Gospel Story Finder

Illustration by Tracy Walker
I was 14 years old when I experienced my first Christmas without snow. My family had just moved from the mountains of Utah to Texas, USA. To me, Texas felt too flat and hot. It was hard to feel the Christmas spirit when I had no friends at my new school and especially when there was no snow on the ground. I felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere, so I often felt lonely and sad.
Despite my gloom, Christmas was only a week away, and I was depending on our Christmas family traditions to lift my spirits. The fun activities my family did together in past years always made me feel so happy. Traditions were a big part of how we celebrated Christmas, so I thought I had nothing to worry about. They were called traditions for a reason, so I knew they had to be kept.
The days leading up to Christmas crawled by slowly. We hadn’t done anything together as a family yet to celebrate, so I was feeling pretty defeated. When Christmas Eve finally arrived, I waited all day for something to happen—anything that would show me that our cherished family traditions could still be kept in our new home. I’m sure I could have spurred these treasured traditions on my own, but I didn’t want to. In a way, I was looking for a sign to show me that the Christmas spirit was still alive.
Day faded to night and I grew more and more upset. Tears welled up in my eyes as my family gathered together to say our evening prayers. My entire home felt cold and empty, even with all of us living inside it. Suddenly, my dad pierced the silence with one question.
“Would anyone like to receive a priesthood blessing?”
My heart skipped a beat. I had worried so much about whether or not we would be putting up Christmas lights or baking holiday cookies that I had forgotten about one very special tradition we did every Christmas Eve—we all received a priesthood blessing. Receiving a blessing from my dad in the past always gave me peace, but not everybody in my family enjoyed receiving one. Sometimes my siblings and my mom would say they didn’t feel like they needed one. I didn’t want to get my hopes up again if everyone else was going to turn it down.
But this time was different. My mom stood up and sat down on the chair my dad had brought out for us.
“I would like one,” she said softly.
We were all very surprised, but my dad didn’t even hesitate. He placed his hands on my mom’s head and began to speak. I could sense how tuned in my dad was to my mom’s feelings and personal struggles. He spoke words of comfort and peace to her during this time of change.
I suddenly felt a burning sensation within my chest—almost like someone had lit a match inside of me. I knew I was feeling the Holy Ghost, even though the burning in my chest wasn’t the way I had always felt the Spirit before. It was like Heavenly Father was speaking directly to me, and it wasn’t even my priesthood blessing!
As my father quietly said “amen” and I opened my tear-filled eyes, I realized that my whole family was crying. We had all heard the Spirit speak to us in a tender and loving way that everything was going to be OK. My mom and dad hugged, and I felt like the raincloud that had been hanging over my head for so long had finally given way to sunshine.
We may not have kept every tradition that year, but we always remembered how it felt to witness the power of God flow through my dad’s priesthood blessing. I will always remember how it changed my feelings of sadness to peace and joy. I also learned a valuable lesson about the power of the priesthood. When everything around you seems to be going the wrong way, a priesthood blessing can remind you of the Lord’s watchful and loving presence in your life.

When I came home from my mission, I began to study and to help others in my branch during the Sunday School lesson and and to help those preparing to go on a mission. My first calling after my mission was as the Sunday School president. I enjoyed this calling because I was able to study as I did when I was on my mission, applying the lessons to myself as I taught every Sunday.
I learned a lot from my branch members, and seeing them every Sunday smiling and looking good was my desire and my prayer to God, because I saw them as my responsibility, to minister and always remember them in my prayers as I was doing to my investigators on my mission. Honestly doing so, I came to realize that Heavenly Father has been with me every step of the way to magnify my calling as a Sunday School president.

Years ago, while we were on an assignment together, Elder L. Tom Perry shared how he and his companion regularly ministered to a sister who lived alone in a rough Boston neighborhood. When Elder Perry and his companion arrived, the sister cautiously directed, “Slide your temple recommends under the door.” Only after seeing the temple recommends would she unbolt multiple locks and open the door. Of course, I am not saying ministering companionships need temple recommends. But I love the thought that as those who honor covenants minister, homes unlock and hearts open.

