Gospel Story Finder

In the depths of World War II, I experienced an expression of true friendship. Jack Hepworth and I were teenagers. We had grown up in the same neighborhood. One afternoon I saw Jack running down the sidewalk toward me. When we met, I saw that there were tears in his eyes. In a voice choked with emotion, he blurted out the words, “Tom, my brother Joe, who is in the Navy Air Corps, has been killed in a fiery plane crash!” We embraced. We wept. We sorrowed. I felt highly complimented that instinctively Jack, my friend, felt the urgency to share with me his grief. We can all be grateful for such friends.

As the crowds milled around the booths, a distinguished looking group of men in dark hats and coats appeared carrying a bucket, an easel, and some pictures. One of the men upended the bucket and mounted it while another set up the easel. Soon the crowd was being treated to an authentic 19th century street meeting—authentic, that is, except for the bullhorn that the preacher used. The meeting started with four of the missionaries singing “Sweet Is the Work” in beautiful harmony, followed by a gospel sermon and another hymn. Wags from the local wards provided some unsolicited heckling, but the elders handled it in fine form, turning the barbs back on their assailants. Then a man from the Spanish Branch wandered by and shouted, “Puras mentiras!” (It’s all a lie!) in a voice of pious conviction.
“What this good brother says is true—whatever it was he said!” the missionary exclaimed, pointing his cane for emphasis. Another street meeting was held every quarter hour or so, with a different stake or full-time missionary preaching each time.

The next few years were hard for a variety of reasons. I was exposed to many paths that were contrary to the teachings of the gospel. Even though my parents were supportive of our church attendance, they were not members of the Church and didn’t have the same standards. So I didn’t have a foundation at home for spiritual growth.
During that time, attending seminary and connecting with my youth leaders really helped me push through the hard times and stay committed to the gospel. I grew spiritually, thanks to the efforts of teachers and other members of the Church who loved me and cared about my growth.

My husband’s graduate school had been expensive, so we looked forward to a job that would help us pay off our debts. We were offered several positions but felt best about a professorship in Hawaii. However, when our contract arrived, the salary was lower than we had discussed. We were informed that there was a new policy and negotiation was not an option. We had felt sure about the new job, so we signed the contract anyway.
We loved Hawaii, my husband loved his job, and we were blessed as a family. Things seemed to be going well with our student-debt payments until the credit card company informed us that our new interest rate would be 14 percent instead of our current 3 percent. We argued that we always made our payments on time and that had paid down a lot of the debt already. But the company was adamant.
First, we did some creative financing, transferring our balance to different credit cards with short-term zero percent interest rates. Then we started cutting costs. We drastically reduced our food, clothing, and diapers budget for our seven-person family. We lived on our food storage. Every morning we ate oatmeal; every afternoon we ate homemade bread; and every evening we ate rice and beans. There were no luxuries such as butter, fresh milk, or juice. After we paid tithing and basic expenses, all of our income went to paying off our credit cards.
Six months later, we had paid off 90 percent of our debt! The Lord had multiplied our income in miraculous ways. We were able to quickly pay off the remaining debt, and we are very thankful. My daughter still complains about when she had to eat oatmeal every morning, but I know that by paying our tithing and obeying the prophet, we were blessed financially and temporally.

