Gospel Story Finder

I was once invited to speak at graduation services at a university. The university president had wanted President Gordon B. Hinckley to be invited but found that he was unavailable. So by default I got the invitation. I was then a junior member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
The person who invited me to speak became anxious as she learned more about my obligations as an Apostle. She called me on the phone and said that she now understood that my duty was to be a witness of Jesus Christ.
In very firm tones she told me that I could not do that when I spoke there. She explained that the university respected people of all religious beliefs, including those who denied the existence of a God. She repeated, “You cannot fulfill your duty here.”
I hung up the phone with serious questions in my mind. Should I tell the university that I would not keep my agreement to speak? It was only two weeks before the event. My appearance there had been announced. What effect would my failing to keep my agreement have on the good name of the Church?
I prayed to know what God would have me do. The answer came in a surprising way to me. I realized that the examples of Nephi, Abinadi, Alma, Amulek, and the sons of Mosiah applied to what I was. They were bold witnesses of Jesus Christ in the face of deadly peril.
So the only choice to be made was how to prepare. I dug into everything I could learn about the university. As the day of the talk grew closer, my anxiety rose and my prayers intensified.
In a miracle like the Red Sea parting, I found a news article. That university had been honored for doing what the Church has learned to do in our humanitarian efforts across the world. And so in my talk I described what we and they had done to lift people in great need. I said that I knew that Jesus Christ was the source of the blessings that had come into the lives of those we and they had served.
After the meeting the audience rose to applaud, which seemed a little unusual to me. I was amazed but still a little anxious. I remembered what happened to Abinadi. Only Alma had accepted his witness. But that night, at a large formal dinner, I heard the university president say that in my talk he heard the words of God.

President Heber J. Grant tells of a different type of reward that comes from trusting in the Lord. When he was a young man, he heard his bishop in a fast meeting, which was then held on Thursdays (in the early days, we held our fast meetings on Thursdays), make a strong appeal for donations. At that time President Grant had $50 in his pocket which he intended to deposit in the bank. But he was so impressed by his bishop’s appeal that he tendered the whole $50 to the bishop. The bishop took $5 and handed him back $45, stating that $5 was his full share. Then President Grant replied, “Bishop Wooley, by what right do you rob me of putting the Lord in my debt? Didn’t you preach here today that the Lord rewards fourfold? My mother is a widow and she needs two hundred dollars.”

“My boy,” queried the bishop, “do you believe that if I take this other forty-five dollars you will get your two hundred dollars quicker?”

“Certainly,” replied President Grant.

Now here was an expression of trust in the Lord which the bishop could not withstand. He took the remaining $45.

President Grant testified that on his way back to work, “an idea popped” into his head, acting upon which he made $218.50. Speaking on this incident years later, he said, “Someone will say that it would have happened anyway.

“I do not think it would have happened. I do not think I would have got the idea.

“I am a firm believer that the Lord opens up the windows of heaven when we do our duty financially and pours out blessings upon us of a spiritual nature, which are of far greater value than temporal things. But I believe He also gives us blessings of a temporal nature.” (Improvement Era 42:457.)

An example of a master teacher was President David O. McKay, who called me to be a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He taught with love and with sensitivity. He was the epitome of what he taught. His heart was kind, and his manner was gracious. He was a teacher of truth after the pattern of the Savior.

I observed this trait when, long before I was a General Authority, I entered his office to review some printing proofs of a book that we were printing. On that particular occasion, I noticed a picture on the wall, and I said to him, “President McKay, that’s a lovely painting. Is it a rendition of your childhood home in Huntsville, Utah?”

He sat back in his chair and gave a familiar David O. McKay chuckle and said, “Let me tell you about that picture. A sweet woman came in to see me one autumn day and presented to me that beautiful painting, framed and ready to be placed on the wall. She said, ‘President McKay, I spent much of the summer painting this picture of your ancestral home.’” He said he accepted the gift and thanked her profusely.

And then he said to me, “Do you know, Brother Monson, that dear woman painted the wrong house. She painted the house next door! I didn’t have the heart to tell her she painted the wrong house.”

But then he made this comment—and here is a vital lesson for all of us. He said, “In reality, Brother Monson, she painted the right house for me, because when, as a young boy, I would lie on the bed which was on the front porch of my ancestral home, the view I had through that screened porch was of the very house she painted. She did paint the right house for me!”

