Gospel Story Finder

When Ezequiel Agustín Frau lost his job in early 2006, he’d been home from his mission to Colombia for nearly two years. He was still single but felt that his future wife was not in Ushuaia. He decided to go to the temple to seek direction.
“I wanted to be more in contact with the Holy Ghost, learn the Lord’s will for me, and seek inspiration,” he says. “The temple helped me find it.”
When he reached Buenos Aires following a three-day, 2,000-mile (3,200 km) bus ride, he stayed with friends and then a relative while frequenting the temple. Several weeks later Ezequiel was running out of money and considering a return to Ushuaia. A local bishop found him a job, however, so he decided to stay.
At a Church activity a short while later, Ezequiel met a young woman named Marina Mas. They found it easy to talk, and he quickly felt comfortable around her. When he saw Marina again at a young single adult gathering, she said something that impressed him.
“We should be living at the level of the kind of person we are looking to marry,” Ezequiel recalls Marina saying during a discussion about goals.
For her part, Marina had been praying to find a worthy companion. She knew a lot of young men but was immediately impressed with Ezequiel’s spirituality.
A mutual friend helped Ezequiel find a place to live that was closer to his work, then three hours by bus from where he was staying. It turned out that his new apartment—in a city of 13 million people—was only two blocks from Marina’s home.
“I didn’t plan to live two blocks from her home,” he recalls. “I didn’t even know where she lived.”
Living in close proximity gave Ezequiel ample opportunity to see Marina, whose family gave him a warm welcome. The confluence of events was an answer to his prayers.
The couple dated and soon began planning their future together. After marrying in the temple in the fall of 2006, they moved to Ushuaia.
“We can’t always understand the vision our Father in Heaven has, and we can’t plan everything,” Ezequiel says in retrospect. “But we can be obedient and give Him a chance to bless us.”

On another day when Mehitabel and Grandpa arrived at the park, everyone was eating doughnuts that Mrs. Gray had brought. “I saved some for you two!” she told Mehitabel and Grandpa, passing the doughnuts to them.
Mehitabel was just about to take a bite when Mr. Loomis challenged her. “Hitty, I have a riddle song for you. Listen and riddle me this.”
He took a mouth organ from his pocket and played a short, sweet tune. Then he began to sing:
“I gave my love a cherry
That had no stone.
I gave my love a chicken
That had no bone.
I gave my love a story
That had no end.
I gave my love a garden
That no one needs to tend.”
Mehitabel really didn’t need to ponder this one. She had learned the old folk song in school. But she didn’t want Mr. Loomis to feel cheated, so she pretended to consider the problem. She wrinkled her brow. She scratched her head. She bit her lip. Then she looked up, smiled, and began to sing:
“A cherry in the blossom,
That has no stone.
A chicken in the egg still,
That has no bone.
The story that ‘I love you,’
That had no end.
A garden in a seed pack,
That no one needs to tend.”
The listeners nodded and smiled. They would have liked to stump Mehitabel and get those ice-cream cones, but they were proud that she could riddle the riddle song. Grandpa, of course, was delighted.

Although Justin and Tiffany now live in Utah while they are finishing their schooling, they grew up hundreds of miles apart. Tiffany grew up in Columbus, Ohio, and Justin’s family lived in Roanoke, Virginia, both largely non-Latter-day Saint environments. They would likely have never met, except that both decided to make every effort to attend school where they could be around other members of the Church. They chose to attend Brigham Young University—Idaho. They were assigned seats next to each other in their geology class. At first, Justin, a returned missionary from the London England South Mission, was quiet (he insists he was just trying to concentrate). Soon they started having fun discussions.

As their friendship developed, it changed to courtship. But because they were apart during the summers, they dated for more than two and a half years. During this time, Tiffany and Justin discovered they shared a rock-solid desire for a temple marriage. Tiffany says, “I first developed a desire to be married in the temple when I realized that there were special covenants I could make there that could not be made anywhere else. I knew that if I was married in the temple there would be no other place I could possibly be married that would be more right.”

The first time Aries and Lowenna saw each other was at a young single adult dance. It was just a glance; neither spoke. Six months later, Aries and a couple of his friends traveled 120 miles (190 km) to a young single adult housewarming activity at Lowenna’s student house. He says, “I guess it was the normal thing to do where the young single adults are so far spread.”

They both recognized each other from the dance, and Aries wasted no time inviting Lowenna and her sister to go wakeboarding with him. Lowenna and her sister didn’t make it because the distance to pick them up and return would have been too difficult for Aries, but they continued to see each other a couple of times a month at dances and activities. They grew to be good friends. As their feelings became stronger, they would regularly call and talk on the phone.

As Lowenna says, “Our feelings were stronger than we had ever experienced with past boyfriends or girlfriends. We both wanted to be the best that we possibly could for each other.”

Aries planned to propose and secretly bought a ring and overcame the daunting task of asking her dad’s permission. The couple planned to walk to a beautiful waterfall in a place where Aries spent a lot of his childhood. As Aries knelt to rummage in his backpack for the ring, Lowenna, thinking he wanted to take everything slower, said, “Is there anything you would like to change in our relationship?”

Aries replied, “Yes, there is actually. I would like to change quite a lot.” He pulled out a box with a ring inside.

The couple immediately started making plans. They were married 10 weeks later in the Preston England Temple, with Lowenna’s grandfather performing the temple sealing.

Lowenna says, “The Spirit was really strong through the day and served as an excellent introduction to the gospel to all our nonmember family and friends. We felt that there was nothing more important in this life than our eternal marriage. We are so grateful for the strength that we were to each other during our courtship, which enabled us to enter worthily into our Father’s house to make the sacred covenants that guide us in our married life today.”

Shortly after Ka Po was baptized, the sister missionaries encouraged her to take an institute class. It was held early Saturday mornings, and Ka Po remembers how hard it was to wake up and get to class on time.

A classmate called Ka Po every Saturday morning to wake her up and encourage her to attend class. One day the classmate gave the responsibility of calling to King. That was the beginning of their friendship.

Ka Po says, “Church activities helped us know more about each other.” Their first date was a dance practice for young single adults.

Ka Po and King dated for four years. King helped Ka Po share the gospel with her grandmother and brother. Then on the night he proposed, he met Ka Po in the playground of the school where she was attending night school. She had just finished a big exam and was exhausted, but she felt wonderful when he asked her to marry him and gave her an engagement ring.

They were married in the Hong Kong China Temple. Ka Po says, “I will never forget the day we were sealed in the temple. It was so beautiful and amazing that we could be together for eternity. I could not stop crying, and my heart was so full I couldn’t speak. I love the temple and the great blessing that we can go to the temple in our own country.

“Our temple marriage will influence not only us, but it can influence our children and their children. It is so important that we have the same purpose and goals on earth. I love the gospel, and I love my eternal spouse.”

“By the time I was 12,” says Taiana, “my desire for a temple marriage became more and more firm. It was more than just an objective I had to achieve. I wanted to become a person worthy to marry in the temple. So I worked toward it, especially through Personal Progress. And there were lots of people helping me—my parents, my Young Women leaders—and many Church activities to help keep me on track.”

