Gospel Story Finder

Seventeen years ago today, during the Sunday afternoon session of general conference, I responded to President Hinckley’s assignment that I represent the six newly called Seventy in accepting our calls. As I awaited my turn at the midpoint of the session, I stood between two great Apostles: Elders Marvin J. Ashton and Bruce R. McConkie. I felt their love and support as I gazed with no little trepidation at the congregation of Saints gathered in the Tabernacle. Incidentally, we’re four times greater today. Elder Ashton, sensing my feelings, whispered, “I know it’s an awesome sight, but they’re all your friends.” As I stood that first time to speak, I felt the love of the Saints washing over me. Since then, in all the places to which worldwide assignments have taken us, Shirley and I have felt that same love and tried to return it.

I was a teenager when the missionaries brought the gospel into my home. I remember listening to their message and thinking that the Father and the Son appearing to 14-year-old Joseph Smith and an angel leading Joseph to golden plates sounded too good to be true. The missionaries also said that there was a living prophet on the earth. That also sounded too good to be true. But I noticed positive changes in our home as the missionaries taught our family. Soon I joined the Church.
Changes in my own life, however, didn’t come immediately just because I was baptized. I began attending church on Sundays, but other than that, I still did the same things I was doing before. It wasn’t until I was 17 years old that I made a promise to the Lord that I would read at least 10 pages of the Book of Mormon every day.
One of the first things I read was that the Book of Mormon was “written to the Lamanites,” and I was taught that the Lamanites “are among the ancestors of the American Indians” (Book of Mormon, Title Page and Introduction).
I am proud of my name and of my heritage. Because of my heritage, I felt that the Book of Mormon had special messages for me. I was eager to continue reading.
I never missed a day. As I read, I marked in red all the great truths everyone needs to know. Then I marked in yellow the promises the prophets made to the descendants of the Lamanites. As I did so, their words seemed to fly off the page!
After reading the last page, I got on my knees and asked Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon was true, if Joseph Smith was a prophet, and if the Church had a living prophet. As I prayed, I felt the Spirit powerfully witness to me the truth of these things.
“Because of my heritage, I felt that the Book of Mormon had special messages for me.”

I had been tidying my house, but I couldn’t even vacuum the floors and dust my furniture, because I had so much clutter laying around. God’s house is a house of order (D&C 132:8), and I needed to make mine that way too. A wonderful thing happened to me in the process of tidying my house – I found some “hidden” treasures. Most of us are familiar with the story in the New Testament about looking for a lost coin (Luke 15:8-10). Today, I was looking for my original birth certificate that I needed for applying for a free bus pass.
In the process of looking I found lots of other surprises, but unfortunately, I couldn’t find my birth certificate. I knew that I had originally put it into the top drawer of my filing cabinet in a light brown money belt; but I couldn’t find it anywhere. Then I looked through all the other file cabinet drawers, to no avail. The other drawers were filled with old bank statements, car repair bills, pay-cheques, house and car insurance documents, etc., but there was no birth certificate to be found anywhere.
Finally, after spending an hour searching, I prayed for help from Heavenly Father to find the lost document. I felt (through the Holy Ghost) that my birth certificate was indeed in the top drawer of my filing cabinet. So, I went back to the drawer and looked through all the piles of papers again. Imagine my surprise when I got down to the very bottom of the drawer and found my birth certificate in a blue pouch. That was when I remembered that I had changed where I stored my birth certificate about two years ago. I’m so glad that the Holy Ghost remembered where my birth certificate was.
But the story doesn’t end there. While delving into the bottom of my filing cabinet drawers, I also found 3 crisp, new, £20 notes, which were sitting among a pile of credit card receipts. Once I found the money, I remembered that I had put them there for safekeeping about a year ago. It was a lovely surprise to find them today. Yesterday I also found some money unexpectedly, as I was cleaning out my handbag. I found a small wallet that I hadn’t used for about two years and when I opened it, I found two £10 notes inside!
I also looked in my filing cabinet for my cheque book, because I wanted to attend tithing settlement on Sunday. I needed to write out a cheque for some extra tithing that I owed. I couldn’t remember the last time that I wrote a cheque for anything, so I had no idea where my cheque book was. When I eventually found it, I looked at the cheque stubs and saw that the last cheque that I had written was four years ago. It’s no wonder that the banks want to “phase” cheques out, because very few people use them anymore. The only thing that I used a cheque for in the past was to pay my tithing every month. Now that I pay my tithing using a standing order from my bank, I have no need to use cheques anymore. Once I had found my cheque book, I wrote out a cheque for the outstanding tithing that I owed this year and put it into my handbag.
On the way home from submitting my bus pass application, I thought to myself: “I should stop and say hello to Jan and Steve.” I hadn’t seen these friends for about two years because they had moved to a new house. Once I found the house, I knocked on the door and Jan opened it. She was in the middle of vacuuming and cleaning when I arrived unannounced and she was standing beside an ottoman in the kitchen. As we talked she said, “We have been in a big mess for a year, but we are finally getting things the way we want them now. I’m getting rid of this ottoman, would you like it?”
"Yes please," I replied.
What Jan didn’t know, was that I had been looking for an ottoman like this for about six months. I had even gone into three charity shops that day, looking for such an item, but I couldn’t find one. But the Holy Ghost knew exactly where a used ottoman was, and he prompted me to go to Jan’s new house, because that was the day that she was throwing one away.
Isn’t Heavenly Father kind to us? On the day that I wrote out a cheque for extra tithing, I found money and was given furniture equal to the exact amount that I had written out my tithing cheque for. I had read about these types of stories in the Ensign before, but it had never happened to me, until that day.