As a young person trying to find God, it was really hard to believe we had prophets living on the earth today. It felt so complicated and confusing. But almost two years later, as a committed convert to the Church, I found it even harder to believe that I was one of the 15 young adults in Sydney, Australia, chosen to meet with President Russell M. Nelson for a question-and-answer session.
It was an experience that will always bring a smile to my face and tears of joy every time I flashback to it.
We were all anxious to meet him and even more nervous to hear what he had to say to us as young adults. I imagined the answers he would give to our questions to be deep and elaborate, and I wondered if I was ready to hear and understand his words. With the amount of nerves flowing through us, we all decided to say a prayer to help us be more at ease and to invite the Spirit.
The moment when President Nelson walked into the room was so surreal. We have always been taught that prophets receive revelation from God and share it with the world, helping everyone to come unto Christ. We see them speak at general conference. But seeing and speaking with him in person is a different experience.
Here he was—a humble, loving prophet of God. The Spirit he brought into the room was so powerful. We all stood in silence, hesitant to smile or speak, but as he walked over with a huge grin and told us how happy he was to meet us, we were all filled with so much joy and peace. I could feel his sincere humility and the love he had for each of us as he shook our hands and gave us all a tender smile.
We began asking him questions about young adults in the Church, and one particular question stood out to me the most. We asked, “As young adults, we often struggle to encourage our families and friends to take part in the gospel. How can we do better at sharing the gospel with them?” President Nelson took a moment to think and then said two words: ”Be attractive.” And he went on: “Be an example and be faithful.”
That was it—a simple yet thoughtful and true message. His simple words were deeply imprinted on our minds and hearts. I realized in that moment that as young single adults, we tend to complicate and overthink the gospel so much, when truly the guidelines from the Spirit and from our prophets are simple, straightforward, and they hold so many promises of blessings.
I realized in that moment how President Nelson had become so humble and spiritual: from constantly practicing living the gospel of Jesus Christ. And all we have to do is the same. Do those little things each day that draw us closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ: attending church and the temple, reading the scriptures, praying with a sincere heart, and ultimately being kind and loving toward everyone we meet. Those small, everyday acts are the keys to mastering the art of becoming true disciples of Christ, strengthening our bond with Him, and sharing His truth with others.
We should simply strive be the best version of ourselves, and those small simple things will lead to big results. Yes, the world is complicated, and yes, it’s easy to overthink so many things in life, but God’s plan is simple, and when we follow it, it makes life more simple. By taking the prophet’s guidance to heart and doing our best to become like our Savior Jesus Christ each day, our mere examples of faith will change the lives around us.

On Thursday, a group from the Mormon Battalion who had been released in New Mexico entered the valley and joined the Saints, increasing their number to about 400. These men from the battalion went to work immediately on the construction of a bowery on the southeast corner of the place designated as the Temple Block to serve as a place of assembly—a predecessor to this tabernacle. Poles were cut and brought from the mountains and planted in the ground to support a roof of leafy boughs. This first structure to be built in the valley was finished on Saturday, one week from the day of arrival. On the following day, Sunday, they were able to hold religious services under the shade of this bowery.