Isn’t Christmas exciting! Don’t you relish the time with friends and loved ones, fun gatherings and gifts, and especially the reason to celebrate it all? Have you ever wished you could celebrate the whole year long? Well, if you happen to live in West Plains, Missouri, you can.
During the month of July, West Plains is like the rest of the Midwestern states—hot and sticky. Not exactly the time of year when most people are thinking about singing carols or wrapping gifts. But the youth decided it would be the perfect time to begin their preparations for a holiday celebration. Since they hosted their stake’s youth conference, they decided to include all the youth in a project that is ongoing in West Plains. Every year, members of the West Plains Ward find a way to help their local hospice, a program that provides support services to terminally ill patients and their families.
“The Relief Society in our ward has made lap quilts and other service projects for hospice,” says Stephanie Jones, a Laurel. “We decided that it would be fun to do some service projects that the youth could be involved in.”
So a few of the Laurels in the ward spearheaded the youth conference efforts as value projects, and everybody got to work.
The youth and their leaders decided that one of the nicest things they could do for the hospice patients and their families was to provide a simple Christmas decoration to brighten their homes. They decorated small, tabletop-sized Christmas trees, complete with ornaments and tinsel.
“When you or someone you love is ill, things like decorating for the holidays are sometimes forgotten,” says Angie Periera, the liaison from the hospice program who helped the youth put their project together. “But if someone else will do it for you, it makes it feel like Christmas. It’s a small thing, but it makes a big difference.”
Next, they decided that a message of love and hope would also be a great boost to people’s spirits, so they made personalized Christmas cards for each person who would be receiving a tree. Kyle La Brue and Buddy La Rue, two young men from the Osage Beach Ward, wrote “The Lord loves you and so do we” in their cards. Other youth used scriptures or wrote brief testimonies.
“Doing a project like this makes you think about your own family and friends,” says Mia Maid Julia Jones. “When we did our cards, we tried to let people know that we really did care about them, even if we didn’t know them.”
After the last tree was decorated and the last card was signed, the youth set out to show the hospice patients how much they cared through their actions. They spent the afternoon doing yard work, scraping and painting houses and sheds, even doing housework.
“Helping people at their homes can be awkward at first,” says Priest Justin Saunders. “But they really appreciated it and seemed glad to have us. It turned out to be fun.”
Apparently, people were more than appreciative. They were ecstatic. One woman, whose husband had been bedridden for some time, took pictures of the youth scraping and painting the shed outside their home. She wanted him to see them in action, even though he couldn’t get outside.
Another woman, Mrs. Estelle Conquest, needed a wheelchair ramp built outside her home to help her get out for simple things like collecting the mail.
“You have no idea how much something like this helps me,” says Mrs. Conquest. “These kids are just the greatest.”
After the projects were complete and youth conference was over, the gifts were stored and forgotten—but not for long.
Marie Taylor, a Laurel, spent a lot of time on her Laurel project. She coordinated the collection and wrapping of several large boxes—giant Christmas containers to be filled with food and delivered to hospice patients and their families. During youth conference, the boxes were wrapped and made ready to go. They wouldn’t be filled with food until the holidays, so they needed to be in storage for a while before they were used. But after being transported a few times, some of the boxes looked a little worse for the wear.
“I did a lot of crazy things to get those boxes,” says Marie, who rounded up her friends to help and then asked local merchants to let her take boxes they no longer needed. “Most of the store owners were nice, but I had to work for those boxes! At one place, with the permission of the owners, I actually climbed into the Dumpster to get a bunch of boxes out.”
So you can imagine her dismay when, just before the holiday season, she discovered that some of the carefully wrapped boxes had come unwrapped or were otherwise unready to be used for food.
“It was discouraging to do things over again,” says Marie. “But we really wanted them to look good. So the other girls in the ward and I had a wrapping party to re-do the damaged boxes. It turned out to be pretty fun.”
After the boxes were prepared to go again, they were finally ready to be given to the coordinators at the hospice office, which was just down the street from the business where the boxes were being stored. But this time the youth decided that loading piles of boxes into a car for transport wasn’t such a good idea. After all, that was what had damaged many of the wrapping jobs the first time around. They decided that since the boxes had such a short way to travel, they would form a human chain from the location where the boxes were being stored to where they needed to go.
There aren’t too many LDS youth in West Plains, so they invited Primary children, adult leaders, and anyone else who wanted to help. They donned elves’ caps and spread out right through the heart of downtown West Plains. The boxes were handed from one person to another, and soon they were all safely at their destination, ready to be filled with food from the West Plains Ward and other community groups.
The group attracted a bit of attention from passersby, who were invited to join in. They didn’t have many takers, but several people did find out where they could donate food to go inside the boxes.
“Doing a project like this really makes you feel good,” says Heather Camier, a Beehive. “It’s great to work together as a group for a good cause. It’s the best this time of year; it really makes it feel like Christmas.”
Most of the food boxes and gifts were delivered by hospice employees, but a few were given to the youth to deliver on Mutual night. Bundled in coats and singing carols, they carried food boxes, trees, and cards to a few of the people they had been able to serve in July. Of course it was a lot colder that night than it had been during the summer, but the warm feelings that come with service are the same no matter what time of year it is.
“Delivering the gifts and seeing how happy it made people was a lot of fun,” says Joe Jones, a priest. “It was also great to see how our service during youth conference really paid off.”
Soon after Mutual was over, the youth were at home, preparing to spend Christmas with their own families and loved ones. But the good feeling of helping others is hard to forget. It’s the kind of feeling they’d like to enjoy all year, not just at Christmas. And with youth conference coming up again this summer, they won’t have to wait till December.