Tururarii, on the other hand, has not been a member for most of his life. He joined the Church at the age of 25. “But having received the gospel,” says Tururarii, “and learning more and more about the blessings, I immediately set a goal to be married in the temple.”

Tururarii and Taiana met during choir rehearsals for an Easter concert fireside put on by the Church. They performed with the choir, became better acquainted, and began dating. But it was at a young single adult conference on a neighboring island that they decided they should be married. When they returned from the conference, they talked to their bishops and began making plans to be married in the Papeete Tahiti Temple.

Tururarii explains the closeness that working toward a temple marriage brought into their lives: “Since I joined the Church, it has always been my goal and my desire to be married in the temple. Then when I met Taiana, it became our goal and our desire, together.”

Alexander and Rachel had a mutual friend who introduced them at a young single adult activity. But the first time they really talked was at a young single adult convention held in Brisbane. Alexander said hello to Rachel as they were leaving the food hall. Rachel had a lot on her mind and needed someone to talk to. So they sat on the grass outside one of the dormitory buildings and talked.

Alexander promised to take Rachel out for her birthday, but before their first date, he was hospitalized because of a motorbike accident. They began spending a lot of time together. But since they lived a long distance from each other, they ended up breaking up and going their separate ways.

More than a year later, Alexander bought another motorbike. While riding home from church, he was struck by a vehicle and was again hospitalized. Rachel’s mother found out about the accident and mentioned it to her daughter. Rachel decided to make the long trip from Brisbane to Sydney to visit Alexander.

Alexander says, “I still had feelings for Rachel, and she must have had feelings for me if she was willing to make the trip from Brisbane just to visit me.” The couple had spoken about marriage when they were going out, but now Alexander felt it was time they prayed about getting married. Rachel was startled by the question but agreed to pray about it.

Alexander already knew his answer. When Rachel prayed to know if they should marry, she felt she should say yes. Alexander was her best friend.

With a cast still on his leg, Alexander took Rachel to the same grassy spot where they had first talked, and then, while sitting on a bench overlooking the ocean, he officially asked her to marry him.

In three months, with the help of family and friends, Rachel moved to Sydney and made plans for a temple marriage. For Alexander and Rachel, their sealing in the temple represents commitment and a promise that they will work on creating an eternal marriage together.

After 11 years of school I enrolled in a two-year technical college. I was 16, active in a singing group, and had lots of friends, but somehow I could never fit in. I wouldn’t smoke or drink with my friends, and their language upset me. I didn’t like to hear what they did late at night after their dates. They were my friends, but as I looked at them, I couldn’t help thinking, “What’s wrong? Why is the world this way?”
As if responding, my friends would ask me, “Why don’t you start living? It’s human nature to do what we do.” I told them the person in my dream could not have meant human nature to be that way. Their response was usually the same: “You’re crazy, Anna! You belong to another world!”
Often I prayed to my Heavenly Father, asking him to help me find people who thought as I thought or, as my friends put it, who were of “my world.”
Turning on the television one afternoon as a break from my studies, I saw a group of boys singing. I’m a serious-minded person and have never had a pop music “idol,” but something about these boys made me stay and listen. They were dressed in white, and as they sang, “Is the answer up above?” my heart responded, “Yes!” I learned they were the Osmonds and that they were Mormons. I decided to read some books about the Mormons, but I couldn’t find any.
One afternoon as I was upstairs studying, I heard a knock at the door. My mother answered it, and I could hear her talking to two young men. As I went downstairs, I heard mother try to give them some excuse and turn them away, but I said I wanted to talk with them. She let them in, closed the door, and went back to her work. The missionaries gave me the first discussion that very afternoon, and I began to get the same feeling I had experienced as a little girl as I ran into the arms of my Heavenly Father.
A week later they came to give me the second lesson, but my mother met them and told them they were not to come again. She told me later the missionaries were only after my money. That night I heard my parents arguing about the Church, and I decided I would not see the missionaries again.
Just before I turned 18 I finished school and decided to go visit one of my friends. She had married my uncle, and they had moved from England to Switzerland. The week I arrived in Switzerland, two Mormon missionaries knocked on their door.
I eagerly asked them to teach me and decided to be baptized after only three visits. Two weeks after my 18th birthday I was baptized. I had found my people, my world, and was in the arms of my Heavenly Father again.

The name of my third great-grandmother, Mary Ellen Williams, stood out on the list of names I was researching because she was half Cherokee Indian. I became interested in family history when I was about 12. After a few years of researching the lives of my ancestors, I was fascinated by this small detail about her life. But finding the information necessary to submit Mary Ellen’s name for temple work was tough.
I began my search by looking through the 1900 census records. I couldn’t find what I needed there, so Mary Ellen’s name went back into the files and I continued to work on other family lines. About one year later I found an old tattered envelope which contained letters from people whom my mother had corresponded with concerning her family history. There wasn’t much information about Mary Ellen, but it stirred an excitement in me once again. I searched through cemetery records, marriage records, birth dates, and death dates. I was running out of leads, but I continued to fast and pray for any leads to Mary Ellen.
In 1996 at a family reunion, I sought help from family members and received a copy of an obituary of Grace Meador Wooden, Mary Ellen’s daughter. I read it hoping to find something about Mary Ellen. Again nothing. However, survivors listed in the obituary included a sister named Audry. I looked in the phone directory and found her number. My mother called her for me to ask for any information on Mary Ellen. Audry answered many questions and said she would send me what she could. I waited daily for news from Audry, but nothing came.
Two months had passed when I got a phone call from Audry’s daughter. Audry had not been well and had passed away shortly after she and my mother had spoken. But the search for Mary Ellen didn’t end with Audry’s death. While going through her mother’s things, Audry’s daughter found an old family Bible and said she would send me information out of it.
Another two months passed and nothing came in the mail. I couldn’t give up so I spoke out loud, “Mary Ellen, I don’t know where you are, and I have searched everywhere possible. I don’t know where else to look. If you want to be found, you have to help me.” The next day I received a large manila envelope from Audry’s daughter containing valuable information. Among the treasures was a copy of a small booklet of biographical sketches of Mary Ellen Williams. I had found her after two and a half years of searching. I immediately went to my room and thanked my Heavenly Father for answering my prayers. On August 11, 1998, my great-great-great-grandmother, Mary Ellen Williams, received her temple blessings.

As I stepped off the stand after speaking in sacrament meeting, one of my father’s dear friends complimented me on the talk. I really wanted to know how effective my presentation had been, and so I pressed him further. “Would you have any suggestions for me?” He indicated there was something that might prove helpful if I sincerely wanted to know. He then asked the question: “What did you say tonight that could not have been said by any Protestant minister?” I was a little taken back by that comment; and in the days that followed, I spent a great deal of time reflecting on what I had said.

More than 40 years have passed since that experience, and I think I can honestly say that I have never once given any kind of a Church presentation without always attempting to convey my testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. How grateful I am for the insight, judgment, and concern that prompted his comment. How grateful I am that he was a true friend.