“You hide your horses in this grove of trees by the tracks. The train will be coming up the grade out of the canyon. Mike, you flag it down. The rest of you board the train. I’ll be up in front here and shoot anything that moves. All right, let’s go!”
That wasn’t Butch Cassidy talking. That was me, and that day I shot horses, people, trains, a guy carrying a canoe, and a bird watchers club by mistake. I shot them with a super-8 movie camera as part of one of the greatest, most colossal spectacles ever to hit the silver screen—at least we thought so: “The Great Train Robbery” (we titled it) produced by the Edgemont Fourth Ward Aaronic Priesthood MIA and featuring a cast of dozens (including some we hadn’t planned on).
If you’re looking for a different activity for your Aaronic Priesthood MIA, maybe a movie spectacular is the answer. A movie is a large undertaking, but it’s fun, and you may excite some previously unexcited kids. We did. Don’t worry too much about the technical aspects of movie making. Enthusiasm covers a multitude of blunders, and humility covers the rest. There is almost always a willing expert in the ward or neighborhood or down at the camera shop.
We started out like this:
“Let’s make a movie,” said the members of the bishops youth committee.
“Great idea,” said the ever-enthusiastic drama specialist. “Uh … which end of the camera do you point?”
Fortunately today’s automatic camera equipment is designed with a medium I.Q. in mind. You don’t have to be Stanley Kramer to come out with something on the film. Speaking of equipment, snoop around the ward a little. Especially after Christmas. You can probably unearth both a camera and cameraman. If worse comes to absolute worst, you can usually rent equipment from a camera store.
You will probably want your colossal extravaganza to run more than three minutes (that’s the length of a roll of film), so you’ll need a film editing machine and some adhesive splicing tabs to stick the films together—also available at the camera store. Anybody who finds film editing exciting has lived a very uneventful life. Also, the handy-dandy splicing tapes require the finger dexterity of a professional pickpocket. But it has to be done, so stick with it (pun intended). It is satisfying when you’ve finished. Film and development are the biggest costs, of course. We spent $105.00 for a 25-minute epic. Writing the script isn’t hard; just remember to put in plenty of action, plenty of people, plenty of outdoors. Look around for any unusual settings for action scenes. Is there a park with an old airplane, or an outdoor museum? Are there stores, houses, or barns with unusual exteriors? If nothing else, is there an open space where you can stage an indian raid or a medieval jousting tournament?
We decided on a train robbery because we had the elements close at hand. The Heber Creeper is an old-time steam engine that carries sightseers between Heber, Utah, and lower Provo Canyon. The owners were happy to participate in the robbery and even showed us the best spot to pull off the job.
Our ward had enough riding enthusiasts to get the outlaw band more or less mounted. We had purebred stallions, ancient hay burners, a Shetland pony, and one reluctant donkey. He was the only member of the cast who didn’t think it was a good idea. We first noticed this lack of enthusiasm when we had to drag him stiff-legged down the road behind my Volkswagen to load him on a truck. If you’ve got 53 horsepower on one end of the rope and one donkey power on the other, you’ve got a toss-up contest that could go either way. But we finally won.
We loaded him and the rest of the horses and outlaws and headed for the hills.
The train route winds through Provo Canyon, then hugs the hillside around Deer Creek reservoir, and cuts through the fields and pastures of Heber Valley. We set up near a grove of trees and waited.
“Here she comes!” shouted the lookout.
I hollered, “Lights! Action! Roll ’em!” (Whatever that means.)
Lights and roll ’em we didn’t get, but action we did. One blast of the engine whistle and every horse sponsored his own Kentucky Derby in his own direction. Only the donkey was left. He was too ornery to be scared. He just stood stiff-legged by the tracks and sang two-part harmony with the train as it thundered by.
The Creeper was a white puff of smoke in the distance by the time we rounded up the last of the horses, so we dubbed in the train scene later. Speaking of dubbing in, try as much as possible to shoot the scenes in order. Rehearse them while looking through the camera; then try to get it right the first take. It will save film costs and editing time later.
Our script called for a brawl scene climaxed by a pie in the face. For this scene we got the bishop’s permission, because he got the pie in the face. Blueberry cream. It was a beautiful scene and performed with excellent taste, the bishop said.
Close-ups and reaction-to-the-action shots help pace the action. And also try to frame your characters as large as practical in the shot unless it’s a deliberate long shot or scenery shot. Mount your camera on a tripod whenever possible. Even though your cameraman lives the Word of Wisdom, he’s got shaky hands.
You can get synchronized sound with some super-8 movie cameras, but this was more trouble and expense than we wanted. We used a silent screen format with printed titles to show the dialogue and credits. You can type these and photograph them with a close-up attachment on the movie camera. Here, especially, use the tripod, We recorded a rinky-tink piano background (put thumbtacks in the piano hammers to get the “tink”). We play the tape whenever we show the movie.
Showing the movie is, of course, the climax, particularly the premiere showing. We staged a variety show titled “Salute to the Silver Screen.” The whole ward was invited (and came), and the kids did songs, dances, and skits based on great movies of the past. (Unfortunately most of the great movies are in the past.) Then we honored the cast and showed the movie. “The Great Train Robbery” will never get an Oscar, but it was a “ward winning” movie.

Youth all over the world are drawn to temples. In Lima, Peru, I met a father and three of his daughters outside the entrance of the temple. I saw the light in their faces. Two of the daughters were severely disabled and sitting in wheelchairs. The third daughter, while attending to her sisters’ needs, explained she had two more sisters at home. They too were in wheelchairs. They were unable to travel the 14 hours to the temple. The temple meant so much to this father and his daughters that four of them had come to the temple that day—two of them simply to observe the one who could be baptized for the dead and perform that sacred ordinance. Like Nephi, they “[delighted] in the covenants of the Lord.”

