Gospel Story Finder

Eleven-year-old Ashley slowly made her way down a crooked path that wound through the frosted hush of the October woods. She paused in a little patch of misted light that sifted through the leafy gold canopy, softening the early morning chill. She rubbed her arms, shivering at an inner cold that the sunlight couldn’t reach, the same cold that had frozen her father’s face in a mask of sorrow.
Ashley couldn’t see the unhappiness on her father’s face, because she had been blind since birth, but she could hear it in his voice and in the silence that had replaced his laughter when her mother died. It had been almost a whole year, but still—
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden burst of wings. Something or someone had startled a large bird nearby, and it erupted skyward.
A moment later a gentle voice said, “It’s me, Ashley—Michelle.” Ashley felt Michelle’s hand slip about hers. “You should have waited for me at your cabin.” Michelle’s voice was as light and airy as the wind-spun autumn leaves that danced in the yellow wood. “I was on my way to get you.”
“It’s OK,” Ashley said. “I know this path almost as well as these trees do. I’ve been coming here every day for the past two weeks.”
Michelle glanced about at the golden silence. “It is pretty,” she admitted, “but well—since you can’t see, what is it that—” The sadness she saw in the dark, sightless eyes made her pause.
“You said that there are lots of yellows here at this time of year,” Ashley explained. “Remember when I asked you what yellow looked like? You told me it was a happy, warm color—like the sun, like a smile.” She reached through the blackness of her world and touched a yellow aspen leaf. “That’s why I come here. I keep hoping that somehow it will help me feel happy so that I can help my father smile again.”
Michelle squeezed Ashley’s hand. “It is beautiful here. But even if you could see, I don’t think all the yellows in the world could mend a heart for more than a moment.”
Ashley leaned against a leafless tree, feeling as empty as the branches above her. “You’re happy, Michelle. Why? I mean, you lost your brother in that millpond accident just last summer. And then your father’s fruit crop failed because of the late freeze, and he had to sell half his land.”
“I guess our testimonies keep us happy,” Michelle said thoughtfully.
“Testimonies?”
“Knowing that God lives,” Michelle returned simply, “that He loves us, that He allows us difficulties in our lives to help us grow. My mother says that a candle shines brightest in the blackest night.”
I know a lot about the blackest night, Ashley thought as the two girls started down the path in a rush of tumbling leaves. What she wanted to know more about were testimonies. “Tell me more,” she begged.
“They’re growing things, Ashley,” Michelle explained. “A testimony starts small, like the first light at dawn, then gets bigger and warmer like the sun at noonday, like the brightest of autumn leaves. But you have to work at it,” she added as the pair walked toward her farmhouse for a day of play. “You have to feel your way along like you do in these woods, only with your heart. All of it.”
“Will you help me get one, Michelle?”
Michelle stopped and faced her friend. “I can’t give you a testimony,” she answered kindly. “All I can do is share mine with you, and—” Michelle’s voice relayed her sudden idea. “Maybe there is a way I can help you, Ashley! Tomorrow is Sunday, and someone very special is coming to speak at our meetinghouse.”
“Who is it?”
“A prophet, Ashley. A prophet of God.”
Later, as Ashley waited impatiently for her father to return home from his job at the factory in Harperville, she listened to the wall clock tick like a tired heartbeat. At length she heard the rattle of a flatbed wagon and the snorting of spent horses outside. A few minutes later her father stood in the doorway.
“Hi, Ash, it’s me.” Papa’s voice sounded tired. “It was a long day, hon.” He sat down beside her and sighed wearily. “A long day.” He regarded his daughter in the ruddy haze of late-day window light. “What is it?”
“It’s a meeting, Papa! Tomorrow morning at Michelle’s church. Someone special is coming to talk to them. Will you take me, Papa? Please.”
Papa sighed again. “On my only day off? Not tomorrow, sweetheart. I’m so worn out I could sleep on a fence post for a week! I need tomorrow to—”
“Please, Papa?” Ashley implored again.
“Not tomorrow. Another time maybe.”
Papa patted her head, rose to his feet with a tired grunt, and disappeared into his room. “Wake me when the clock chimes again, and I’ll fix us something to eat,” he called back.
That night Ashley prayed that her father would somehow change his mind about the meeting, then drifted off into a troubled sleep.
Early the next morning, Ashley felt someone gently waking her “Ash? If we’re going to make that meeting on time we’d better get ourselves ready.”
Ashley sat up. “Papa! But I thought you were too tired.”
“It’s hard to believe,” Papa replied, “but when I woke up this morning, I felt more rested than if I had slept for a week of Sundays. So are you going to get up, or grow old in bed?” Papa ran his hand through the girl’s tangled hair, then left the room.
For a moment Ashley just lay in bed, reflecting on an answered prayer. She felt as if something was glowing inside her like the dawn’s first light streaming unseen through the curtains on her bedroom window.
At church, Ashley sat with Michelle on one side and Papa on the other, listening to a prophet’s voice. Ashley didn’t have to see the man behind the pulpit to know that he spoke with authority. She could feel it. The comfort, peace, and sweet assurance of his voice settled over her like the patchwork comforter her mother had made for her. He spoke with penetrating assuredness of the living God, the resurrection, and the reuniting of loved ones in the world to come.
Papa’s hand found hers, and squeezed it. Tears filled her sightless eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She felt her father’s body shake with emotion and knew that he was shedding tears of his own.
At that moment Ashley knew what yellow autumn leaves looked like. They were bright and beautiful, and they glowed—like her testimony. Like happy months and years ahead. Like a certain little cabin by the October woods, now even on the darkest of days.