One day after having a good time cracking jokes at the expense of one of my closest friends, I began to feel guilty. It had seemed so harmless at the time. I tried to fight off my guilty feelings by telling myself, It was just a joke. She needs to lighten up. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was all it ever was with me—a joke.
I couldn’t help but think back to how I had been acting. It had taken me a while to notice, even though others had told me, “You used to be so nice to everyone.” A few had even said, “I remember when you used to never say anything rude about anyone.” At the time I hadn’t thought much of what they were telling me. I just thought it was their problem if they didn’t like it.
But I really had changed, and it all began with a few harmless jokes. I had always loved to make people laugh, so when people began to tell me how funny I was or ask me how I could come up with such funny things, I naturally loved it. I figured if they liked how funny I was then, they would love it when I really started cracking jokes.
For a while I was right. But soon I was going overboard and taking two of my best friends with me. People began to feel insecure when they were around me. They were always very uncomfortable. I was even told by a boy who had been one of my good friends the year before that it seemed like I was thriving on making people mad. I don’t see how people like my close friends could have stuck by me. I guess I was just one lucky girl.
I decided that maybe I should kneel down and pray about what I was doing. I now had a habit that seemed impossible to break. I prayed wholeheartedly, but when an answer didn’t come immediately I began to doubt the Lord would help me. I remembered that sometimes it just takes patience, so I decided to continue praying until I received an answer.
After a week of prayer both morning and night, I was nearly ready to give up. One day after I finished praying, I propped my head up against the headboard and reached for my scriptures. I closed my eyes for a moment. I was feeling miserable, and I couldn’t help thinking about the story in the scriptures that taught if you wasted your talents you would lose them (see Matt. 25:15–30).
All of a sudden an answer came to me. If I could get in the habit of doing bad deeds, I could definitely work on doing good deeds until soon I wouldn’t have to think about doing good. It would just come naturally. I knew it wouldn’t be easy at first, but it was definitely a skill I needed.
I prayed for Heavenly Father to be with me. I began to plan service projects, volunteer for charities, and do many other positive things. It’s been a year since I started. I’m not yet to the point where I would like to be, and it’s not always easy for me to control what I say. But I’m getting there.
Old habits do die hard. But now I’m working to develop a new, better habit that I hope will be around for a long time.

As I was walking back from a Preach My Gospel activity with my group at Especially for Youth (EFY), I saw a man at a picnic table all by himself. I was walking back to my room, and I felt prompted to go talk to him. Shyly I went over there with my friends. We talked to him for just five minutes. It was such an amazing missionary experience to share a little bit about the gospel with someone.
The rest of the week we saw him every day! We just talked to him and shared whatever we had talked about that day in our classes with him. We ended up giving him a Book of Mormon that we had all written our testimonies in. A year later I learned that the man was baptized! I am so grateful for the opportunity I had to teach the gospel to him with the help of my friends.

