Gospel Story Finder

When Alma Elizabeth’s family reached Utah they settled in Mount Pleasant. As a pioneer she worked hard. She learned how to card and spin wool, weave carpets, milk cows, knit and crochet, make gloves out of buckskin, weave hats out of braided straw, stack hay, and bundle wheat.
One time she collected wheat left in the fields after the harvest and sold it for $10. With some of the money, she bought ten yards of calico for her first party dress.

I don’t think any of us had any idea how big America really was. When we landed in Boston, we didn’t realize that our long journey was just beginning, rather than nearing its end.
From Boston, we traveled to Iowa City, Iowa, by railroad. The new railroad saved us weeks of traveling by wagon. The cattle cars were crowded, but we endured the journey well. The train stopped in Buffalo, New York, on the Fourth of July. We could only watch the people celebrate. How I wanted to join them!
Finally we arrived in Iowa City. From the train station, we walked three miles in rain and mud to the place where we were to meet the Church’s agent in charge of organizing the trek. We had been assured that everything would be ready for us when we arrived, but it wasn’t. The handcarts hadn’t even been built! We camped and worked at preparing for the journey until all was ready.
Eventually the handcarts were obtained, and our family was assigned to Captain Edward Martin’s company. Near the end of July 1856, we cheerfully began our journey to Zion. Our family had three carts when we started out. Each cart could carry about 120 pounds of baggage, 100 pounds of flour, cooking utensils, and additional food. There were 576 people in our company. I’d never been with so many members of the Church!
Pulling the handcarts wasn’t bad at first. But many of them broke down because they were built of green wood. We pulled those carts three hundred miles to Florence, Nebraska. The last members of our company, and the Willie company, arrived there on August 22. As soon as we arrived, there was some disagreement as to whether we should continue on. Some said that it was too late in the year. They felt that we should set up a winter camp in Florence and wait until spring to travel to Salt Lake City. But most of the Saints were for starting immediately. After much discussion, it was decided to continue on. We were anxious to finish our long journey. About a thousand miles remained ahead of us, but we had already come so many miles that another thousand seemed like a short trip. We didn’t know that the worst part of our journey was still ahead.

Some years ago, while I was serving as the mission president in Portugal, several of our missionaries introduced me to their shoeshine man. Their shoes looked so good that I was anxious to meet the man that could put such a shine on missionaries’ shoes. Even though he had not chosen to listen to the missionaries’ message, I considered the shoeshine man my friend, and we visited while he was busy shining my shoes. He indicated that his wife had died, that he had no family, and that about the only pleasure he had in life was seeing people walk away happy with the shoes he had just shined.
His place of business was on the curbside of a small square on a busy street in downtown Lisbon. His stand seemed to have all that was necessary. It consisted of a short, rusty, three-legged stool, upon which my frail friend would sit as he shined the shoes that were placed on a stained and well-used shoeshine box that was full of his polishes and brushes, and there was an ornate lamppost (which was kindly furnished by the city of Lisbon), upon which the customer would lean while he was having his shoes shined.
He would carefully apply two coats of polish, using a brush to polish between each coat. Last, he applied a special product that would give the shoes that extra special shine. With a final snap of the cloth, he would stand up, take off his little Portuguese cap, make a deep bow, and say, “Pronto. Seus sapatos foram engrashados pelo o melhor engraxate do mundo.” “There. Your shoes were shined by the very best shoeshine man in the world.” I was convinced that I had had my shoes shined by the very best.
A few months after our mission, I was called to serve as the Regional Representative to Portugal and had the opportunity to return to Lisbon a number of times. As occasion permitted, I would have my shoes shined by the “best shoeshine man in the world.”
The last few times that I went, I was unable to find him at his usual place of business. I finally inquired at the prestigious stores that surrounded the square. The response was the same, “We don’t know what happened to him. It seems that we had heard that he had died.” I remember thinking, Could it be that the best shoeshine man in the world had died, and no one really knew or even seemed to care? I wondered: Had there been someone there with him, or did he slip away unnoticed?
May we contrast that for a moment with Brother and Sister Joaquim Aires, a marvelous man and his wife who came to Portugal following the 1974 revolution of Portugal’s colonies in Angola and Mozambique. They had returned to Portugal unknown and with very few possessions. A great blessing occurred in their lives. They opened their door to two young missionaries, who taught them of the restoration of Christ’s church. They received the missionaries, accepted their message, and were baptized.
As is the opportunity for all worthy men in the Church, he received the priesthood—authority to act in the name of our Father in Heaven—and to become a leader in the Church. Brother Aires became President Aires, president of one of the mission districts.
One day I received a telephone call. President Aires was in the hospital in Coimbra, several hours’ travel away. He had suffered a very serious cerebral hemorrhage and was in very critical condition. Another priesthood holder and I made the trip as quickly as possible. As we walked quietly into the hospital room, we found him asleep. My first inclination was not to awaken him. And then I thought he would want to know that we had come. So I reached over and carefully touched his hand. He slowly opened his eyes and then looked at me for a moment, and then the tears came to both of our eyes. He then said in a very weak and soft voice, “I knew you would come. I knew you would come. Would you please give me a blessing.” In his dear, sweet faith, he was asking for a priesthood blessing, the same that is taught of and recorded in the Bible. We read in James 5:14–15: “Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord:
“And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up.”
As men of the priesthood, it was our privilege to pronounce a blessing on him with power and authority of our Father in Heaven.
As I would meet with the members of the Church from one end of Portugal to the other, the brothers and sisters would ask, “How is Brother Aires? Will you please tell him we love him and we’re praying for him?”
This good man and his wife, who had returned to Portugal almost unknown, now, because of their membership in the Church, had literally thousands who loved them and were concerned about them and remembered him in their prayers.
The prayers of faith were answered. He recovered completely, and he and Sister Aires went on to fulfill a full-time mission together.
I have thought often of the contrast between the two—my little shoeshine man on one hand, who, like so many of life’s unknown wanderers, had slipped away without any understanding of life’s purpose; and Brother Aires on the other, who was not only taught of life’s real purpose, but had now become a part of a great body of people who showed their love and appreciation for him.
As the Apostle Paul wrote to the members of the Church, or Saints as they were called and are called today, he reminded the newly baptized members of the Church of the blessings of belonging when he told them, “Ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Eph. 2:19). What a blessing it is to belong and to be wanted and needed! It becomes even more apparent during life’s tender moments.
To all who find yourselves outside the household of faith and away from the Saints, would you please accept this invitation to come unto Christ that we might all, as Alma said, “bear one another’s burdens” (Mosiah 18:8). Join with the Saints, that you might not be any longer strangers alone in this world, but truly cared for, loved, and appreciated.
And to all of us—those of us who are members of the Church, could I just counsel with you for a moment? Do you have anyone that you know who might be as our little shoeshine man, who is alone—alone in this great crowd of people—that could use your special love and caring and concern? Could you take a moment and let such people know how much you love them?
And may we also, as members of the Church, truly do our part to make His church a welcome refuge for all of our Father in Heaven’s children, I pray humbly in the name of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, amen.

