Gospel Story Finder

I had the privilege of seeing this on a grand scale in the U.S. Senate, where there is normally an imbalance between the show horses and the work horses. I can vividly remember standing next to Lyndon Johnson, then majority leader, one day in a Senate chamber anteroom as we both read the ticker tape with a news story about a major bill coming out of a Senate committee after months of labor. One senator, who had not been attending the sessions while the hearings were being held and the tedious testimony was being taken, had managed, nevertheless, to show up the very day the bill was reported out of committee to take his bows before waiting TV cameras. He was one of those senators who would show up for the opening of an envelope. The man at my side, later to become president, profaned in his disgust for the show horse senator, declaring that the show horse senator was also a lazy liberal who let other liberals do the work while he took the bows.

So often in human affairs I have learned the many depend upon the few to lead, to set the pace, to show the way, to deal with the detail.

Even on location he is close to his family. In talking about the experience of living with his family during the filming of Cowboy, he said, “We looked like a band of gypsies with everything but the chickens hanging on the side of our truck. We needed mobility, so we modified a motor home to be both production center and living quarters. There is something almost purifying about putting everything of real importance—wife, kids, and cameras (in that order, Honey!)—in a big box with wheels and criss-crossing the heartland of America, pursuing a dream together.
“When I get involved in a project, I become totally consumed with filming, and all my filmmaking equipment and camera gear were right there in the truck. We were totally self-contained, and it was a great feeling of freedom, but only because my family was there. It gave us tremendous perspective of the real values. We have a lovely home in California, and many good friends, and a lot of nice things, but none of them really mattered in comparison.”

The other young man was a missionary. As mission president of the Uruguay-Paraguay Mission I received a letter from a nonmember, writing me from Asunción, Paraguay. In essence this is what he wrote:
“I had been in the President Strossner Airport in Asunción, Paraguay, waiting for a flight, when a young North American missionary approached me.
“I learned quickly that the missionary was going home, having finished his mission. In fact, they were in the process of calling the young missionary’s flight. This missionary took the time, in spite of the fact that he was leaving the country, to sit by me for a moment, share his testimony, and leave me the tract ‘The Word of Wisdom.’ It puzzled me as to why he would do that when he was going home and had already completed his mission. He had no reason to approach me, but he carried the Spirit with him, and I am sure that I felt it as well.
“I have since read the tract ‘The Word of Wisdom’ and feel that the words from Joseph Smith contained therein are true. I particularly want you to know what a great missionary you have, as I felt the Spirit of the Lord through him. Could you please send representatives of your Church to teach me the gospel so that I might become a member of the Mormon church?”
I have often wondered how that missionary will feel in the next life, if not in this world, when he finally comes to know that man. The man may say, “Elder so-and-so, don’t you know me?” And the elder will say, “No, I don’t.” “Look again, elder, don’t you remember?” The elder will probably say, “No, have I met you before?”
Then the man will say, “Don’t you remember the events in the airport in Asunción, Paraguay, in May of 1977? I am the one to whom you bore testimony. You were responsible for me, and because of you, I was baptized.” And then he will turn and with a motion say, “And so was she, my wife, and these, my five children, and their children and their children’s children. In fact, all of these hundreds, elder, came into the Church because of you. God bless you for having not been afraid and for having obeyed the counsel the Lord gave when he said, ‘But with some I am not well pleased, for they will not open their mouths, but they hide the talent which I have given unto them, because of the fear of man. Wo unto such, for mine anger is kindled against them’ (D&C 60:2).” This young elder one day will have great joy as he realizes that what he thought was of little value or just “seed planting” bore a plentiful harvest.

