Gospel Story Finder

Before the performance, the idea of trying to fill the civic arts center’s 1,800 seats was a major worry. There had to be a small charge to cover the rental of the building and the technical crew that worked for the civic center. However, the ticket price was much less than the price of a movie ticket, and for many members of the community, particularly those on fixed incomes, it was the first chance they had to attend a great production at the new civic arts plaza. The low ticket price also made it possible for whole families to attend a show together. And that’s who came—by the hundreds.
The night of the first performance was a sellout. There were lots of backstage nerves, but lots of excitement too. “I’ll never forget waiting in line backstage,” said Jenny Orme, Thousand Oaks Fourth Ward, “getting ready to go on stage and having that feeling of delight. All during practices, the performance seemed so far away, but now it was here and everyone was ready to show the audience what we could do and what we had worked so hard for.”
The show was such a success that people clamored for another performance. However, the encore performance did not go so smoothly.
Just hours before the second performance was to go on, the power failed. Nothing is darker than the inside of a theater with no power. The cast gathered for prayer. Together they asked for a miracle.
Still no lights.
The cast, already in costume, gathered on the stage. The mood was glum. Then Tina Johnson walked over to her friend Danielle Smith and asked her if she wanted to sing “How Great Thou Art” with her. The two girls’ voices filled the dark and others joined in. As soon as they finished that hymn, another was started. A great feeling of warmth and comfort and peace came over the cast.
Still no lights. That night the show had to be canceled.
“It was a very spiritual experience,” said Kit Regas. “Even though we didn’t get to do the show, I think everyone gained from that.”
Brother Brimhall explained to the disappointed cast members that many times in the Church’s history people have prepared and worked on something good only to be forced to leave it behind and never enjoy the fruits of their labors. He explained that being engaged in a good cause is always beneficial. It was a hard lesson for some of the young people, but only when the disappointment had faded did they come to appreciate just how wonderful it felt to be praying and singing together on a dark stage.
The second and final performance of Showtime was rescheduled. This time the lights stayed on, stage fright was nearly gone, and the word had spread that this was a very good show. No one worried about empty seats anymore.
The cast had become more than friends; they were more like one big family. The natural barriers between the ages broke down. The teens became good friends with the adults. The adults had a new appreciation for the youth. Tina Johnson said, “I’ll be with my friends at the grocery store, and I’ll see someone from Showtime. We just start talking. My friends always ask, ‘How come you are friends with so many grownups?’”
“Showtime was a really great experience,” said Jessica Seemann, Moorpark First Ward. “I made a lot of new friends, and I became closer to my old friends. My family brought seven nonmembers to the show. They loved it. I am so glad I decided to be in Showtime.”
Why spend all the time and effort to put together such a big show? Emily Benton, 17, of the Moorpark First Ward, knows. “I loved it! I met so many new friends. I love doing things like that and spending time with good LDS people. It was a great missionary experience.”
Now back to Marshall. Did he ever learn to sing and dance? His choreographer, Kathi Orme, says, “His part was not easy. He worked very hard, and he got it.”
But Marshall is harder on himself. “I wish I could say that I’m a better singer and dancer now, but I am still terrible at both.” But there he was, up on stage, trying to smile and concentrate on his feet at the same time. He did great.

Sister Chen is now battling a new disease and the aftereffects of a minor heart attack. Twenty years after first asking God why He had left her, she found herself asking the same question—and receiving the same answer. “Haven’t I already told you?” she felt Him say. “You still have temple work to do.”
So Sister Chen continues to spend one week per month at the temple.
“These are things we have to do for our ancestors that they cannot do for themselves,” she says. “With my situation, I don’t have the time commitments that others have with work and such. I need to work hard now while I can.”

Frequently the profound influence one life has on the lives of others is never spoken and occasionally little known. Such was the experience of a teacher of girls, even 12-year-olds in the Beehive class of Mutual. She had no children of her own, though she and her husband dearly longed for children. Her love was expressed through the devotion to her special girls as she taught them eternal truths and lessons of life. Then came illness, followed by death. She was but 27.
Each year on Memorial Day, her girls made a pilgrimage of prayer to the graveside of their teacher. First there were seven, then four, then two, and eventually just one, who continued the annual visit, always placing on the grave a bouquet of irises—a symbol of heartfelt gratitude. That last girl later became a teacher of girls. Little wonder she is so successful. She mirrors the reflection of the teacher from whom came her inspiration. The life that teacher lived, the lessons that teacher taught, are not buried beneath the headstone which marks her grave but live on in the personalities she helped to shape and the lives she so selflessly enriched. One is reminded of another master teacher, even the Lord. Once, with His finger, He wrote in the sand a message. The winds of time erased forever the words He wrote but not the life He lived.