My wife and I came to better understand this truth through the loss of our beloved son Georg, who was 27 years of age when he died. When this occurred, I was serving as president of the newly created Austria Vienna South Mission, which included the countries of the former Yugoslavia. Following a zone conference in Zagreb, Croatia, Sister Wondra and I were given a message that we should call home. Soon our beloved daughter-in-law Regina was on the telephone, crying out in the anguish of her soul, “Papa, Georg is dead. Georg is dead!” Subsequent extensive investigations were unable to provide any reason for his death. Our son had never been seriously ill. His heart simply stood still, without any medical explanation.
Georg was such a special son, full of joy and life, full of love for us and for his own family, pure in heart and without guile. In 1989 he had been one of the first missionaries to be sent to East Germany during what was a great time for missionary work. He spoke often about the baptisms in which he and his companion participated but never about the number of baptisms—he felt these experiences were too sacred to be reduced to statistics. At the end of Georg’s first letter from his mission, he wrote: “Don’t miss me too much. Life has to go forward without me.” On the day of his death, he had read President Gordon B. Hinckley’s message “The Victory over Death” and had underlined, “How tragic, how poignant is the sorrow of those left behind. The grieving widow, the motherless child, the father bereft and alone—all of these can speak of the wounds of parting” (Liahona, April 1997, 3).
Our family has suffered from these wounds. We miss Georg so very much! But there is also a burning feeling in our souls that because we believe in the Atonement, in the death and Resurrection of Jesus Christ—because we believe in the message of Gethsemane, Golgotha, and the empty tomb—we can also trust, during the sorrowful moments in our lives, that God is a God of love, mercy, and compassion, even when we don’t understand what has happened or why. God accepted the sacrifice of His Son, Jesus Christ, who suffered all things “because of his loving kindness and his long-suffering towards the children of men” (1 Ne. 19:9).

Early in our marriage, my wife and I planted a garden. We knew little about gardening, but we thought the back corner of our yard looked fertile. And indeed it was. In one area we planted banana squash. The squash vines grew almost without any effort on our part until they stretched some 40 to 50 feet (10 to 15 m) along the top of a long fence. The squash were enormous. It was an incredible result for novices.
In the scriptures we often read about vineyards and grapevines. But growing grapes is not as easy as growing squash. It takes the right climate and skilled cultivation to maintain a fruitful vineyard.
Grapes were an important part of early Hebrew culture, and the tablelands and hills in the Holy Land provided an ideal place for grapevine cultivation. The land was groomed, the vines were planted along the hillsides, and the vineyards were carefully fenced to keep out unwanted animals or people. The vines were cultivated and pruned so that they would yield as much fruit as possible.
Pruning is probably the most important part of growing grapes. Branches not producing fruit are cut off. When a vine’s main branch reaches a certain size, it is cut back by taking off the tip to force the development of side shoots. Such pruning and shaping halt the growth at the tip of the branch and send nourishment into the new branches. Then, as these side branches develop, each produces as much fruit as the single vine had produced. The sturdy center stalk of the vine, rooted deep in the soil, provides the nourishment to all of these long, fruit-bearing spurs.
Vineyards have often been used symbolically in the scriptures. In the book of John, the Savior used the grapevine as a metaphor to explain the nature of His relationship with those who would be His disciples.
Prior to leaving for Gethsemane, the Savior taught the Apostles how they must live if they were to continue to be His disciples. Among the things He taught during that sacred hour was that their lives must be entirely grounded in Him and in His teachings:
“I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman.
“Every branch in me that beareth not fruit he taketh away: and every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit. …
“Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me.
“I am the vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing.
“If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned.
“If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.
“Herein is my Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit; so shall ye be my disciples” (John 15:1–2, 4–8).
In this allegory are two important principles: First, we must be grounded in Christ. If we are not, we will not be fruitful (see John 15:4). If our lives are not in harmony with the teachings of the Savior, it is no more likely that we will bear good fruit than that a branch cut off from a vine will bear fruit. Second, even when we are living righteously, we still need the Gardener, who knows us so completely and sees beyond what we see, so that He can purge, or prune and purify, us (see John 15:2). While at times this pruning may seem hard to bear, it is only through this process that we will become more fruitful.
Our pruning comes in a variety of ways. We may develop an illness or physical limitation. We may find that our expectations are not fulfilled. We may find sorrow in relationships or experience personal loss. Yet what initially might seem to be a sad event can help us grow if it causes us to rely more on the Lord and to rethink our priorities. Such difficult experiences can make us more fruitful, or more like the Savior—our true vine.
Throughout my life I have had ample need for pruning. For example, a few years ago I expected to receive a company promotion. I felt I had the experience, skills, and longevity required, and I hoped the choice was obvious.
At that time there was a new top manager in our company who had different priorities and goals than I did. Among other things, he expected all senior managers to work weekends in addition to weekdays. I was a stake president then and knew that to best serve the members of my stake, I needed to spend a certain amount of time fulfilling my Church responsibilities.
When the hoped-for promotion never occurred, I had to struggle to keep myself from feeling bitter. What a disappointment! I determined just to keep going, to try to do things as well as I could, and to maintain a positive demeanor. Yet my sense of self-worth had been challenged. My abilities had been called into question. Other Church leaders I knew seemed to capably manage both demanding Church callings and time-consuming employment.
In a weak moment, I even wondered whether I had made the right choice to devote so much time to the Church. Then I decided I needed to focus on what was truly important. I began to look not only at my capabilities but also at my limitations. I could see that the time I was spending in Church service was necessary and that I probably wouldn’t have been able to manage both the employment position I had sought and my Church calling.
I think the Lord was telling me I had to choose and would have to keep choosing. To have chosen to devote extra time to my employment so I could get the promotion would have disengaged me from the Lord’s work. As I look back, I can see what a blessing it was for me to devote so much of my time to the Church. The ensuing years were some of the most rewarding of my life. I felt closer to the Lord. My testimony was strengthened. My relationship with fellow Saints in the area was a great blessing, and I am sure I became more fruitful than I would have been otherwise.
We can expect that we will be pruned throughout our lives. How wonderful it is to know that an all-wise Father is watching over our development and that He is nurturing us through His careful husbandry.
We must derive our spiritual nourishment from Jesus Christ. He is the source of all truth and of all goodness. Without Him we can do nothing (see John 15:5). When we focus on Christ and His gospel, we are filled with His light. Then the fruits of the Spirit are made manifest in us, and the blessings come (see John 15:7; Gal. 5:22–23). If we seek to achieve our full potential, let us daily think of Christ and emulate His example until we become firmly rooted to Him, the True Vine.