But in trying for balance, Scott has discovered he needs to set priorities. A year or so ago, he was playing several sports, going to school and seminary, taking music lessons, spending time with friends. “I was thinking of quitting hockey,” he says. “I wasn’t happy, and it took up so much of my time. I realized if I wanted to play hockey I had to give up some of the other stuff.” He decided to put aside other sports and his guitar for a while. The NHL, the crowds, the excitement—it’s a hard dream to let die.

One Saturday my family went to a store. We noticed a man there who looked familiar. It was President Thomas S. Monson. When he saw us, he shook my hand and asked me how old I was. When I told him I was eight years old, he asked me if I had been baptized yet. I was so happy that I had made the decision to be baptized and could tell him, “Yes, I have.” He told me to make sure I planned for a mission later. I am thankful I got to shake President Monson’s hand and talk to him. I am thankful that I got baptized. I am planning to go on a mission when I am 19.Kyle M., age 8, Utah

After 15 months I was reassigned to the American Embassy in Pretoria, South Africa. I was selected as the first Black Marine security guard ever to serve in South Africa. In each place I was assigned, I was handpicked because of my standards. Interestingly, U.S. president Bill Clinton phoned to ask me to accept the South Africa assignment. Those were some of the reasons I received many recognitions and awards.
In South Africa I met the Cleverlys, who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The mother of the family invited me to their home at various times. She always told me about young adult activities, but I could never attend due to my job schedule. Then she invited me to attend church, and I accepted. But before Sunday came, I had three nights of duty. I went downstairs to the embassy library where there was a computer with a huge search capacity. I just typed in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. All kinds of information came up, and I read for eight hours the first night, eight hours the second night, and eight hours the third night. What I looked at most of all was what Latter-day Saints believed and how they applied it in their lives. Did they live according to what they had established as laws or standards of the Church?
The week preceding my visit to church, I had a dream. I was sitting at a table, and there were two young men with white short-sleeved shirts and black name tags. They were sitting at the sides of a table, and I was seated at the head. When I woke up, I didn’t think much about the dream.
The first time I walked into a Latter-day Saint meeting, I knew there was something different about this church. It happened to be the first Sunday of the month, which meant the members had an opportunity to stand and bear testimony. Now this is the true order of church, I thought.
I was introduced to two missionaries. One of the young men was one of those in my dream, the exact person. Sister Cleverly invited the missionaries and me to her home for dinner. She placed us at the table exactly as my dream had predicted. The missionaries began teaching me.
Later, when I learned the principle of baptism for the dead, I thought it amazing that one could go to a sacred place and do these things for people who had passed away. I thought about my two grandfathers and my grandmother who had passed away. That’s when I started to feel the Holy Ghost. The teachings sounded right to me.
We got to the next principle, which was about families, and I realized I had always known that was true. When I heard about eternal families, I told the missionaries, “I knew this existed.”
Then the missionaries taught me about the Word of Wisdom, and it was then I made a discovery. It felt as if my soul unfolded, and I shed a sort of shell and a new person came out. I felt like I was floating off the ground. I had always lived the Word of Wisdom, and I had wanted to know why I was the way I was. No one had ever had the answer for me. But the Lord did, and I learned that answer through the missionaries and the discussions. I knew everything they had taught me previously was true and everything they would teach me would be true. I had never felt the Spirit so strongly reading the scriptures as when I read Doctrine and Covenants 89:18–21. I knew it was true. I always knew my body was important, and I knew it was never to be defiled.
From this point forward, I began to experience mixed emotions about becoming a member of the Church. I was concerned about my father’s opinion and his reaction to my decision.
During the sixth discussion, I received the message that I had an incoming call from my father. The phone rang. I picked it up, and it was indeed my dad.
He said, “Your mother informed me you’ve made a decision to join the Latter-day Saints.”
I said yes.
He said, “I’m here to prevent that from happening.”
And I said, “You know what, Dad? I love you and you’ll always be my dad. You’ve done a great job with me. But I’m 22. I’m a man now, and these decisions are for my family and my future. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and will continue to do for me, but this is my decision. I’m going to do it, and I know the Lord wants me to do this.”
My dad wasn’t very happy when he hung up the phone. Immediately I got on my knees and asked the Lord to help me see and understand that what I was going to do was correct. I was thousands of kilometers from home. I was all alone, and nothing was going right. Only when I was with the missionaries did I feel good. At that moment the Spirit testified to me that it was the Lord’s will and that the Lord wanted me to be baptized. A very clear voice said, “You are to do the Lord’s will. You are to follow His example.” Then I knew. I never looked back after that. I was baptized on 12 October 1995.
It was a year to the day of my baptism, 12 October 1996, that I entered the Washington D.C. Temple to be endowed in preparation for serving full time in the Spain Madrid Mission.
During the first year of my mission, my parents were not supportive of my missionary service. The Lord revealed to me while I was on my mission that my family was fine and they would be taken care of. Then things changed all of a sudden. The last six to eight months of my mission, my family was very supportive. They said they were receiving blessings, and they knew it was because of my mission.
After I returned from my mission, I stayed with my family for three weeks before leaving to enter Brigham Young University. Before school started my father visited me, meeting my friends and seeing Salt Lake City. When I took him to the airport, he embraced me and said, “Out of all 46 years of my life, never ever have I felt more love or the Spirit of God in my home than when you were home the last few weeks. I know we owe it to the service you gave in Spain for two years.”