Our son Dan got very sick on his mission in Africa and was taken to a medical facility with limited resources. As we read his first letter to us after his illness, we expected that he would be discouraged, but instead he wrote, “Even as I lay in the emergency room, I felt peace. I have never been so consistently and resiliently happy in my life.”
As my wife and I read these words, we were overcome with emotion. Consistently and resiliently happy. We had never heard happiness described that way, but his words rang true. We knew that the happiness he described was not simply pleasure or an elevated mood but a peace and joy that come when we surrender ourselves to God and put our trust in Him in all things.1 We too had had those times in our lives when God spoke peace to our souls and caused us to have hope in Christ even when life was hard and uncertain.2

President Benson’s own expressions indicate this love for temples. He reflected:
“I remember so well, as a little boy, coming in from the field and approaching the old farm house. … I could hear my mother singing, ‘Have I Done Any Good in the World Today?’ … I can still see her in my mind’s eye bending over the ironing board … with beads of perspiration on her forehead.” She was ironing long strips of white cloth, with newspapers on the floor to keep them clean. “When I asked her what she was doing, she said, ‘These are temple robes, my son. Your father and I are going to the temple at Logan.’
“Then she put the old flatiron on the stove, drew a chair close to mine, and told me about temple work—how important it is to be able to go to the temple and participate in the sacred ordinances performed there. She also expressed her fervent hope that some day her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren would have the opportunity to enjoy those priceless blessings.” He continued, “I am happy to say that her fondest hopes in large measure have been realized.”

But first let me say that I hope you will take notice of any impressions that will surely come to you if you are listening with the Spirit as we talk about these things. In fact, I will tell you a quick story before we go on. When my nephew McKay was just a little boy, he had been playing with toys and had made a big mess. My brother asked McKay to clean up, but each time he went to check on McKay, he found him doing a lot of playing—but no cleaning. Dad was beginning to get exasperated, and McKay could tell.

Finally, my brother asked McKay to stop and ask himself the question What should I do?
McKay thought for a minute and said, “Dad, listen. It is the Holy Ghost, and the Holy Ghost is saying, ‘McKay, do nothing.’”

I have a testimony that when it comes to asking with real intent what we need to do to improve our discipleship and to use our time and talents in a way that our Father in Heaven wants, the Holy Ghost will always tell us to do something! So listen and resolve to do something.

Atami, Japan, is an attractive city located on the east coast of Honshu, about 100 kilometers south of Tokyo. It is a famous vacation resort with comfortable hot springs, splendid sunsets, and high cliffs overlooking the sea.
The main attraction of the cliffs of Atami is the beautiful view, but they also attract people for a different reason: from their edge, many have plunged to their death.
On a May evening in 1987, I was driving toward Atami. I couldn’t stop crying, and I didn’t want to see the sunset. As I drove, the memories of the past few years ached inside me.
I had worked hard while I was serving in the Japan Sapporo Mission, on the northernmost island of Japan, with its cold, snowy winters. I felt that the Lord accepted my service, but I did not anticipate what awaited me when I returned home. I didn’t understand why, after all the hard work, there didn’t seem to be any rewards.
Specifically, I felt unfulfilled in my search for an eternal companion. I had found few opportunities to date, while others seemed to be finding eternal happiness easily. Any relationship that I thought might be lasting ended. Though my family was worried about my depressed state, I received strength from my Heavenly Father, which helped me through this difficult time.
Then questions began to arise. Why did I have to suffer so much? Did Heavenly Father still love me? As a returned missionary, I could not deny that the Lord lived or that his Church was true, but I began to question his love for me. Then, one night, thinking that I would never have the opportunity to get married, I lost all hope, and Satan took control. I decided to take my own life rather than face any more heart-breaking experiences. I wrote a farewell note to my parents and began driving to Atami.
Then, two miracles happened. First, as I got closer to the coastline, prepared to drive my car off the cliffs into the ocean, I noticed that a wall had been built to prevent cars from going over the edge. Second, the Lord cleared my mind long enough so that I could stop the car and think about my actions. I realized I could never take my life.
Sobered and much calmer, I drove home to find my bishop at home with my parents. They are not members of the Church, but they knew they could trust Bishop Kashikura. He gave me a blessing, and it seemed the nightmare was finally over.
But a week later, I again had second thoughts about my purpose in life. I didn’t know what to do. On that same day, I received a letter.
The letter was mailed from the United States, which was no unusual because I have friends there. But this letter was different—there was no return name or address. All I knew was that it was mailed from Flushing, New York, the day after I had driven to Atami to try to end my life. However, I did not know anyone from Flushing, New York.
When I opened the letter I found, “To You!” written at the top. Enclosed was a copy of the song “Going Home,” written in both Japanese and English. As I read the words, tears filled my eyes. The words told me that when I found myself alone, my memories could keep me strong. With those memories, I could never forget there is a place where I still belong, a place I can always turn to for comfort: “Home.”
I cried and cried and finally felt assured that Heavenly Father does watch over me. He loves me! Until I had this experience, I thought heaven was very far away, but the song helped me understand that God is very near. When we are faithful, we are already in our heavenly home here on earth.
That was the first and last time I ever heard from Flushing, New York. Perhaps I will never know who sent me those words. The experience reminded me of something President Spencer W. Kimball said, “God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs” (Ensign, October 1985, page 3). I am eternally grateful for the person who had ears to hear and acted upon the prompting from the still, small voice from heaven.
I will never forget this experience, and, no matter how great the trials I shall have, I will never forget the place where I want to be—home, my heavenly home.