“GOLD! Gold!” I shouted, running my fingers through the sand. Everywhere I looked, gold sparkled in the sand. It wasn’t fool’s gold, either—it was real! That’s why it’s called Gold Bluffs Beach.
Above the sound of the rushing waves, my sister, Lisa, was calling, “Ryan, come wade in the ocean with me.”
I paid no attention but began stuffing my pockets full of sand and gold. Soon my pockets were bulging, so I bent over and poured sand inside my shoes.
“What are you doing?” a voice behind me boomed.
I looked through my legs at Lisa. “I’m gathering gold,” I replied, my head still upside down. “I’m going to be rich. I’m going to buy a swimming pool and the fastest bicycle in the neighborhood and—”
Lisa wasn’t listening. “Mom and Dad want you to come see the Roosevelt elk,” she said.
Trying to follow Lisa down the beach wasn’t easy. I could barely waddle along in my lumpy shoes full of sand. But I was not giving up my gold.
The next day I came prepared. I brought a big garbage bag from our campground. After Mom fell asleep on a beach blanket and Lisa and Dad went for a walk in the redwood trees on the bluff, I began furiously scooping the glittering sand into my bag.
“What are you doing?” asked a voice.
Startled, I looked up into the puzzled face of a boy a few years older than I.
“I’m going to get rich on this gold,” I announced.
“Well, you’re going to have a rough time of it,” he laughed. “No one has ever figured out how to get the gold out of the sand.”
“How do you know?” I retorted.
“I’ve lived here all my life,” replied the boy. “My father’s a ranger at this park.”
“Well, I bet my dad can get the gold out of this sand. He’s an engineer, and he can do anything.”
“I wish you luck,” the boy said with a shrug.
I watched him saunter down the beach, then settle on a smooth, whitened log and begin to read a book. He often looked up and gazed thoughtfully at the ocean, then underlined something or wrote a few words in the book’s margin.
Once he called to me and motioned down the beach. “See the elk—aren’t they magnificent! That one bull really has a big rack of antlers.”
I glanced at the big animals in the distance. Their chocolate-colored heads and necks stood out against their creamy bodies.
I looked down again. Gold was more exciting than elk. Heaving the bag over my shoulder, I searched for the sand with the most sparkles. When my bag got heavy, I began stuffing sand in my pockets. I decided to rest on a log near the trees at the edge of the beach. I struggled over to it, turning my back to drag the bag the last few feet. Just as I reached the log, I lost my balance and keeled over backward, landing in a heap on the other side of it.
Suddenly I flinched. My hand was resting on something soft and furry. Then something bleated loudly right in my ear. I jerked around. Right in front of my freckled nose was a black quivering nose. My eyes traveled past the long, floppy ears to the brown, spotted body. “An elk calf!” I gasped.
The tiny elk bleated again. Then I heard an enormous grunt.
“Look out!” shrieked the boy with the book.
I staggered up. In horror, I saw a huge cow elk charging down the beach toward me, her ears flattened against her head.
“She thinks that you’re hurting her baby,” cried the boy. Dropping his book, he ran toward the cow, trying to distract her.
I grabbed the top of my sack and tried to drag it with me, but it snagged on the log and broke. Gold-filled sand spilled all over as I lumbered away without it. Then the sand spilled from my pockets—the seams had broken from its weight.
Shaking with fear and exhaustion, I looked over my shoulder. Snorting and pawing, the cow had stopped beside her calf. She glowered at me a long time before finally lowering her head to nudge her baby.
The boy rushed up beside me. “Are you all right?” He led me to his log where I collapsed, trembling.
His small book still lay there where he had dropped it. The Pearl of Great Price—so he likes treasure, too, I thought. I got up shakily, lamenting, “We have to go back to Fremont tonight, and now I have to start all over again to get more gold.”
The boy shook his head. “After all this, I thought that maybe you’d give up.”
“Oh no,” I said, “I want to be rich.”
“What would you do if you were rich?”
“I’d buy the tallest stilts in town, a life-size transformer, maybe a whole toy store!” I was still dreaming about my toy store as I asked, “What would you get if you were rich?”
“All the money in the world couldn’t buy what I want most.”
“Really?”
He looked wistfully out at the sunlight dancing on the water. “I want to give my mother back her eyesight.”
Suddenly I forgot about my toy store.
The boy gazed down the beach, where the elk were now frolicking in the surf. They bounded and kicked and tossed their heads. “Sometimes I bring my mother here. She can feel the warm sand squish through her toes. She can hear the waves lap on the beach. But it’s not the same as seeing those beautiful elk splashing in the water, or a pink sunset stretching across the ocean.”
He motioned toward the redwood forest on the bluff. “Sometimes I take her walking in there. She can hear the breezes rustling, and she can feel the rough bark of the huge trees. But it’s not the same as being able to look up and up along one of them until it towers out of sight.
“But my mother says that she’s happy. She says that it gives her comfort to know that the very biggest ones were living when Jesus Christ was born. She says that when she’s resurrected, she’ll see the redwoods and the ocean and the elk with her own eyes. Best of all, she’ll see the Savior with her own eyes.”
“Oh,” I gulped, not knowing what to say.
The boy chuckled, not unkindly. “You know, you remind me of the man who built his house upon the sand.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been building your dreams on a pile of sand. Even when you were charged by a dangerous elk, you tried to drag your sand with you. For me, I’d rather build my dreams on something that can’t spill out of my pockets.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A faith in God like my mother’s,” he answered.
“Oh,” I said. I pointed to The Pearl of Great Price. “Is the ‘house on the sand’ story in that book?”
“No, it’s in the Bible and the Book of Mormon.”
I’d never read the Bible, and I’d never even heard of the Book of Mormon. “So what’s in this book?”
“It explains a lot about why God created us.”
“Wow!” As I reached for the book, Dad called. I groaned, “Oh, no! I have to go now. I really wanted to see that book.”
“Quick,” the boy said, “write down your address on my bookmark, and I’ll ask some people I know in Fremont to give you one, OK?”
“OK!” I said, scribbling my name and address. “Thanks.”
As I hurried off, I looked back at The Pearl of Great Price in the sand. I had forgotten all about the gold there.

You are never too young to strengthen your family. Just ask Edward B., age 7, from Halifax, Canada. His testimony helped his father realize that the Church is true. Now their family is holding family home evening for the very first time and getting ready to go to the temple!
When I was born, my dad wasn’t a member of the Church. When he tucked me in at night, I always told him, “Daddy, you have to know that this really is the true Church.” Mom and I prayed and prayed that he would join the Church. Finally, one day he told me that he wanted to be baptized!
Even our cat came to family home evening!
We sang my favorite Primary song, “Nephi’s Courage,” and had chocolate brownies, which I love.
To prepare for family home evening, we visited the Halifax Nova Scotia Temple grounds. I took lots of pictures.
During our first family home evening, we talked about how our family could get ready to go to the temple. Every time we thought of a way we could prepare to go to the temple, we put one of my pictures of the temple up on a board.
We braided bracelets out of colorful string. The strands of the bracelet are tied together to remind us that our family can be sealed together forever.