In Harrisville, Utah, it was another kind of need that had to be met, and youth rose to meet the need. It’s a story that brought tears to Bishop Nicholas Van Alfen’s eyes as he shared the details.
A temple was being built—the Ogden Temple—and temples cost money, and money is hard come by in small towns like Harrisville, Utah. Some $3,461 was his ward’s assessment. The bishop knew that his congregation had already been pushed far past the comfortable position in contributions.
He fasted and prayed about it, as bishops do, and one day he was forcibly impressed with the idea that the answer lay with the young people of the ward. Why not issue them the challenge—and the blessings—of helping to build the temple they’d grow up to use? And that’s what he did. And that’s what they did.
“I had all the youth stay after Sunday School for a special meeting with me one Sunday. Naturally, their curiosity was up! I talked about their fine parents who were rearing them in the gospel. Yet I felt sure these youth had never really found true involvement—not the kind they’d know someday.
“We decided it was about time they learned that the gospel was more than volleyball and basketball and roadshows and Explorer trips. We agreed that involvement in the gospel meant working and striving for an important goal—something grand enough to require a personal sacrifice. The new temple was it.”
In an interview later with some of the participants, we asked how they felt about what they did. Did it really weld them to the Church? Did they feel spiritually strengthened? Had their relationship with the Savior changed through such a project? Did the youth of the ward feel closer to each other? closer to ward leaders? And what about personal sacrifice—did they participate out of love for the bishop, or because he was a good salesman, or because they were committed to church service? What? How?
Ava Painter was named as executive secretary of the committee, in charge of finding projects to raise funds over the summer. She spent countless hours channeling people into jobs, besides earning her own share of the contribution. “I started thinking about that temple and how we were the ones who’d be using it, not the older people who’d be gone someday. I dreamed of the day I’d go inside to be married and would look around and say, ‘It’s mine. I helped.’”
This same thought motivated many others. Making the dream come true had practical overtones, according to Kim Taylor. “A lot of us already had jobs, and we just decided we’d pledge as much as we could from our salaries. But we had to find jobs to raise money to meet the pledges of unworking kids. Before long everybody wanted to get in the act!”
Marilyn Crowther described the fantastic response of the people in the community. “This project got everybody interested in everyone else. It wasn’t just the temple. It was helping achieve a dream. If there weren’t jobs around someone’s place, people made them so the kids could get the money.”
The girls scraped and painted barns, tended children, bottled fruit, and did ironing. The boys did everything from washing cars to laying sewer pipe. And the money was raised. But not just money. So were spirits. Testimonies grew. Young people became active in the Church again. And one boy mentioned a powerful spiritual awakening.
Richard Knight, who is seventeen years old, talked of not being very active in the Church before this undertaking. “Church wasn’t a big thing in my life and I wasn’t praying anymore. Then when the bishop talked about this, I got excited about doing something big by ourselves. It was slow at first. We only earned about $500 the first month. And then I started to pray that this would come off and that people would help us find work. It has changed my life completely. It’s so great to have had to lean on the Lord and watch your prayers get answered. It’s so great.”
“I’d never sacrificed for anything in my life,” said David Saunders. “This project reminded me of what I’d learned in seminary about the Saints in Kirtland sacrificing for the temple in the early Church days. I was really thrilled to have a try—to see if I could sacrifice. And boy, we had to—movies, treats, clothes, records, family vacations, and especially our time. But we helped each other stick to it—and it worked!”
“I’ve always thought that now that I’ve helped pay for that temple, I’ll be sure to get married in it,” said Luann Winchester. This was a comment many of the youths made. The goal of temple marriage has new meaning for them now.
Kendell Kennington, a deacon, had a different point of view about all this. “When you’re my age, you always wish you were older because you can’t do anything—you can’t go to the teen dances or go on the Explorer trips or anything. Well, this time I was in on something with the older kids. And I learned a lot from working hard with the boys older than I am. I really liked it.”

In July of 1976, runner Garry Bjorklund was determined to qualify for the U.S. Olympic team’s 10,000-meter race which would be run at the Montreal Olympics. Halfway through the grinding qualifying race, however, he lost his left shoe. What would you and I do if that were our experience? I suppose he could have given up and stopped. He could have blamed his bad luck and lost the opportunity of participating in the greatest race of his life, but this champion athlete did not do that. He ran on without his shoe. He knew that he would have to run faster than he had ever run in his life. He knew that his competitors now had an advantage that they did not have at the beginning of the race. Over that cinder track he ran, with one shoe on and one shoe off, finishing third and qualifying for the opportunity to participate in the race for the gold medal. His own running time was the best he had ever recorded. He put forth the effort necessary to achieve his goal.

Kevin watched as his older brother and sister got ready to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead. Kevin wanted to go too.
Dad, can I go?
You’re not old enough yet, but I’m glad that you want to serve. When you turn 12, you can go too.
Kevin helped his sister pack her bag. Then he helped his brother pick out a tie.
They left, and Kevin stayed home with Mom and his baby sister, Erin.
When Erin cried, Kevin gave her a teddy bear. When she fell, Kevin helped her up.
I know Heavenly Father is happy with the way you are serving Him today.
But I didn’t go to the temple.
Yes, but you helped your brother and sister get ready. And you are helping me take care of Erin.
When you help other people, you serve Heavenly Father.

The trip held special significance for me because that summer I had felt strongly impressed to receive my patriarchal blessing. My grandfather was a patriarch, and so I asked if he could be the one to give it. He agreed and obtained permission, and we planned for my blessing to take place the Sunday directly following our trip.
When the weekend of camping came to a close, we all returned home, and the following Sunday my grandfather gave me my patriarchal blessing. Just weeks later he passed away. He had been able to type my blessing and print it out, but it was my grandmother who finally sent it to me.
I am grateful that my grandfather was a keeper of one of the lights along the shore of my life. His light and example has guided me closer to my Heavenly Father. I will always think of my patriarchal blessing as a light coming across the waves, guiding me in from the dark. It is a bright beam of my Heavenly Father’s mercy.