“Michael, I’m not going to tell you again. Get into the living room and practice.”
“Why?”
“Because practice makes perfect, because you’ll thank me later, and because I say so!”
The last reason carried the most weight. Michael sighed as he dumped his baseball glove on the hall table and went into the torture chamber.
There it stood—eighty-eight keys’ worth of misery. Michael thought he knew how knights of old had felt when advancing to certain doom. “We who are about to die salute you,” he muttered under his breath.
“I don’t hear anything,” his mother called from the kitchen.
There was no way out. Michael placed his fingers on what he hoped were the correct keys and began to play. It sounded like the time the high school drum major had tripped in a parade and knocked down a drummer and half the woodwinds.
“That’s better,” his mother called over the cacophony.
“If only it were,” Michael muttered wearily.
Half an hour later he knew he had reached his breaking point. “Kitten on the Keys” sounded like the cat had just had an unfortunate run-in with a train. Resolutely he headed to the kitchen.
Mom was at the table, gluing together rocks that she painted with cute faces and sold at the craft store in town. The house was littered with the things. They paid for Michael’s piano lessons.
“Uh, Mom,” Michael said gently. “I think you should stop painting those.”
“Why?” she asked, putting a base coat of paint on something that vaguely resembled a frog.
“Because I’m quitting piano.”
The rock frog quivered, then fell stickily apart in Mom’s hands. She turned to face him. “Oh no you’re not.”
“Look, Mom,” he reasoned, “you’re throwing money down a well here. A deep well. I have no talent. I’ve learned to face it, why can’t you?”
“Nonsense,” she replied briskly. “You just need to practice more. Anyone can learn to play the piano. How hard can it be?”
At that, Michael snapped. “If you think it’s so all-fired easy, why don’t you take the lessons?”
“Me?” Mom asked, taken aback. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t think you can do it, huh?” Michael replied triumphantly.
His mother looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. “All right, you’re on! I’ll take lessons too.”
“Too? No, no, no. Instead. You’re going to take them instead of me, right?”
“No—too. Here’s the deal.” Mom looked him in the eye. “We both take lessons. If, at the next recital, I play better than you do, you keep taking lessons. If, however, you play better than I do, then it’s your choice.”
Michael saw that this was the best chance he’d get. “OK.” Now, at least, there was a possibility of escape. The next recital was in two months. Mom couldn’t possibly catch up and pass him by then. After all, he’d been taking lessons for almost a year. It was a sure thing. He could relax.
He stopped relaxing after two weeks. To his horror, he discovered that his mother was swiftly progressing from one-hand to two-hand pieces, from scales to chords.
“It’s not fair!” he announced, coming home from school to hear “Kitten on the Keys” played as if the cat had almost completely recovered from the train accident. “You can practice all day, and I have to go to school.”
Mom just smiled and launched into “Elephant Antics,” finishing with a flourish before presenting him with the piano bench.
Michael began to panic. He got up early to practice. He zipped home after school and flung himself at the keyboard with the desperation of a drowning man learning to swim. Mom had lined up a critical audience of stone creatures along the top of the piano that seemed to eye him as he played, daring him to improve.
To his amazement, he started playing better. To his horror, so did his mother.
The piano was practiced from dawn until bedtime. Michael’s father took to inserting earplugs as he walked through the front door every evening. The dog decided to spend its time in the backyard. The neighbors kept their windows shut.
Finally the day of the recital arrived. Michael sat on the stage with the other piano students—a line of kids, with Mom sticking out like a basketball player at a jockey convention.
Sweat trickled down his back; Mom looked cool and collected in pink organdy.
“She’s just trying to psych me out,” he told himself as he ran a finger inside his sweaty collar, trying to loosen it. But she hadn’t let him hear her practice in a week. How good is she? he wondered.
Pretty good, he groaned to himself, when he heard her play. Her fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard, and he counted only three mistakes. The applause when she finished sounded like the final nails being pounded into his coffin.
He was next. Nervously he approached the piano, sat down, raised his hands to the keys, and played.
To his amazement he sounded good. No, he sounded great! He’d been so busy the last few weeks worrying about his mother that he hadn’t really been listening to himself. Well, I’ll be! Mom was right—practice does make perfect!
The applause, when he finished, seemed to rock the room. He was surprised to see Mom clapping the hardest. At least she was a good loser.
“You won fair and square,” she said as they walked home. “So what are you going to do, Michael? Are you quitting piano lessons?”
“I guess not.” He shrugged. “After these last two months, a half hour of practice a day will seem like a vacation. Besides,” he added, pretending to buff his nails, “I’m getting pretty good at it.” He paused. “What about you, Mom?”
“I’d like to keep taking lessons, too,” she said, “but I don’t know if my painting can support two lessons—it takes time to find good rocks, you know.”
Michael stooped down, picked up a couple of likely rocks, and handed them to her. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll help you.”

