selling valuable property in Nauvoo, including the temple. But so far this effort had been unsuccessful.39

On June 29, Brigham learned that three officers from the United States Army were coming to Mosquito Creek. The United States had declared war on Mexico, and President James Polk had authorized the men to recruit a battalion of five hundred Saints for a military campaign to the California coast.
The next day, Brigham discussed the news with Heber Kimball and Willard Richards. Brigham had no quarrel with Mexico, and the idea of helping the United States galled him. But the West could become American territory if the United States won the war, and assisting the army could improve the Saints’ relationship with the nation. More important, the enlisted men’s pay could help the Church fund its westward migration.40

Brigham spoke with the officers as soon as they arrived. He learned that their orders had come after Thomas Kane, a well-connected young man on the East Coast, had heard about the Saints’ plight and introduced Jesse Little to important officials in Washington, DC. After some lobbying, Jesse had met with President Polk and persuaded him to help the Saints move west by enlisting some of them in military service.

Seeing the benefits of the arrangement, Brigham endorsed the orders wholeheartedly. “This is the first offer we have ever had from the government to benefit us,” he declared. “I propose that the five hundred volunteers be mustered, and I will do my best to see all their families brought forward, as far as my influence can be extended, and feed them when I have anything to eat myself.”41

Drusilla Hendricks was furious with Brigham’s decision to cooperate with the United States. Her husband, James, had been shot in the neck during a skirmish with Missourians in 1838, leaving him partially paralyzed. Like others in camp, she still resented the government for not helping the Saints at that time. Even though her son William was old enough to volunteer for the battalion, she did not want to let him join. With her husband’s paralysis, she depended on her son for help.42

Recruiters visited the camp daily, often with Brigham or other apostles. “If we want the privilege of going where we can worship God according to the dictates of our conscience,” Brigham testified, “we must raise the battalion.”43 Many Saints swallowed their resentment and supported the endeavor, but Drusilla could not bear parting with her son.

Sometimes the Spirit whispered to her, “Are you afraid to trust the God of Israel? Has He not been with you in all your trials? Has He not provided for your wants?” She would acknowledge God’s goodness, but then she would remember the government’s cruelty, and her anger would return.

On the day of the battalion’s departure, William rose early to bring in the cows. Drusilla watched him as he walked through the tall, wet grass, and she worried that her lack of faith would do him more harm than good. He could get hurt traveling on the trail with his family just as easily as he could marching with the battalion. And if that happened, she would regret having made him stay.

Drusilla started breakfast, unsure what to do about William. Climbing onto the wagon to get flour, she again felt the Spirit’s whisper: Didn’t she want the greatest blessings of the Lord?

“Yes,” she said aloud.

“Then how can you get it without making the greatest sacrifice?” the Spirit asked. “Let your son go in the battalion.”

“It is too late,” she said. “They are to be marched off this morning.”

William returned, and the family gathered for breakfast. As James blessed the food, Drusilla was startled when a man interrupted the camp. “Turn out, men!” he shouted. “We lack some men yet in the battalion.”

Drusilla opened her eyes and saw William staring at her. She studied his face, memorizing each feature. She knew then that he would join the battalion. “If I never see you again until the morning of the resurrection,” she thought, “I shall know you are my child.”

After breakfast, Drusilla prayed alone. “Spare his life,” she pleaded, “and let him be restored to me and to the bosom of the Church.”

“It shall be done unto you,” the Spirit whispered, “as it was unto Abraham when he offered Isaac on the altar.”

Drusilla searched for William and found him sitting in the wagon, his head buried in his hands. “Do you want to go with the battalion?” she asked. “If you do, I have had a testimony that it is right for you to go.”

“President Young said it is for the salvation of this people,” William said, “and I might as well have a hand in it as anyone.”

“I have held you back,” Drusilla said, “but if you want to go, I shall hold you no longer.”44

When I was a young boy growing up in South Africa, I was not a member of the Church. But I read the Bible and said my prayers often, like my parents had taught me to. Because of that, I always felt that the Lord was close to me. I especially liked reading stories about Jesus’s life. I tried to be honest, hardworking, trustworthy, and kind, like Jesus. That’s what the scriptures and Jesus’s example taught me.
revelation: messages or direction from Heavenly Father
From reading the Bible, I also learned what the Church was like when Jesus was alive. And it made me wonder why none of the churches I knew about looked like Jesus’s Church had. Why don’t they have prophets and apostles? I wondered. Why isn’t there revelation in our day?
One day when I was older, two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knocked on our door. “We have a message for you,” they said.
My mother, who was a very friendly person, said, “We’d like to hear it. Will you come back this evening?” When the missionaries came that evening, the room was full—my mother and father, my four siblings, and me. My parents had even invited our neighbors over to listen to the missionaries.
My family was amazed by what they taught. We were thrilled that Jesus’s Church had been restored. It was a church with prophets and apostles! Over time, the missionaries answered all the questions that I had from prayerfully reading the scriptures. Because my family and I were already familiar with the Bible, we were ready to hear the missionaries’ message. We were excited about the gospel. Our neighbors didn’t feel the same excitement.
What truly converted me to the gospel was the Book of Mormon. I read some verses from it. Then one day I decided to follow Moroni’s promise to “ask God … if these things are not true; and … he will manifest the truth of it unto you” (Moroni 10:4). So I said a prayer and started reading the very first verse in the Book of Mormon. When I read it, the Holy Ghost witnessed to me in a wonderful way that the Book of Mormon truly is the word of God.
You’re never too young to start reading the scriptures and praying every day. Doing those things will help you know what is true. It will give you faith and the courage to make right decisions.
God doesn’t expect us to rely on anyone else’s testimony of the gospel. He will tell us Himself that the gospel and the Book of Mormon are true. If we are sincere and pray with faith, He will answer our prayers to know the truth.