I eagerly glanced down at the basketball summer league schedule, and saw to my dismay that 8 of the 12 games were on Sunday. What was I going to do? I don’t play on Sunday.
I looked across the room at my talented teammate. I had worked so hard to win the starting forward position, and if I didn’t play, I was going to lose the job to him. But I had decided a long time ago to never play on Sunday, and that wasn’t about to change now.
The coach finished up his speech by saying, “Congratulations on making the team. The first practice is tomorrow at five. See you then.”
The team slowly filed out the door as I sat nervously in my seat. I knew my course of action, but that wasn’t going to make this any easier. I hesitantly walked up to the front of the room and said, “Hey coach, I have a little problem.”
“What’s that, Brad?” he asked.
“Well, I was looking at the schedule, and I saw that there were eight games on Sunday. I won’t be able to play in those games,” I said with a shaky voice.
“How come?” he asked with a surprised look on his face.
“It’s a religious thing. I believe in keeping the Sabbath day holy and part of that is not playing sports on Sunday,” I responded, feeling a little awkward with the situation.
“Okay, well listen. I would still love to have you for the other games—that is if you still want to play,” he said with a smile.
“I would love to,” I said, and we shook hands as if to seal the agreement. I turned and walked out the door, feeling less awkward and more satisfied.
True, I wasn’t going to play for most of the league games and I might lose my starting position, but I felt good all the same. If I hadn’t made the decision early that I was never going to play on Sunday, I might have chosen differently. But I knew I would be blessed for keeping the Lord’s commandments. I confidently walked away from that room knowing that everything was going to be all right.

I picked up my husband’s memoirs and read, once again, his account of finding the Church more than half a century ago:
“As a 20-year-old in 1951, I was at the school of sergeants at the Kronborg Castle [in Denmark]. On Christmas night I was on guard duty on the embankment that surrounds the castle. At one point I stopped, looked up to the stars, and felt that there was more between the sky and the earth than I had thus far thought. In other words, I began to believe that there was a God, which I had never really believed before. My parents were absolutely not religious, and they and I came to church only for baptisms, confirmations, weddings, and funerals.
“When months later I became a sergeant, I got my own troop: 44 new recruits—or more exactly, 43 plus 1. This one was very different, and when I asked him what it was that made him different from the others, he said he would tell me in the evening inside my quarters.
“There he told me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for five evenings in a row. On the sixth day, Sunday, I went to church. And with that my new life began.
“The Church involved me completely. Little by little I became acquainted with the members of the Church. I found out that my recruit was not so much different than the overall membership.
“I became convinced that the Church was true, that it was the Lord’s Church—and I was baptized. A truly magnificent day.”
I am grateful that my husband, Orla, who died in 1998, included these words in his personal history. That long-ago Christmas night, when my husband first sensed that God truly did exist, and his conversations with the new recruit are responsible for our meeting each other, being sealed in the temple, and having five children—who have now brought grandchildren and great-grandchildren into our family. We have had a rich life in the Church and many blessings. I am grateful for that Christmas night and for the new recruit in Denmark those many years ago.

How we rejoiced almost six years later when the Sydney Australia Temple was dedicated in September 1984. We drove 1100 km to attend the temple dedication. From then on, faithful saints from Melbourne and Brisbane regularly participated in weekend bus trips (12 hours each way) to the Sydney Australia Temple—leaving after work on Friday, spending Saturday in the temple and then journeying back overnight on Saturday to arrive in time for church on Sunday.

One time during a particularly intense blizzard, our tractor tore a drive belt in the middle of our driveway. My mother and I soon discovered we had no more extra belts. The tractor had to be pushed back into the garage. With the wind chill, the temperature was about 20 degrees below zero (-29° C). My fingers were so cold they had become almost nonresponsive. Unfortunately, the tractor wasn’t going to go anywhere by itself, so Mom and I put it in neutral gear and tried to push it.
Our initial efforts were futile. Even with heavy-duty snow boots we couldn’t get enough friction to push the tractor forward. I remember falling and bruising my knees several times as my feet failed to get any traction on the slippery ice. I was cold, I was miserable, and I wanted hot chocolate. If we were going to get this done, we needed a different approach.
It became apparent that we needed to literally put our “shoulders to the wheel,” simultaneously pushing down with all of our strength on the front side of the tires. Because we were pushing down instead of forward, we were able to move the tractor! Slowly but surely, we pushed the tractor back into the garage.