Brigitte and Wanda snuggled down in their beds, giggling. They should have been asleep long ago. But after three long years as a prisoner of war in France, Papa was coming home the very next day!
“What should I call him?” asked Brigitte. It had been so long since she had seen him, she felt a little shy.
“Why, call him Papa, of course,” Wanda replied. “That’s what he is!”
Brigitte hid her face so Wanda wouldn’t see how embarrassed she was. “Well, I know that. I guess I’m just used to having only Uncle John and our other uncles. You know—calling all of them uncle. … And so much has happened since Papa had to leave us. I know Mama hoped that Papa could baptize me, but I didn’t want to wait any longer.”
The Pegnitz River had been icy cold that April day, yet it felt curiously warm to her when she stepped into it, wearing her long white nightgown. Brother Ludwig Weiss had baptized her, and Uncle John had confirmed her. It was a happy time except for Papa’s absence. Now a whole year had passed.
“Girls, you need to try to get to sleep. I want you to get up early to help me bake good things for Papa to eat when he gets here.”
Brigitte and Wanda looked at each other with guilty faces. Mama had heard them talking—they would have to be quieter. …
The next thing they knew, the sun was pouring in their bedroom window and Mama was shaking them awake. All day long the house was filled with the wonderful smells of cookies and cakes baking. The girls felt as if they would burst with waiting. When they had nearly given up hope—it was ten o’clock at night—Papa came home!
He looked different, he was so very thin—but he was still Papa. Brigitte didn’t have any trouble calling him that. She felt safe and warm and peaceful because once again Papa was in the house. Like the fresh spring breeze, Papa brought them his own special kind of laughter.
One rainy morning before she skipped off to school, Brigitte ran over to give him a kiss. “Let it rain,” she cried. “Now that you’re home, we always have sunshine in our house.”
But one day she noticed that he had an unhappy frown. Although he didn’t say anything was wrong, she worried and wondered. That night when she got up to go to the bathroom, she heard her parents speaking in whispers. I shouldn’t listen, she thought, but she couldn’t help hearing some of what they were saying.
“All these years we saved every little bit of money we possibly could to get enough to go to America—and today the government is making us change to a new kind of money,” Mama grieved. “Now we’ll have to start over.”
“I know how hard you worked as a seamstress while I was away, and I was amazed at what you were able to save, Elizabeth. We just have to have faith that we can do it again.”
So that’s what made Papa so sad. Mama too. No wonder! She thought of the straggly little plants Mama had told her to throw away. They had grown to stand tall and straight in the sun. When the vegetables were ready to harvest, Mama said hers were the best in the shared lot. My prayers helped the plants grow! I know they did! And I know my prayers can help us to get to America too. She was happy here with her friends and the members of the branch, but Papa wanted his dream to go to America and be sealed together in the temple so badly that it had become her dream too.
As the days, weeks, and months marched by, no one talked much about the dream, because Oma was not well. They could not leave her. When she died, Brigitte’s heart was heavy with sadness, but she felt a peace in her heart, too, because she knew that when their dream came true, she could be with Oma again someday. She wrote in her little brown journal:
I will always remember her faith. I will always try to have faith like hers. I want to be like Oma.
One night after dinner, Papa was talking about immigration regulations. “They insist that we have a blood relative as our sponsor, but they won’t accept any of my sisters because their families are so large, and they can’t afford it. Peter Loscher is trying to help us. He found another sponsor for us, but he isn’t a relative.”
Brigitte looked up at her father’s sad face. “Papa, remember how everyone wanted to sit by Oma in the bomb shelters because she had so much faith? Last night when you were reading from the Book of Mormon about when Nephi broke his bow in the wilderness and they were hungry, I thought that it wasn’t easy for those people to get to America, either. Heavenly Father helped them do it, just as he helped us to be safe during the war.”
Papa looked at Brigitte and his sadness disappeared. “You’re right, Gitte. I won’t lose faith.”
A short time later, Papa received a letter from Peter Loscher: I have arranged for Quentin Cannon, a former missionary in Germany, to be your sponsor. They will accept him because he has borrowed the money from his credit union (a kind of bank) to pay for your passage. You can pay him back after you get here.
Brigitte had never seen Papa cry, but his eyes were wet and his voice shook with joy as he read the letter.
“We can bring only our suitcases, ten dollars per person, and two large wooden crates, so you may as well have a party with your friends and give away what we can’t bring with us,” Papa told them.
The day to leave for America—and the temple—finally came. The family rode the street car to the train station. They took the train along the Rhine River to Rotterdam. In Rotterdam they took the stagecoach to the harbor where the ship New Amsterdam was docked. Wanda and Brigitte were seasick the entire trip, but even so, they were excited to see the Statue of Liberty welcoming them.
Papa loved bananas, but in Germany they were very costly. Now, as they waited at the New York harbor for their crates, Papa left and came back with a giant bag of bananas and an even bigger smile. “Your first taste of America!”
“George, you shouldn’t have!” Mama gasped. “We have only forty dollars.”
Wanda and Brigitte turned shocked faces to their father. His smile became even broader. “Welcome to America. These bananas were only forty cents!”
The tension was broken by relieved laughter. Mama laughed loudest of all.
Soon they got on the bus for the last part of their long journey. Only three days and they would be in Salt Lake City!
“Look!” Mama cried, almost reverently as the bus took them into the Utah town.
Brigitte looked around at the snow. She guessed it must be unusual for it to be snowing on April 29. Then she saw them—the spires of the Salt Lake Temple, reaching toward heaven.
Brigitte was eleven and a half years old. She had spent nearly half her life running from bombs and the terrible destruction of war. Soon she would dress in white, kneel at the altar of the temple, place her small hand in the hands of her parents, and be sealed to them by the power of the priesthood for time and for all eternity. What she would always remember most was the expression of joy on her father’s face.