Annelise is a third-generation Church member. Her grandma and grandpa were baptized many years ago, her dad grew up in the Church and married a member, and Annelise is a lifelong member. She is now a member of the Frederiksberg Ward, and Annelise, a Beehive, is, along with Pia, one of the few young women in the ward.
The ward currently meets in a rented building. The elevator in the building is pretty slow, so Annelise takes the stairs. Three flights of stairs get her to the top floor, where she enters the chapel. The building is clean and nice, but Annelise says there is a temporary feeling about where the Frederiksberg Ward meets. She looks out the window of the chapel and points.
“That’s our old chapel right there,” she says. She’s looking at a beautiful brick building one block away, one of the first the Church built in this country. And it sits empty—for good reason.
“That is where our temple is going to be,” Annelise explains.
The temple in Copenhagen will serve the members in Denmark and other parts of Scandinavia. Having a temple 10 minutes from her house instead of the 12 hours it takes to get to the Stockholm Sweden Temple is a real blessing. Annelise knows it is worth the sacrifice.
But there is still the issue of a new meetinghouse. The lease on the temporary building will expire soon. So this Sunday, the Frederiksberg Ward is holding a fast, praying that the city will give the Church approval to build on property it has purchased.* Annelise is joining other ward members in fasting and praying for this special purpose.
This morning Annelise admits she’s hungry. “But when I fast I feel close to God and I feel more humble,” she says. “I don’t feel fasting is that much of a sacrifice, and I believe if everybody in this ward prays for the same thing, then our Heavenly Father will help us.”
After sacrament meeting, with her fast almost complete, Annelise doesn’t dash home to eat. Instead, she walks out the door holding the arm of Christel Petersen, a 96-year-old ward member. Sister Petersen joined the Church in 1958 and taught Annelise’s father in Sunday School. Each month Annelise gets to know her better by taking some time to visit with her.
“Sister Petersen is nice to talk with. I think she is a strong woman because she is the only member of the Church in her family. Her husband never joined, and her children were already grown when she was baptized,” Annelise explains. “She is 96 years old, and she still comes to church each Sunday.
“I admire people like Sister Petersen who are close to Heavenly Father,” Annelise adds. “And when I do things like fasting, it brings me closer to Him too.”
* A few months after Annelise and others fasted, the Church received a permit to construct a new building for the Frederiksberg Ward.

I was baptized in 2012 and attended a branch in the Ipoméia Brazil District. Since 2014, I have been really engaged in family history. It started with the invitation from Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles at RootsTech to do baptisms for my own family names. I felt really committed to do family history, knowing that if I “knocked,” it would be “opened” (see Matthew 7:7).
Now I have many more generations, pictures, documents, and, most important, more family stories, which is awesome. Having this information, I wrote a book with pictures and dates from my family history. This project helped me contact my nonmember family members and gave me the opportunity to share my testimony that families can be eternal.
This work has helped me stand in holy places, stay active in the Church, and accept the calling to serve the Lord on a mission.
I have a testimony that the work of salvation done by this Church on both sides of the veil is true and inspired by our Heavenly Father. Before my mission, I had the opportunity to do baptisms for my ancestors, and now as a missionary I have the opportunity to baptize people who are alive and want to change their lives forever.

When we arrived in Merthyr, the scene had already been set by those who had been directing our lives for the past year. It felt as though we were in a giant genealogical chess game over which we had no control. Terry was beginning to feel the same forces in action as well. Every morning he would present us with a list of places we would visit that day. One day he showed us his list, which had two sides. He said that he created one list the night before and then this morning, for some unknown reason, he changed it and added a new place: Gadfield Elm Chapel in Gloucestershire. He said he didn’t know why he added it but thought it would be interesting for us to see. Of course, we acquiesced.
Miracle number eight: As we got to Gadfield Elm we discovered the reason. The first ownership of the chapel was given to Wilford Woodruff by the United Brethren, but it rested on or near brother Benbow’s farm. Many of the early members were baptized in Benbow’s pond. And Benbow was the maiden name of Terry’s wife. Terry was stunned. He kept saying he had no idea why he had changed the itinerary for the day, but we all knew why.

Whoa, your painting is really cool!
Thanks! It’s a golden lion tamarin. It’s a kind of monkey that lives in the Atlantic Forest. It has orange fur, and—
Sorry. I always talk too much. I’m not good at making friends.
Yes, you are! You just made one. Her name is Margo. That’s me.
You’re new here, right? What’s your name?
I’m Julia.
Tell me more about your monkey! I love animals. I want to be a veterinarian someday.
Really? Me too!
Then you should meet my parrot, Kiwi! And my brother Paolo. He’s a good artist, like you.
That would be fun!
Illustrations by Katie McDee