After his brother had fallen asleep and their candle had burned out, Gaelin lay awake. The room was black, except where the moon shone through the window. He was trying to remember something so that he could forget how dark it was and how the shadows looked like wicked giants on the wall.
Only that morning, Gaelin had held the big stallion’s reins as he watched his father, Sir Gareth, swing into the saddle. Equipped with shield and sword, Sir Gareth had smiled at Gaelin through kindly eyes and said, “Now, my little knight, take good care of your brothers and sisters while I’m gone. And remember, Son, that true courage is fear that has said its prayers.” Then he had turned his charger and joined others of King Arthur’s knights as they assembled for a journey.
The next morning Gaelin arose early, dressed quickly, and ran down the stairs. He didn’t think about Sir Gareth’s words again until it was dark. Shivering more because of the eerie shadows than the cold, he went to his room.
That evening about eleven o’clock, a storm blew in from the ocean. The thunder and lightning were the worst part. Loud thunderclaps shook the stone walls of the castle. Gaelin and his little brother shivered under their wolfskins until they fell asleep.
It was past midnight when Gaelin’s mother came into the room and found the boys asleep. She whispered Gaelin’s name, and he awoke with a start. “What’s wrong, Mother?” he asked.
“Your littlest sister is very sick,” she replied. “Get up and dress quickly! The stableboy is saddling your pony. You must ride to the village and fetch old Grimbauld. She can save Leonora if anyone can!”
“The village?” Gaelin stared at his mother in horror. “But it’s five miles away … and it’s thundering and raining so hard!” He bit his lip, terrified of riding in the storm. Then he looked at his mother’s anxious face and whispered, “I’ll go.”
In a few minutes he was on his way, with the wind tugging at his cloak and teasing his pony’s tail. Brennet, his pony, lowered his head and drove himself into the rain while Gaelin held up the lantern his mother had given him. The boy squinted into the wind and bumped the pony’s sides with his heels.
Gaelin was soaking wet and cold even before he reached the forest. Five miles of forest, he worried. It’s dark and howling with wind and full of bears and dragons! Can I make it? His tiny lantern threatened to go out at any moment, and then he would certainly become lost!
The trail through the forest was well worn, and Gaelin urged Brennet into a gallop. The best way is to do it quickly, he decided. Then there won’t be time to be frightened. But the lantern swung wildly, and its moving shadows looked like dark giants bounding from behind old twisted trees to carry him away!
Brennet was strong-winded and had been ridden often, so Gaelin kept him running until he steamed beneath the saddlecloth and his breath came hard. Surely I’m almost to the village, Gaelin thought.
They stopped only once, when there was an explosion and a blinding flash ahead. The pony reared up on his hind legs, snorting. Gaelin didn’t fall, but he felt his heart pounding in his throat. Even so, he encouraged Brennet on.
As they rounded a bend, Gaelin saw the tree. Blackened and still smoking from the lightning, it had fallen across the path. He swallowed hard, gripped the pony’s sides tightly with his knees, and urged him to jump. But Brennet was too tired. He couldn’t spring high enough from the muddy earth, and his front hooves didn’t clear the branches. The pony tumbled headlong on the other side, pitching Gaelin from his saddle so that he struck the ground with the arm that held the lantern.
When Gaelin sat up, he was surrounded by blackness. The lantern was smashed! He couldn’t see the trees, his pony, or even the puddle he’d landed in. Fighting back tears because it was unknightly to cry, he suddenly remembered Sir Gareth’s words: Remember that courage is fear that has said its prayers.
With the storm crashing overhead, Gaelin knelt and prayed: “Please, dear God, don’t let me be frightened anymore! My little sister is very sick, and I must get help. Help me to find the way and not be scared! In the name of Christ our Lord, amen.”
Brennet was snuffling at the boy’s shoulder. Gaelin found the reins, swung up onto the pony, and started off once more. The moon was beginning to show its round face between the clouds, and the storm was moving up the countryside.
In front of old Grimbauld’s cottage, Gaelin tumbled off his exhausted mount and pounded on the heavy door with a hand that no longer shook. The kind peasant woman, wrapped in a thick shawl, brought him in to sit beside her little fire. With a dry sheepskin around him, he delivered his message.
Gaelin was warm by the time she’d gathered her herbs and other things and bridled her mule. She paused in the doorway and looked at him kindly. “You came all that way through the storm, boy? Weren’t you frightened? You must have the courage of a knight!”
Gaelin only smiled as he went out to take care of faithful Brennet. He wasn’t frightened anymore, and he knew that little Leonora would soon be well.