The Prophet led the way in physical and moral courage. For example, the morning after he was attacked and tarred and feathered by the mob, he was scraped clean and then preached to a congregation that included his enemies. Not so well known is a similar episode in returning from a Canadian mission in the latter part of 1837. At the time, a friend of the family wrote of the Prophet and his companion Sidney Rigdon making their way back to Kirtland, Ohio, through the swamps at night. They had been unjustly arrested, but they escaped at night, and a mob of men was trying to track them down. Joseph took his older counselor by the hand, and they “covenanted to live and die together.” When the mob came their way, Joseph and Sidney hid on wet ground, hardly breathing for the fear of discovery. The mud-soaked men reached home about 3:00 A.M., sick with fatigue, but after a short sleep Joseph appeared in the temple to speak “in a very powerful manner and blessed the congregation in the name of the Lord.”

“It’s important to remember we just didn’t start out cold,” David Sackett said. “Sixty-five miles is a lot of bicycling for one day. We worked for months getting in shape.” The training program required each Explorer to cycle 300 to 325 miles a month for the three months prior to the trip. Each participant had to ride at least four days a week. In addition, once each month the trainees pumped the pedals through a 75-mile practice run.
Squeezing in training around a summer job might seem like a burden, but Steve Fowler managed it well. “Kevin Jolley (the post president) and I would get up early, around 6:00 A.M., and go out on his paper route. When the route was done, we’d just keep on going. I had a late night job, so I could go home and rest before work. When it got hard practicing so much, I’d think that if I didn’t push myself, I’d run out of energy during the trip, or maybe I wouldn’t get to go. That made me work harder.”
Training sessions on bike maintenance (including instructions about which parts to carry in a seat or handlebar pack), safety and first aid (a first-aid kit was attached to each bike), and physical care during periods of strenuous exercise were also conducted throughout the summer. A local bicycle shop provided training and parts. The owner kept his shop open late for classes and worked with each boy individually. He wasn’t LDS, but he seemed eager to talk with the group members about their Church-related activities.
Andy Carlstrom described the orange T-shirts the group bought with funds raised for the trip: “We had them silk-screened with the name of our ward, post, and a map of our route on them. The color made us more visible to traffic and worked as a safety factor in our favor, and the shirts also identified the post as a group,” he said.
Nine post members made the trip, along with Herbert C. “Chuck” Carlstrom, post advisor, and Chet Harmer, a post committee man. They were joined at the third stop by the Young Men’s president, Dale Van Horn, and his wife, Beryl. In the “Sag Wagon,” as the supply van was nicknamed, rode Hank and Olga Machado and their two children, Mike and Andrea. Hank is another member of the post committee. Scott Mortensen, a recently returned missionary, accompanied them. Janine Van Horn joined the group in another truck along the route.
Brother Carlstrom, in his daily journal, narrates the contentment he reveled in one evening: “We made camp. Some of us wanted to sleep on the beach, but after a while we were forced to higher ground by the unusually high tide. … The day’s end caught most of us watching the beauty of the coast as wild fowl flew … before us. As the sun sank … , it filled the sky with all shades of reds and oranges, with slight traces of pink. … It was replaced by the moon, almost full, as it came over the mountains in back of us, painting the ocean’s surface with flickering light. It was soon joined by other heavenly bodies and God’s handiwork was displayed before us. We had just received our compensation for an afternoon of hard, uphill riding, and we all were thankful.”
Danny shared similar sentiments. “Being able to see nature and many of the things the Lord has created on the earth strengthened my testimony of the plan of salvation and the creation of the world. I never realized how much there was to see.” Bob Nelson said he felt the most impressive part of the trip was following the road along Pismo Beach. On the left mountains jutted up into the sky. On the right hundreds of feet below, ocean waves hurled themselves into the rocky shoreline, jetting streams of water high in the air. At the tops of hills, the view continued for 15 or 20 miles.
The trip’s itinerary, along with the distance covered each day, included: Monterey (70 miles), Kirk Creek south of Big Sur (65 miles), San Simeon State Beach (40 miles), Pismo Beach (51 miles), Gaviota State Beach (65 miles), McGrath State Beach (65 miles), Santa Monica (55 miles), and Anaheim (46 miles). The route from San Jose to Anaheim was part of a 1,000-mile Bicentennial bikeway that stretches from Oregon to Mexico. Many of the stops retraced—only backwards—the route taken by the founders of San Francisco, led by Juan Bautista de Anza from Mexico.
The journey offered glimpses into the past, reflecting the colonizing efforts of Spanish, Russian, and Mexican explorers. Forts, lighthouses, missions, and old mining and lumbering areas were passed on the road. The route also showcased the modern agricultural bustle of northern California.
The cyclists divided themselves into sub-groups of two or three. “It was the buddy system used all the time in Scouting,” Andy explained. “Each person is responsible for the others with him. That way no one gets lost or left alone.” Kevin noted that those who were fast or slow were paired together.
Brother Harmer said he felt the Lord had protected the group. “It’s interesting that we went about 6,500 man-miles with only one slight tumble as an accident,” he noted. Others chimed in their agreement, noting that all the flat tires occurred on level ground instead of on steep downhill grades, and most of them at the end of the day, just as the group pulled into camp.
Still, there were a few difficult moments along the way. One morning during the first part of the trip, the cyclists were enshrouded in a damp fog. They had to stop and dig deep in their gear to find jackets. One night they reached the scheduled campground and found it closed. A friendly ranger let them camp a mile away on the beach at a picnic ground.
Later, anticipating an easy trip on flat land, the riders were buffeted by strong headwinds, which slowed their progress almost as much as an uphill grade. Another time they battled two large hills, one 15 miles long and rising 1,500 feet, in temperatures that exceeded 100 degrees F. at 10:00 A.M. What was worse, the road veered inland, away from the cooling effect of the coastal waters.
“We learned to appreciate the ocean more after that,” Mike Powell said. “When we got back to the beach that night, just about everyone went swimming to cool off.”
The rough spots were worth enduring, though. “There’s not one person who went on the trip, including the leaders, with whom I don’t have something in common now,” Danny said.
The final Saturday, having put the bikes on the train the day before, the weary travelers boarded to return home. There was plenty of room to stretch out and relax, and soon they were snoozers, not bikers.
Somehow, though, when the train finally halted in San Jose and they had to remount their cycles for another seven-mile jaunt to the chapel, they seemed almost eager to be riding once again. Soon they would be home recuperating, sharing a slice of their saga with their families.