Some of you may be familiar with Thornton Wilder’s classic drama Our Town. If you are, you will remember the town of Grover’s Corners, where the story takes place. In the play Emily Webb dies in childbirth, and we read of the lonely grief of her young husband, George, left with their four-year-old son. Emily does not wish to rest in peace; she wants to experience again the joys of her life. She is granted the privilege of returning to earth and reliving her 12th birthday. At first it is exciting to be young again, but the excitement wears off quickly. The day holds no joy now that Emily knows what is in store for the future. It is unbearably painful to realize how unaware she had been of the meaning and wonder of life while she was alive. Before returning to her resting place, Emily laments, “Do … human beings ever realize life while they live it—every, every minute?”

Katy skipped along the sidewalk toward the big oak tree at the corner of her street. The old tree made Nana’s house easy to find.
As usual, Nana was sitting in her living room, quietly braiding and sewing strips of bright cloth. The polished wooden floors of Nana’s house were decorated with beautiful rugs that Nana made herself.
“Hello, honey,” Nana said as Katy came in. Soon they were talking about what Nana called the “old days.” They looked at black-and-white photos together. Katy especially liked seeing the clothes and hairstyles her relatives wore when they were younger.
“Things were very different then,” Nana said with a sigh. “You know, we didn’t have cars or TV or cell phones.”
Katy couldn’t even imagine having to walk everywhere. “What did you do for fun, Nana?” Katy asked.
“We loved to sing together. We would gather around the piano in the evening and sing our favorite songs. Sometimes we’d sing ourselves hoarse! It was such a fun time.”
Nana looked off into the yard as if she could rewind the years and watch them over again.
Katy sat next to the coiled rug that spilled off of Nana’s lap. She traced the careful stitches with her fingers.
“I’ve been thinking,” Nana said slowly. “How would you like to make your very own braided rug?”
Katy jumped up and clapped her hands.
“I would love to, Nana! Can we start today?”
Nana chuckled. “Well, there’s something you need to do first. Go home and gather up old clothes that we can cut into strips.”
Her eyes twinkled as she leaned toward Katy, her voice quiet as if she were sharing a secret.
“That’s what makes the rug special. Because it’s made of clothes, the rug can tell the story of your life. Each braid is like a chapter in a book about you. Looking at the fabric of an old dress can help you remember the places you wore it and what you did when you had it on.”
Katy’s eyes widened. She pointed to the rug Nana was braiding.
“Do you remember all about the cloth in this rug?”
Nana smiled. “You bet I do! This red piece is from the dress I wore when you were born. I remember pressing my nose to the glass window in the nursery to get a closer look at you. You were still all pink and wrinkly.”
Katy and Nana laughed together as Nana continued to tell Katy stories from the rug. As soon as Katy got home that night, she and Mama set aside old clothes that Katy could use for her rug.
The next day, Katy took the cloth to Nana’s house. Nana showed Katy how to cut the fabric into long strips, braid them, and sew the braids together.
Every day after school Katy went to work on the rug at Nana’s house.
Little by little, the rug grew. As the days went by Katy learned many of Nana’s stories by heart. Some days she was the one who told stories to Nana.
One day, after adding a blue strip of cloth that used to be a favorite pair of jeans, Katy rubbed the palm of her hand against the colorful braids.
“Don’t you think that rug is about done?” Nana asked, looking up from her work.
“Not yet,” Katy said with a smile. She never wanted this time with Nana to end.