Jacob likes to watch Daddy get ready for work. Daddy buttons his shirt and tucks it into his pants. Then Daddy puts socks and shoes on his feet. Jacob sees Daddy put a hat on his head. Daddy wears a coat and gloves because it’s cold outside. When Daddy comes home from work, Jacob puts Daddy’s shoes on his feet. They are too big. He puts Daddy’s hat on his head. It covers his eyes. He tries on Daddy’s coat. It drags on the floor. Daddy’s gloves are too big for Jacob’s hands. Daddy laughs. He puts on Jacob’s shoes. They are too small. The shoes cover only two toes on his feet. He puts on Jacob’s hat. It is too small. Jacob’s coat fits of one of Daddy’s arms. Jacob’s gloves only cover Daddy’s fingers on his hands. Jacob sees Daddy and laughs. Jacob likes playing dress up. He and Daddy have fun changing places!

In the 1950s my mother survived radical cancer surgery, which was followed by dozens of painful radiation treatments. She recalls that her mother taught her something during that time that has helped her ever since:
“I was so sick and weak, and I said to her one day, ‘Oh, Mother, I can’t stand having 16 more of those treatments.’
“She said, ‘Can you go today?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Well, honey, that’s all you have to do today.’
“It has helped me many times when I remember to take one day or one thing at a time.”

We find one of the most touching stories of sacrifice, faith, and loving charity in the life of Jens Neilson, who was a member of the Willie Handcart Company. Jens, a relatively prosperous Danish farmer, heeded the call to bring his family to Zion. In Iowa he wrote that he had let all of his money go to the Church except enough to buy a handcart and stock it with 15 pounds of belongings per person. Jens wrote, “Obedience is better than sacrifice.” The people for whom Jens was responsible were himself; his wife, Elsie; their six-year-old son, Neils; and a nine-year-old girl, Bodil Mortensen, whom Jens offered to take to Utah. In the early Wyoming blizzard, temperatures plummeted below zero. The Neilsons had consumed their last pound of flour days before, but somehow they made it over the treacherous Rocky Ridge, urged on by their indomitable courage and unconquerable faith. Tragically, 13 of the company died at Rock Creek and were buried in shallow, snow-covered graves—among them, Jens and Elsie’s son, Neils, and young Bodil Mortensen.
President Hinckley describes this portion of the trail as “a trail of tragedy, a trail of faith, a trail of devotion, a trail of consecration, even the consecration of life itself.”
Jens arrived at Rock Creek, 11 miles beyond Rocky Ridge, with both feet frozen. He was unable to walk another step and pleaded with Elsie, “Leave me by the trail in the snow to die, and you go ahead and try to keep up with the company and save your life.” Elsie, with her unfaltering pioneer courage, replied, “Ride, I can’t leave you, I can pull the cart.” Such was the strength and the faith of many pioneer women on the trail.

Heeding the prophet’s call at age 19, I prepared myself to serve a full-time mission. Soon, I received a call to the Mexico Hermosillo Mission.
While I was waiting to enter the missionary training center in Mexico City, I became concerned about how I would share the gospel. I wondered, “What should I do to prepare?”
One morning before leaving for work, I put a new copy of the Book of Mormon in my bag. Then I prayed, “Heavenly Father, help me know how to give this Book of Mormon to whomever Thou dost send to me.” Then I left for work.
After work, I went to the institute of religion. By then, I had forgotten about the book in my bag. When I got on the bus to return home, however, I sat next to a young woman who was reading the Bible.
I felt a strong impression that said, “This is the person.” I doubted the impression at first, but then I felt it again.
“Pardon me,” I said as I pulled out my Book of Mormon, “this book is very special to me, and I would like to give it to you.”
With a look of contempt, she responded, “No, thanks.” Pointing to her Bible, she added, “This book is enough for me.” Then she stood up and left, leaving me alone on my row of seats.
As I sat there for a minute feeling rejected and foolish, wondering about my impression, the woman in front of me turned around and said, “Excuse me, do you still want to give away that book?”
Apparently, she and her husband had overheard my conversation with the young woman.
“Of course!” I replied.
As we talked, l learned that the couple had wanted to read the Book of Mormon. They also wanted to learn about the Church. I was excited to answer their questions.
That day I learned for myself that “the field is white already to harvest” and that “if [we] have desires to serve God [we] are called to the work” (Doctrine and Covenants 6:3; 4:3).
God had made me an instrument in His hands after all. Today, doing missionary work is the most cherished thing in my life.

Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Illustrations by Dilleen Marsh
Christmas was almost here. Amalie was excited. Soon she could unwrap the presents under the tree!
At family home evening it was Mom’s turn to give the lesson.
“Why do we give presents at Christmas?” Mom asked.
“Because it’s Jesus’s birthday!” Amalie said.
“Then shouldn’t we give a present to Him?” Mom said.
Dad helped Amalie’s brother Noah read a scripture. It said that when we serve other people, we are serving God (see Mosiah 2:17).
“Is serving others giving a gift to Jesus?” Mom said.
Noah nodded.
“What else?”
“Keeping the commandments,” Amalie said.
“Being nice,” Noah said.
“Great ideas!” Mom said. “Now let’s play a game. I’ll say a gift someone gave to Jesus. Tell me if you know who it was. Here we go. This person gave out Christmas cards at the care center.”
Noah raised his hand. “Amalie did that!”
“This person went home teaching.”
“That’s Daddy,” Amalie said.
Soon they had named lots of gifts they had already given to the Savior.
“We can give gifts every day,” Mom said.
The next morning it was time to clean the house. “Oh no,” Amalie groaned. But then she remembered. Serving others is a gift! If she helped Mom, it was the same as helping Jesus. She found a cloth and wiped the counters until they shone.
The next day Amalie earned some money.
“Your tithing is eight cents,” Mom said.
Amalie remembered again. Tithing is a commandment, so paying it is a gift. She put eight cents in her tithing jar.
Later that week Amalie helped pick up pillows. Her baby brother had thrown them off the couch. “Another present for Jesus,” she said.
On Christmas Eve, Mom and Dad told Amalie they were proud of her. “You’ve been giving gifts to Jesus all week long,” Dad said. “That’s like having a little bit of Christmas every day.”