Even though Corey was constantly busy with his academic studies and activities such as debate and drama, he made the choice to attend early morning seminary. He knew he would have to give up something, and that something was swimming. By then he knew he wanted to focus on academics, and that made dropping swimming much easier. Seminary, on the other hand, was too valuable. Corey says, “I’ve known all my life that I would take seminary. It is very helpful in understanding the scriptures. If you study the scriptures every day, you come to a better understanding of what they are all about.”

President Gordon B. Hinckley tells of cleaning his house when he was a youth: “Most homes were heated with coal stoves. … As winter came to a close, black soot and grime were everywhere, both inside and outside of the house. There was a ritual through which we passed each year. … It was known as spring cleaning. …

“When all of it was done, and everything was back in place, the result was wonderful. The house was clean, our spirits renewed. The whole world looked better” (“Be Ye Clean,” Ensign, May 1996, 47).

Several weeks after the experience with the apples I set out to join my friends in the wooded area close to home, anticipating that we would devise some activity or game to play. As I approached them, they were huddled together. I saw smoke rising in the air above them and recognized the aroma of burning tobacco. One of them had obtained a packet of cigarettes, and they were smoking. They invited me to join them, but I declined. They persisted, suggesting that my reluctance to participate was a sign of weakness. Their taunts turned to ridicule, combined with condescending remarks. But nothing they could say or do could persuade me to change my mind. I had not been raised with a knowledge of the restored gospel and knew nothing of the Word of Wisdom, but I was restrained by a feeling within that I should not participate with them.
As I walked home reflecting on the decision I had made, I felt good inside. Although my expectations for the day had not materialized and I would have to find a way to occupy my time without my friends, I had discovered something about myself—about the source of real happiness and the invigoration that results from making the right decision, whatever the circumstances or outcome may be.

We all had great faith. We had initiative too and soon decided we needed a means of transport. Winter was approaching and our little group of pioneers had no wagons or oxen. We decided on the modern day equivalent… a minibus. We already had a willing driver, Sidney Kitt. Now we needed money. All of us sisters could sew and had sewing machines, so we decided to sew us a bus!
We found the best places to buy cheap fabric and simple patterns for children’s clothes, but most of all we sewed peg bags - novelty bags that looked like little dresses on a hanger. We sewed what seemed like hundreds of them! We got our menfolk selling them and got many orders as our fame spread.
We were beginning to get a little weary, and sales were beginning to drop off, but we were still short of our target when our prayers were answered. Someone sent us a sum of money anonymously, just enough to make up the balance we needed.
We named our old minibus Peggy because of all the peg bags. Peggy wasn’t the most beautiful or the most functional minibus, but she got us over our Welsh mountain. There was always a spot near the top where she stalled, but all except the little ones would get out and push Peggy the rest of the way to the summit. We would then all scrambled back in and Peggy would sail down the other side.
One day, the inevitable happened. Peggy died on the mountain! It was a sad day for us when Peggy expired and was left to an unmarked grave at a car dealership. However Heavenly Father saw the plight of the Caerphilly pioneers and prompted Merthyr Tydfil Stake to start a Caerphilly Branch, renting rooms in Caerphilly, with Brother Kitt as branch president.
We were shortly joined by more members - all pioneers of faith and humour. We had so much between us – it was the golden thread that kept us going through difficult times and increased the love between us.
Our wards and branches have grown now and so have our families. From one seed can come a whole forest of oaks and every member is a seed. We are all pioneers in some way, in some wilderness, are we not? And Peggy had helped us over our not-so-rocky mountain.