My seminary teacher used the article “Extra Strength” (Jan. 2002) in one of her lessons. That very day, a friend from school was asking me questions about the Church while we were in the weight room. I tried to answer him the best I could but didn’t feel my words were very influential. But I felt impressed to do as the young woman in the article did. The following day I gave my friend the new For the Strength of Youth and told him it contained the guidelines written for teenagers to follow. It felt good to have done this small missionary effort.Marek de SavignyDunrobin, Ontario, Canada

One Sunday, nearly a thousand people came to listen to Elder Woodruff speak. The leader of a local church was angry and asked a constable to arrest Elder Woodruff.
Constable: I’ve come to arrest you for preaching illegally to the people.
Wilford Woodruff: I have a license that allows me to preach. Our meeting is about to start, but if you would like to sit here, I’d be happy to talk to you more after the meeting.
As the constable listened, he felt the Spirit. Elder Woodruff then asked if anyone would like to be baptized.
Constable: Mr. Woodruff, I would like to be baptized.
The constable returned to the leader of the local church and told him he would not arrest Elder Woodruff. The leader sent two of his clerks to spy on Elder Woodruff, but they got baptized as well. After that, he did not dare send anyone else!

When 10-year-old John joined the swimming team, he told his coach he could compete in the meets held on Saturday but not those held on Sunday. At the last meet of the season, John’s relay race was scheduled for Sunday. He remembered a family home evening lesson about making decisions in advance so it would be easier to do the right thing when the time came. John said: “I had made the decision not to swim on Sunday before I joined my team. That made it easier for me to tell the coach that I couldn’t swim the relay. I thought the coach would be mad at me. But at the end-of-the-year banquet, … he told the team how proud he was of me for having standards and then sticking to them.”3 John shows he knows by keeping the Sabbath day holy and setting an example of someone who follows the teachings of Jesus. Every time you keep the Sabbath day holy, you show you know.