Oh, how powerful the tender, tempering teachings and the disarming wisdom of our sisters can be. I found the spirit of Relief Society—the whole of it—in the quiet reply of one of your number.
Someone ridiculed her determination to gather her year’s supply. She had stored enough for herself and her husband, with some to spare for her young married children who were without the means or the space to provide much for themselves. She told him she did it because the prophets had counseled us to do it. He chided her, “In the crunch you won’t have it anyway. What if your leaders call everything in? You’d have to share it with those who didn’t prepare. What will you think then?”
“If that should happen,” she said, “at least I will have something to bring.”
God bless you sisters of the Relief Society who bring so much. God bless that little circle of sisters somewhere in Eastern Europe who are a part of this great eternal circle of sisters—God’s organization for women upon this earth—the Relief Society of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I bear witness that God lives, that He directs this work, that His benevolent power is upon this great circle of sisters, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

1 David Oman McKay’s parents taught him at a very young age that he was a child of God and that his Heavenly Father loved him. They also taught him that he could always talk to his Heavenly Father.
2 In addition to his own daily prayers, David knelt in daily prayer with his family.
3 One dark night there was a terrible thunderstorm. David was lying in bed all alone, and he became very frightened. He could hear the rain pounding on the roof, and thunder shook the house. He knew that if he prayed, he would feel better, but he was too scared to get out of bed and kneel in prayer.
4 Finally, he gathered enough courage to crawl out from beneath his warm covers and kneel on the cold floor. He prayed for protection for himself and his family. As he was praying, David heard a voice say, “Don’t be afraid; nothing will hurt you.”
5 When he had finished praying, he was able to sleep because he knew that Heavenly Father would protect him and his family.
6 Many years later David O. McKay became the ninth President of the Church, and his strong testimony of the power of prayer was a good example for all the world.

The Savior’s words were written for us. It’s OK if we’re weak, as long as we don’t stay weak, as long as we do something about it. Katie is a young woman who did just that. Let me share her story with you.
“All my life I have wanted to be good, but I got to the point where I wondered, ‘How can anyone really know if the Church is true?’ I took Moroni’s challenge and for five months prayed and read my scriptures every day. One night I sat on my bed almost in tears, giving up. I decided to pray. I said, ‘Heavenly Father, help me to please just know you are there. I’ve done what Thou hast asked according to the Church and I just really need to know.’ Immediately I felt like someone had wrapped their arms around me. I didn’t hear a loud voice or see an angel, but I felt Heavenly Father telling me, ‘Sweet Katie, you’ve known all along.’ It was like a kind and loving father comforting his little girl” (letter).
One of the main functions of the Holy Ghost is to testify of truth. The Spirit testified to Katie that the gospel is true. Katie had paid the price. As the Savior said, she went to her home, studied His words, and prayed—for five whole months. Katie is developing her talent for spirituality. She can use this gift to govern her life.

About that time I was waiting in a doctor’s office, and I noticed that the young lady seated next to me had opened a book with a blue cover. The book’s text was written in columns like the Bible. I was curious to know if it was the Bible, but I also wanted to get back to the comic book I had been reading.
I directed my eyes to the blue book and read a word at the top of the page: Alma. I made an effort to remember that name from my Bible reading, then went back to my comic book. But the blue book continued to attract me, and once again I directed my eyes to that mysterious book.
When the young lady noticed my interest, I asked if the book was the Bible. She answered no and asked me what church I belonged to. I told her none, because I didn’t know which one was true.
That night I couldn’t stop thinking about that strange book. I didn’t know its name, because the young lady had said only that it belonged to the Mormon Church. I told my friend Ghersi about it, and he offered to get me a copy. Several weeks went by, and then one afternoon he handed me a book without a cover and with worn pages. All he said was, “Here’s the book.”
That afternoon I opened the book and read the testimony of Joseph Smith. I felt that it was what I had wanted to know; the feeling became stronger when I read about the visit of the angel Moroni. Unable to contain my excitement, I arose from my chair and shouted, “This is what I was looking for! Here is the truth!” I read the first chapters of 1 Nephi very slowly. I felt that I understood them as I had never understood a book before.