It was the day before a missionary conference for the Castile-La Mancha Zone in the Spain Madrid Mission. The mission president, Richard H. Winkel, spent the entire day organizing the conference program with his wife and two assistants, Elder Borchert and Elder Allen. So that nothing would detract from the spirit of the conference, they carefully planned each detail, including the schedule, the speakers, the hymns, and the special musical numbers. They also saw to temporal matters, such as preparing food for the missionaries’ lunch, which they planned to serve after the conference. Twenty-six missionaries were expected to attend.
On the day of the conference, which happened to be a holiday in Spain, everything went as planned. The meetings were very inspiring, and the missionaries’ testimonies of the work increased.
However, when President and Sister Winkel began to prepare lunch, they found that in spite of all the care they had taken, they had forgotten to bring the bread for the sandwiches! President Winkel did not want the missionaries to leave the conference hungry, so he gave his assistants a 5,000 peseta note and sent them to buy 26 rolls for the sandwiches.
Once outside, Elder Borchert and Elder Allen happened to find 100 pesetas on the ground (something that had never happened before in their almost two years in Spain). The elders had no way to locate the owner or return the money, so they set out with 5,100 pesetas to buy the rolls.
The two missionaries soon realized that because it was a holiday, all the grocery stores were closed. So they decided to buy bread from one of the many pubs on the main street of the city. They entered the first pub they saw and asked for 26 rolls. The owner told them he could spare only one roll. The elders bought the roll for 60 pesetas—and with 5,040 pesetas left, they headed for the next pub.
In the second pub, as in the first, the owner could sell only one roll. His price was 50 pesetas. The elders put all their money—the 40 pesetas and the 5,000 peseta note—on the counter. The owner did not have change for a 5,000 peseta note, so he let them take the roll for 40 pesetas.
With 5,000 pesetas and two rolls, the missionaries headed for the third pub and asked for 24 rolls. They placed their 5,000 pesetas on the counter. The owner of the establishment could sell them only one roll for 50 pesetas. But because he did not have any change, he allowed the missionaries to take it for free.
The elders entered the fourth pub with three rolls and 5,000 pesetas and asked for 23 rolls, again putting their 5,000 pesetas on the counter. Again the owner could let them have only one roll for 50 pesetas. And once again, because he did not have change for 5,000 pesetas, he let the missionaries take the roll for free.
The elders entered the fifth pub with four rolls and 5,000 pesetas. They asked for 22 rolls and put their 5,000 pesetas on the counter. The owner could sell only one roll for 50 pesetas, but because he did not have change for 5,000 pesetas, he permitted the missionaries to take one roll for free.
And so it continued. Some time later the missionaries returned to the meetinghouse with 26 rolls and the 5,000 peseta note they had when they left.
The experience reminded the missionaries of the time the Savior refused to let the multitude, who had gone three days without food, leave without sustenance. Jesus told His Apostles, “I will not send them away fasting, lest they faint in the way.” On that occasion, through the Savior’s power, “they did all eat, and were filled.” (See Matt. 15:32–38.)
This modern parallel cannot be compared in magnitude or power to the miracle of the loaves and fishes. But for a group of missionaries in Spain it was enough to remind them that, today as in ancient times, the Lord is aware of His disciples’ needs and will bless them with what they lack.