When I was 12, the bishop asked me to help him deliver Christmas baskets to the widows of the ward. It was snowing on the day we made the deliveries. The baskets we delivered contained grapefruit and oranges. This was during World War II, when grapefruit and oranges were scarce, so they were quite a treat. The bishop waited in the car while I took a basket up to the door and said, “The bishop asked me to deliver this to you. It is a Christmas basket from the ward.”
Soon we had delivered all the baskets but one. The bishop took me home, and before I got out of the car, he handed me the last basket and said, “This is for your mother.” Then he drove away.
I stood in front of our house, holding the basket and thinking. We had been delivering baskets to widows, and I hadn’t thought of my mother as a widow. I had never heard her refer to herself as one. That was the first time it occurred to me that somebody thought of her as a widow.
I realized that Mother handled that circumstance with a great deal of faith. She taught us that we had a father and she had a husband and that we would always be a family because of her and my father’s temple marriage. I knew other kids had dads who took them hunting and fishing, and I grieved that I had no father to do this for me. But those were war years, so I thought of myself as a boy whose father was away in the war. I felt my father was away because the Lord had called him to another work. It hurt me that he wasn’t there, but I knew that someday we would be together again. Since that time, my testimony of the importance of temple marriage has strengthened. How grateful I am for temple marriage and for the blessing of being sealed together as an eternal family!

The other day I went to the house of a friend who owns a swimming pool. He is a member of a different church, so I taught him about Joseph Smith. It surprised him to learn that Heavenly Father and Jesus appeared to Joseph Smith. I taught him about the Book of Mormon. He didn’t know about it, just the Bible. Since he didn’t have a Book of Mormon, he didn’t know about Nephi or anyone.
I taught him about the Word of Wisdom. I had asked him once before if he would smoke or drink when he got older. After teaching him the Word of Wisdom, I asked him again. And now he isn’t going to drink alcohol or smoke.
I wanted him to come to our Church, so I invited him. He was going to be gone this week, so I’m going to invite him again when he’s back.
He liked learning these things.

Another diligent member is Talma “John” Bastian. Born in Haiti, Brother Bastian was introduced to the gospel by his friend Antoine Ferrier. After reading two Church pamphlets, Talma asked his friend for more information. Brother Ferrier gave him some Church books, including A Marvelous Work and a Wonder by Elder LeGrand Richards. He read the books eagerly and was ready when the missionaries came to him. He now serves as elders quorum president in the Soldier Road Branch.

But then my husband died, and my world changed. In my grief, I began to hope that maybe we would not be separated forever, that somehow we would meet again in our heavenly life.

Although my husband had not believed in God, he was well educated and intelligent. He had read the Bible and knew it very well. He was a good person and gave what he had to others. I had sometimes caught myself thinking that he was better than I.

Several months passed after my husband’s death, and I still could not find comfort. I was advised to go to church to lessen the heaviness in my heart. At a local church, I met a young minister. After telling him a little about myself, I asked him to pray for my husband. But he told me that because my husband had not believed in God and had not been baptized, he could not pray for him. I would not see my husband again, he said. I did not want to believe that, but I could not completely disbelieve it either. The minister took from me my last hope. Instead of getting better, I felt worse.

I received a call from a student with whom I had worked closely during her undergraduate work here. This anxious telephone call began an exchange of correspondence that was very inspiring to me, especially as it all began as my son lay in a coma as a result of an accident on his mission in Namibia. With her permission I will tell you some of the circumstances of her story to make my point.

While at BYU this student had distinguished herself as a vocal music major. She sang beautifully, she was very strong academically, and she played the piano very well. After graduation she and her husband moved on for graduate work at a very reputable university, where she was enjoying continued progress and some wonderful and important solo opportunities.

She anxiously told me in that first telephone conversation that she had been in final rehearsals for a major opera production in which she had been cast in a leading role and that she was preparing for one of her graduate recitals. She said that the realization of how she was being blessed had brought her to a point where she had consciously rededicated her ability and opportunities to sing to the Lord for his glory and the furthering of his work. But then something she hardly expected occurred.

“I’ve forgotten how to sing,” she said. “My voice, especially my high notes, has been taken away from me!” She was devastated.

She was a singer who sang not just with beautiful tone but with enormous expressive ability and musical accuracy and security as well. A lot of heart and mind there! This was in large measure the means by which she had been defined in the minds of others, and even to some extent in her own mind. How ironic that at the very time she had purposely and consciously rededicated her ability and hard work to the Lord, it all seemed to be taken away. She was heartsick. So much so that—quite naturally—her heart was running away from her power to think, to reason, and then to trust.

I asked if her testimony of a loving Father in Heaven and an atoning Savior was still strong. At her positive response, I encouraged her to use that testimony as a means to begin reasoning through her painful circumstance. I asked what she would do if she could never sing again. She had trouble facing that thought. I told her that the situation seemed to me to be one where, because of her preparation, she was well into some advanced study in some of those cardinal virtues of life: faith, love, trust, patience, and knowledge of self—including purposes and potentials.

I said to her, “You were saying, ‘Lord, I am ready,’ and he, of course, takes that as a cue to initiate you further along the prickly path of spiritual, emotional, soulful progress.”

In subsequent letters I wrote:

You dedicated to Him what you perhaps saw as the most valuable part, the most meaningful facet of you. And what happens? He throws a wrench in the whole consecrating process—or so it might seem. But He knows us. He loves us more than we can even imagine. He is never far away from us, especially when we are suffering. And we can rely on that love and support to sustain us no matter what. Though all else fails, though our fondest hopes and plans be dashed, though we be rejected or refused by the world or any who inhabit it, He is there. Though we feel devastated, He sees the lovable, beautiful, perfect facet at our core that is worthy of His sustenance and supportive grace. If we can sense His love, His concern, His attentive presence, then we can be at peace just putting one foot in front of another, attempting to walk uprightly before Him, willing to submit to all that He asks, being quick to set our path aright when we come to our senses and realize we have strayed, willing to sacrifice our talents or intentions or desires or position or a friendship or a son or . . . or . . . or, all because we know that everything will work to our best good in the end, that all loose ends will find reconciliation in Him.