Grandpa and I worked on the car most of the afternoon. We stopped at about 4:00. There was a dance in town that night, and I was going to take a girl I hadn’t seen in a long time.
I had known Margie for as long as I could remember. We were in the same kindergarten class, and I used to pull her ponytail. In junior high I used to tie the ends of her dress sashes to the back of her chair during class, and then laugh as she got up and knocked her chair over. Most girls would have gotten mad but not Margie. She would just laugh, shake her finger at me, and say that I had better watch out; she was going to get me back.
But when we went to high school, something happened. Margie was no longer the skinny-legged, freckled-faced girl in knee socks and braces. Sometime during that summer she had changed into a willowy beauty with an electrifying smile and sun-streaked hair. She was so carefree and simple, always laughing, always there to listen.
But halfway through our sophomore year she moved to the city. It was quite a blow to all of her friends, me in particular. But she promised to write and visit when she could.
So, when she called me to tell me that she was going to be in town visiting her grandparents for a few days, I couldn’t help but get excited. She had always been so fun to be with, and I was sure I would have a good time. Two years couldn’t have changed us that much.
As I drove up to the house where her grandparents lived, my hands were sweaty and butterflies were doing acrobatics in my stomach. My legs felt like spaghetti as I got out; and as I knocked on the door, I felt my face flush to a deep, hot red. The door opened and there was Margie, still willowy, still beautiful. Smiling, she let me in.
“Hi,” she said. “Boy, it’s really good to see you again.”
“Hi yourself,” I stuttered.
“Grandpa and grandma are in the kitchen. They said they wanted to see you when you came.”
“Oh. I saw your grandpa in town the other day, but I haven’t seen your grandma for a long time,” I said as we walked down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Bobby, how’s your grandpa?” asked her grandfather. “I hope he’s doing well. Haven’t seen him around for a while. Now, we don’t want to sound old-fashioned, but what time do you think you’ll be home?”
I assured them that it wouldn’t be too late, and then we left. As we walked out to the truck, I heard Margie clear her throat. I looked at her, but all she did was smile and ask who was going to play at the dance.
“Oh, it will be records,” I said.
“Records. How different. At home we always have a band.”
“That really must be nice,” I said uncomfortably. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice kept saying that this evening wasn’t going to be what I had expected. She just kept smiling.
All the kids welcomed her when we got to the dance, but as I watched her, I saw something that puzzled me. It was sort of an amused look, one that seemed to say, “I can’t believe the way you all act. I hope I didn’t act like this.”
We danced; then she danced with some of the others. Every once in a while I would see that same look. It bothered me, but what could I do? I just let it go.
On the way home, I asked if she had had fun.
“Oh yeah. I can’t wait to get home and tell the kids about it.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly she would tell them. Her voice wasn’t the same as it used to be. She acted differently. Maybe it was just my imagination; it was probably nothing more than seeing old friends again. Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to worry about it; we were going to the county fair the next weekend, and I was sure we’d have fun.
I worked on the old car with grandpa that whole week. And as we worked, he would tell the stories I had heard so many times. The years seemed to turn backwards and sweep us away with them.
I was cleaning the carburetor when grandpa said, “Bobby, did I ever tell you what happened when I first got this old car? I’ll never forget the look on your grandma’s face when I took her for her first ride.” He chuckled to himself, then went on. “Bobby, you’ve never seen a woman more scared in all your life. The whole time I was driving she was yelling. ‘Look out for that fence! Look out for the ditch!’ Sometimes I thought she’d yell herself hoarse. I’d swerve all over the place, and she’d scream like a baby pig caught in a fence. I learned my lesson though. The next time I tried to scare her, she gave me one. She reached over and grabbed the wheel! That woman nearly ran me into the barn!”
He laughed out loud as he remembered. Then, eyes twinkling, he was off into another story. This time it was about how he had won the motorcar race at the county fair three years in a row. Then another about how some city slicker had tried to con him out of his car and how he had “showed him a thing or two.”
The week passed quickly, too quickly in fact, and it was soon time for the fair. I picked Margie up early; I was showing a calf, and I had to be there as soon as possible.
I won a blue ribbon and was pretty proud of myself, but when I showed it to Margie, all she did was smile that same smile she had given the kids at the dance the other night. But now I knew what it was that bothered me so much about it. Her smile was one of polite disinterest, as if to say, “You guys are nice and everything, but you’re so different, so uncool.” My stomach lurched inside me and my heart sank down to my toes. The old Margie was gone, gone forever. Somehow, she had gotten lost in the city.
We didn’t talk very much on the way home. She hadn’t had a good time (she’d nearly been kicked by a cow and run over by a Tennessee Walker), and I was depressed by my discovery.
I never saw Margie again after that. I saw her grandfather in town a few days later, and he said that she had gone back to the “big city.”
The days dragged by, even though I was working on the car with grandpa. He saw by my halfhearted enthusiasm that something was wrong and tried to cheer me up with his funniest stories. I listened and slowly began to feel better.
That week we finished the work on the engine. Grandpa was excited and wanted to take her for a trial run before we started on the body. So, I opened the barn doors up all the way and stood back to watch. He got in and gently ran his hand over the seat. The gleam in his eye reminded me of the excitement of a father watching his only child take its first few steps.
He tried to start it up, but the engine just sputtered and fell silent. He tried again, and again it died.
“Third time will be the charm,” grandpa yelled.
But as he tried to start it, a terrible rasping noise came from inside along with billows of black smoke and a deafening crash.
I ran to the car. Grandpa, coughing from the smoke, got out and sat on a bale of hay. I opened the hood and peered down into the remains of the engine, all black with burnt oil and grease. It was hopeless to think of fixing it again, and I knew it would hurt grandpa deeply when I told him.
But as I glanced over at him, I knew he already knew. His face trembled as he buried it in his hands. His back was bent, like a crooked cane, and he looked so old, so lost, so alone.
I went and sat next to him with my arm on his shoulder. Looking up, he mumbled, “I only wanted to bring it back, make it new, make it the way it was when grandma and I went riding in it.”
He sat there shaking, his heart crying out for the days of the past, somehow thinking that they could be brought back, rebuilt like an old car, this old Ford.
Gently I shook his shoulder.
“Grandpa,” I said. “Grandpa. Sometimes things just can’t be brought back or rebuilt. Sometimes we can only call back the memories.”
I sat there a while longer, then left him alone to sift through his days long past. Walking out of the barn, I could hear the cows softly mooing in the pasture and the hens clucking to their little ones. The sun was warm on my face, and suddenly I knew that everything would be all right for the both of us.