At the top of a hill, the highway traffic on I-65 rushes right by a grove of trees. Few people even notice the cluster of 30 to 40 headstones nestled in the triangle between the main road and an off-ramp leading toward Vinemont and some other small towns. But the young men of the Cullman Ward, Huntsville Alabama Stake, pay attention to the spot whenever they go by. It’s the site of the Wilhite Cemetery, and without their efforts, including four Eagle Scout projects over the years, the graves of these settlers from the 1820s, and of others in additional cemeteries nearby, could quietly disappear.
Back in Cullman, the young men talk about the value of building a tradition. “We’ve cleaned a lot of the cemeteries up in the hills here,” says Amel Drake, 13. “It started with one Eagle project, and that led to another and another and another.” For example, five miles away in Falkville, members of this same Troop/Team 335 earlier cleaned up a cemetery of about 150 graves, including the resting places of both slaves and prominent citizens. These Scouts have learned to safely operate weed whackers, to properly glue broken headstones together, and to keep a journal of names and locations for people who wish to visit graves or do family history research.
“We don’t just do cemeteries; we do other Eagle projects too,” says Enoch Jones, 15. “And we do lots of community service, to benefit others and ourselves.” He pauses, then adds, “Traditions are a part of our heritage. Building a tradition of service helps us to remember who we are and where we come from. Keeping up the cemeteries is just a part of that.”

Many years ago, when I was a young boy during the decade of the 1960s, I would attend church with my family each Sunday. At that time, we would attend Sunday School in the morning and sacrament meeting in the late afternoon. I remember attending junior Sunday School and sitting in the Primary room with other children as we sang Primary songs such as, “Jesus Once Was a Little Child,” “When He Comes Again,” and “I Am a Child of God.” One particular Sunday morning, as I sang with the other children, I felt a warmth fill my heart. It went from my heart to my chest, and then it filled my whole body. It was a warmth that brought peace to my soul. In that moment, I felt my first experience with the Holy Ghost witnessing to me that God the Father lived, and that He knew me. It was a simple experience, but it was sweet to me and one that I remember vividly over fifty years later.

“I was excited for my 12th birthday,” says McKell C., 12. “My family had plans to go to the temple that day. But the morning before, my mom woke me.”
“Get up!” Mom said in a frantic voice. “We have to get up!”
“Mom told me there was a fire coming, that we needed to pack our things and get out,” McKell says. “We evacuate a lot. We thought we’d be coming back soon, so no one really packed anything. But the Holy Ghost definitely knew that we weren’t. He prompted me to grab some of my special stuff. We stayed at my grandparents’ cabin that night.
“The next day, we still went to the temple. I was really excited. I have always wanted to go to the temple. That day, everyone was on their phones texting each other to know what was happening and to make sure people got out alive. There was a lot of stress.
“Right as we walked in the temple, my dad got a text from someone saying, ‘Sorry, we just drove by your house and it’s gone.’
“The Holy Ghost definitely helped me that day. I had a happy, relieved feeling in the temple. My cousin baptized me, and when I came out of the baptismal font, my jumpsuit was super heavy, but I actually felt really light. I forgot about how my house had burned down.
“Today, if something bad happens, I know that when I go into the temple, it’s easier for me to move forward. It strengthens me every time.”

I remember an experience when I was a young missionary. We met a gentleman during the blessing of a child in church. After the meeting, we exchanged contact information to go to his house and give him the missionary lessons. After teaching him the first lesson, the Spirit was very strong, and the gentleman was very moved by what he had learned. That’s when he asked for our address.