Steve Crandall sat bolt upright in bed.
“Your mother’s pains have started.” His father’s face was lined with worried creases. “Can you come help me clear the road to the highway?”
Steve was already struggling to pull on long underwear, sweaters, socks, pants, parka, boots, muffler, gloves. His heart was racing.
Shoveling snow, opening the garage door, starting the jeep, hitching the drag, swinging open the jeep door for his father—Steve fumbled with numb fingers while his heart beat with the fury of the wind swirling up the snow drifts.
Through the roar and clanking of the old jeep, his father shouted, “Take it easy, Steve. We’ll make it. Your mother has had nine kids before this, including you.”
Steve was glad to be able to hide his face in the parka hood. He was quiet for a moment. Then he let his memory wander and thought back to the time when Mom had Julie. There had been no special precautions that time; Dad had just helped Mom to the car, and they drove off to the hospital.
That seemed a long time ago and many miles away in a place where everything was so much different. This was Alaska. It was 50° F. below zero. The hospital was 51 miles away, and there was no telephone in their house. This time Dad paused to give Mom a priesthood blessing before helping her to the car. This time, Dad, Steve, and his two sisters prayed together in the car that they would make it down the road before the baby came. But this time, too, when it was all over and little Rachael took her place in the Crandall clan, 16-year-old Steve felt older somehow. It was as if he had been a part of something that was much more real than he had ever experienced before.
That is how everything has become since Steve’s family moved a year ago into their little log house in the wilds near Fairbanks. There are six other families within five miles in the woods where they live, but it is more than 30 miles into town and about 15 miles to the Eielson Air Force Base. They have no electricity or telephone, their close neighbors are the lynx, fox, and bear, and their television set is the view from their window of the Alaska Mountain Range shrouded by dense spruce forests. Life is simple.
But hewn down to its basic elements, life also seems richer. The isolation in the harsh climate has brought the family closer than ever before. Working together, playing together, worshiping together—they share more of life than ever before.
“B.J., Steve, Susan, David, Danny, Becky, Julie, Jesse … time for breakfast,” comes the call from the kitchen every morning. (Rachael is already in the high chair and Susie is away at college.) Soon the sounds of padding feet fill the kitchen, and everyone is poised for the new day. Over hot cakes the daily planning session begins. There is school for Steve and the little ones, and work for Dad at the air force base. There is work for 19-year-old B.J. (Billie Joe) and home Primary for both her and Mom in the afternoon. Then there is dinner together and home evening that night.
And there are always plenty of chores for everyone. Most of the summer is spent getting ready for the winter. And most of the winter is spent coping with the cold that can freeze bare flesh in less than a minute and the darkness that can linger into depression. With ten children and no electricity, the chores are given a twist of creativity.
The five-mile stretch of dirt road that leads to the highway is not maintained by the state, so one of Steve’s jobs is to help the men in the neighborhood pack down the snow during the winter by the use of a flat device called a drag. It seems that this always needs to be done at the least convenient times, such as when Mom is in labor or when it is time to go to church.
Another of Steve’s jobs is to keep the car from freezing up at night. “We had one garage, not insulated or anything, just plywood sides, with a wood stove in it,” he explained. “We would just pull the car in there every night, and I’d build a fire. I had to put enough wood in there so the fire would last all night. The car was only frozen up one time the whole winter.” His brown eyes glisten with pride he knows is well-earned.
Steve’s expertise with wood burning stoves has unexpectedly come in handy at other times too. When the kitchen stove was on the blink one morning, he stoked up the basement stove so his mother and sisters, huddling in their parkas, could cook hotcakes for the family in the pitch black 32-degree basement air. Some of the younger brothers and sisters were assigned to run the hotcakes upstairs before the chill reached through and through.
As the days wear on, it seems that work has a way of turning into fun for the Crandall family. Family home evening, a chore for many families, is as easy as the summer rain on the flower-dotted flat lands for Steve’s family.
One night when it was time for home evening, Steve suggested, “Let’s do something exciting tonight—like kickball or something.”
So Becky and Julie went outside to set up bases while the older girls stayed to clean up the dinner dishes. It wasn’t long before eight-year-old Becky flew through the door, her face ashen and her voice trembling in fright. “There’s a bear out there! There’s a bear out there!”
Suddenly everyone was bumping shoulders on the porch trying to catch a good view of the bear. There he was, foraging through the bushes, pausing for a moment to watch the commotion on the Crandalls’ porch. Suddenly, a neighbor pointed his rifle out the side window and fired at the bear several times. The injured bear began to lumber away. Quickly Dad and Steve grabbed their guns to help out. “You don’t leave a wounded bear up here. They can get vicious,” Dad explained.
They never caught the bear that night. But when Mom asked, “Was that enough excitement for you, Steve?” laughter filled the tiny house.
Excitement and laughter seldom leave Steve’s house. The Crandalls live life to the fullest, with an intensity that shows even in their recreation. Steve and 11-year-old Danny once entered a local 26-mile marathon cross-country race. When Steve gave out early and quit the race, Danny kept going. He finished third in his category, the youngest of the contestants. “One of us had to finish,” he said with his head bowed.
By far, Church work is given the most serious attention by the Crandalls. Everyone has at least one Church job, and so the gospel is a cooperative effort. With Dad in the branch presidency, Mom a teacher in the Relief Society, B.J. a teacher in the Primary, and Steve a member of the planning committee for the all-Alaska youth conference, the family car is kept hopping. During spring breakup, when the snow melts and the road to the highway becomes as muddy as the sludge from a gold miner’s pan, attending church services becomes a challenge. The four-wheel drive jeep is the only vehicle that can navigate the muddy stretches of road to the air force base chapel.
“There’s the whole family in that little bitty 1943 jeep,” Mom laughs. “We all get into our grubs; everybody climbs into the jeep. We strap a suitcase full of our good clothes onto the hood along with Daddy’s briefcase, and off we go to church. It’s funny!”
Church meetings are worth the effort, though. The closeness of the Crandalls seems to be shared by other families in the branch. And it spills over into the greater branch family. A willing hand is always outstretched. Making the most of each moment is their byword. One day Steve forgot his shirt for meeting, so another boy loaned him one of his. Although two of Steve could have fit into the shirt, one very relieved Steve could attend his meetings. B.J. tells of one experience she had with the Young Adults in the area:
“One night after I had not been to Young Adults for three weeks, they all came to my house for a party!” She shook her head in wonder.
The pioneer spirit shows in little ways. At dances, beneath the elegant gowns, girls wear mukluks, sealskin boots. After a shipment of fabric comes into the general store, everyone shows up at church and school with shirts, dresses, and skirts of the same fabric. And this spirit shows in big ways, too. When the hay is ready to harvest, everyone comes to help. Eggs and milk are shared by all.
“The whole branch is close.” Dad sums it up well. With little else to hold onto, that gospel love is like an iron rod in the vast wilderness. “The people up here have to live like the Mormon pioneers. They share. They work together,” Dad explains.
Steve agrees. His life is painted in pioneer panorama, but with strokes that show a Master’s gentle touch. Last year when winter was fierce, the whole family gathered in the front room, some of the smaller members in Dad’s arms. They read from the scriptures by the flickering light of kerosene lamps. Through the front window, Steve could see the bright lights of the Aurora Borealis dancing silent approval over the warm scene. This is life at its best—a candle on a very cold hillside.