Perhaps this is not just a two-week or two-year trial period for you. Perhaps you never will sing again, which would be difficult for many of us to understand. But perhaps this is a rough and irritating grain of sand that has been placed into that most tender, sensitive, essential part of you. Perhaps this is a struggle in your life that will continue to cause you a heavy heart and many sorrowful tears. If this all be the case, I would challenge you to use your bright mind, enormous energy, and vivid imagination to make your suffering fruitful. You can seize the opportunity to learn to be very sensitive and receptive to the Comforter and all the ministering angels that Father in Heaven puts into our paths.

You can use the experience to discover what the Lord wants you to know about yourself, and the full measure of your creation. Then you can learn to get more outside yourself to a greater appreciation of others, especially their dignity in the face of their own struggles and heartaches. And because of your own suffering, you can be a mortal “ministering angel” to their needs. Because of your suffering, you will know what to do and how to do it. And through such positive fruits of your sorrow, and by the atoning grace of the Savior, that painful, hard grain inside you can be coated again and again by your righteous efforts until the day you can place a beautiful, precious pearl into His sacred hand, all in appreciation for His atoning sacrifice and all He has taught you.

We all have felt, just as did this wonderful young woman, the natural inclination to allow the heart to overbalance or sometimes even exclusively rule our behavior when we are desolate. Or we have felt the opposite, and just as common situation, where our thinking has closed the heart and is in sole control.

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.”

Eleven-year-old Rebecca stared out the bus window but didn’t really see the houses passing by. The after-school bus commotion raged around her but didn’t interrupt her troubled thoughts.
If I don’t get an A on the final history report, I won’t get an A in history. That means no honor roll. It’s not fair. I’ve worked hard all year long to get on the honor roll, and now, all because of this stupid assignment, I might not make it this last quarter. History, yuck!
The bus lurched to a stop but couldn’t jolt Rebecca’s thoughts from her history assignment. I have only a week to write about someone who made a contribution to the United States’ growth and progress. It would be simple if Mrs. Langley would just let us write about someone famous, but no, it has to be about some unfamous dead person. Dead person—of course! The Woman of the Dead! Rebecca smiled as she worked out a plan.
In a few minutes she was hurrying up the front walk of a small brick house. “The Woman of the Dead,” she chuckled as she rang the door bell. That’s what the kids called her aunt because it seemed like all she ever talked about was “the dead.” Aunt Hattie spent all her time doing family history for herself and for others.
Aunt Hattie’s wrinkled face lit up with a big smile when she saw Rebecca at the door. “Come in, come in,” she urged. As always, stray curls were poking up here and there. A pencil nestled above one ear. Bifocals were perched on her long straight nose. Her eyes danced as she led Rebecca into the living room. “Sit down and tell me what brings you here.”
“Aunt Hattie, I got an awesome history assignment today that I thought you might be able to help me with.”
As she explained her assignment, Aunt Hattie listened, smiled, and nodded. “Sounds like quite a task. Do you have any ideas whom you would like to write about?”
“None. I sort of hoped that you could help me find someone.”
“How about someone in our own family?”
“We don’t have anyone in our family that did anything great or important—do we?” Rebecca asked sheepishly, realizing that she knew very little about her own family’s history.
“Well, let’s see what we can find.” Aunt Hattie chuckled again as she moved quickly to her computer. “Now, the first thing we need to do is pull up your pedigree chart.”
“Pedigree chart?” asked Rebecca, sitting next to Aunt Hattie and looking at the computer screen.
“A pedigree chart is a chart of your family tree. But it starts with you, instead of your ancestors, and goes backward with names, dates of births, marriages, and deaths. See, here’s your mother’s chart.” Aunt Hattie pointed to the screen.
Rebecca saw “Mary Helen Farmer Hughes” on the screen with other names and dates.
“Do you have everyone’s pedigree chart right here in your house?”
Aunt Hattie laughed. “Almost everyone who’s ever taken my family history class—which is about everyone in town!—has been good enough to share what he’s found with me. Now let’s see whom we have that might be of interest for your report. How far back do you want to go?”
“Way back, I guess. Was there anyone in our family here before the Revolutionary War?”
“Your earliest ancestor that we have record of came to America about 1750 from Germany—”
“Germany! I didn’t know that!” Rebecca peered closer at the screen. “This is like a time machine!” she exclaimed as Aunt Hattie scrolled down the computer screen.
“Wait, I think I passed a good one for you,” Aunt Hattie said, scrolling back up the screen and pointing to a name. “Gideon Burdick was General George Washington’s drummer boy in the Revolutionary War.”
“My great-great-whatever-grandfather, knew George Washington?”
“Yes, but there’s more to Gideon Burdick’s story. And his daughter, Rebecca Burdick Winters, has an interesting story of her own. In fact, I believe that you were named after your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Rebecca Burdick Winters.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Well now, I’d hate to give you any wrong information, especially since this is a school assignment. But if you’re free Saturday morning, maybe we can take a trip to the Family History Library right here in Salt Lake City to do some research,” Aunt Hattie suggested.
“Wow, I can’t believe it—I actually have some neat ancestors!”
On Saturday morning Rebecca and Aunt Hattie went to the Family History Library across the street from Temple Square.
“Where do we start?” Rebecca asked, feeling a bit overwhelmed with all the rows of equipment and books in the first room they entered.
“Each person whom the library has information about is listed by name in the Library Catalog here,” Aunt Hattie said, walking to a microfiche file. “You look in it for the person’s last name.”
“I want to start with Gideon Burdick,” Rebecca told her. “Here he is. ‘Gideon Burdick, born 6 November 1762, Died 5 April 1846,’” she read. “Look! It says that there’s a book called The Descendants of Robert Burdick of Rhode Island. Gideon must be in this book, right?”
Aunt Hattie smiled and nodded. “And since Rebecca Burdick Winters is Gideon’s daughter, she should be in the book too.”
It only took a few minutes to find the book. It felt strange but wonderful to be holding part of her very own family’s history in her hands. She quickly found a place to sit down and work.
“I’ll let you see what you can find,” said Aunt Hattie. “I have some work to do too. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Suddenly many-great-grandfather Gideon became a real person to Rebecca—someone she liked. But although the page on Gideon was interesting, it didn’t say anything about his being General Washington’s drummer boy.
There has to be more, Rebecca thought, looking up from the book. She couldn’t see Aunt Hattie to ask for more help. I’ll just go on to Rebecca Burdick Winters till Aunt Hattie comes back.
“Find anything interesting?” Aunt Hattie asked, sitting down across from Rebecca.
“I can’t believe it. I had no idea that I was named for such a strong and courageous woman. I wish I could find out more about her.”
“And Gideon? Did you find out all you need to know about him?”
“No. The book didn’t say anything about his being a drummer boy. Where can I find out about that?” asked Rebecca.
“Goodness! It sounds as if you are getting hooked on the dead,” chuckled Aunt Hattie. “It seems to me that there was a newspaper article on Rebecca. Let’s see what we can find under Salt Lake City in the Locality File.”
She showed Rebecca the Locality File and explained how to use it. “I’ll leave you to your search now. Here are some quarters to photocopy anything you might want. I’ll be back in a while.”
“Did you find enough material to write your report?” asked Aunt Hattie, sitting down as Rebecca finished the article.
Rebecca swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes, but not on Gideon. I’m going to make photocopies of all this information and write on Rebecca Burdick Winters. I think she contributed a lot to the United States’ growth and progress.”
Rebecca was hard at work on her paper that night when Aunt Hattie rushed in. “I have some more information for you. I’ve been writing to a cousin in Ogden, Utah, to see if she had any family history to share—and by the way, now that you’re hooked yourself, on family history, the first thing you should do is write to your older relatives on both sides of your family for whatever help they can give you. Anyway, Cousin Myrna sent me a copy of a June 30, 1975, Ogden Standard Examiner article that tells about Gideon Burdick being the drummer boy, and even mentions his daughter Rebecca. Here.”
“Wow! Thanks, Aunt Hattie!” Rebecca could hardly wait to turn her paper in.
Mrs. Langley was so pleased with Rebecca’s report that she read it to the class. “Pioneers such as Rebecca Burdick Winters,” she told them, “were among the courageous people who helped the country expand in the West.”
Rebecca could hardly wait to show her A+ honor-roll paper to Aunt Hattie.