“Grrrr,” I scowled as I stormed into the house a few weeks later.
“What’s your problem?” Jason yelled from the kitchen.
“Annemarie,” I growled back, flopping onto the couch. My brother quickly slurped down his orange juice and then sat next to me, all too eager for me to beg his advice. His mission enthusiasm had not worn off in the two months he had been home, and I wondered if he considered himself my part-time psychiatrist.
“How can I help?”
“Baptize my friend,” I pouted.
“Oh … what has Annemarie done?”
The day after we first talked on the football field, I gave Annemarie a Book of Mormon, which she still hadn’t admitted to cracking open. And that very day, she had reluctantly agreed to attend early-morning seminary. It was nothing short of disaster. Annemarie challenged nearly every point covered in the lesson until, finally, unsatisfied with my teacher’s diplomatic answers, she recoiled into a shell of silent disapproval and doubt. At the end of class, she thanked me for inviting her, but politely let me know she wouldn’t be back.
After sharing the incident with my brother, I wailed, “What else can I do? I’m so frustrated! I thought as long as I did all the right things—you know, like not going to drinking parties, keeping the Sabbath day holy, bearing my testimony—as long as I was a good example for her, then she would eventually want to understand the Church. Annemarie still doesn’t care.”
“Do you care about her?” Jason returned.
“What kind of question is that?” I snapped. “She’s my best friend.”
“From Annemarie’s perspective, she may think you only care about your own church and getting another convert. The Savior loved completely. Exemplify that love in the way you treat her, no matter how she apparently feels about your church.”
“She knows I love her,” I argued. “We’ve been friends since ninth grade. And she thanks me all the time for being one of the few friends she can actually count on. I only thought it was time to start encouraging her to investigate the Church since she hasn’t exactly taken the initiative herself.”
“Okay, I have another question. Do you love Jesus Christ?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Why?”
“Really think about it,” he said quietly. “Do you love Jesus Christ? Do you love our Heavenly Father? Are you obedient to the commandments because you love them or because you are more concerned with Annemarie watching you?”
I was surprised. Meekly I questioned, “Isn’t one way of showing love for Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ by sharing the gospel with others?”
“Yes,” Jason agreed. “But sometimes a testimony shines through your actions because Christ has changed your heart to one of charity. It’s charity and service that touch people. Remember Ammon? His first concern was to be the king’s servant before he shared what he knew.”
I thought about that for several moments. “Are you suggesting I concentrate only on myself? Work on becoming more charitable?”
“I’m not telling you to give up,” he smiled. “But you have no control over what Annemarie decides. Maybe if you concentrate on coming unto the Savior with all of your heart, being truly meek and penitent before Him, others will follow. If not, you will have gained the charity to feel love and acceptance for Annemarie and patience about her decisions.”
I knitted my brow in thought, stewing over all he had suggested.
“One more thing,” he added before hopping off the couch. “Don’t forget that Annemarie has already chosen the plan. That’s why she’s here. Her Father in Heaven knows how she can best be touched. In the meantime …”
“In the meantime, what?”
“I’ll be eating leftover pizza. I’m starving.” He disappeared back into the kitchen.
I began serving Annemarie by praying for her nightly. I introduced her to my circle of LDS friends, where she was warmly welcomed. We shared the gospel with Annemarie when she seemed most receptive, but I couldn’t help wondering if our friendship would bring about anything more than memories to cherish. During the remaining year and a half of high school, Annemarie did not show any more interest in the Church. On the other hand, my testimony grew in ways I never could have imagined. I had always known the Church was true, but now I loved it with all of my heart. Annemarie helped me more than she ever knew.