To the young missionaries tracting the streets of Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1995, the promise they had received from a member of the Area Presidency seemed odd: “If you work hard and are completely obedient, investigators will fall out of the trees to be baptized.” We found out about that promise a short time later.
My father was pruning one of the trees along the sidewalk in front of our home. As he was up in the tree pruning, he noticed two young men walking toward him on the street. As they passed under the tree, he called down to them in English.
My father didn’t really speak English, but he knew a few words, and he was curious. Who were these young men, and what were they doing in our neighborhood?
The missionaries stopped, wondering where the voice had come from. My father then climbed out of the tree to talk to them. Impressed by their message and manner, he invited them into his home.
My father’s previous experience with religion had left him troubled, but the message of the restored gospel spoke to his heart. He had lived through some tough times, and he knew he needed to change. He listened closely as the missionaries taught him, my mother, my grandmother, and me.
I was only 11 years old, but the truths they taught also resonated with me—and with my mother and grandmother. As a result, we were all baptized a few months later, in September 1995.
The seeds of faith that the missionaries planted in our hearts were soon nourished by fellowshipping from friends at church, additional gospel teaching, and good experiences with strong Church leaders. Because of the warm welcome we received, the seeds of our faith “fell on good ground, and sprang up, and bare fruit an hundredfold” (Luke 8:8).
The fruits of our faith that we enjoy today—nearly 25 years later—include a firm commitment to the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, the blessings of the temple, and a full and happy life with a new generation of family members united for all eternity.
We will always be grateful for two faithful missionaries who put an inspired promise to the test.

On Thursday, we visited the Washington, D.C., Visitors’ Center and then met with the Washington Temple presidency and set apart several sealers. The next morning, Friday, March 13, in company with Elder Gordon B. Hinckley, we visited with President Ronald Reagan in the Oval Office of the White House. We presented to him his genealogy on his mother’s side. We then met with Mrs. Reagan. Both were very warm and gracious and very appreciative of the genealogical record.

Our second son lived much of his youth apart from the Church. When he turned 20, he had an experience that made him want to change his life. With love, prayers, and help from his family and members of the Church, and ultimately through the compassion and grace of the Lord, he returned to the Church.

He was later called to serve in the Washington Seattle Mission. He initially suffered great discouragement. Every night for the first three months, he would go into the bathroom and cry. Like Elder Cowan, he sought to understand “Why am I here?”
After he served for a year, we received an email that was an answer to our prayers. He wrote: “Right now I can really feel the love of God and of Jesus. I will work hard to become like the prophets of old. Though I am also experiencing a lot of difficulties, I am truly happy. Serving Jesus really is the best thing ever. There is nothing as wonderful as this. I am so happy.”

He felt as Alma did: “And oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold; yea, my soul was filled with joy as exceeding as was my pain!”

These intrepid pioneers were waiting for apostolic direction on how and when they would be heading further west. Everyone’s plans were altered when Brigham Young, the President of the Quorum of the Twelve, issued a call for men to volunteer to serve in the United States Army in what came to be known as the Mormon Battalion.

Robert Harris Jr. was one of over 500 Mormon pioneer men who responded to that call from Brigham Young. He enlisted, even though it meant he would leave behind his pregnant wife and six little children.

Why would he and the other men do such a thing?

The answer can be given in my great-great-grandfather’s own words. In a letter that he wrote to his wife when the battalion was on its way to Santa Fe, he wrote, “My faith is so strong as ever [and when I think of the things that Brigham Young told us], I believe it about the same as if the Great God had told me.”

In short, he knew he was listening to a prophet of God, as did the other men. That is why they did it! They knew they were led by a prophet of God.

In that same letter, he expressed his tender feelings for his wife and children and told of his constant prayers that she and the children would be blessed.

Later in the letter, he made this powerful statement: “We must not forget the things which you and I heard and [experienced] in the Temple of the Lord.”

Combined with his earlier testimony that “we are led by a Prophet of God,” these two sacred admonitions have become like scripture to me.

Eighteen months after departing with the battalion, Robert Harris was safely reunited with his beloved Maria. They stayed true and faithful to the restored gospel throughout their lives. They had 15 children, 13 of whom lived to maturity. My grandmother Fannye Walker, of Raymond, Alberta, Canada, was one of their 136 grandchildren.

For the next couple of months I was able to pay all of my expenses after paying my tithing. Then came another month when there was again not enough money to cover both rent and tithing. I paid my tithing. I knew that Sister Knight did not have any more trees to be cut, and I was concerned that I should pay the rent promptly. On the Friday evening before the rent was required, a local radio station in Provo announced a program called “Movie Merry-Go-Round” in which a prize would be offered to anyone who could answer questions regarding one of the movies then playing in Provo. I listened to the program and thought I might try to win the prize. That evening, the radio announcer offered $18 and two free movie tickets to the first person who could give the license number of a car that had been used in a brief scene in a recent movie. Miraculously, or at least so it seemed to me, I saw clearly in my mind’s eye the scene that the radio announcer referred to. I saw it with such clarity that I could read the license number. Once again I had sufficient funds to pay my rent.