A number of years ago, my son Nelson called me on Christmas Eve. The week before, an attorney who did not speak Spanish had asked him to serve as an interpreter. The attorney’s client, an older man who did not speak English, was requesting custody of his grandchildren.
After the hearing, Nelson wished the client merry Christmas. The man replied that Christmas that year would be a sad time. He was struggling financially to support his family. In addition, his 29-year-old daughter had just passed away, leaving behind five little children, the youngest just two years old. Their father was in jail, so the client and his wife would be taking in their grandchildren.
Moved by the man’s situation, both Nelson and the attorney decided not to charge him for their services. Then Nelson asked for the names and ages of the children and for the man’s address.
That night, Nelson couldn’t sleep as he thought about how he could help the family. As he knelt and fervently prayed about them, he felt inspired to write a letter, explaining the family’s situation, sharing the names and ages of the children, and asking for donated gifts. The next day he distributed copies of the letter to the judges, attorneys, and other workers at the courthouse.
The response was so great that he soon filled his car’s trunk and seats with gifts. Those who had no time to purchase gifts donated money for the family.
“Mamá,” Nelson said, “there are a lot of good people in the world. If you could just see how they responded! I requested just one gift for each child, but many more were donated.”
Nelson arrived at the family’s home Christmas Eve. The children were excited and happy as they helped him unload the gifts from his car. Their grandfather and grandmother just shook their heads in disbelief.
When Nelson sat down to rest for a minute before leaving, the two-year-old approached him and climbed onto his lap. Then, touching Nelson’s face affectionately, he asked, “Are you my daddy?”
With that, Nelson wept, thankful to those who had helped brighten the family’s Christmas.
“Mamá,” he said, “there is no greater joy than serving others. I’m thankful to have been an instrument in God’s hands to bless this good family.”
Nelson’s joy was a reflection of the Savior’s teaching that “it is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35).

Leah dropped her schoolbag as soon as she walked into her room. She crawled onto her bed and squeezed her pillow to her stomach. She couldn’t believe what Ashley had said about her dad.
Leah’s dad had died by suicide a few months ago. She missed him a lot. She missed his famous meatballs. She missed how happy he made Mom. And she missed watching him play his guitar.
Sometimes when she was sad, Leah listened to his music. She also wrote him letters. She kept them in the memory box in her closet. It was the same box where she kept Dad’s glasses, his old baseball hat, and other things he liked. It was her way of remembering him.
But Leah didn’t feel like listening to music or writing letters now. She was sad, but also kind of angry. She squeezed the pillow tighter and started to cry.
Mom tapped gently on the door. “Are you OK?” Mom asked.
Leah sniffed and sat up. Mom sat down on the bed next to her.
“Ashley said something mean,” Leah said. “About Dad.” Tears kept falling from Leah’s eyes. “She said he can’t go to heaven because of how he died.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, pulling Leah into a hug. “That’s not true.” She wiped away some of Leah’s tears. “When your dad died, his brain was sick. Heavenly Father understands what Dad was feeling and why he was hurting.”
“He was a good man,” Leah said. “Heavenly Father loves him and is helping him, right?”
“Dad was a great man, Leah. He loved you so much.” Mom wiped away a tear of her own. “And Heavenly Father does love him. I know He does.”
“But how do you know?” Leah asked.
“Because I pray about it sometimes,” Mom said. “And even though I miss him so much it hurts, I also feel moments of peace.”
Leah nodded.
“I’m sorry Ashley said that to you,” Mom said. “I know Ashley is one of your best friends, and that was really hurtful for you.”
“Yeah.” Leah was quiet for a minute. Then she asked, “Can we say a prayer together?”
“Of course.”
Mom and Leah knelt down. Then Leah began to pray. “Heavenly Father, I really miss my dad. Is he OK? Please help me to feel better. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Leah unfolded her arms and gave Mom another hug. She felt a tiny bit better. She still felt really sad, but she didn’t feel worried about her dad anymore. She knew Heavenly Father loved him, and she knew that He loved her too.
“Thanks, Mom.” Leah took a deep breath. “Can you help me talk to Ashley?”
“That’s a great idea,” Mom said. “I don’t think she meant to hurt your feelings, but it would be good for her to know why what she said was hurtful. I’ll call her mom and see if we can have them come over tomorrow to talk.”
“OK,” said Leah. “I think I’m going to have some quiet time now.”
Mom nodded. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Leah turned on her dad’s music. She closed her eyes and listened to the strumming of his guitar. Then she pulled out a piece of paper and started writing him a letter.