The Holy Ghost guided me again when I was confused about what was really true. I spent my early years attending a Catholic school. When I learned the teachings of a different religion at school, I sometimes felt confused. I think maybe I felt a little like Joseph Smith did when he didn’t know which church was right. But as I got older, the more I read the scriptures, the more I was guided to the true light of the gospel. The teachings of the Church had logic and harmony, and the Holy Ghost confirmed to me that they were true.

Temple work featured in the “perfect day” for Ben and Carol. When Ben retired a couple of years ago, he and Carol accepted callings as temple workers. “The bishop’s assigned ‘perfect day’ happened to be one of the two days in the week that we serve in the temple.
“I serve as a supervisor at the temple, and I was really touched when, in a prayer meeting, the brother offering the prayer asked that the Lord watch over me, as supervisor, and bless me with a special day. He didn’t know about our ‘perfect day’ assignment, but his prayer was very meaningful to me.
“What a special place to be for a ‘perfect day.’ We were there in the Lord’s house, doing the Lord’s work, side by side with wonderful brothers and sisters, helping others on the road to the celestial kingdom.”

At the end of 2020, a conversation with a longstanding sister of the Hyde Ward, Manchester Stake, brought a local women’s refuge to the attention of the ward’s Relief Society. The conversation highlighted the need for support of women fleeing domestic violence, particularly during times of the COVID-19 pandemic.
This sister had once accessed the refuge as a place of safety, and a place she could receive the best advice for moving forward, following a crisis in her marriage.
The Hyde Ward Relief Society made the decision to focus its service for 2021 on this often-hidden cause, and local women’s refuge, Ruffley House, were excited to receive the support.
In discussion with the refuge’s manager, it was jointly decided the support could be offered in the following ways:
Collecting new and used bedding sets
Collecting new and used towels
Making tote toiletry bags for women on their arrival at the refuge
Making drawstring toiletry bags for children
Collecting toiletry and personal care items, over the course of the year, to fill the bags.
Unfortunately, these efforts coincided with the national COVID-19 lockdown, but individuals and wards continued to set aside their donations in preparation for two collection days in March 2021.
In the meantime, monetary donations were made by individuals from the ward and stake, amounting to £1,000, which enabled the purchase of three Samsung tablets (for use by women and staff to make housing and benefit applications) and a garden shed.
The final donations of bedding and towels were astounding. Three large carloads were delivered and received by the staff of Ruffley House. They were thrilled to be able to replenish their own stocks of these precious items and share them with outreach teams supporting struggling families in the local area.
The toiletry-bag section of the project continued throughout 2021 in the Hyde Ward, the sewing team making 123 beautifully crafted bags and members collecting a selection of items each month for a final bag-packing night in January 2022.
The Relief Society president, Ruth Holt, commented: “We have, and continue to enjoy, the opportunity to serve; it has given us an opportunity to think of others when it would otherwise be easy to dwell on our own difficulties.”
The manager of Ruffley House was effusive in her thanks: “I would like to say a huge thank you to yourself and all the amazing people who have put all their love and time into making up all the donations of the bedding, towels, and toiletries throughout the year, the many drop-offs you did and the money raised to buy the wish-list items that we asked for. It is people like yourselves who recognise that others need support; the difference this makes for individuals is always visible for us to see.”
For 2022, Hyde’s Relief Society have moved on to its next project, working with a local charity called Cascade that provides support for children and families in need of the basics of life.