Many years ago I attended a large gathering of Church members in the city of Berlin, Germany. A spirit of quiet reverence permeated the gathering as an organ prelude of hymns was played. I gazed at those who sat before me. There were mothers and fathers and relatively few children. The majority of those who sat on crowded benches were women about middle age—and alone.
Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps these were widows, having lost their husbands during World War II. My curiosity demanded an answer to my unexpressed thought, so I asked the conducting officer to take a sort of standing roll call. When he asked all those who were widows to please arise, it seemed that half the vast throng stood. Their faces reflected the grim effect of war’s cruelty. Their hopes had been shattered, their lives altered, and their future had in a way been taken from them. Behind each countenance was a personal travail of tears. I addressed my remarks to them and to all who have loved, then lost, those most dear.
Though perhaps not so cruel and dramatic, yet equally poignant, are the lives described in the obituaries of our day and time when the uninvited enemy called death enters the stage of our mortal existence and snatches from our grasp a loving husband or precious wife and frequently, in the young exuberance of life, our children and grandchildren. Death shows no mercy. Death is no respecter of persons, but in its insidious way it visits all. At times it is after long-suffering and is a blessing; while in other instances those in the prime of life are taken by its grasp.
As of old, the heartbroken frequently and silently repeat the ancient question: “Is there no balm in Gilead?” “Why me; why now?” The words of a beautiful hymn provide a partial answer:
Where can I turn for peace? Where is my solace
When other sources cease to make me whole?
When with a wounded heart, anger, or malice,
I draw myself apart, Searching my soul? …
He answers privately, Reaches my reaching
In my Gethsemane, Savior and Friend.
Gentle the peace he finds for my beseeching.
Constant he is and kind, Love without end.
The plight of the widow is a recurring theme through holy writ. Our hearts go out to the widow at Zarephath. Gone was her husband. Consumed was her scant supply of food. Starvation and death awaited. But then came God’s prophet with the seemingly brazen command that the widow woman should feed him. Her response is particularly touching: “As the Lord thy God liveth, I have not a cake, but an handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruse: and, behold, I am gathering two sticks, that I may go in and dress it for me and my son, that we may eat it, and die.”
The reassuring words of Elijah penetrated her very being:
“Fear not; go and do as thou hast said: but make me thereof a little cake first, and bring it unto me, and after make for thee and for thy son.
“For thus saith the Lord God of Israel, The barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall the cruse of oil fail. …
“And she went and did according to the saying of Elijah. …
“And the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail.”
Like the widow at Zarephath was the widow of Nain. The New Testament of our Lord records a moving and soul-stirring account of the Master’s tender regard for the grieving widow:
“And it came to pass … that he went into a city called Nain; and many of his disciples went with him, and much people.
“Now when he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow: and much people of the city was with her.
“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not.
“And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.
“And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother.”
What power, what tenderness, what compassion did our Master and Exemplar demonstrate. We, too, can bless if we will but follow His noble example. Opportunities are everywhere. Needed are eyes to see the pitiable plight, ears to hear the silent pleadings of a broken heart; yes, and a soul filled with compassion, that we might communicate not only eye to eye or voice to ear, but in the majestic style of the Savior, even heart to heart.
The word widow appears to have had a most significant meaning to our Lord. He cautioned His disciples to beware of the example of the scribes, who feigned righteousness by their long apparel and their lengthy prayers, but who devoured the houses of widows.
To the Nephites came the direct warning: “I will come near to you to judgment; and I will be a swift witness against … those that oppress … the widow.”
And to the Prophet Joseph Smith, He directed: “The storehouse shall be kept by the consecrations of the church; and widows and orphans shall be provided for, as also the poor.”
The widow’s home is generally not large or ornate. Frequently it is a modest one in size and humble in appearance. Often it is tucked away at the top of the stairs or the back of the hallway and consists of but one room. To such homes He sends you and me.
There may exist an actual need for food, clothing—even shelter. Such can be supplied. Almost always there remains the hope for that special hyacinth to feed the soul.
Go, gladden the lonely, the dreary;
Go, comfort the weeping, the weary;
Go, scatter kind deeds on your way;
Oh, make the world brighter today!
Let us remember that after the funeral flowers fade, the well wishes of friends become memories and the prayers offered and words spoken dim in the corridors of the mind. Those who grieve frequently find themselves alone. Missed are the laughter of children, the commotion of teenagers, and the tender, loving concern of a departed companion. The clock ticks more loudly, time passes more slowly, and four walls do indeed a prison make.
Hopefully, all of us may again hear the echo of words spoken by the Master, inspiring us to good deeds: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … ye have done it unto me.”
The late Elder Richard L. Evans left for our contemplation and action this admonition:
“We who are younger should never become so blindly absorbed in our own pursuits as to forget that there are still with us those who will live in loneliness unless we let them share our lives as once they let us share theirs. …
“We cannot bring them back the morning hours of youth. But we can help them live in the warm glow of a sunset made more beautiful by our thoughtfulness, by our provision, and by our active and unfeigned love. Life in its fullness is a loving ministry of service from generation to generation. God grant that those who belong to us may never be left in loneliness.”
Long years ago a severe drought struck the Salt Lake Valley. The commodities at the storehouse on Welfare Square had not been their usual quality, nor were they found in abundance. Many products were missing, especially fresh fruit. As a young bishop, worrying about the needs of the many widows in my ward, I said a prayer one evening that is especially sacred to me. I pleaded that these widows, who were among the finest women I knew in mortality and whose needs were simple and conservative, had no resources on which they might rely.
The next morning I received a call from a ward member, a proprietor of a produce business situated in our ward. “Bishop,” he said, “I would like to send a semitrailer filled with oranges, grapefruit, and bananas to the bishops’ storehouse to be given to those in need. Could you make arrangements?” Could I make arrangements! The storehouse was alerted, and then each bishop was telephoned and the entire shipment distributed.
The wife of that generous businessman became a widow herself. I know the decision her husband and she made brought her sweet memories and comforting peace to her soul.
I express my sincere appreciation to one and all who are mindful of the widow. To the thoughtful neighbors who invite a widow to dinner and to that royal army of noble women, the visiting teachers of the Relief Society, I add, may God bless you for your kindness and your love unfeigned toward her who reaches out and touches vanished hands and listens to voices forever stilled. The words of the Prophet Joseph Smith describe their mission: “I attended by request, the Female Relief Society, whose object is the relief of the poor, the destitute, the widow and the orphan, and for the exercise of all benevolent purposes.”
Thank you to thoughtful and caring bishops who ensure that no widow’s cupboard is empty, no house unwarmed, no life unblessed. I admire the ward leaders who invite the widows to all social activities, often providing a young Aaronic Priesthood lad to be a special escort for the occasion.
Frequently the need of the widow is not one of food or shelter but of feeling a part of ongoing events. Elder H. Bryan Richards of the Seventy once brought to my office a sweet widow whose husband had passed away during a full-time mission they were serving. Elder Richards explained that her financial resources were adequate and that she desired to contribute to the Church’s General Missionary Fund the proceeds of two insurance policies on the life of her departed husband. I could not restrain my tears when she meekly advised me, “This is what I wish to do. It is what my missionary-minded husband would like.”
The gift was received and entered as a most substantial donation to missionary service. I saw the receipt made in her name, but I believe in my heart it was also recorded in heaven. I invited her and Elder Richards to follow me to the unoccupied First Presidency council room in the Church Administration Building. The room is beautiful and peaceful. I asked this sweet widow to sit in the chair usually occupied by our Church President. I felt he would not mind, for I knew his heart.
As she sat ever so humbly in the large leather chair, she gripped each armrest with a hand and declared, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.” It was also such for Elder Richards and for me.
I never travel to work along busy Seventh East in Salt Lake City but what I see in my mind’s eye a thoughtful daughter, afflicted with arthritis and carrying in her hand a plate of warm food to her aged mother who lived across the busy thoroughfare. She has now gone home to that mother who preceded her in passing. But her lesson was not lost on her daughters, who delight their widowed father by cleaning his house each week, inviting him to dinners in their homes, and sharing with him the laughter of good times together, leaving in that widower’s heart a prayer of gratitude for his children, the light of his life. Fathers experience loneliness as well as mothers.
One evening at Christmastime, my wife and I visited a nursing home in Salt Lake City. We looked in vain for a 95-year-old widow, whose memory had become clouded and who could not speak a word. An attendant led us in our search, and we found Nell in the dining room. She had eaten her meal; she was sitting silently, staring into space. She did not show us any sign of recognition. As I reached to take her hand, she withdrew it. I noticed that she held firmly to a Christmas greeting card. The attendant smiled and said, “I don’t know who sent that card, but she will not lay it aside. She doesn’t speak but pats the card and holds it to her lips and kisses it.” I recognized the card. It was one my wife, Frances, had sent to Nell the week before.
We left more filled with the Christmas spirit than when we entered. We kept to ourselves the mystery of that special card and the life it had gladdened and the heart it had touched. Heaven was nearby.
We need not wait for Christmas; we need not postpone till Thanksgiving Day our response to the Savior’s tender admonition: “Go, and do thou likewise.”
As we follow in His footsteps, as we ponder His thoughts and His deeds, as we keep His commandments, we will be blessed. The grieving widow, the fatherless child, and the lonely of heart everywhere will be gladdened, comforted, and sustained through our service, and we will experience a deeper understanding of the words recorded in the Epistle of James: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.”

Brayden listened to Mom read from the Bible and looked at the picture she showed them. It showed Jesus after He was resurrected. He was talking to some of His disciples who were on a fishing boat.
The disciples had fished all night without catching anything. When Jesus came, He told them where to put their net to catch fish. They tossed the net into the water. This time it caught so many fish they couldn’t pull the net back up!
“They caught that many fish?” Brayden’s brother, Christian, asked, eyes wide. Mom nodded, and kept reading.
She read how the disciples dragged the net to shore. It had caught 153 large fish. But even though it was so full, the net hadn’t broken! (See John 21:2–11).
This time, it was Brayden who had a question.
“What do you think they did with all of the fish?”
Mom set her scriptures down on her lap. “You know, I’ve read these verses many times, but I guess I never really thought about that. But I love your question! Let’s keep reading and see what it says.”
Soon they found a verse that said Jesus cooked fish for Peter and the other disciples.
“So they ate some of the fish?” Brayden asked.
Mom nodded, but before she could read more, Christian jumped up and down.
“I know! I know!” he said. “The fish were like money back then, right? Because fishing was Peter’s job. Like our dad has a job building walls with cement.”
Mom smiled. “That’s right! So the fish were probably a blessing to Peter’s family, just like the money Dad earns is a blessing to us.”
This time, Brayden’s sister, Victoria, spoke up.
“Maybe they traded fish with a carpenter to get some furniture,” she said. “Joseph was a carpenter, right?”
Mom put her arm around Victoria and squeezed her shoulders. “Wow! You guys have some great ideas about this story. Let’s think of some of the blessings our family has. We already talked about one—that Dad has a job. What are some others?”
Making this list was easy.
“Our house!”
“Clothes!”
“Food!”
Brayden and Christian and Victoria were still calling out answers when they heard Dad open the door.
“You’re home!” Victoria said as she jumped into his arms.
Dad kissed the top of her head. “What are you kids up to?”
“We’re talking about blessing fish!” Brayden said.
Dad raised his eyebrows. “Sounds exciting! I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
Go to “Family Night Fun” for an activity to go with this story!
That night Brayden and his family decided to start a new tradition. Every night after dinner, they would tell each other about new blessings they had noticed. Tonight, Mom even brought out a bowl of fish-shaped candy to eat while they shared.
Brayden smiled as he took a bite. Who knew that blessings could be so sweet?