The COVID-19 pandemic has drastically changed the way we live our daily lives. The virus has disrupted all sectors of society and its impact has also been felt in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Missionary service is one of the areas that has been significantly affected. On March 12, 2020, the leadership of the Church issued a statement requiring all senior missionaries and young missionaries with serious or chronic medical conditions serving in twenty-two areas in Europe to return home. Elder Michael Coley was among the many missionaries who had to leave.
Elder Coley had been called to labour in the England London Mission on August 6, 2019. It had been anticipated that he would serve for two years. Elder Coley was often told that his mission would be over before he knew it and that he should treasure every moment. However, he never imagined it would be over that soon.
He began his life-changing missionary journey on January 8, 2020, trying to embody Christlike attributes as he prepared to serve the people of England. He experienced much personal growth and greater generosity and humanity towards those he met.
Elder Coley could not fathom leaving his mission at that specific time just when he was forgetting himself and doing the Lord’s work. At the time, he dreaded going back into the world and being exposed once again to all the vileness of it. Elder Coley confided that when he expressed this to his missionary companion, he was told that the only person that can control how much of the world he indulges in is him. For Elder Coley that is a message that he would never forget.
On March 16, he departed London’s Heathrow Airport and began the long journey back to Jamaica. The journey home was stressful to him, especially due to the different avenues of travel he had to endure. The original travel plan included a flight from the United Kingdom to the United States and then to Jamaica. However, the United States had closed its borders to noncitizens. As a result, Elder Coley travelled to Mexico, then to the Dominican Republic followed by Turks and Caicos. On March 17, he finally arrived in Jamaica.
Even though he knew that he would be quarantined for 14 days, it was a relief to be home. This experience taught Elder Coley to be more optimistic and to trust Heavenly Father more. He came to realise that when we do the Lord’s work to the best of our ability, He helps tremendously.
When asked to share his thoughts on what has been happening in the world, Elder Coley said, “In these difficult time,s the only person that can control how this pandemic is viewed is you. You can either let this difficult time strengthen your testimony in God or weaken it. Let us enjoy each moment here on earth doing the Lord’s work and being with our families. We do not know fully what the Lord has planned for each of us. I know however, that God loves His children and enables them to go through experiences to learn from them and to evolve into better versions of themselves.”
This message of hope and steadfastness is one which Elder Coley wishes that everyone will be able to embrace during this time of uncertainty and turmoil.

Photograph courtesy of Dane W.
In high school, I struggled with a lot of anxiety and depression, so I ended up dropping out. For about five years, I distanced myself from the Church and from family. About that time, I also started using drugs and alcohol to cope with how alone I felt.
It was a pretty dark time.
At one point, my mom learned about BYU–Pathway Worldwide and started encouraging me to join. An education was something I had always wanted, but my previous experiences with school had crushed my confidence.
I dismissed my mom’s offer at first, but within that week, I looked up BYU–Pathway online. It seemed like a pretty good fit for me. Despite my doubts, I decided to go for it. At the same time, I started working to align my life with the gospel again.
When I first started my courses, I felt awkward and out of place. I hadn’t been active in the Church for years, but the people in my classes were from all walks of life and showed me I didn’t need to be perfect to be there.
Soon I began to feel more of the Spirit and like things were heading in the right direction. Before, I had felt like I was failing at everything in life. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was progressing both academically and spiritually.
Feeling the Spirit through my education helped me get back in tune with my testimony and brought clarity to my mind. Because I knew Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were with me, I had the confidence to do things I didn’t think I could do before when I was surrounded by darkness. After everything I had been through, I’d never felt that getting an education was within my reach—BYU–Pathway changed that for me and helped me have faith in myself and in Jesus Christ again.
Dane W., Utah, USA

But Lucy Mack was no carbon-copy Christian. Although knowing God through scriptures and prayerful communion, she doubted the religions that claimed to speak for him. Early in marriage she showed double qualities of devotion and independence. A severe respiratory infection brought a high fever, and Lucy’s life hung in the balance. Weakened and semi-conscious, she was informed by her shaken husband that the doctors expected her to die. But that night powerful prayers stirred within her weakened frame. She sought life in order to “bring up my children, and be a comfort to my husband.” Making her “solemn covenant” with God, she heard a voice assuring her (in scriptural language), “seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” Her solid recovery began from that hour, as she vigorously assured her watching mother that “the Lord will let me live.”7

What should we do for our next activity?
We could play soccer again!
Or do another craft night!
I’ve been thinking. You know Sasha?
Yeah. I haven’t seen her in a while.
I heard she just got first place in the science fair. I have an idea she might like. Here’s what I’m thinking …
… sounds fun! And then …
… invite the young men too? …
… markers to decorate …
Sounds like a plan. Let’s do it!
The week before the activity, at Sasha’s house …
We have this activity idea.
Sure, I’ll help!
Sasha’s going to teach us how to make rockets. Do you guys want to come?
I’ll invite my quorum. Can we bring snacks?
The day of the activity …
Do you think anyone will come?
Sasha says she’s on her way!
Let’s get started!
“A sense of belonging is important to our physical, mental, and spiritual well-being. Yet it is quite possible that at times each of us might feel that we don’t fit in.…Belonging comes not as we wait for it but as we reach out to help one another.”
Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, October 2022 general conference (Liahona, Nov. 2022, 54–55).
Learn how to make an air-powered bottle rocket on the Gospel Living app!