Daniel stared out the window. He saw his friends heading to the park with a basketball. He wanted to go too.
“I can’t take you today, Daniel,” Mom said. “Your sister has a bad cold. And you’re not quite old enough to go alone. I’m sorry.”
Daniel frowned at his sister, Elise. She was sitting in her wheelchair with her toys on her lap. She was five, but she couldn’t walk or talk yet. Elise coughed hard. She got sick a lot, and she couldn’t go outside if it was too hot or too cold. And she had to eat through a tube in her stomach.
Daniel loved his sister, but sometimes he felt angry too. It was hard to always do what was best for Elise. He just wanted to play with the other kids. His stomach knotted in frustration.
“It’s not fair!” he said to Mom. “Everything is always about Elise!” He ran down the hall to his room.
Two days later Elise’s cough got much worse, and she had to go to the hospital. Daniel’s grandparents came to stay with him. Mom and Dad spent most of their time at the hospital with Elise for the rest of the week.
Daniel’s grandparents could take him to play with the other kids. But now Daniel was worried about Elise. He was sorry for what he had said to his mom that day. He didn’t like how sometimes he couldn’t go play because of Elise. But Daniel loved how she smiled when he talked to her, and being with her made him feel happy.
Daniel looked out the window, hoping to see Mom and Dad bringing Elise home.
Suddenly Daniel saw Mom’s car turn into the driveway. He ran to meet her.
“Mom, I’m sorry for what I said about Elise that day I got mad,” he said, hugging her tight.
“It’s OK,” Mom said as she hugged him back. “I know you love her. It doesn’t seem fair that we can’t always do the things you want to do. It’s hard sometimes for everybody. But I know we are blessed to have Elise in our family.”
“I miss her,” said Daniel.
“Me too,” said Mom. “The doctor said she can probably come home tomorrow.”
Two weeks later Daniel and Elise were both in Primary.
“Everyone find a partner and form a circle!” the Primary president said.
Daniel hurried forward and grabbed his sister’s wheelchair.
“Elise is my partner,” he told her teacher. He wheeled her up front to join the circle of children.
He looked over at Elise. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
Daniel was glad Elise could be home again. He wanted to be a special brother to her.

He loved the youth of the Church, as is evidenced by the experience of Heber J. Grant. Nine days after Heber’s birth, his father, Jedediah M. Grant, who was Second Counselor to President Brigham Young, died. For the next 21 years, Brigham Young took special interest in the boy Heber J. Grant.

Heber J. Grant wrote:
“I was almost as familiar in the homes of President Brigham Young as I was in the home of my own mother. In one home … if I was hungry I felt as free to go in and ask for something to eat there as in my own home. … I knelt down time and time again in his home in the Lion House at family prayers, as a child and as a young man.”

A short time after that reunion, young Bruford Reynolds, a son, who was also a bishop, called and said, “Did you know my dad is in the hospital? He had a serious heart attack. He is in the LDS Hospital, and we wondered if you knew.” I had not known. I told him that I would like to see him but I had to catch a plane in a little over an hour. I didn’t see how I could get up to the hospital before I had to leave. He then said, “Oh, that’s okay. Dad is going to be released tomorrow to return home.”
I said, “Tell him I love him, and I’ll drop in to see him as soon as I get back.”
I hung up the phone, thought for only a moment, and decided everything else could wait. I took my briefcase, airplane tickets, and drove to the LDS Hospital to see Bruford Reynolds. As I walked through the door, our eyes met. The love between a great man and boy spanned the years. I went over to him and sat down, and we talked. Then I said, “I know you have been administered to, but would you feel all right if I knelt by your bed and offered a prayer?” I knelt down and together we prayed. When I finished, my eyes were filled with tears, as were his. Then I bent down over him and kissed him on the forehead and left.
Bruford Reynolds died an hour later. I was one of his boys, saying “farewell” to a great adviser one last time.