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.”

Forty-two children from the Altamont Second Ward, Altamont Utah Stake, traveled fifty miles to Vernal to sing for visitors waiting in line at the temple open house. They sang “I Love to See the Temple,” “Families Can Be Together Forever,” “Reverence Is Love,” and “Eternal Things” to an appreciative audience. It was an act of service and love. Haylee Toland (11) said, “The temple is a spiritual, peaceful place, and I’m glad we could set the mood for people’s visits.”

My initial feeling of peace stayed with me for another week and a half. I was sitting in a wheelchair watching fireworks through the hospital window on the Fourth of July when it hit me—my mom was gone. She wouldn’t be at my high school graduation. She wouldn’t be there when I received my endowment in the temple. She wouldn’t be at my wedding. She was gone.
That’s when things started getting really hard. The pain in my leg was terrible, and I had no appetite. I watched TV without seeing it, and I mostly just slept. My family worried about me because I wasn’t crying very much.
The tears came a lot more when we finally went home to Oregon to an empty house. I suddenly had to take over some of my mom’s responsibilities, and my siblings often looked to me for comfort. I tried to be strong for them. But it wasn’t easy.
Going back to school was tough. Everyone had heard about the accident, and if they hadn’t, they heard about it when my teachers introduced me as the girl who was in the accident. I felt isolated.
It was especially hard when my dad remarried nine months after my mom died. I knew that my stepmom would be good for our family and that we needed her, but it was hard to adjust.
Not everything was dark during this time though. I felt a lot of love from my Father in Heaven, my family, and my Church leaders. What helped me heal and move forward after the accident was doing simple things that strengthened my faith. Every day I spent an hour before going to bed reading the scriptures, praying, and writing in my journal in my closet. In the privacy of my closet, I didn’t have to be strong for my siblings. I could cry as much as I needed and pour out my heart to God. I told Him exactly what I was feeling and how much I missed my mom. I know He heard me because of the many tender mercies I felt. That closet space became sacred to me.
Doing those simple things helped me stay connected to God instead of pushing Him away and becoming bitter. I didn’t see the accident as God hurting my family. I felt more power to be patient and submit to His will and keep moving forward through my hard days. And there were some really hard days.

One day a few years ago when my wife and I were riding a train in Holland, a lovely lady some 85 years young shared our six-seat compartment. I greeted her in Dutch, and we spoke for a few minutes when she said, “You’re an American. I can tell from your accent, but where did you learn to speak Dutch?” I told her that I had been a Mormon missionary to Holland some 25 years earlier. Then I asked the golden question, whether she knew anything about the Mormon church.
She had been a missionary with her husband for the Dutch Reformed Church in Indonesia for 25 years, and she said yes, she had heard of the Church. But then she said, “The Mormons are foolish people.” To my question of why she thought we were a foolish people, she said, “They don’t believe in Christ.” I was stunned for a minute. I wondered how someone who knew enough to be a missionary for another church would think Mormons do not believe in Jesus Christ. When I overcame my shock, I asked her if she had read the Book of Mormon. She said she had seen it and read in it a little, but she thought that it was just further evidence that we believed in Lehi and Nephi, and Mormon and Moroni, but not in Jesus Christ.
I asked her if she believed in Abraham and Moses, in Enoch and Isaiah, and Jeremiah and Ezekiel; and she said she certainly did. I wondered how she could believe in those men and still believe in Christ. She answered immediately that those men were Old Testament prophets, and some of them had prophesied that the Messiah would come. I then told her that Lehi and Nephi, and Mormon and Moroni, and even Joseph Smith were also prophets of the Lord Jesus Christ, that they were called to teach other of the Lord’s children than the Jews. And had she read more carefully in the Book of Mormon, she would have seen that its prophets taught of Jesus Christ.
Just as I was warming up to my discussion of how the Book of Mormon teaches of Christ, the train pulled into her stop, and she had to leave. But I sat musing in my mind how someone could even look at the Book of Mormon and not see it is a Christian book. Doesn’t the title page declare that “Jesus is the Christ, the ETERNAL GOD”? But then, that statement appears almost at the end of the second paragraph, and maybe she didn’t read that far.

The two months that I spent in the Missionary Training Center had prepared me well for the mission experience; I had a reasonable command of the language and felt comfortable teaching the memorized discussions. Culture classes had been sufficient to prepare me for the cultural conditions that abounded in Central America, and with daily vitamins I seemed to be staying healthy in spite of food that I was unaccustomed to and never seemed to get enough of. Sure, there were a lot of things about living in Honduras that took awhile to adjust to, but the actual missionary work didn’t seem to be a big adjustment.
I truly believed in and thought that I really understood most of the truths that I was sharing. I had grown up in an LDS home and was confident that my background had provided me with just about as much as there was to know about basic concepts like faith, baptism, and service. I’d probably heard Sunday School lessons on service a hundred times. I’d always participated in Church service projects and had even done a big community service project to earn an Eagle Scout Award. And now I was giving up two years of my life to share the gospel with people I didn’t even know. When I left on my mission, I was sure that if I hadn’t understood the meaning of service before, I certainly did now. However, in this foreign land, I was finding out that there were quite a few things that I didn’t fully comprehend—and service was one of them.
The rough and dusty trails that led from hut to hut among the palm and papaya trees had become familiar to me in the short time that I had been in the village of Santa Barbara. I had also grown accustomed to cold showers at 6:00 A.M. and was actually developing a taste for bananas at every meal. Our area was small enough that my companion and I knew the location of the homes of every member, and we were able to pass by at least once a week to encourage them to attend Sunday meetings.
The Sortos were a humble family with great faith, and I knew them as the family whose dog always came with them to the small rented building that we used as a chapel. He would sit patiently and wait for the meetings to end and then disappear along with the rest of the family up into the hills. Brother Sorto made adobe bricks for a living and would pick up an odd job here and there cleaning the brush from someone’s field. This he did with a machete, inch by inch, as he literally crawled along the ground.
One day as we approached the one-room, thatched-roof home of the Sorto family, the little dog with near perfect church attendance ran down the trail barking and wagging his tail to greet us. Looking into the open doorway we could see that Brother Sorto was lying on the floor, and the other family members were gathered around. As my companion and I got closer we could see that one of Brother Sorto’s thin brown legs was covered with a mixture of dirt and blood. A moment of explanation from Sister Sorto painted a sickening picture. While cleaning a field that morning Brother Sorto had been swinging his sharpened machete from side to side, cutting away the weeds and brush. The machete had slipped and, instead of swinging along the ground, had dug into his shin. He had made his way home and was now lying quietly waiting for the bleeding to stop.
It quickly became evident that no one quite knew what to do, so my companion and I went right to work. He took the oldest son with him and went down into the pueblo to round up some gauze and perhaps a little rubbing alcohol. I remained with Brother Sorto to clean the dirt and blood from his leg. Sister Sorto brought me a large towel and a basin filled with water that she had been warming over the fire. I tied the towel around my waist and knelt down on the dirt floor next to Brother Sorto. The floor was smooth and hard from being constantly swept with large, dried palm branches. As I began to bathe his feet with the clean water, Brother Sorto looked up, smiled, and took my hand. With the other I continued to clean away the dirt and blood.
“Esta bien, hermano.”
“Te quiero, elder,” he replied.
My heart filled with love for this man, and suddenly my mind was flooded with images from the scriptures:
“He riseth from supper, and laid aside his garments; and took a towel, and girded himself.
“After that he poureth water into a bason, and began to wash the disciples’ feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith he was girded” (John 13:4–5).
So many times I had read the account of Christ performing that sacred ordinance. So often I had sat through lessons on service and humility, and now, suddenly, kneeling on the floor in a little adobe hut in the hills of Honduras, it all made sense. Jesus, throughout his ministry, showed us the perfect example through the love and service he gave. Service should be given because there is love, not because there is an obligation.
“Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver” (2 Cor. 9:7).
As the dirt and blood were washed away I could see that the wound was not as deep as I had first anticipated, but the lesson I had learned affected me more deeply than I could have imagined.
Maybe the true meaning of service isn’t found in all of those big projects but rather in the simple everyday kindnesses that we can show one another.