It was the third day that Kiwal’s tribe had fanned out through the swampland in search of two missing white men who had ignored warnings and entered the marshy land in pursuit of rare specimens of moths and butterflies. Privately, the Indians considered the search a waste of time. Too many white men, some of them criminals fleeing the law, vanished forever once they had poled a boat into the gloomy maze of winding waterways.
Kiwal’s boat moved through the murky swampwater as silently as a moth on the wing. He stood upright at the back of the boat and pushed against the mud with a long pole. Most of the water was too shallow to use a paddle.
The youth’s dark eyes darted from the walls of bright green foliage to search overhanging boughs, ever alert to the dangers of this forbidding but wildly beautiful place. His passageway was a narrow tunnel through lush vegetation too dense for sunlight to penetrate. The steamy air seemed eerily green. Streamers of gray moss dripped from giant cypress trees. Delicate orchids of many colors bloomed freely, where few human eyes would ever see them. Tiny wild canaries flashed yellow and filled the air with beautiful music. Stately long-legged birds waded and used their bills to search the mud for crayfish and minnows.
As much as Kiwal loved his swampland home, it was not a place where one could relax or loll back in a boat to soak up the beauty of nature. Poisonous snakes lurked in the trees overhead or swam silently through the water that was almost black from rotting vegetation. What seemed like a floating log might instead be a dozing and hungry alligator. Kiwal shuddered as he remembered the time his pole had struck a giant hornet’s nest, and he had been forced to dive overboard to escape their vicious, stinging retaliation. He had almost landed on the snout of a surfacing bull alligator! Striking out blindly with his knife, he had desperately scrambled back into his drifting boat. The powerful, gaping jaws had missed his legs by inches!
Kiwal also felt pessimistic about the fate of the lost men, who worked for what was called a museum. He had been told that it was a place where people could go to see and study wildlife that had been collected from all over the world. Do the visitors there appreciate the courage of those who risk their lives so that they might stand safely in front of such exhibits and learn about the wonders of wild and foreign lands? he wondered.
The bronzed youth reached an open area, where the water was clear and deeper. Patches of water hyacinths floated light green bulbous leaves and spikes of lavender flowers. The clearing was encircled by narrow channels, like fingers, that led off in every direction. Storms, like the one two nights ago, often pushed together floating islands and closed them, thus slicing open new pathways through the dense growth. This made it impossible to map the constantly changing network of waterways. What seemed to be solid ground was often a slowly moving water-borne mass that only looked like an island. A man could step out into lush grass and trees and suddenly plunge through the tightly matted growth that held no soil.
Kiwal rested the long pole used to propel his craft and wondered which waterway to choose for searching next. Have the men already been saved by one of our tribesmen? Will they ever be found? he puzzled. Kiwal had been out since before dawn and his stomach gnawed with hunger. An old abandoned chikee caught his eye. It was an Indian home on stilts with open sides and a thatched roof of palm leaves.
The hut would be a good place to eat his noon meal of smoked fish, hard-boiled eggs, and round, flat bread cakes. He could rest for a time before resuming the almost hopeless search that would most likely be stopped after today if no trace of the men were found.
Kiwal slowly poled his craft toward the chikee. He would have to be cautious about tying his boat to the log stilts and leaving it there. Wasps and other stinging insects might live among the dry thatch. Snakes often sunned on such rotting floors of the many old stilt homes scattered throughout the swamp. Decay caused by the damp and steamy climate made it necessary to build often. Old ones were left standing to shelter hunters until the posts rotted through and the hut toppled into the brackish water and broke apart.
The youth was puzzled by what appeared to be a pile of rags on one corner of the wooden platform. But then the pile moved! He caught his breath and poled faster when he saw that it was a man trying to sit up. Then the man sagged and fell back again. There were two of them—white men! And at least one was still alive!
Muscles rippled as Kiwal poled harder, his light craft skimming over the still water. The young Indian leaped onto the sagging floor and threw a rope around one of the upright posts supporting the tilted roof, but his heart sank as he approached the men. Both were exhausted, their clothing tattered, and they bore little resemblance to the clean and nattily dressed men who had entered the swamp more than ten days ago.
He felt better when he found that one was breathing though still unconscious. The other man’s eyes were open and he struggled to speak. “I’m Professor Atwood,” he finally croaked. “My assistant, Mr. Carter, and I were lost and found this hut. Our boat tore loose and sank in the storm. We ran out of safe drinking water yesterday morning. Carter twisted his leg. It’s terribly swollen,” he finished in a whisper.
Kiwal shared his waterbag, then raised up the other man and let cold water trickle into his mouth. He choked, then sucked greedily until the youth had to snatch it away. Too much at once would make the man even sicker.
Hordes of hungry mosquitoes had left both men covered with ugly, splotchy welts. They had suffered cuts from the razor-sharp sawgrass through which they had forced their boat, and the slashes were swollen with infection. Any cut or bite festered quickly in the swamp and could poison the blood and even kill if not treated properly.
“Don’t leave us!” the professor begged, as Kiwal handed him his cloth-wrapped bundle of food and stepped back into the boat.
“Eat, and save some for your friend,” Kiwal said. “I must get something for your wounds. It won’t take long.”
The men were more alert by the time the Indian boy returned, but Mr. Carter was still too weak to sit up. They watched curiously as Kiwal piled stinking black mud and freshly cut foliage onto the platform and climbed out of his boat.
The youth removed a knife from his belt and pounded and slashed the leaves into a mushy green pulp. The strong-smelling herb gave off a sharp, medicinal odor, as Kiwal kneaded the pulp into handfuls of oozy mud. Then he added water to thin it into a salve.
“It stinks, and you will look like boats patched with pitch, but it cools an soothes instantly. It will also repel the swarming insects,” he explained, applying the mixture to the feverish men. They sighed with relief as their torment eased. Next, he dipped large green fronds into the water and used tough vines to bind the cool leaves to Mr. Carter’s purple and swollen leg. Color began to seep back into the pallid face that had been twisted with pain.
From the slanting rays of the sun, Kiwal knew they would have to spend the night here. Alone he could easily have made it back to his village before dark but not with the white men and the specimen cases Professor Atwood was so concerned about. The overloaded boat would ride low in the water and it would be harder to pole. It would be safer to wait until dawn.
Kiwal unwound a fishing line, pried up a piece of the rotting floor, and found a family of white worms to use for bait. Fish were plentiful and their supper was soon cooking over a fire he built on top of a round bed of stones nearby, blackened by many cooking fires over the years. The white men were grateful for the company of the capable youth, who knew well how to survive in the hostile environment of the swamp.
As night closed in, they sat by the fire and the men talked about a previous trip they had made to a land where other Indian tribes lived. Kiwal’s face reflected wonder as Professor Atwood described a land of ice and snow where birds walked but could not fly. Bears there were not small black or brown ones, but seven-foot-tall white giants. People lived in houses made of ice blocks and were clad in furs from head to toe. They had to saw holes through thick ice to catch fish. He could hardly wait to see the picturebook the professor had promised to show him.
The naturalists were scheduled to return to the land of ice soon, and, as the professor gazed into the fire, he said, “Just think. Next year we may be rescued from an ice floe by a boy in furs, driving a sled of dogs. Will he believe we were saved from death in this swamp by a tribal cousin of his who lives in an open-thatched house on stilts, where the whole world is green and the air like hot steam?”
“Perhaps you had better take along a picturebook about the Everglades—just in case,” Kiwal suggested tactfully. The professor and Mr. Carter roared with laughter.