I was the youngest child, and my mother decided that she and I would walk across a mountain range separating the two countries. I remember that she packed a lunch as if we were going for a hike or a picnic in the mountains.
We took a train as far as we could and then walked for long hours, getting ever closer to the West German border. The borders were tightly controlled, but we had a map and knew of a time and a place where it might be safe to cross. I could sense my mother’s anxiety. She observed the area intensely to see if we were being followed. With each step, her legs and knees seemed to become weaker. I helped carry her heavy bag filled with food, vital documents, and family photos as we climbed up one last, long hill. Surely, she thought, we had passed the border by now. When she finally felt safe, we sat down and started to eat our picnic lunch. For the first time that day, I’m sure, she breathed more easily.
It was only then that we noticed the border sign. It was still far ahead of us! We were having our picnic on the wrong side of the border. We were still in East Germany!
Border guards could show up any moment!
My mother frantically packed up our lunch, and we hurried up the hillside as quickly as we could. This time we didn’t dare stop until we knew with certainty that we had reached the other side of the border.
Even though each member of our family had taken very different routes and experienced very different hardships along the way, eventually all of us made it to safety. We were finally reunited as a family. What a glorious day that was!

I was nearing my seventh birthday when we went to Grandma’s house. I ran into the house yelling, “Grandma, we’re here!”
“Aren’t you excited?” she asked. “This is your present.” She was sitting at a table with a nearly finished porcelain doll that she had made to look like me! It had brown hair and blue eyes like me. It was in a white dress. She explained that the white dress was to help me prepare for my baptism in a year. The doll was holding a bouquet of flowers, which she explained were the colors of the Young Women values.
The white dress was for faith, the blue flowers for divine nature, the red flowers for individual worth, the green leaves for knowledge, the orange flowers for choice and accountability, the yellow flowers for good works, and the purple flowers for integrity. She said that she is going to give me a new doll each year representing these value colors to help me prepare for Young Women.
I wore a dress very much like the doll’s to my baptism!Krystel A., age 8, Utah

I would like to tell you the "rest of the story" about my mother, as there are several important lessons we can learn from her story, particularly you sisters. I'm sure my mother was looking for her prince charming when she was about your age. And she found him. He happened to be the young single minister in her church-a "man of the cloth." He was her prince charming! After their marriage he worked in his honorable profession, moving from place to place, providing the basic needs of the family even though times were tough in the depression years of the thirties. He was her true love, her provider, the father of her children, her friend; and they had a great relationship. And then he died at a relative young age, leaving her alone. We were living in Southern California at this time. So what does a mother do in these circumstances with a family to rear? It was her righteous desire to continue on as the nurturer in the home. She had no desire or plans to do anything else. But now things had changed drastically in her life. It fell on her to not only be the mother but to also be the bread earner.

To soften the blow of the possible loss of her husband, mom had invested in a "wonderful" insurance policy to protect her against such tragedies. However, it was not one that gave her enough money to raise her children. In fact, she barely got any money at all from the insurance policy and only a few dollars from the Veteran's Administration to help bury her husband as he had served in the military in World War I. Fortunately in her youth, between the time she completed her high school and when she got married, she had made some good choices. She had attended the University of North Carolina, Greensboro, at the time a women's college, and had completed her baccalaureate degree in education. Young sisters, pay attention to this next statement. Her degree was her insurance policy. As difficult as it was, she was able to go to work as a teacher, thus providing the basic needs of her small family as well as be the Mother. Again, young sisters, keep this in mind as you wonder if you should complete your education. You may be thinking that you want to always be in the home being a mom, however, you never know what may happen that would require you to do what my mother had to do. With her teaching skills she was also well trained to help her children in their homework-another great blessing to our family coming from her preparation.

Two years went by after dad's death, and Mom was adjusting somewhat to a routine of being the provider and the mother. My twin brother, Dick, and I, who are the youngest in the family, were 6 years old and in the first grade. She was teaching in an elementary school a couple of miles from our home. Attending that same school were four of her children who were still living at home. Then came another tragic trial in her life.

One day as school let out and we were boarding the bus, someone approach our bus and told us to get out of the bus as one of Mom's teacher friends, a wonderful Quaker lady, was going to drive us home quickly as there was an emergency. A neighbor had called the school to inform Mom that our home was in flames. My two brothers and I rode home in the rumble seat of the old Model A. As we approached our property, we could see no evidence of the home we had left that morning but could only see smoke rising into the sky where the home once had stood leaving only a pile of ashes. That image of the pile of ashes is indelibly etched in my memory to this day. Everything was gone. Nothing but ashes!

I can only guess the questions Mom had running through her mind. What was this mother to do who was still suffering from the loss of her husband? Where were the children going to eat their next meal, which usually was within an hour or two once they got home from school? Where were they going to sleep that night and the many other nights in the future? What about clothes as all they had was what they were wearing? I'm sure she had these and more questions come to her mind. Had the God whom she had worshiped all her life deserted her? Had he not known that she was widowed when she needed her husband the most? Why had He allowed that to happen? And now this. What should she do? She must have felt some of the same pain on a smaller scale that the Prophet Joseph felt when he was in the Liberty jail and prayed, "O God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place? How long shall thy hand be stayed . . ?" She was to learn in times to come the blessings of the promises of the Lord to the Prophet Joseph in answer to his prayer when he said, "My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment; And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes."[2]

As painful as those moments must have been for her watching the dying embers of ashes of the remains of her home and the uncertainty of the weeks and months of hardship that would follow; unbeknownst to her, there was looming a new dawn of hope because of this tragic experience that she was not aware of and wouldn't be aware of for years to come. Let me explain what I mean about this new dawn of hope. We were about to be introduced to some members of the Church who would have a great impact on the direction of our lives.