It was already a bustling, growing city when the Spencer family arrived. Thousands of people lived there, and more were coming every day. There were hundreds of log cabins and many brick homes. People were building, buying and selling, planting, working everywhere! Aurelia had never seen so many people—and most of them were Latter-day Saints.
Her family had rented a room until Papa could build a house for them. He had chosen a lot on a hill above the town, a little northeast of where the temple was being built.
Their lot, like most in Nauvoo, was big enough to plant a large garden and some fruit trees. Ellen and Aurelia had helped Papa plant the trees that first spring—peach and apple trees, Papa said, although they looked like twigs to Aurelia. She had asked Papa why he planted the tiny trees so far apart.
“They are small now,” he had said, “but if we want them to grow large and give fruit, they will need space to grow.” Aurelia had watched them grow until last year they had finally blossomed and borne fruit!
All of Nauvoo blossomed in the spring. The mud in the streets was deep enough to suck the boots right off your feet, but flowers and fruit trees bloomed in every yard. Aurelia wished she could see spring come to Nauvoo again. But the Prophet Joseph was dead, and soon his beautiful city would be deserted.
George had been too young to remember the first time he and Aurelia met the Prophet. Aurelia remembered it clearly. She had met a real, living prophet! He had come to their home to visit, and he limped very slightly when he walked, just like Papa! Papa told her later it was caused by the same illness that had caused his limp—typhus fever, which had settled in his leg.
Lucy was born there, and when Joseph saw her, he exclaimed, “Oh, what a little black head!” Even as a baby, Lucy’s hair was thick and dark. Joseph had laid his hand on Lucy’s head and blessed her. Aurelia had loved the Prophet from that moment. He was God’s own prophet and the most important man in Nauvoo, yet he loved little children and liked to be with them.
Aurelia shivered as she remembered the terrible day two years later, when Joseph and his brother Hyrum were killed by a mob in the nearby town of Carthage. Aurelia could scarcely believe that anyone could be so wicked as to kill a kind man like the Prophet.
Aurelia’s Papa had taken her to the Mansion House to see Joseph’s body. A great crowd was there, all crying and crowding to look. Aurelia couldn’t see, so Papa had lifted her up to the window from where she could see Brother Joseph one last time. That had been nearly two years ago.
Things had been hard since Joseph’s death. Nauvoo wasn’t allowed to use its police force, so bad men did what they wanted. They burned farms outside town and caused trouble in Nauvoo. Then some of the Latter-day Saint boys formed the “Whittling and Whistling Brigade.” When one of the bad men came to town, the boys followed him everywhere, whistling and whittling pieces of wood with their pocketknives. There were too many boys for the man to fight, and they wouldn’t let him out of their sight long enough for him to do anything bad, so finally he would leave and look for mischief someplace else. Howard and George couldn’t wait to join the brigade, but they were only six and four then, and Mama wouldn’t let them use her knives to learn to whittle. They practiced whistling, however. Finally, though, even the brave boys couldn’t keep the bad men away.
Aurelia squeezed George’s hand and pointed to show him the temple across the river. Even on this cold, gray day, the tall building seemed to shine on the hill. She remembered when its roof had caught fire one day. She lived only a block away and had run with a bucket of water to help fight the fire. It had been put out, and work on the temple had continued. Just two months ago, Mama and Papa had gone to the temple to be sealed together. Mama said that that was the hardest part of leaving Nauvoo—leaving the temple they’d worked so hard to build. It still wasn’t quite finished. “Heaven only knows when we’ll have a temple again,” Mama had said. “We’ve been blessed to have this one.”
Aurelia looked to the left of the temple to see if their house was visible from here. She couldn’t see it. But she did see Mary Ann Stearn’s house. Mary Ann and her cousin Ellen Pratt were Aurelia’s best friends. They had gone to school together and played together. Aurelia stared at Mary Ann’s house, but she knew that Mary Ann wasn’t there. She, too, was going west with her family. Aurelia wondered if they’d meet again on the way to the Rocky Mountains. Oh, she hoped so! It was hard leaving everything and everyone to travel to a strange land. Why shouldn’t the bad men have to leave instead? It wasn’t fair to be forced to leave friends, homes, gardens, orchards, the temple!
Thinking of Mary Ann made Aurelia remember something else. At the last general conference, in October, Mary Ann’s stepfather, Parley P. Pratt had spoken to the Saints. People had crowded into the temple to listen. Elder Pratt spoke about how hard the Saints had worked to build a beautiful city and temple and how hard it was to leave it all behind. But the Lord had other plans for this people, Elder Pratt had said. He explained that a small nursery could produce many thousands of fruit trees, but that as they grew, they must be transplanted. They need room to grow if they are to produce fruit. He promised that the Lord had a place for the Saints to grow, where they wouldn’t be crowded and where they would enjoy liberty and equal rights.
Aurelia knew that it was true. She thought of those tiny twigs of fruit trees she and Ellen and Papa had planted. She had seen them grow and blossom and produce sweet fruit. It was hard to leave Nauvoo, but it was time to be transplanted to a place where she and her family and all the Saints could grow strong and bloom.
Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.
In February 1846, more than three thousand Latter-day Saints fled nauvoo, crossing the Mississippi River into Iowa. Many left without adequate food and shelter, and suffered terribly from cold and hunger.
One of those Saints was Aurelia Spencer. When her family had traveled only thirty miles, Aurelia’s mother died. The grieving family returned to Nauvoo to bury her before continuing their journey west.
Aurelia’s father, Orson, was called to preside over the Church in Great Britain, so she, her three sisters, and her two brothers spent the next winters in Winter Quarters with only kind neighbors to keep an eye on them. During the first, harsh, winter, their horse and seven of their eight cows died. Most of the money their father sent never reached them, and they suffered great poverty.
They left for the Salt Lake Valley in May 1848 with President Brigham Young’s company. In the Valley, they lived in a log room their uncle built for them, until their father’s return.
In 1851 Aurelia married Thomas Rogers. They settled in Farmington, sixteen miles north of Salt Lake City. There Aurelia gave birth to twelve children, only seven of whom lived to adulthood.
Concerned because Farmington’s boys were often getting into mischief, Aurelia asked Eliza R. Snow, the sister of Lorenzo Snow, if there should not be an organization to help little boys grow into good men. Sister Snow relayed the suggestion to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the governing body of the Church following the death of Brigham Young. John Taylor, the President of the Quorum, gave his approval, and Sister Rogers was called upon to organize and serve as the president of the first Primary in the Church. She wisely decided that girls should also be part of the organization, and the first Primary was held in Farmington Ward on August 25, 1878.