Our grandson was only four when a policeman picked him up on the side of the highway. He said he was headed to Grandma’s house, about five miles (8 km) away.
It was the second time he had run away from the unhappiness at home, trying to get to me. Over the next few months, I came to realize that the responsibility of raising my grandson and his two younger sisters was probably going to fall on my shoulders—an idea I did not readily embrace.
My husband and I had done our best to raise our children with gospel principles, but they eventually rejected those principles. I was in my 50s and felt that I had finally earned the right to pursue my own interests. I cherished the goal my husband and I shared of serving a mission together when he retired. The notion of going grocery shopping with preschoolers, organizing mealtimes, doing thousands of loads of laundry, and someday again mothering teenagers reduced me to tears.
One afternoon, however, something changed my heart. A small thing had upset my grandson, so I took him onto my lap and wiped away his tears. As I held him, we talked about how much Jesus loved him. Nearby I had a wall calendar featuring paintings of the Savior, so we looked at those beautiful images one by one.
My grandson was especially interested in a depiction of the Savior sitting in a stone doorway with a small, brown-haired girl on His lap. In the painting, both the Savior and the child radiate peace. My grandson looked closely, pointed to the girl, and called her by his sister’s name.
“How can Katie sit on Jesus’s lap, Grandma?” he asked. “I want to sit on His lap too!”
“You can’t sit on Jesus’s lap now, sweetheart, but you can sit on my lap,” I said. “Jesus gives little children grandmas to love them and hold them and take care of them when they need it.”
Suddenly my heart embraced a future of loving—as the Savior would love—three beloved children who needed me. They were no longer a burden but a wonderful blessing and opportunity to serve our Lord.
I will be forever grateful for the tender mercy of the Lord given to me that afternoon. It changed my life and continues to strengthen and bless our home.

Hans let his light shine brightly, even through hard times.

When he was six years old, he fell and broke his arm. That accident became a great blessing. His mom was planning to move to the United States and leave Hans in Ecuador with her sister for a time. “But when he broke his arm,” she says, “I realized Heavenly Father was telling me not to leave my son. If I did, he wouldn’t be able to go to church.”

That’s when Hans’s mother, Antonia Yolanda Nieto, was baptized. Since that time, her testimony has continued to grow. She has received her endowment in the Guayaquil Ecuador Temple. Hans was the missionary who brought his mother to the light of the gospel.

Nearly a year ago, in Pasadena, California, Sister Janice Burgoyne was dying of cancer. She had shared generously of herself and was dearly loved. Her Relief Society sisters were bringing her meals, cleaning her house, caring for her two young sons, helping her husband plan a funeral. It was hard for Janice to receive so much help, knowing that her sisters would find that piece of old toast behind the couch. She worried her sisters would know more than her heart. But because her sisters knew her heart, it didn’t matter. They provided car pools, tutored homework, played her piano, changed bedding. And they did it day after day after day, without complaint, with boundless charity. Such sharing forever changed those sisters. Before she died, Janice turned to a Relief Society sister and asked with gratitude and awe, “How does anyone die without Relief Society?”

“When he was a boy, Grandpa had a red coaster wagon that his father had a blacksmith make. At first it was short, with room for only three people; but eventually it was extended so that more could ride. The front person steered and the back one used the brake. The riders would start between Ninth and Tenth avenues on “C” Street in Salt Lake and coast all the way down to South Temple Street, then push the wagon back up the hill and go down again.”