My older sister Jane had graduated from high school and worked in town in Blythe, California, at the time of our home burning down. While in high school, she would catch a school bus every morning to travel several miles to her high school. She was a shy girl and was befriended by another young girl, about her age, who also rode the bus each day. They would sit together on the bus and really became close friends. This friend was a member of the Church. Through this friendship and other members of the Church who also became her friends, she was taught the gospel and was baptized and was a member at the time we lost our home.

As Mom pondered what to do, she knew she had to make a quick decision, as the only transportation available to someplace for shelter that night was this teacher friend. Because the LDS family had been very friendly to us since Jane had joined the Church, she decided to go to their home for help. We drove the two miles it took to get to their home, and Mom went to the door and told them of the dilemma we were in. They opened their door and their hearts to us. They were angels sent from God that day to help us who were practically strangers to them. They remind me of the scripture found in Matthew: "Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: For I was an hungred, and you gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye come unto me. Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee?. . .or naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and come unto thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."[3] Never have I known a better example of this scripture than this family.

We stayed with this family, the Art Lee family, for about a week and then were able to obtain two large army tents and cots used by migrant farm workers during the harvest time, which we sat up next to the pile of ashes. We started cleaning up the mess that was the remains of the home. Not being satisfied that they had done enough, the Lee family engaged the small LDS branch to come out to help us build another home. Such love and kindness to non-members was hard for us to believe. (Parenthetically, I might mention that, that small humble home, which was built more that 50 years ago, is still being used as my wife and I visited it a year ago when we went to visit my father's grave in Southern California.) Once we got into our new home, the Lees probably thought they had set the stage sufficiently to send the missionaries over, and they did. We were kind to the missionaries and listened but were not very interested. So later the Lees sent them again with the same results. But they never gave up on us and eventually, after wearing out several sets of missionaries, including stake missionaries, we finally became converted and all but one brother, who had left home prior to our becoming acquainted with the Church, were baptized. Dick and I were just turning 13 years old at that time. All six children to this day are active members. Mom passed away some 37 years ago, a very faithful saint. Brothers and sisters, let that be a lesson to you. Never give up in your missionary efforts. I am so grateful that the Lee family and my sister didn't give up on us. Furthermore, if you think you may have been a failure on your missions because you have baptized only one soul while serving your mission, don't be discouraged. The conversion of one shy girl has resulted in more than two hundred members of the Church, dozens of missionaries, many church leaders, and many more to come in the generations in the future.

Other happy memories for Jared and his mom took place in April and October 1990 when the family attended general conference in Salt Lake City. Only one family member could sit in the special section of the Tabernacle with Sister Anderson, and Jared was chosen. Sister Anderson sat in her wheelchair near the railing, and Jared was assigned a place on the front row. He attended her every need, including wrapping her legs and shoulders in shawls for warmth and quietly massaging her feet when they went into spasms.
In the last session of conference in October, Sister Anderson began having a seizure. Jared saw her distress and immediately put her medicine in her mouth, averting a problem. One of the hosts in the Tabernacle said, “I’ve played a lot of football in my day, but I’ve never seen a bigger man than you were in the way you showed compassion to your mother today.”

Recently, you may have read about Sister Ella Hoskins, who at 100 years old was called to help the young women in her ward with Personal Progress. About two years later, at 102, Sister Hoskins earned her Young Womanhood Recognition award. The young women, the ward and stake Young Women and Relief Society presidencies, and family members gathered together to celebrate her accomplishment. Boundaries of age, organization, and marital status faded away in faithful service. Young women expressed gratitude for Sister Hoskins, for her teaching, and for her righteous example. They want to be like her. Afterward, I asked Sister Hoskins, “How did you do it?”
She promptly responded, “I repent every day.”
From a gentle lady, so full of the Spirit of the Lord that she glowed with pure light, I was reminded that to shine with the beauty of holiness, to stand with the Savior, and to bless others, we must be clean. Purity is possible through the grace of Christ as we deny ungodliness and choose to love God with might, mind, and strength. The Apostle Paul taught, “Flee … youthful lusts: … follow righteousness, faith, charity, peace, with them that call on the Lord out of a pure heart.” None of us is perfect. We have all made mistakes. But we repent so that we may be better and “retain the name [of Christ] written always in [our] hearts.” When we serve in the name of the Lord, with purity of heart, we reflect the Savior’s love and give others a glimpse of heaven.