In my experience I recall a very significant lesson. I learned it as a home teacher.
Shortly before I was married I was assigned with an older companion to serve as home teacher to an aged little lady who was a shut-in. She was a semi-invalid, and often when we knocked on the door she would call us to come in. We would find her unable to be about and would leave our message at her bedside.
We somehow learned that she was very partial to lemon ice cream. Frequently we would stop at the ice cream store before making our visit. Because we knew her favorite flavor, there were two reasons we were welcome to that home.
On one occasion the senior companion was not able to go, for reasons that I do not remember. I went alone and followed the ritual of getting a half-pint of lemon ice cream before making the call.
I found her in bed. She expressed great worry over a grandchild who was to undergo a very serious operation the following day. She asked if I would kneel at the side of her bed and offer a prayer for the well-being of the youngster.
After the prayer, thinking of my coming marriage, I suppose, she said, “Tonight I will teach you.” She said she wanted to tell me something and that I was always to remember it. Then began the lesson I have never forgotten. She recounted something of her life.
A few years after her marriage to a fine young man in the temple, when they were concentrating on the activities of young married life and raising a family, one day a letter came from “Box B.” (In those days a letter from “Box B” in Salt Lake City was invariably a mission call.)
To their surprise they were called as a family to go to one of the far continents of the world to help open the land for missionary work. They served faithfully and well, and after several years they returned to their home, to set about again the responsibilities of raising their family.
Then this little woman focused in on a Monday morning. It could perhaps be called a blue washday Monday. There had been some irritation and a disagreement. Then some biting words between husband and wife. Interestingly enough, she couldn’t remember how it all started or what it was over. “But,” she said, “nothing would do but that I follow him to the gate, and as he walked up the street on his way to work I just had to call that last biting, spiteful remark after him.”
Then, as the tears began to flow, she told me of an accident that took place that day, and he never returned. “For fifty years,” she sobbed, “I’ve lived in hell knowing that the last words he heard from my lips were that biting, spiteful remark.”
This was the message to her young home teacher. She pressed it upon me with the responsibility never to forget it. I have profited greatly from it. I have come to know since that time that a couple can live together without one cross word ever passing between them.
I have often wondered about those visits to that home, about the time I spent and the few cents we spent on ice cream. That little sister is long since gone beyond the veil. This is true also of my senior companion. But the powerful experience of that home teaching, the home teacher being taught, is with me yet, and I have found occasion to leave her message with young couples at the marriage altar and in counseling people across the world.
There is a spiritual genius in priesthood home teaching. Every priesthood holder who goes forth under this assignment can come away repaid a thousandfold.
I have heard men say in response to a question about their Church assignment, “I am only a home teacher.”
Only a home teacher. Only the guardian of a flock. Only the one appointed where the ministry matters most. Only a servant of the Lord!

Few residents knew or even noticed the Smiths. But when anti-Mormon writers in the 1830s wanted to smear the peculiar new faith, they came up with affidavits from Palmyrans that called Joseph Smith and his family ne’er-do-wells. But the neighbors who knew the Smiths best held better opinions. One such, Orlando Saunders, went on record to vouch for the persecuted family’s character:
“I knew all the Smith family well … the old man was a cooper; they all worked for me many a day; they were very good people; Young Joe (as we called him then), he worked for me, and he was a very good worker; they all were. … They were the best family in the neighborhood in case of sickness; one was at my house nearly all the time when my father died; I always thought them honest; they were owing me some money when they left here. …
“One of them came back in about a year and paid me.”1