I had awakened that morning to the sound of Trophy’s hooves on the dusty cobblestones outside my window. I jumped from my feather bed and ran to the window, flinging the shutters wide. Through the vines, I saw Trophy bobbing his head and waiting patiently as Malcolm Greenaway delivered milk to our doorstep and walked along the picket fence toward Bridey’s house. “Good morning, Mr. Greenaway,” I called as he passed beneath my window.
“Good morning, Jessica.” He waved, then continued on his way.
At the sound of my voice, Trophy swung his head slowly in my direction and peered at me from behind his blinders.
“Hi, Trophy, old horse,” I whispered.
The black dappled horse followed his master, the milk wagon rumbling quietly behind. I leaned far out the window and pushed the green viny leaves aside, watching as the wagon turned the corner and went down Church Street.
A horse is a beautiful creature, I thought, and sank back on my bed to stare at the ruffled canopy above my head. If Father would only allow girls to ride horses, how much happier I would be! But my father held to the idea that girls and ladies should ride in wagons, with their skirts tucked neatly about their ankles. Grudgingly, I went to the washbasin, splashed water on my face and wrists, pulled my petticoat and dress on over my head, then ran downstairs.
After breakfast, Father took Steven by the hand and headed for the door. Then, without a thought for my feelings, he turned to Mother. “I’m taking Steven for his riding lesson,” he said. “We’ll not be away very long.”
When the door had closed behind them, Mother came to me. “I know how you feel, Jessica,” she whispered as she straightened my braids and fixed my collar. “But your father thinks riding is unladylike.”
A lump stuck in my throat. Then I swallowed and asked, “Shall I wipe the steps down Mother?”
I was twelve and my brother, Steven, barely nine. Yet my dream was his reality! It was an unfairness that I could hardly stand! As I knelt on the hard wooden steps, I rubbed the banister railings until they shone. Then I bent my head and scrubbed the stairway, my tears mingling with the soapy water.
Of course, I couldn’t blame Steven for his good fortune, but when he returned all smiles and smelling of horse and stable, I wanted to box his ears! Instead, I went to our granary and listened to the doves under the eaves. I could see Mother stirring apple butter in the iron kettle in our backyard, but it held no interest for me today.
I ran from the granary and across the meadow. And before I knew it, I was standing outside Malcolm Greenaway’s stable.
“Jessica?” Mr. Greenaway called. “Are you looking for someone?”
“No, Mr. Greenaway,” I replied. “I was just wondering if I could feed Trophy.”
He walked over to me, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a straw hat on his head. “Certainly!” he said with a smile. “I’m just going to join Mrs. Greenaway in the garden, so make yourself feel at home.”
I watched as he slanted his hat against the sun, then turned toward the garden. I stepped into the cool stable. Trophy bobbed his head over the door and greeted me with a snort. I held oats up to his mouth and watched his lips gently nibble them from my hand. Then—I don’t know what made me do it—I opened the stall door and stepped in beside Trophy.
He watched me for a moment with soft brown eyes. Then he nuzzled me with his nose, bumping me toward the side of the stall. Suddenly, I had an idea! I raised my skirts with a single motion and climbed up the side of the stall, where I perched on the top board and clicked my tongue till Trophy moved closer. Then, with trembling hands, I grasped his mane and swung my leg over his back. It seemed a long way up, and I thought I was in heaven. Trophy looked over his shoulder at me, then pushed the stall door open while I grabbed for his halter and hung on for dear life. Trophy slowly plodded out into the sunlight with me on his back. Gently I pulled on the halter, guiding him this way and that. I was riding!
Certainly it was a willful, deceitful thing to do, but every chance I had, I went to the stable. And if Mr. and Mrs. Greenaway were not close by, I climbed up on Trophy’s back and circled him around the yard.
Then about two weeks later, when Steven was off gathering more berries and Mother and I were sealing preserves, we heard a frantic call. Mother rushed out the door, wiping her hands on her apron, and I followed. As we burst through the granary door, we saw Father sprawled on the floor, his leg twisted beneath him. Mother cradled his head in her lap.
“Oh please, Margaret,” he moaned. “Get the doctor, quick!”
Mother’s trembling hand went to her throat. “I can’t leave,” she said. “Jessica, please get help!”
I ran outside and called in every direction, but the yards were deserted and, without another thought, I ran toward the Greenaway’s stable. I pounded on their door, and although it was open, no one answered. Instantly, I ran to the stable and climbed onto Trophy’s back. Leaning forward, I grasped the halter and urged him toward Doctor Kroller’s house.
A short time later, Trophy stood frothy wet and snorting as I slipped down from his back and banged on Doctor Kroller’s door. Panting, I explained about the accident, then watched as Doctor Kroller’s buggy raced toward our home.
Later, as I lead Trophy to his stall, Mr. Greenaway came out of the house. “Young lady!” he snapped. “Your father would tan your hide if he knew you ran off with my horse!”
“Please, Mr. Greenaway … I had to fetch the doctor. My father’s had an accident in our granary,” I stammered.
“I’m sorry, child,” Mr. Greenaway replied quickly. “Come, let’s go see if everything is all right.”
After the doctor had left and Father was resting in bed, I tapped softly on his door.
“Come in!” he replied.
I tiptoed into the room where the warm breezes of the afternoon blew through the open window. “I deceived you,” I said quietly.
He looked at me sternly, then patted the bed beside him. “I’m glad you came, Jessica. I have something to tell you.” He opened his arms and I slid into them, burying my head in his shoulder. “I know you rode Trophy to get the doctor, Jessica. Will you forgive me?”
I raised my head and stared into his face. “Forgive you, Father?”
“Forgive me for being a stubborn man.” He rocked me gently in his arms and spoke quietly into my hair. “We’re getting a horse, Jessica. It was to have been Steven’s and also to be used with a buggy. But now I see how unfair I’ve been. It will be as much your horse as Steven’s. And when Mother sends for clothing, I want you to look through the catalog and get a pair of riding—”
“Jodhpurs, Father?” I asked, hopefully.
“Yes, jodhpurs,” he said his face beaming.
My father is a stem man, well educated and fair, and he always taught us to be truthful. I know he heard me when I said I’d deceived him, but he never mentioned it again, and somehow I know he forgave me.