When thirteen-year-old Thad is called to be the rope maker of the United Order in Orderville, he is thrilled to finally have a job. Rope making is not easy, but after a number of failures, he masters the craft. The tithing house clerk records his first batch of rope as “quality excellent.”
That Sunday, as usual, my Uncle Claude rode his horse over from Kanab to go to church with us. He was the envy of all the young men in town in his store-bought pants and shirt, bright bandanna, real felt hat, and fancy cowboy boots. I knew that he came over so often because he was courting a girl who lived down the street.
At dinner, Mother said, “Thad, tell Uncle Claude about your new job.”
He listened carefully as I explained about the rope machine. Then he said, “How about showing me what you’ve done.”
After dinner we rode over to the harness shop on his pinto horse. I opened the shop door and unshuttered the windows so he could see the machine.
Then I got out samples of all the different kinds of rope I had been making. I could see that he was impressed.
“Thad, do you think you could make me a horsehair rope on that machine? I’ve seen two or three, and they’re the best rope for lassoing cattle. I’ll be glad to furnish the hair. What do you say?”
I thought about it for a few moments, I had only worked with cotton and flax, and they were twine when I got them. Turning the horsehair into twine would be the hard part. It was much too heavy and stiff to use on a regular spinning wheel, so the job would have to be done by hand. “Uncle, I’d like to try,” I replied.
I soon made all the cotton and flax twine that had been delivered to me into rope. Brother Lamb came over one afternoon and showed me how to backsplice the ends of the rope to make them neat. As he left, he said, “I’m going to put in an order for some of your two-strand rope for a clothesline. Wait until my wife sees how uniform and clean your rope is!”
In just a day or two, all the rope I had delivered to the tithing office was gone and people started asking me when I was going to make more. All I could reply was, “When they bring me more cotton or flax. Put your order in at the tithing house, and I’ll fill it as soon as I can.”
It was two weeks before Uncle Claude rode up with a big sack full of horsehair from the manes and tails of many horses. He arrived on Saturday afternoon, and we went down to the harness shop and worked until dark, trying to make some of the hair into twine. Having watched wool being carded to be spun, we tried the same thing with the hair, using a currycomb to make it into uniform rows. We weren’t doing very well until a brief thunder shower drove us inside. Returning to the hair, we found that it twisted up very nicely when wet, just like our own wet hair combs better.
The next week, I worked until dark each day on the horsehair and soon had enough twine to try making a three-strand rope. The first two or three attempts didn’t produce a very good rope. The hair was stiffer and less pliable than flax or cotton, but I kept adjusting the tension on the machine and experimenting with how fast and hard to turn the handle to get the right twist. Soon I was turning out a nice-looking, uniform rope. Each night I took home the rope I had made that day and studied it, trying to work out how to make it even better.
I took that rope apart several times. Each time I put it back together it got better looking, and by the next Saturday I had a nice three-strand horsehair rope almost forty feet long for Uncle Claude.
I took the rope to show Brother Lamb, and he spliced a running noose in the end so that it could be used as a lariat. “Thad,” he said, “you will make your uncle the envy of every cowboy in Kanab. Now you need to make another rope to show at the town fair. You’ll probably win a first prize. Think about it.”
I did. Uncle Claude’s praise for the rope when I gave it to him on Sunday decided the issue. I would make a bigger, longer rope just for the fair, and I would do it without anyone knowing about it until it was done. But how would I get enough horsehair? When Theo mentioned the big dance the next Saturday, I had my answer.
Saturday night I carefully counted the horses around the hall. Most of them were teams still hooked to wagons and buggies. I waited till the dance was in full swing and the full moon came up before slipping out. After looking carefully up and down the street to make sure that no latecomers were about I got the pair of sheep shears I had hidden in the shrubs. Standing there, shears in hand, I almost changed my mind. A strong feeling came over me that it was wrong to take the hair without asking. But I wanted that first-place ribbon, so I ignored the feeling and went to work.
I started on the manes of the bishop’s team of good-looking young roans. In moments their hair was on the ground. I tied it into a bundle and went to work on their tails. I didn’t take all the hair, because they would need some left in their tails to keep the flies off.
Next came a team of matched black horses. Their manes were already clipped, so I only got hair from their tails, As I finished, I noticed that one had less tail left than the other—they were no longer a matched pair. The next horses were gray with long, unkempt manes that were hard to cut. Their tails were even worse—all tangled and full of burrs. As I started on the second horse, it kicked at me twice. I added their bundles of hair to my growing pile and moved on.
Occasionally someone would come outside for a breath of fresh air, but I just hid behind a horse, and no one noticed the extra legs. Working steadily, I soon finished the horses on one side of the street and crossed to the other. As I went past a wagon, a dog sleeping underneath started barking, defending his territory. I almost panicked, fearing that someone would come out to investigate. But I held out my hand in friendship, and the dog wagged his tail, stopped barking, and just watched as I clipped the team he was guarding.
The shears were getting quite dull and I wished I could stop to hone them back to a sharp edge. A half hour later my hands were red, and my arms and shoulders ached from the effort, but all the horses were clipped. I gathered the bundles of hair and made two trips to hide them in Brother Cox’s corn crib. I finished, washed my hands in his livestock watering trough, and went back to the dance.
Lounging against a wall as if I had never left. I glanced down at my pants. They were covered with horsehair of every color! Trying to look inconspicuous, I quickly rolled the hair into little balls and put them into my pocket. As the closing prayer was being said, I said my own little prayer that people wouldn’t be too angry.
After the amen, most people moved quickly outside into the cool evening air. I lingered behind, a little afraid. Suddenly the laughter and talk outside was interrupted by a loud, angry cry: “Someone’s clipped the mane off my horse!”
Everyone still inside the hall rushed out to see what had happened. I went out with the last of them and stayed at the edge of the group. Some were amused at the sight of horses with their clipped manes and tails. Others were not. Some said it needed to be done. Others replied that it was a poor job and would look bad for a long time until the hair grew back.
Everybody was asking, “Who did it?”
Someone suggested, “I bet it was those boys from Glendale or Kanab. They’re always trying to pull some trick on us. We’ll have to find a way to get even with them!” That made me feel as if the balls of horsehair were in my stomach instead of my pocket.
Before going home, I moved the hair to the harness shop, hiding it under the cotton and flax. During the next week, I worked on the horsehair rope when no one was watching. And in the evenings, when Brother Spencer had gone home, I worked on it until it got too dark to see.
First I soaked the hair overnight in the irrigation ditch. This not only made it clean but took the curl out of it and made it easier to twist together into twine-sized strings. When it dried it stayed in place just like my sisters’ hair did when they rolled it up at night.
Using three spools of twine each time, I made four ropes, each over 150 feet long. With all four spools full of three-strand rope, I twisted the whole thing together into one big rope of four big strands. It was hard work turning this much rope into its final size. It came out about the same diameter as a half-dollar coin and was the biggest and longest rope I had made.
With the rope finished, I back-braided the ends as Brother Lamb had taught me, soaked it again, and then stretched it tight between two trees to dry. While it was drying, I went over its entire length, tucking every loose hair back inside the rope. This made it even tighter and very neat looking. The drier it got, the tighter the twist became and the stronger the rope looked.
I stood there admiring my work, wondering how strong it was. I looked forward to the town fair. Perhaps they would test my rope in one of the pulling contests with teams of horses. Someone had told me that one strand of horsehair would easily hold ten pounds. There were hundreds of strands of hair in my beautiful rope. I wanted to feel excited and proud, but I couldn’t. I had no right to the hair, and I had no right to the rope. If only I had asked!
I tried to forget how I had gotten the horsehair, but people kept talking about it. One day at the harness shop, while I was waiting for everyone to leave so I could work on the horsehair rope, a man said, “We’ll have to watch our young men. They’re talking about going to Glendale or Kanab and pulling some stunt to get even for the horses’ tails and manes getting clipped.”
I spliced twine furiously and tried to think about the town fair.
At the fair, I entered the rope in the contest and won first prize. But I was not happy about it. The next day I went to the bishop and told him what I had done. I said I was sorry and asked him to forgive me. He did forgive me, and I felt better.
I also learned that it is better to do things the right way, even if it means losing the prize. I never forgot how uneasy I had felt while making that rope, and I never again took anything that did not belong to me.