Elder Bangerter of the Seventy spoke about how small and simple things can make a big difference in our lives. His family goes camping each year. They hold a devotional and ask their children and grandchildren to share a message about Jesus Christ. This year, the grandchildren wrote the topics of their messages on stones. Then they buried the stones. This reminded them that following Christ creates a foundation for a happy life.

Hilda knelt down and carefully lifted the cloth-wrapped roots from the shallow pool of water beside Elk Horn Creek. Holding them in both hands, she hurried to the top of the hill where she could see the covered wagons stretching in a long line. Hilda knew that everyone was ready to leave, so she hurried to her own wagon. She reached the wagon just in time to carefully lay the roots beside a barrel before the company captain shouted, “Let’s roll!”
“Walk by me, Hilda,” her father invited. He used a big stick to goad the oxen, and slowly, their great heads swaying, the animals moved forward. Hilda looked up at her mother, who rode in the wagon with their new baby.
Until the baby was born, Hilda had not thought about the wrapped roots. But when her father took her into the wagon to see her little brother, Hilda’s mother said, “Now you must learn to do special things to help, Hilda.”
“Your grandmother grew beautiful yellow roses in Vermont,” Mother continued, “and when she moved to Nauvoo, she took roots from her favorite rose with her. There she planted the roots and they grew. When we left Nauvoo, I took roots from Grandmother’s yellow rose. Now that we are going west, the rose must go too.”
Mother explained how Hilda must keep the heavy cloth around the roots damp. “We hope,” she said, her voice sad, “that roses will grow in our new home. The roots must not dry out, Hilda. Keeping them damp will be your responsibility.”
Each day as the long hot hours passed, Hilda worried that the rose roots might become dry. Every night after the wagons circled, she looked for a stream of water where the roots could be soaked in a quiet pool.
Hilda learned many things about the streams and rivers they passed by or camped near as the wagons rolled westward day after day.
“This is the Platte River,” her father said as they came to a broad shallow stream that flowed to the east. “Our people travel along the north bank of the Platte, while folks going to California or Oregon travel along the south.”
As Hilda put her rose roots into the water, she gazed across the wide river. Wagons were circled on the other side too, and she wondered whether children there carried roses or other plants they hoped would grow in a far-away place.
Several days later they camped on the steep banks of the river near Fort Laramie.
Hilda was frightened of this wild country, so she soaked the roots very quickly in the Laramie River and hurried back to camp.
When the wagon train crossed the North Platte River, Father’s wagon almost tipped over in the deep fast current. “We nearly got your roots too damp that time, Hilda,” he laughed, but his voice was shaky.
On the banks of the Sweetwater River, as Hilda sat watching the cloth around the roots grow dark in the water, an old man sat down beside her. Hilda knew he had lived for many years in the wilderness, because the leader of their wagon train had asked the old man many questions.
“Funny how this river got named,” he said to Hilda. “Long years back when there wasn’t much in these mountains except Indians and buffalo, traders started hauling goods to trade for furs.” He nodded remembering, “The first wagon hauled across the river was loaded with sugar. The mules balked and dumped the load.” The old man paused and a smile lighted his wrinkled face. “Oh, was that river water sweet! Been called that ever since—the Sweetwater.”
Many of the rivers and streams where Hilda dampened the roots had names she did not understand. Although she looked, she found no strawberries near Strawberry Creek. The Big Sandy had no sand in it. And who, wondered Hilda, would name a river “green” when the cold water was so brown?
She was glad when they finally reached Fort Bridger, because a stream ran right beside their camp. For once Hilda could sit while the roots soaked and watch the women of the wagon train build fires to cook their meals.
At last the wagons rolled through Emigration Canyon and slowly made their way down to the new settlement in the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. Hilda’s father found a small cabin he could use for his family.
That same afternoon Hilda took the rose roots from the wagon and tenderly unwrapped them. She wondered if the roots were as weary as she was! Did they too feel strange in this valley? She had faithfully dampened them in the rivers and streams they had crossed, but would the roots live?
Hilda nearly cried when she removed the cloth and found the roots dry and brown. But she would not give up. Choosing a place beside the cabin wall, she dug a hole and filled it with water. Then she placed the roots inside the hole and packed dirt snugly against them, until only one tiny tip stuck out. Around that Hilda packed straw.
During the cold winter that followed, Hilda often felt discouraged. She knew Mother and Father did too, but no one complained.
Finally the long winter ended and the snow melted. One sunny spring day Hilda went around the cabin and lifted the damp straw. Growing bravely out of the roots, a new green shoot lifted into the spring sun.
Slowly Hilda stood up, tears running down her face. Suddenly a fresh new feeling of happiness came to her. If a yellow rose could grow and bloom in the Salt Lake Valley, she could too!