Photograph of tablet by iStockphoto/Thinkstock
One day my companion and I were leaving an apartment building when we ran into a 19-year-old young woman named Grace.
We said hello, introduced ourselves, and asked if we could discuss our message further. Because she’d just met us, Grace wasn’t willing to give us her phone number. But thinking on our feet, we decided to give her a Mormon.org pass-along card and quickly wrote our Facebook profile names on it.
To our surprise, Grace added us on Facebook and began eagerly asking us questions through Facebook Chat about who we were and what we believed. My companion and I turned these first conversations into discussions of the Restoration. We actually ended up teaching almost all of the Preach My Gospel lessons to her through Facebook, which was unusual even for us. Later we also taught her the lessons in person.
After a few weeks, we invited Grace to participate in a Church meetinghouse tour. We felt the Spirit strongly that day as we used the pictures hanging on the stake center’s walls to teach her the gospel. After the tour, Grace gave us her phone number. We continued to maintain daily contact with her through Facebook, texts, and in-person lessons.
Many members of the ward, including the ward mission leader, fellowshipped Grace, helping her feel like she belonged. One member who accompanied us to the meetinghouse tour helped Grace feel comfortable, came to other lessons, and invited her to watch general conference with us in his home.
Shortly after Grace attended Sunday meetings for the first time, my companion and I felt prompted to invite her to be baptized. She said yes! Because of our daily contacts and invitations, she’d gained a testimony of the Book of Mormon and of living prophets for herself, and she chose to be baptized.
I’m grateful for social media and the support of members—both of which made all the difference in Grace’s conversion.

“It was fifty years ago tomorrow that I arrived in this wonderful, free land.” She wiped away a tear and began to chuckle. “I was only twelve years old, and just as I got off the boat, all these splendid fireworks started exploding. I thought they were welcoming me. I didn’t know it was Canada Day. I also didn’t know what a great blessing Heavenly Father had given me by letting me come here, because here I found the gospel of Jesus Christ. My testimony of Jesus Christ and His gospel is my most precious possession.”
…
“We watched the fireworks, and I thought about your seeing them when you first came to Canada.”
“Yes, it was quite a sight for a twelve year old.”

“When I was 12,” says Loukia, “I went to church for the first time and was so happy, but then I realized that I was the only one my age. Now, two years later, we have so many young women that for the first time we were able to have Young Women Camp.” As they met together, she says, “I realized what it means to be a Latter-day Saint. When we live the gospel, a light surrounds us.”
...
“Loukia C., 15, bore her testimony for the first time at Young Women camp and was later baptized.”