Prior to my introduction to the restored gospel, I spent much of my time playing soccer, including games on the Sabbath day. Even though I had been brought up to have respect for the Lord’s day, it was through applying the principle after I came in contact with the Church that I gained an understanding of the doctrine and its blessings. Withdrawing from the Sunday league team was one of the significant sacrifices that led to my conversion. It helped me appreciate the value of the gospel in my life.
Three years later, when work commenced on building the Norwich chapel, I also withdrew from the Saturday league team so that I could make my contribution to the building project. The mist of self-interest that had previously restricted my vision was beginning to disperse, and a new panoramic view was emerging, bringing with it a deeper appreciation for and an increasing love of life.

It was Friday night and football season at my high school. As drum major of the marching band, I was having a great time cheering with the band and directing stand tunes. Then things changed drastically when I heard a desperate cry: “Get help! Jeff has stopped breathing!”
I found Jeff, a tuba player, lying across a bleacher, slipping in and out of consciousness and gasping for breath. Suddenly the all-important football game faded from significance. My number-one priority was to get help for Jeff. Paramedics arrived, and it wasn’t until after Jeff was safely on his way to the hospital that I even thought about checking the scoreboard.
After the game I realized that too many times in my own life I have allowed myself to get so involved in a fun yet unimportant event of life that I failed to recognize someone’s spiritual cry for help. During the football game it bothered me to watch Jeff struggle for breath and hear the cheers and laughter of fans that had no idea that anything was wrong.