A few months ago, I set out to paint lines at Laie Park for a new sport called Pickleball. Within minutes of laying out the masking tape and pulling out my yellow traffic paint and paint rollers, I had 15 kids under the age of ten saying, “Hey uncle, I like try.” Based on their level of fascination with the painting process, I doubt a single one of them had ever used a paint roller in his life, but due to their eagerness to help and their willingness to learn, I chose to change my focus from painting Pickleball lines to helping children learn. I quickly realized it was more important to validate and encourage the children’s innate desire to serve and to learn than it was to paint perfect Pickleball lines. The kids were great. They very dutifully lined up and one-by-one and took turns dipping the rollers in the paint and rolling out the lines. Kids are naturally born with a love for learning. If you feel you have lost that love for learning, seek to regain it by trying something totally new in a safe, loving environment. If I could express one hope in my new responsibilities in the Center for Learning and Teaching, it would be that each of our classrooms become a safe and loving environment but also an environment that challenges each of us to live up to our potential.

I remember how the shrill scream of a siren gave me goose bumps whenever an ambulance went rushing by. Oh how I wanted to be at the wheel of that machine, rushing to the aid of sick and injured people. As I grew older, my dream became a reality. I took first-aid classes, human science classes, and finally, an emergency medical technician training course.
I was fresh out of high school when I got my first job as an ambulance attendant for a private ambulance, and I progressed rapidly in my knowledge of emergency treatments. I learned many things about life that most people never learn until their 20s. I was also exposed to many trials and temptations that I’d never come across before.
I worked in a non-Mormon atmosphere. It was the type of atmosphere that my church leaders always had warned me about, but at the time, I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about it. My work began conflicting with my church attendance. I started asking myself questions and often wondered about my future. I could see myself progressing into higher fields of medicine, and it seemed that nothing stood in my way. Then, on my 19th birthday, I made my way to California and applied to a hospital paramedic program. I was accepted and could enter in the fall semester. I knew then that was exactly what I wanted to do.
Suddenly it dawned on me. What about a mission. Oh sure, I always told my friends and family that I would go. I even told my employer I was planning on a mission. But all of that seemed unimportant now. All I could see was personal satisfaction, and I didn’t care what kind of spiritual development I’d surely miss. The voice of the prophet still echoed in my mind, “Every young man is to fulfill a mission.” But the thought always came back, “In two years’ time, look how far you could be as a paramedic.”
I didn’t know what to do! I knew deep down in my heart that a mission was the right thing, but I was so terribly blinded by worldly greed. The decision to go or not to go was constantly on my mind. I thought about it from the time I got up until the time I went to bed at night. Because we worked 24-hour shifts, I had lots of time to think.
One night right after I had gone to bed, I was awakened by the ring of the telephone. The highway patrol was calling for an ambulance to respond to a car-truck accident on the freeway, and soon I was at the scene of a two-car accident. A small car had run into the back of a semitrailer loaded with wooden fence posts. The badly mangled car had two occupants—a young couple that had recently been married. The husband, who was driving, had been killed instantly. His wife was critically injured. We worked desperately to save the slowly fading life of that beautiful nineteen-year-old woman. I thought to myself, How could something so terrible happen to this fine couple and totally destroy their future plans and happiness?
We rushed her to the hospital, where a team of highly trained doctors and nurses were waiting. Soon a helicopter arrived to transport her to a hospital in Salt Lake City, where she could receive special treatment for a severe head injury.
After I calmed down from the shock of such a terrible accident, I remembered talking to the highway patrolman who would be responsible for notifying the next of kin. I’ll never forget the solemn look on his face, and the glaze of tears in his eyes as he drove away. I thought to myself, What a horrible assignment! What if they were my parents being notified? Then another thought came to my mind: What will be the look on my face when I give an accounting to the Savior of the time I spent here in mortality?
The night air was chilled with a late frost. As I gazed up into the night, I noticed how clear and calm the sky looked. Tears ran freely down my cheeks, and I found myself pleading with the Lord for that young woman’s life. At that moment, when my heart actually seemed to swell painfully with love and compassion, I finally began to understand. Doctors and nurses and paramedics were wonderful, but they could only treat the body. They couldn’t heal the deeper wounds, the ones that would keep us from going home to our Father. Only one Physician could do that, and I was denying myself the chance to be his helper. I made a decision. I would do all I could to further the work of the Master Healer. I would serve a mission!
The days came and went. Finally, one month later, I learned my prayers had been answered. The young woman was released from the hospital, completely recovered. How I thanked our Eternal Father for that answer. But now came the biggest step of all, my mission.
As I prayed and prepared myself, the Spirit confirmed the fact that I was to serve my Heavenly Father in the mission field. I’ll never forget that calm, sweet feeling that came as the words fell from the lips of our stake patriarch, when he pronounced that blessing upon me. And I’ll never forget that same feeling as I opened the letter from a prophet of God, calling me to serve in the Pennsylvania Harrisburg Mission. Even as I served in Pennsylvania, as a representative of Jesus Christ, I had that special calm feeling, knowing that I had made the right choice.
Before I left for the mission field, I thought there was no feeling in the world like knowing someone was walking again because of your help, but I was wrong. There is no greater feeling in the world than knowing you helped someone in their search for true joy and happiness found in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Together Again on Monday Night
It was Monday again, and the Veras family of the Gazcue Ward, Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Stake, was learning about the importance of listening to the prophet. Eight-year-old Shantalle led the singing. Four-year-old Yeraly helped her mother, Awilda, tell the story of Noah and the ark. Aaliya, two, was content sitting with her father, Nelson, as he bore testimony of President Gordon B. Hinckley.
Brother Veras’s rendition of “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” sent the three girls into peals of laughter. A prayer followed, then treats.
Family home evening had turned the Veras family’s cramped downtown Santo Domingo apartment into a peaceful haven five stories above the busy street. “I love being with my family,” Shantalle says of family night.