Clancy O’Clagen was stacking wood in Mrs. O’Reilley’s woodshed. As he neatly piled the sticks, he was thinking of what his wife had said that morning. “It’s a fine thing to be helping Widow O’Reilley, Clancy,” she had said, “but while you’re setting her woodshed to rights your own is a sorry sight, what with kindling laying every which way. But if she pays you well for the work, I’ll be doing no more complaining.”
Clancy straightened up to rest his back and glanced around the gloomy shed. Suddenly he spied a shimmering of metal up high in a cobwebby corner. He moved nearer to see what the glimmer of light might be.
“Sure, and that’s an old Irish griddle, if ever I saw one!” he exclaimed. “But it’s rusted and grimy and in need of a good scrubbing. Now I wonder if I could lift it from the peg.”
Clancy stood on the tips of his toes and grunted and stretched and lifted. Then with a pull that nearly set him back on his heels, the griddle came off. Just as Clancy was slapping some of the webs from the griddle, Mrs. O’Reilley came in.
“So you’re interested in that old thing, I see now,” she said. “That’s been hanging there for many a year, and not much good it is to anyone. ’Tis one that came from the old sod country, it is. But only burned cakes is all it ever would bake, and who’d be wanting burned cakes now?”
Clancy’s eyes sparkled. “Sure, and I’d be glad to take the thing as pay for my work. Somehow I’ve got a fancy for it, seeing as how it came from Ireland.”
Mrs. O’Reilley threw up her hands. “Then pay it is!” she said. “But with that kind of pay, I can’t help feeling I’ll be cheating you for sure.”
Clancy finished his work in the woodshed and then, with a gay whistle on his lips and the griddle tucked under his arm, he went home.
But there was no gay whistling when Clancy’s wife saw the griddle and no money.
“Clancy O’Clagen!” she cried, “have you taken leave of your wits now? A grubby old griddle you bring home instead of money! And you with no good hat to wear on a Sunday and needing the same!”
“But no money could buy a griddle like this, and from Ireland too!” said Clancy. “Old hats shade heads as well as new.”
While his wife grumbled, Clancy went to work on the griddle. He scraped it, he scoured it, he brushed it. He rubbed and he scrubbed and he polished, and after a time part of the dullness was gone from the surface and bits of shining metal winked through.
“Potato pancakes!” said Clancy. “Good old Irish potatoes made into pancakes on an Irish griddle! Doesn’t that sound good? Would you be making some fine Irish potato pancakes, now, my good wife?”
Clancy watched his wife stir the pancakes. He watched while she ladled them out onto the hot griddle. He watched while their edges turned brown. And then, with his lips twitching in anticipation of a delightful mouthful, he saw the pancakes all at once turn black, burned to a crisp.
Time after time Clancy’s wife tried the griddle. But every time she did, it only burned whatever was on it. “A waster of good food and good time it is!” she cried. “I’ll be having no more to do with it!”
Then Clancy tried the griddle. He mixed pancake batter, spread it in little rounds on the hot surface, and watched the dough bubble. But just when he thought the cakes were baking well, they suddenly began to rise and went up and up. Like little round towers, the bubbling dough rose above the griddle—a foot or two high. Then, while Clancy watched open-mouthed, the cakes turned to cinders and crumbled away.
After that, Clancy’s wife turned the griddle upside down and used it to cover her churn of sour cream. But even as a cover it didn’t work well, for often in the mornings the griddle would be off on the floor and the cream would be sloshed about.
“Now you see what kind of a bargain you made, Clancy O’Clagen!” his wife said stomping her foot. “’Tis no good for baking. ’Tis no good for covering. A dirt-catcher and an eyesore is all it is. I’ll not be having it around any longer. If you’re bound and determined to keep the old thing, you’ll be keeping it outside and that’s a fact!”
Clancy picked up the griddle and marched outside. “’Tis no way at all to be treating a fine Irish griddle,” he muttered. “Using it for a cover for sour cream! It’s shame that I feel when I think of it, and this from the green land of Ireland, too, and maybe made with metal that’s been touched by the Little People’s own hands! Could be that houses are an irritation to the likes of it. Could be that a fire in a woodsy spot is what the griddle is needing!”
A sparkle leaped into Clancy’s eyes. He went back into the house, packed things for pancake batter, put two plates, two knives, two forks, a jar of butter, and a jug of syrup into a box, and then he took the griddle and went off whistling to find his young friend Denny O’Day.
“We’re going to make pancakes in the woods, Denny, my lad!” he said. “Pancakes on an Irish griddle!”
Denny loved to go into the woods with Clancy, but this time he kept looking to the right and to the left, and sometimes he even turned around and looked behind. “I’ve got a feeling that there are eyes looking at us,” said Denny. “And now and again I’m hearing the crackling of twigs. Do you think there might be something about, Clancy O’Clagen?”
“Sure, and what if there is? ’Tis nothing to do with us at all,” answered Clancy.
Beside a little spring Clancy made a fireplace. He put rocks about in a neat little ring. He scraped away the grass and built a fire that soon burned down to rosy coals. Then Clancy mixed the pancake batter until it was as smooth as liquid velvet. He whistled awhile, and every now and again he stopped to jig a little. When the griddle was sizzling hot Clancy poured the batter on it.
He stepped back and stared in amazement. For though he had meant to make round pancakes, the batter spread out by itself into dainty shamrock shapes—three rounds together and a little tail for a stem! And the pancakes didn’t burn. They browned gently on one side and, just as Clancy was about to give them a turn, over they flipped by themselves, or so it seemed.
“Hurray!” cried Clancy. “Sure, and I knew this was a griddle to be proud of!”
He heaped the pancakes on Denny’s plate. And when the boy had eaten all he could hold, Clancy said, “Run home now, Denny, my lad, and tell my good wife to come quickly! She’ll never be believing the same! Not till she sees it with her own eyes! Off with you now!”
Denny started off and Clancy made more pancakes for himself. But he was almost too delighted to eat. “I’ll just be making one more big one for myself,” he said, “and then I’ll sit back and wait for my wife.”
With an extra flourish Clancy poured batter onto the griddle. He poured until it was almost covered. Then he watched to see the shamrock take shape. But this time there wasn’t a shamrock.
The pancake spread and spread. It bubbled and bubbled, and then it turned itself over. But before the pancake was completely turned, a great zinging as of ten thousand hornets filled the air. The pancake flew high. The griddle rose and a huge puff of green smoke sent it spinning and sailing off over the woods.
In another moment the big pancake came flapping downward. It flopped on Clancy’s head and knocked him to the ground.
When Clancy sat up all was still, and he reached up his hands to push the pancake from his eyes. But instead of a pancake his hands pushed up a slightly warm, high plush hat of emerald green. From the bushes impish laughter and deep chuckles reached Clancy’s ears.
When Clancy walked into his own house his wife was busy knitting. Without looking up she said, “Clancy, how could you tell such yarns to Denny O’Day? I sent the lad off to nap after the way you’d filled his head with nonsense.”
Before Clancy could answer she looked up. Then she threw up her hands in surprise.
“CLANCY O’CLAGEN! Where did you get that elegant hat?”
Clancy pulled his ear thoughtfully for a moment and then he smiled. “Sure ’tis true,” he said. “In a manner of speaking, you might say I traded it for Mrs. O’Reilley’s Irish griddle! And that’s a fact!”