Hannah held tightly to her mother’s hand. “It’s OK, Hannah. I can go with you to Primary,” Mom said.
Hannah looked around the chapel. She didn’t like this new building. But mostly she didn’t like not knowing anyone.
Last Sunday, Dad had gone with her to Primary. There were only boys in her class. But the teacher said that there was a girl who should be back in class this week. Hannah tried to peek around the tall grown-ups to see the girl who might be in her class.
Suddenly Hannah felt a tap on her elbow. She turned around and saw a girl who was just her height and wore her hair in two long braids.“My name is Natalie,” she said. “Sister Davis said that you were in our Primary class. You can come with me.”
The girl took hold of Hannah’s hand. Hannah looked at Mom. “Thank you for helping Hannah,” Mom said, smiling at Natalie.Hannah swallowed hard and let Natalie lead her out of the chapel.“Now I’m not the only girl in our class,” Natalie said. “Will you be my friend?”“Yes,” Hannah said with a big smile.In sharing time, Natalie sat down next to four boys. Natalie patted the chair next to her so Hannah would sit by her.
“Hi, Natalie,” a boy said.“Hi, Tait,” Natalie said. “This is my new friend Hannah.”Sister Walker asked everyone to sing “When Jesus Christ Was Baptized.” Hannah smiled. She had learned that song in her old Primary. “That’s my favorite song,” she told Natalie.“Tait and I like it too,” Natalie said.Hannah sang with Natalie and Tait. Sister Walker held up pictures of Jesus. Hannah smiled. Maybe she liked this new Primary after all.