As the school bus bumped along the rough road, Barbara bounced with excitement.
“You should see my Father’s Day gift,” she told Francine.
“Mr. Hansen, the art teacher, stayed after school for a few days to help me. It’s a hand-painted tie with all the soft colors my dad likes.”
“Do you have it with you?”
“It’s home on my desk, ready to be wrapped.”
“What if your dad goes into your room and sees it?” Francine said.
“He won’t. Dad left for work early this morning and won’t be home until after I’m home from school.”
The bus slowed for Barbara’s stop. Her spirits soared as she raced into her home and up the stairs. It was time to wrap her gift. But as soon as she reached the second floor, she knew something was wrong. Her bedroom door was wide open.
She raced into her bedroom and found her four-year-old brother sitting on the carpet, holding what was left of the treasured tie. Soft-colored scraps surrounded the shiny scissors on the floor. Ronnie’s pudgy fingers worked to knot the ragged tie about his neck, and he glanced up, an expectant smile creasing his round face.
“See? Now I look like Daddy.”
“How could you, Ronnie? You’ve ruined it!” Barbara dragged herself downstairs, collapsed onto a kitchen chair, and started sobbing.
Her mother was speaking on the phone, jotting notes on a pad. She eyed Barbara. “Let me call you back. Something’s come up.”
In one smooth movement, Mom was in a nearby chair. The story of the tie spilled out, and Mom nodded, her face serious.
“Now what am I going to do? I have no gift for Dad. And I worked so hard on that tie.”
“I’m sorry,” Mom said, “It must be a terrible disappointment. And now you have even more hard work ahead of you.”
“You mean making another tie?”
“No, I mean forgiving Ronnie.”
“After what he did?”
“As I said, it’s hard work. Forgiveness isn’t just words. Forgiveness includes honest feelings.”
Stunned, Barbara left the kitchen. Forgive her brother for wrecking Dad’s gift? How could she? Why should she?
She sat on the steps, trying to deal with her feelings. As she sat there, she argued silently with herself, “I shouldn’t have left it on my desk.” “Ronnie shouldn’t have gone into my room, either—that was my private space.” “But four-year-olds don’t understand privacy.”
With a wince, she recalled the pride and innocent pleasure on Ronnie’s face as he showed her that he just wanted to be like Dad. He wasn’t trying to hurt me, and he must have been hurt by what I said.
What I said—words. Mom had said that forgiveness was not just words, but honest feelings. With growing joy, Barbara realized she had feelings of love not only for Dad and Mom but for Ronnie too. Sincere feelings.
She hurried back to her room. Kneeling, she hugged Ronnie tightly. “I wanted to give Dad a super gift,” she explained. “That’s why I was upset by what you did. But you’re special to me too. Next time I’ll include you in my plans. Then the gift will be from both of us.”
“I think you just gave me a special gift,” Dad said from the doorway.
Barbara got to her feet, holding out the tie. “Sorry, Dad.”
“Sorry that you’re a feeling person who puts people ahead of material things? Don’t ever be sorry for that. I’m proud that you’re my daughter.”
Barbara flew into his arms. The wonderful sense of joy that she had felt on the stairs returned stronger than ever. Her family was more important than a piece of cloth.

This past summer my wife and I had two of our young grandsons staying with us while their parents participated in a pioneer trek activity in their stake. Our daughter wanted to be sure that the boys practiced the piano while away from home. She knew that a few days with the grandparents makes it a little easier to forget about practicing. One afternoon I decided to sit with my 13-year-old grandson, Andrew, and listen to him play.
This boy is full of energy and loves the outdoors. He could easily spend all of his time hunting and fishing. While he was practicing the piano, I could tell that he would rather be fishing on a nearby river. I listened as he pounded out each chord of a familiar song. Every note he played had the same emphasis and meter, making it difficult to clearly identify the melody. I sat beside him on the bench and explained the importance of applying just a little more pressure on the melody keys and a little less on those notes that accompany the melody. We talked about the piano being more than just a mechanical miracle. It can be an extension of his own voice and feelings and become a wonderful instrument of communication. Just as a person talks and moves smoothly from one word to another, so should the melody flow as we move from one note to another.
We laughed together as he tried again and again. His dimpled-cheek smile increased as the familiar melody began to emerge from what was previously a wild set of sounds. The message became clear: “I am a child of God, and he has sent me here.”1 I asked Andrew if he could feel the difference in the message. He responded, “Yes, Grandpa, I can feel it!”