Fourth President of the Church
As a missionary in England, Wilford Woodruff was blessed for his obedience. He recorded: “I asked the Lord what He wanted of me. He merely said, ‘Go to the south.’ I got into the stage and rode eighty miles. The first man’s house I stopped at was John Benbow’s in Herefordshire. In half an hour after I entered the house I knew exactly why the Lord had sent me. There was a people there who had been praying for the ancient order of things. They were waiting for the Gospel as it was taught by Christ and His Apostles. The consequence was, the first thirty days after I got there I baptized six hundred of those people. In eight month’s labor in that country I brought eighteen hundred into the Church. Why? Because there was a people prepared for the Gospel, and the Lord had sent me there to do that work” (Deseret Weekly, 7 November 1896, 643; quoted in Howard W. Hunter, “Developing Spirituality,” Ensign, May 1979, 24).

Should you become discouraged in your efforts, remember that sometimes the Lord’s timetable does not coincide with ours. When I was a bishop many years ago, one of the leaders of the young women, Jessie Cox, came to me and said, “Bishop, I am a failure!” When I asked why she felt this way, she said, “I haven’t been able to get any of my Mutual girls married in the temple, as a good teacher would have. I’ve tried my very best, but my best apparently wasn’t good enough.”

I tried to console Jessie by telling her that I, as her bishop, knew that she had done all she could. And as I followed those girls through the years, I found that each one was eventually sealed in the temple. If the lesson is engraved on the heart, it is not lost.

So your first question is “What’s an Iditarod?” Well, it’s a famous sled-dog team race held each year in Alaska. Your next question is “An Iditarod in sunny Arizona?” The answer to this question has more to it.
For the past six years the young men and Scouts from four different stakes in central Arizona have participated in a modified Iditarod race at their annual winter campout in Flagstaff, Arizona. Only instead of dog power, these sleds use Scout power. This past January, 375 young men were divided into teams of about 10. They pulled sleds over and through snow, mud, and dirt to the finish line. Each team built a sled equipped with both skis and wheels to handle any conditions. The course was two-and-a-quarter miles long with 10 activity stations along the way where Scouts competed in activities like archery, log sawing, and target ax throwing. The winning time along with the individual scores in the events determined the winner.
Friday night before the race, camp was set up, dinner prepared and eaten, and campers gathered around a campfire for a genuine fireside, where they heard an inspiring message from a member of the Peoria Arizona North Stake presidency. Saturday morning two teams at a time set out every 15 minutes to begin the race. An awards ceremony rounded out the day of fun and team building.
Brett Wood from the Sierra Verde Ward said, “The Iditarod is so awesome. The race course competition challenges you mentally and physically. It teaches you teamwork. It is hard but rewarding.”
“We really enjoyed the Iditarod,” added JC May from the winning Daisy Mountain Ward. “It is a time for us to get to know each other and work as a team. Everyone pulled together and worked hard.”