Surprised by that question, my companion and I asked him the reason for such a question. He told us that this message was so important that it would be better for him to come and take the lessons with us. Knowing that the gospel message is based on families, we kindly insisted that we keep going to his house to have the opportunity to teach the other members of his family as well.

Thanks to such an experience, this family is now baptized, sealed in the temple, and live the gospel in great joy. This story teaches and confirms to me that the field is white already to harvest. It also teaches me that if we are worthy, the Holy Ghost will guide us to people that are prepared and will also guide them to us to help them find the path to eternal life.

My father could remember the very day, even the very hour, that his family—father, mother, and four children—left the Church, many never to return again in this life. He was 13 years old, a deacon, and in those days families attended Sunday School in the morning and then sacrament meeting in the afternoon. On a beautiful spring day, after returning home from Sunday morning worship services and having a midday family meal together, his mother turned to his father and asked simply, “Well, dear, do you think we should go to sacrament meeting this afternoon, or should we take the family for a ride in the country?”
The idea that there was an option to sacrament meeting had never occurred to my father, but he and his three teenage siblings all sat up and paid careful attention. That Sunday afternoon ride in the country was probably an enjoyable family activity, but that small decision became the start of a new direction which ultimately led his family away from the Church with its safety, security, and blessings and onto a different path.
My father was fortunate to marry a good woman who encouraged him to come back to the church of his youth and begin again to progress along the path. Their faithful lives have blessed all of their children, the next generation of grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren.
Just as the simple decision to attend or not attend one of their Sabbath day worship meetings made a significant difference in the lives of my grandparents’ family, our everyday decisions will impact our lives in significant ways. A seemingly small decision such as whether or not to attend a sacrament meeting can have far-reaching, even eternal, consequences.

Daniel was excited. He was flying on an airplane to visit his grandparents in Peru. They weren’t members of the Church, but he loved them and they loved him.
When Daniel got to Peru, he was happy to see his grandparents. He also was a little homesick. Things were different in Peru than at home in Spain. But he knew one thing could be the same.
Can we have prayer before bedtime?
Why do you want to pray?
Because Jesus told us to.
OK. How do you pray?
We need to kneel down, bow our heads, and close our eyes.
We can thank Heavenly Father for our blessings and ask Him to help us.
Daniel’s grandparents were so impressed that they prayed every morning and night during Daniel’s visit.
Daniel felt happy when he prayed with his grandparents. He knew Heavenly Father was happy too.

When I was a young man, my home was on Long Island about 30 miles from New York City. My father had a large yard with hedges, rock gardens, a fish pool, a vegetable garden, lawns, and trees. They all required regular care. There were always chores, like cutting the lawn in the summer and raking leaves in the autumn.
I thought we worked pretty hard taking care of our yard, but one day my father said to me, “You’re never going to learn how to work until you go out and work on the ranch with your Uncle Frank.” So I spent that summer in Skull Valley near Tooele, Utah, learning how to work.
I had grown up near a large city. Ranch life was an education for me. I was impressed to see the cattle and the horses and the hard work necessary to bring about the harvest. I can remember the feelings when I first realized that an enormous amount of preparation was necessary before the crops were brought in. We had to plow, harrow, plant, cultivate, weed, irrigate, and then continue to cultivate, weed, and irrigate, endlessly it seemed. That summer is a cherished part of my heritage because it was there, in this almost desolate, remote corner of the world, that I learned the law of the harvest.

I have also had to repent. Before I repented, my friends all knew what was going on, and I felt like I was letting everyone down. My family relationships were bad too. It helped to talk to my parents. They were upset, but they supported my decision to change. I lost a lot of friends, but the ones I have now love me even though I made some bad choices. It helps to pray to Heavenly Father. He knew what I was going through and helped me through the trial. He will help anyone who asks for help.
Allisyn G., 16, Utah, USA