Corrie ten Boom, a devout Dutch Christian woman, found such healing despite having been interned in concentration camps during World War II. She suffered greatly, but unlike her beloved sister Betsie, who perished in one of the camps, Corrie survived.
After the war she often spoke publicly of her experiences and of healing and forgiveness. On one occasion a former Nazi guard who had been part of Corrie’s own grievous confinement in Ravensbrück, Germany, approached her, rejoicing at her message of Christ’s forgiveness and love.
“‘How grateful I am for your message, Fraulein,’ he said. ‘To think that, as you say, He has washed my sins away!’
“His hand was thrust out to shake mine,” Corrie recalled. “And I, who had preached so often … the need to forgive, kept my hand at my side.
“Even as the angry, vengeful thoughts boiled through me, I saw the sin of them. … Lord Jesus, I prayed, forgive me and help me to forgive him.
“I tried to smile, [and] I struggled to raise my hand. I could not. I felt nothing, not the slightest spark of warmth or charity. And so again I breathed a silent prayer. Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give me Your forgiveness.
“As I took his hand the most incredible thing happened. From my shoulder along my arm and through my hand a current seemed to pass from me to him, while into my heart sprang a love for this stranger that almost overwhelmed me.
“And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world’s healing hinges, but on His. When He tells us to love our enemies, He gives, along with the command, the love itself.”
Corrie ten Boom was made whole.

Among these reformers was the Reverend John Lathrop, vicar of the Egerton Church in Kent, England. Incidentally, the Prophet Joseph Smith was descended from John Lathrop. In 1623 the Reverend Lathrop resigned his position because he questioned the authority of the Anglican church to act in the name of God. As he read the Bible, he recognized that apostolic keys were not on the earth. In 1632 he became the minister of an illegal independent church and was put in prison. His wife died while he was in prison, and his orphaned children pleaded with the bishop for his release. The bishop agreed to release Lathrop on condition that he leave the country. This he did, and with 32 members of his congregation he sailed to America.

I remember a while ago, my companion and I were ministering in a family with people of various ages (at the time it was called home teaching). My companion would give the lesson from the First Presidency monthly message, and I would focus on the children, tailoring the lessons to their needs and level to make sure they understood. One day at the end of one visit, one of the parents expressed his gratitude for the fact these visits had a different meaning to their children—and even more meaning to the parents because we were meeting the needs of everyone in their home.

On May 20 of last year a massive tornado pummeled the suburbs of Oklahoma City, in the heartland of America, carving a trail more than a mile (1.6 km) wide and 17 miles (27 km) long. This storm, an onslaught of devastating tornadoes, altered the landscape and the lives of the people in its path.
Just a week after the massive storm struck, I was assigned to visit the area where homes and belongings were strewn across the flattened, ravaged neighborhoods.
Before I left, I spoke with our beloved prophet, President Thomas S. Monson, who relishes such errands for the Lord. With respect borne not only of his office but also of his goodness, I asked, “What do you want me to do? What do you want me to say?”
He tenderly took my hand, as he would have done with each one of the victims and each of those helping with the devastation had he been there, and said:
“First, tell them I love them.
“Second, tell them I am praying for them.
“Third, please thank all those who are helping.”
I had learned from our dear prophet what the storm-tossed people needed—love, prayers, and appreciation for helping hands.