In my association with some dear friends, I saw how we can be supported by the Savior’s Atonement through difficult times in our lives as we “hold fast the confidence” in Him. I first met Bishop Mervin and Dorothy Prince of New Harmony, Utah, when I was called as stake president of the Cedar City University 3rd Stake in March of 1999. They were both healthy, energetic members of the Church. Bishop Prince was the bishop of one of the young single adult wards in our stake, and Sister Prince was our stake librarian. I came to know and love them deeply, and I learned some of life’s most important lessons from their example. Their experience gives convincing evidence of how the Savior reaches out to us in our time of trouble. I realize that their story of faith and courage is like many others who have also suffered—some of whom are attending this devotional today. I share the Prince’s story today with their permission.

Being the bishop of a young single adult ward requires a considerable amount of time. In addition to the regular church meetings on Sunday, there are many administrative meetings and activities to attend. But what takes a great deal of time are the hours of interviewing and counseling members. Being a bishop of a young single adult ward is a big job. During many of those hours of service, rarely did I ever see Bishop Prince without Sister Prince. They would drive together from New Harmony to Cedar City, about a 30-minute drive, almost every Sunday. She would serve in the stake library, attend the block of meetings and then wait by her husband’s office door until he was done interviewing so they could go home together. Many times she would do her cross-stitch while she waited and visit with the members. The precious time they spent with those young people was something they both cherished.

Early in the fall of 1999, several weeks had gone by, and I had not seen Sister Prince. So, I asked Bishop Prince one Sunday afternoon where his wife was. He said the reason why I had not seen her was due to a terrible cold, which had turned into pneumonia. Hearing this, I asked if there was anything I could do to help. He said that I should not worry. He reassured me that she was starting to feel a little better. He felt she would be back to her daily routine within the upcoming week. Fortunately, I did see Sister Prince that next Sunday, but I could tell she still wasn’t back to full strength, and I noticed that she had developed a deep cough. In spite of this, she seemed happy and in good spirits. As the weeks went by, I saw less and less of her. In a monthly priesthood interview I had with Bishop Prince, I inquired again about Sister Prince. He said that she still had a bad cough that just would not go away. He said that she had made another appointment to see her doctor.

Several weeks after that interview, I received a telephone call one evening at home. It was Bishop Prince. He said, “I’m calling to tell you that Dorothy visited the doctor to see if he could help her with the cough she had. He ordered an x-ray of her lungs. When he examined the x-ray, he noticed some spots there and referred her to another doctor. More tests were done. She was then referred to a cancer specialist and he has discovered that Dorothy is full of cancer. She has been told that she only has four to six months to live. She is wondering if you would give her a blessing.”

The blessing was given but with no promise of healing. Then came the brutal treatments of chemotherapy with one gloomy prognosis after another and little help to stop the spread of the cancer or the pain. Through it all, I witnessed from them complete submission to the Lord without complaint or blame. In every conversation I had with them during this difficult time they lovingly expressed their deep gratitude and faith in Heavenly Father and for the atonement of Jesus Christ. They “held fast to the confidence and rejoiced in the hope” of the power of the Atonement “firm unto the end.” They did not let go of the Lord, and He did not let go of them. The Lord had promised them that “even to your old age I am he; and even to [gray] hairs will I carry you: I have made, and I will bear; even I will carry, and I will deliver you.”[18] He supported them and filled them with hope, lightened their load, and calmed their troubled hearts. With that support, on a beautiful spring day surrounded by her loved ones, Sister Dorothy Prince quietly and peacefully was delivered from her pain and suffering and passed from mortality to the world of spirits. Bishop Prince confidently and patiently now waits for the day when they will be united together again forever.

When I was a young man, a mere boy of 11, I received a patriarchal blessing from a man I had never seen before and never saw thereafter. It is a remarkable document, a prophetic document. It is personal, and I will not read extensively from it. However, it contains this statement: “The nations of the earth shall hear thy voice and be brought to a knowledge of the truth by the wonderful testimony which thou shalt bear.”

When I was released from my mission in England, I took a short trip on the continent. I had borne my testimony in London; I did so in Berlin and again in Paris and later in Washington, D.C. I said to myself that I had borne my testimony in these great capitals of the world and had fulfilled that part of my blessing.

That proved to be a mere scratching of the surface. Since then I have lifted my voice on every continent, in cities large and small, all up and down from north to south and east to west across this broad world—from Cape Town to Stockholm, from Moscow to Tokyo to Montreal, in every great capital of the world. It is all a miracle.