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,” Mama sang to baby Charlie. The harsh wind howled and blew red dirt through the cracks of the one-room log cabin. Rachel’s whole family couldn’t fall asleep that night. The clock hands pointed straight up to midnight as Papa got up to start a fire and Mama gazed at the dark sky out the window. Rachel closed her eyes tight and tried to fall asleep. Then she heard her mother whisper to her father.
“Look at all this dirt. I miss the green grass and pretty flowers at our old home,” she said. “Remember when I used to pin flowers to my dress? I miss that.”
Rachel missed the flowers at their old house too. Their new cabin didn’t have any flowers growing nearby. In fact, Rachel had noticed only a few little white flowers in all of southern Utah! Mama said they were called sego lilies. Maybe I can find one of those little white flowers tomorrow for Mama! she thought, just before falling asleep.
When sun shone through the window near Rachel’s bed, she knew it was time to get up. She pulled on her dress and tied a ribbon in her hair. She swept the kitchen floor without being asked.
“Thank you for your help, Rachel,” Mama said. “What would I do without you?”
While she did her chores that morning, Rachel tried to think of places she could find a flower for Mama. There has to be at least one flower out here, she thought. But I may have to look everywhere to find it.
She had just finished hanging clothes on the clothesline when she saw her friend Sarah walking toward her. Rachel told Sarah about her plan. With their bonnets tied under their chins, they searched everywhere for something beautiful.
They looked under the wagon. Nothing. They searched through the sagebrush. Nothing. They looked near the edge of the stream. Still nothing.
“Maybe we can find something over there.” Rachel pointed to the field her father was plowing.
The girls walked toward the field. Rachel ran her eyes along the edge from one sagebrush bush to the next. Suddenly she spotted a small white flower. It had three white petals and a purple center. Rachel gasped. It was a sego lily! “Look, Sarah!” she said. “Isn’t that pretty?”
Rachel gently picked the little flower from the red dirt and showed it to Sarah.
“It’s perfect!” Sarah said.
“Mama!” Rachel shouted as they ran toward the cabin. “Look what we found!”
Mama looked up from washing clothes, and Rachel gave her the flower. “Now you have a beautiful flower to pin on your dress.”
“Oh, Rachel. It is beautiful!” her mother said. As she admired the delicate sego lily, tears came to her eyes. She pulled Rachel in for a tight hug. “Let’s put it in some water to keep it fresh.”
As she finished her chores, Rachel kept glancing up at the sego lily. She felt happy every time she looked at it.
In her prayer that night, Rachel thanked Heavenly Father for creating the beautiful flower to grow in the desert. She told Him how happy she was that she found it. Then she climbed into bed. When Papa kissed her goodnight, he said, “What a wonderful surprise, Rachel. You made your mother very happy.”
Then Mama smiled and kissed Rachel on the cheek. “Thank you for finding me a beautiful flower. It reminded me that you’re the most precious gift of all.”

Mom wasn’t surprised at all, and she told me a story: “When you were a tiny baby and round all over, your daddy brought you this blanket. He held you and the blanket in one arm and said, ‘Blanket, blanket,’ lots of times. You said, ‘Ginky.’ Dad smiled and said, ‘Blanket.’ Both of you were talking about the same thing.”
I had to laugh at that.
“Pretty soon,” Mom went on, “we all got used to calling your blanket Ginky, the way you did. ‘Here’s Ginky,’ your daddy or I would say, or ‘Won’t you let us wash Ginky just once, real quick?’ But you never wanted Ginky to be washed.”
“I didn’t want Ginky swooshing around in all that soap,” I told her.
Now Ginky smells kind of stuffy and dusty from being in the drawer so long. Ginky used to be soft. I remember stroking my cheek with Ginky and wrapping it around my arm (the one with the good-tasting thumb) before I went to sleep.
At first Ginky had a satin edging that I could curl around my fingers. I could make a scratchy noise on it, too, with my fingernail. But the satin is almost all worn off now.
Lots of babies have blankets. But there isn’t another Ginky.
You know, I took Ginky to bed with me last night—just for remembering. I didn’t really need to. I tried wrapping Ginky around my arm. I tried scratching the worn-out satin. I even tried sucking my thumb.
But my thumb just doesn’t taste good anymore. After a while, I got all tangled up in Ginky. I wanted to go to sleep, so I folded Ginky carefully beside me. “Good night,” I said.
This morning Ginky was still there, looking kind of raggedy on my pillow. I packed Ginky away in my special box. Mom says that when I’m a big person, we’ll open my box and look at all the things I saved as I was growing up.
My picture album and my doll without any hair and a drawing I made of a fire engine were in my box already. I think Ginky belongs there with those other things.