Jamie opened his bank, and out tumbled a small pile of pennies and nickles and dimes and quarters onto his bed. He had been working very hard the past several months to earn enough money to add to his spacemen collection. Mrs. Bunday had paid him to carry her garbage cans to the street. He had run errands for his grandma. He had walked the neighbor’s dog. He had helped his dad wash the car, and he had collected and sold empty pop bottles and cans.
But tomorrow was Mother’s Day. I’d rather get something for Mom, Jamie decided, picking up his money and putting it into his pocket.
Let’s see, he thought. What can I get—a big box of chocolates? I’ll get caramel centers because they’re my favorite! Or maybe I’ll treat Mom to lunch at my favorite hamburger place! Or we could go to the pizza place—I love all the video games there!
But those things seemed a little selfish. Jamie thought of all the nice things that his mother did for him, such as mending his shirt when he tore it playing ball, making chocolate chip cookies just because he liked them so much, bandaging his cuts and scratches, and tucking him into bed at night and hearing his prayers.
Then Jamie remembered the special verse he had learned in Primary. He read it again from the bulletin board where he had tacked it: “God first, others second, myself third.” That gave Jamie an idea. “Hey, Dad!” he called. “Will you drive me to a flower shop?”
Later, while Dad waited in the car, Jamie went into the flower shop, laid his money on the counter, and said, “I want a big bunch of flowers for my mom for Mother’s Day.”
The lady counted the money and shook her head. “I’m afraid that there isn’t enough money for a large bouquet,” she said. “How about a small one?”
Jamie shook his head. “I want a big, big, BIG bouquet!”
The clerk thought a moment, then leaned over and quietly suggested something to him. Jamie nodded, paid his money, and walked out with a very small sack.
Later, in his room, Jamie dumped out the contents of his sack; then he went outside to complete his Mother’s Day present.
When Jamie woke up the next morning, he got out of bed quickly, grabbed his present, and ran to the kitchen. His dad and mom were sitting at the kitchen table, talking. “Happy Mother’s Day!” Jamie exclaimed, dumping four little parcels onto her lap.
Jamie’s mother was surprised and declared, “I wonder what these could be!” She opened the first tiny present—it was a package of sweet pea seeds. She opened the second present—it was a package of pansy seeds. She opened the third present—it was a package of carnation seeds. And the fourth package held daisy seeds.
“Now come with me,” Jamie said, taking her hand. “There’s more.” Jamie took his mom to the backyard. He proudly pointed to a piece of ground that he had weeded and dug up yesterday. “That’s where I’ll plant your flower seeds for you tomorrow. Then this summer you will have a big, big, BIG, bouquet!”

The two women disembarking from the train in the United States capital of Washington, DC, were tired but determined. After five days traveling from Salt Lake City, Emmeline B. Wells and Zina Young Williams hoped to advance the cause of Church members but knew they faced resistance.
In January 1879 they attended national meetings about women’s right to vote and presented petitions to the US Congress, asking lawmakers to undo harsh legislation against the Church.
“I desire to do all in my power to help elevate the condition of my own people especially wom[e]n,” Emmeline recorded in her diary.1 From 1877 to 1914, she was editor of a publication for women of the Church called the Woman’s Exponent, in which she championed good works in homes and communities.
National voting rights leaders Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony “cordially welcomed” the two women from Utah.2 They helpfully assigned them to a committee carrying messages to the nation’s president, Rutherford B. Hayes.3
Emmeline confidently spoke with him, reporting, “After we had given him a few facts in relation to the condition of this people, and what was likely to be the consequences of severe and harsh measures, he remarked that he had never before considered the subject in the light we had presented it.” President Hayes invited his wife, Lucy, to listen to their appeal. “Her womanly sympathies were very perceptibly aroused.”4
For two more weeks, Emmeline and Zina carried messages on behalf of the Church to influential legislators. Emmeline recalled that they “frequently met with people who manifested the greatest interest in” their message.5
Although they were not successful in changing public opinion that year, for 17 more years, Emmeline and her Relief Society sisters spoke out for the rights of women and Church members. Happily, in 1896, Utah became a state, and many religious and civil rights were restored.

My great-great-grandmother, Elizabeth Taylor Reynolds, made such a commitment. She heard the gospel taught in England and listened to the Spirit and was baptized. She and her mother acted on what the Spirit taught them after their baptism and made the commitment to journey to Zion. The summer of 1856 found her with approximately 500 other English Saints camped in Nebraska. They heard many reasons why they should not attempt the handcart trek to the Great Salt Lake at that time of year. Elizabeth and her mother voted with the company to move forward and leaned on their trust of God. They survived the terrible snowy ordeal in Martin’s Cove, but their uncle who accompanied them did not. They were rescued by young men who had listened and acted on the counsel of a prophet. She could never look at another handcart after that. But then, the handcart wasn’t the important part of her experience. Elizabeth learned that hearing the Shepherd’s voice and following it may not be easy and may be highly inconvenient, uncomfortable, and potentially life-threatening. To come to know the Lord does require sacrifice, especially the sacrifice of our time, our talents, and everything with which we have been blessed. Elizabeth came through the sacrifice with a deep abiding knowledge of the Lord and His purposes, and so will we.