Before I was baptized, I felt embarrassed about myself because of my wheelchair. After I was baptized, however, I began coming to the ward every Sunday and participating in young single adult activities. I even went to stake dances, dancing in my wheelchair to every song. I also joined a network for Samoans with spinal injuries.
I realized I had healed from feeling that I needed to hide. Through the Church, I gained the confidence to go among people again.
Before he was baptized, Posenai felt embarrassed to be in a wheelchair. But after his baptism, he says, “I gained the confidence to go among people again.”

Someone was laughing. How could anyone laugh at a time like this? I looked up. Uncle Al, Grandma’s younger brother, was telling stories about her.
“Me and Annie got dancing so fast,” he was saying, “that she fell right off Aunt Lizzie’s porch and broke her arm. Aunt Lizzie was mortified, not because Annie broke her arm, but because she was doing that awful dance, the Charleston.”
Charleston? I thought. Grandma didn’t look like the Charleston type. Around our house, we always heard her “whatever happened to the waltz” sermon.
The next speaker took his time getting to the podium. He was close to a hundred years old. He had been Grandma’s bishop when she was first married and was still her bishop when she sent her first son on a mission. Even now, everyone still called him Bishop Jensen.
“I loved Annie when she was a teenager,” he said hoarsely, his brown hands trembling. Then he chuckled. “Oh, she wasn’t my girlfriend, mind you. She had pluck. When it was haying time, she’d offer to help us and everyone else in the valley. And I remember the day she came racing over to our house on that chestnut horse. She wanted us to be the first to see the saddle she won at the rodeo.”
Grandma had won a saddle? I shook my head incredulously. Maybe old Bishop Jensen wasn’t remembering quite right.
I left the funeral feeling as if I had forgotten something. One sentence by the last speaker had caught me, as if Grandma were speaking to me. But now his words were gone from my mind. It’s no use anyway, I thought. There’s nothing I can do for Grandma now. I can never wipe away last Saturday at the corral.
“I never knew Grandma had a chestnut horse,” I said to Dad as we drove to the cemetery.
“I think I only heard her talk about that horse once,” he said.
“And the saddle?” I asked.
“That was news to me. With me being the youngest of seven boys, I guess she was tired of telling the same stories by the time I came along.”
Several horses were dozing against the pasture fence as we turned into the cemetery. A stylish palomino raised its head. It looked like the horse owned by that blonde down in Glenville.
“You better not let her beat you at the barrels,” Grandma had said.
There is something I can do for Grandma, I thought. I can beat the rodeo queen in the barrel racing competition.
I was next. Ginger knew it too. She kept prancing sideways and tugging on the reins.
“Easy, girl. Don’t get all worked up before we get out there.”
The afternoon was warm. Sweat was already seeping from under Ginger’s saddle blanket. The reins felt sticky in my fingers.
The crowd roared as last year’s rodeo queen zoomed out for her turn at the barrels. I could see her blonde braids streaming behind her. She zipped sleekly around the first barrel and bolted for the next.
This blonde and I were the last two barrel racers. The other competitors’ times had been mediocre, so I felt Ginger and I still had a chance.
The rodeo queen circled the second barrel without a hitch. Uneasily, I eyed the last barrel. Maybe she would tip it over and get disqualified.
I could see the girl and her horse lean together around the third barrel. It was too close. The barrel rocked wildly. But it didn’t go over. At least it might have knocked a couple of seconds off her time. The crowd thundered as she spurted toward the finish.
I’ll show them, I thought, as I positioned Ginger for a run into the arena. But I was scared.
I charged out. The flag dropped at the starting line as Ginger and I flashed past. I hadn’t thought of Grandma until that very second. Suddenly I had a feeling that beating this rodeo queen was not what Grandma had in mind.
Ginger’s black mane flew in my face as I reined her low around the right barrel. She veered around it smooth and tight—just like a pro. I didn’t feel as much like a pro. I was slightly off balance and bumpy as we raced down the arena to the far barrel. Ginger went a little wide on this barrel, but we were still on target.
Now for the last barrel. I was in her rhythm again, so my confidence rose. “Dig, Ginger, dig,” I whispered, leaning over her neck.
She flicked her ear back briefly. I felt the tremble before blastoff.
Then we were hurtling toward the last barrel. Too fast. I tried to check her, but we were already swerving steeply around the barrel. I was off balance, askew in my stirrups. Ginger was sliding. Too far. We were falling. In slow motion, we were crashing into the barrel. Grandma’s sad gray eyes flashed before me. “You can do it,” she was saying.
“I’m sorry, Grandma. I thought I could beat her.”
I was falling.
“I was never too good with words,” said Grandma. “But you are.”
“No, my words hurt you.”
Falling. Falling.
“It’s okay,” whispered Grandma. “I know you can write it.”
“Write what?” I muttered.
Then I hit the barrel.
When I came to, I was deep in rodeo arena dirt, and Ginger’s hot breath was in my face. But I knew what I needed to do.
A cowboy was leaning over me. “Write what?” he said.
“Did I say something?” I asked.
“You keep saying you need to write something.”
I rolled to my feet. “That’s right. I do need to write it.”
“You all right?” he asked.
“I’m just fine.”
I started by interviewing Grandma’s seven sons. They each gave me a different view of Grandma’s life.
“Mom was the only widow I knew who could get seven kids ready for church and still be five minutes early,” said Uncle Orvil.
“Mom would feed every hobo who’d come along the tracks,” said Uncle Russ. “I was scared of them and would hide behind her skirts. But she wasn’t scared. She’d just put them to work chopping wood.”
“I remember Mom telling me that she wanted to be Annie Oakley when she was little,” said Uncle Rolfe, “so she took her stick horse and ran away. She was gone for most of the day. Half the county was looking for her. They finally found her fast asleep in a pasture full of unbroken mustangs.”
“Long before anyone had heard of family home evening, Mom had what she called family time once a week,” said Uncle Matt. “There was no getting around it. We had to be there.”
None of my uncles knew much about the chestnut horse or the rodeo saddle.
“Mom kept pretty silent on some things,” said Sid, my oldest uncle. “All I know is that she didn’t have that horse very long.”
He motioned to several boxes of scrapbooks and letters. “But you might find something there. You’re welcome to take them home with you.”
Digging through the scrapbooks, I finally found a small picture of Grandma on her chestnut horse. “Me and Flash, 1930” was scrawled on the back. I was surprised how much Grandma looked like me sitting on that horse. Straight brown hair and freckles.
When my great-uncle Al came to town, I asked him, “Do you know any other stories about Grandma besides the ones you told at the funeral?”
“Oh, I’m chock-full of tales about my sister,” he said. “I remember her first date with your Grandpa.”
Date? It had never occurred to me that someone would actually remember Grandma going on a date.
“To be honest, I remember her second date better. It was almost the last. Her first date was kind of normal. She came home with this goofy smile on her face and walked past me like I didn’t exist. But on her second date, she came home scratching like a hen in the barnyard. I thought she must have fleas. She kept yelling, ‘I can’t stand it,’ all the while yanking at her clothes and peeling down her socks. Come to find out, Harry’s old Plymouth also served as a truck. He’d forgotten to take the chicken feed sacks out in time for his date. Harry and Annie got covered with chicken mites. They were scratching like a couple of dogs all night and didn’t dare say a word to each other. Luckily, chicken mites would rather be on chickens than people, so Annie got over it quick. But it took a few weeks for her and Harry to get back together.”
Uncle Al and my dad were laughing so hard tears were running down their cheeks. Suddenly I remembered the words from the funeral. “Whoever does Annie’s life story is in for a few laughs.”
Uncle Al knew a little more about her chestnut horse. “Oh, yes, how she loved that little mare. Annie’s dream was to become a trick rider and ride in rodeos and wild west shows.”
“A trick rider?”
“Yep, she got pretty good at it too, considering she didn’t have that horse very long. I did watch her fall a few times in the pasture.”
“Did she barrel race too?”
“Oh, no, that was before the days of barrel racing,” he said. “But she did enter some sort of horsemanship event at the rodeo. Maybe you’ve heard about the saddle she won?”
I nodded.
Uncle Al shook his head. “It’s too bad about that saddle. I don’t think she ever got to use it.”
“She didn’t?” I said.
“Nope. She sold Flash right after that.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I have my suspicions. But the person who might know is my brother Bill.”
I hugged my notebook as I entered the rest home. Uncle Bill, Grandma’s next oldest brother, always made me a little nervous. He tended to get confused when he talked. But today he seemed sharp.
“Why did Annie sell her horse?” he repeated, leaning forward in his wheelchair. “Well, the Depression was coming on. I told her it didn’t matter; I could earn the money myself. But she had already made up her mind. Maybe you know how bullheaded she could be. She wanted to do her part for my mission. She said she couldn’t stand watching Flash eat hay in the barn while I might be hungry in England.”
“And she sold her new rodeo saddle too?” I said.
“Well, I don’t recollect that she did,” replied Uncle Bill, scratching the top of his head. “I think she kept that saddle a long time, hoping to buy another horse so she could be a trick rider. Then later on she hoped to have a daughter to give it to. To be honest, I don’t know what happened to that saddle.”
I had almost completed Grandma’s history by the time I found out what happened to her prize saddle. I ran across a letter from Bishop Jensen in the box of papers Uncle Sid had given me.
“Dear Annie: I know how you like your gifts to be anonymous. But I just wanted to tell you how thrilled the Hansens are with your saddle. They were afraid of paralysis after the accident, but now their little Marie seems determined to put that saddle on a horse. I knew you wanted your saddle to go to a girl who loves horses, and there’s no doubt Marie loves horses.”
I finished Grandma’s history and made copies for my family. Everyone was thrilled, including Bishop Jensen, who turned 100 years old the day I gave him his copy.
By the way, I never did beat that sassy blonde from Glenville in the barrels. She got married that summer and moved away. But the next year, I shortened my stirrups a notch like Grandma said and won second place. First place went to Rebecca Williams, who happened to be “little” Marie Hansen’s daughter.
Grandma’s saddle deserved to win first.