Once or twice a year the Wagners drove from their home in Evanston, Wyoming, to the Church Distribution Center in Salt Lake City. Every trip was full of alphabet games and Primary songs. Today’s trip was even more fun. Heidi’s sister, Amanda, was getting married soon, and the family planned to do some extra shopping. Between today’s games, they talked about the wedding, which was going to take place in the Salt Lake Temple.
Heidi loved to listen to her father and mother talk about the temple. “You can each set a goal to go to the temple,” Dad said. “Even Heidi, as young as she is, should make that one of her most important goals.”
“Every time I go to the temple, I feel Heavenly Father’s love and know that He will bless me and watch over me,” Mom added.
Heidi wasn’t completely sure that she understood everything that her parents were saying, but she knew that she wanted to go to the temple someday.
The Wagners visited the Distribution Center, then drove downtown. As they went past the temple, Heidi had goose bumps when she looked at the beautiful building.
After lunch they all went shopping. Dad and Daniel went to a sports store, and Heidi followed her mother and sister to a department store, where Amanda tried on dress after dress. Amanda will never pick one, Heidi thought. Tired and bored, she found a nearby nook and settled down on her coat. Soon she was asleep.
At first when she woke up, she didn’t know where she was. Then she remembered—shopping! She looked all over for her mother and sister. They were gone! She couldn’t even find a clerk to help her.
Heidi’s heart began to beat faster and faster. Her face felt hot, and she wanted to cry. Then something caught her attention. Was that her mother’s coat going down the escalator? “Mom,” she called, running toward it. But when she reached it and started down, the woman in the coat was gone.
As Heidi wandered through the store, she saw someone wearing a jacket like her sister’s. Heidi yelled, “Amanda,” but the person kept going and went out the large main doors. Heidi ran after her. She looked up and down the street but didn’t see anyone she recognized. Tears began to fill her eyes. Where was her family?
She looked at the people waiting for a traffic light to change to “Walk.” That’s when she saw the spires of the temple. She remembered her mother’s words, “Every time I go to the temple, I feel Heavenly Father’s love and know that He will bless me and watch over me.” That sounded like what she needed right now!
The light changed, and Heidi crossed the street with all the other people. A young man and woman, who were carrying little suitcases like her mom and dad did when they went to the temple, were going into Temple Square toward it, so she followed them. They went past flowers and trees and interesting buildings, one of which had a statue of Christ that Heidi wanted to see. She didn’t dare stop to explore now, though, but followed the young couple out of Temple Square and along the wall until they came to a tall, black, wrought-iron gate. The man turned as Heidi came through the gate behind them. “Hi,” he said. “Are you coming in here too?” He seemed surprised.
Heidi nodded, “I need to go to the temple.”
“What’s the matter?” asked the woman. “Are you lost?”
Tears again filled Heidi’s eyes, and she nodded again. “I need a big blessing, and Mom and Dad always said they get blessings by coming to the temple.”
The couple took Heidi through the gates and to the doors where a woman dressed in white came to help. She looked like Heidi’s grandma, and Heidi felt better. “She says she needs a temple blessing,” the man explained. “We think she’s lost.”
“You’re a little young to be coming to the temple alone, aren’t you?” The lady smiled and took Heidi’s hand, Heidi felt warm and safe. Turning to the couple, the older woman said, “She’ll be all right. You go ahead.”
The couple went down some stairs, and the lady took Heidi into a room near the door. She invited Heidi to sit on a chair. “I’m Sister Chumn,” she introduced herself.
“What’s your name?”
“Heidi Wagner.”
“And why is it that you came to the temple today?”
Tears built up again in Heidi’s eyes, but she tried to not cry. Sister Chumn picked her up and sat down with Heidi on her lap. “It’s all right. Just tell me, and we’ll see what we can do.”
“I got lost from my mommy. She told me that if I go to the temple, Heavenly Father will bless me.” Tears ran down Heidi’s cheeks. “I want my mommy.”
Sister Chumn smiled and hugged Heidi tightly.
“Where were you before you came to the temple?”
“Across the street, in a mall with lots of stores.”
Sister Chumn reached for the phone and dialed a number. After talking to someone for a minute, she hung up and turned back to Heidi. “That was a man who will find your family. I imagine that they’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’ll just sit here and wait until they come.”
When Heidi’s parents arrived, she ran to them. After long, happy hugs, her parents turned to Sister Chumn and thanked her, and Heidi gave her a big hug. “I’m so glad I came to the temple today. It’s a wonderful place!”
Sister Chumn smiled at Heidi. “When you get older, you come back and I’ll show you just how wonderful the temple really is. Your mommy is right—the temple does bring blessings from Heavenly Father, and today He blessed you and me and all of us.”

During school recess I saw something shiny lying in the gravel and stopped to see what it was. It was a Kennedy half-dollar! I was so excited! I thought of keeping it, but instead I took it to the teacher on duty. She told me to take it to the office, so I gave the coin to our school secretary. She said, “Wow, Matthew! Thanks for being so honest!” That made me feel really good! She also said that if no one claimed the coin, I could have it back.
I didn’t hear anything else about it until the end of the year. During the last week of school I found out that I had earned a good citizenship award and a prize for turning in the coin. I felt good inside because I had been honest. I also enjoyed the prize, which was a candy bar!

I never realized how important patriarchal blessings were until my family and I lived with my grandparents for three months while our new house was being built.
My grandfather is a patriarch. And his home, where people receive their patriarchal blessings, is dedicated to the Lord. For my brother, sister and me, this meant that while we lived there, we often had to be quiet, help clean the house, and try not to quarrel. If we ever argued, we were sent outside, because contention makes the Spirit of the Holy Ghost leave. You can tell my grandparents’ home is different. It’s always clean, and it seems to have a glow about it.
Whenever someone was scheduled to receive a patriarchal blessing, we would clean everything really nice the day before. We’d wash the windows and the floors, sweep the deck, and vacuum everywhere—even places where no one would be. Until after the blessing was given, we weren’t allowed to wear shoes in the house, because they would make tracks. When we finished cleaning, it was the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen. It was basically the closest thing I’ve ever felt to heaven on earth.
The day someone was coming to receive a blessing, we all planned to either stay downstairs or leave to visit relatives. Grandpa would then prepare to give the blessing. First he would put on his suit. Then he would spend time praying, reading the scriptures, and listening to appropriate music.
Before giving anyone a blessing, Grandpa always talks to them to make sure they feel at ease. He wants to make sure they understand who is giving them the blessing. He tells them that the blessing is not from him but from Heavenly Father.
Although I never knew who came to get their blessings, and though I couldn’t hear what was said, I could feel the Holy Ghost—even downstairs.
After the blessing had been given and recorded, my grandma would type the blessings, using headphones and a transcribing machine. She went over the blessing several times to make sure she had it exactly correct.
My grandma says that when she types the blessings, she feels just about everything that the person feels because she knows for a fact that the blessing is from God. Sometimes she just starts crying because it’s such a beautiful blessing. She says that after she’s done typing, she usually doesn’t remember which blessing is whose. And she’s glad that’s the way it is, because the blessings are really personal and shouldn’t be shared with everyone. It takes my grandma a lot of time to type everyone’s blessings, and I’m not sure many people realize how much she contributes to my grandpa’s calling.