Years passed. Brother Andelin passed away. Then on a cold December morning, our priests quorum arrived at a little house on the edge of the ward boundaries. The name on the mailbox read Andelin. At the door, leaning against a cane, was a small woman with thinning white hair and a warm smile.
Our adviser introduced us to Sister Andelin as we brought in the small Christmas tree we were giving her. She made sure to learn our names as she talked to us. Sister Andelin hadn’t been able to come to church for several years. But even though she didn’t recognize most of us, she knew our families.
“How’s your mother?” she asked me.
I gave the usual response. “Fine.”
“My husband used to be your home teacher when you first joined the Church. Do you remember that?”
After telling her I did, I reminded her about the board and the seesaw. She held her hands together and smiled at me as if picturing the entire thing in her mind. “You know, he was always doing good things like that for people. And now look at you,” she said, taking hold of my hand. “Passing on the good that you were taught. That’s how I get along now; all the love my husband spread around this ward just keeps flowing back to me.”
I realized that Brother Andelin took care of the widows and the fatherless as the Lord directed. But more than that, Brother Andelin passed on a spirit of giving that outlasted both him and that old teeter-totter.
Since Brother Andelin’s first visit, I’ve learned a lot about the Church, while gaining a testimony of the gospel. That testimony began when a white-haired man took an old board and made a seesaw.

Now go back again with me in your thoughts to the church building about which we spoke earlier with its sign of “Spiritual Fuel Available—No Rationing—No Stamps—No Quotas—Come and Prepare.” Each one of us undoubtedly has a different building in mind. Perhaps yours is the one you attend most frequently—your own ward or branch.
The one I have in mind today is the Masterton Ward in the Wellington New Zealand Stake. We had the opportunity of dedicating this choice house of worship in February. Never have I been in a building so immaculately clean. It looked new. It smelled new. It was beautiful in its appropriate simplicity. It was worthy in appearance to be dedicated to the Lord. It was built by our people.
It was paid for by our people. It was polished to a fine finish by hands that took pride. It was tastefully landscaped and structurally sound. According to the town mayor, a nonmember, it was built by people who are happy. Three weeks before our arrival it was predicted by some that it couldn’t possibly be ready for dedication. Those so inclined to doubt didn’t know this good bishop and his ward family—people of humble circumstances but powerfully committed. Walls were painted, floors waxed, and so on by parents when their children had been put to sleep for the night. Young boys, appropriately encouraged, carried buckets of water to make the lawns green and the flowers bloom around the chapel, because New Zealand had been long without rain. It was not only completed, it was shining! Here was a group of people accumulating oil for their lamps a drop at a time through sacrifice, preparation, cooperation, faith, and works. As these ward members worked together to meet the midnight hour, their love for each other was nurtured. They, too, shined in their triumph.