One morning my missionary companion and I decided to go tracting in a small community in our assigned area in the southern Philippines. While we were busy knocking on doors, a man approached us and asked what we were doing. We could tell that he had been drinking.
Thinking that he was not really interested in our message, we handed him a pamphlet about the purpose of life. We then told him that if he would read the pamphlet and not drink that evening, we would come to his home to explain the purpose of life. He nodded and said he would wait for us. We hurriedly went on our way to a scheduled teaching appointment.
We really had no intention of returning to teach him that night, but every day afterward as we passed his house, I felt an impression to stop. I would immediately disregard the feeling, however, and justify my decision by telling myself that he was probably too drunk to listen.
After a few days the prompting became so strong that I could no longer resist it. As we knocked on his door, we were met by a startled lady who asked us why we had not returned earlier, as we had promised. She said her husband had waited for us that night and that for the first time in their married life, he had not been drinking.
We were embarrassed and apologized profusely. We set an appointment to return that night to teach her and her husband. Soon afterward Brother Gumabay (name has been changed) repented of all his worldly vices, was baptized, and became a pillar in the community.
A few days after his baptism, I was transferred to another area and lost contact with the family. All I could do was hope and pray that they would stay active in the Church.
Later I learned that the small community where the Gumabay family lived had a branch and then a ward. Brother Gumabay was called to be the bishop of that ward. I also learned that most of his relatives had joined the Church.
When I eventually returned to visit my old missionary area, I learned that many people had joined the Church there because of the good example of Bishop Gumabay, who had put his life in the hands of the Lord and placed Him at the helm of his family and daily activities.
I am so grateful we listened to the promptings of the Spirit to visit the Gumabay home. Through this experience I came to comprehend what the Lord meant when He said, “They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick” (Matthew 9:12).

The final point to consider is how and when to close the speech. Concluding remarks should be timed so that listeners feel refreshed rather than exhausted. Have you ever heard a speaker say four times, “In conclusion …” and then listened as he continued for another five or ten minutes each time? Equally as frustrating is a speaker who goes on and on after making his point. Mark Twain wrote:
“Some years ago in Hartford, we all went to church one hot, sweltering night to hear the annual report of Mr. Hawley, a city missionary who went around finding people who needed help and didn’t want to ask for it. He told of life in cellars, where poverty resided; he gave instances of heroism and devotion of the poor. ‘When a man with millions gives,’ he said, ‘we make a great deal of noise. It’s noise in the wrong place, for it’s the widow’s mite that counts.’
“Well, Hawley worked me up to a great pitch. I could hardly wait for him to get through. I had $400 in my pocket I wanted to give that and borrow more to give. You could see greenbacks in every eye. But instead of passing the plate, then, he kept on talking and talking, and as he talked it grew hotter and hotter, and we grew sleepier and sleepier. My enthusiasm went down, down, down—$100 at a clip—until finally when the plate did come around, I stole ten cents out of it.” (Thesaurus of Anecdotes, ed. Edmund Fuller, Crown Publishers: N.Y., 1942, pp. 58–59.) Don’t wait until the audience has quit listening before you quit speaking.

Mamãe? I said something mean to my friend today. Now I feel terrible.
Wait, I know! I can just get baptized again! Then I will be all clean.
You don’t need to do that. You can repent right now and be forgiven. And when you take the sacrament, you can promise to do better!
Can we say a prayer together? I want to tell Heavenly Father I’m sorry. And I’ll tell my friend I’m sorry tomorrow.
Of course.
That Sunday …
I’ll try harder this week to be kind! I know Heavenly Father will help me.
Illustrations by Katie McDee

That was a wise decision. Ed gained a seed in the World Cross-Country Championships in Paris and managed to finish third. He was unaware at the time that that race would later affect his mission.
He was called to serve in Barcelona, Spain, and ran off to the mission field without giving track a second thought—except when he used his knowledge and experience to interest members of Spanish track clubs in the gospel. It was under these circumstances that he once again met up with Jorge Garcia, the winner of the world cross-country meet in Paris. Jorge listened to several discussions, and though he wasn’t baptized, “he has a positive attitude about the Church,” Ed says.

Brose just can’t seem to please his pa. When Pa expected to find him weeding the garden, Brose was tending only the pumpkin patch. Granny had given him pumpkin seeds, and Brose forgot about all the other vegetables. Pa had given up teaching him to play the fiddle—Brose had ten thumbs, Pa’d said. And when he offered to let Brose drive the wagon home, Brose had paid more attention to listening to a bird than to hitching the horses to the wagon. When he’d yelled, “Giddap,” the horses had moved but the wagon hadn’t! Now Brose couldn’t even do a girl’s work right. He’d put the wool he was supposed to card too near the fireplace!
Brose jerked the wool away from the heat, but part of it was already scorched. Ma had told him before that scorch marks would not wash out. Now the whole family would have a streak in their socks to remind them that, even at carding wool, Brose was no good.
Brose was unusually quiet the rest of the evening and the following day, but no one seemed to notice. He went to do chores with Pa and Jeremy, but this time he didn’t even ask if he could try to milk one of the cows. He remembered too well what had happened only a few days earlier.
Pa had been in a hurry, needing all the help he could get. “Seems like you ought to be able to milk Old Brin, Brose,” Pa’d said. “She never kicks. She’ll stand right still for you.”
The cow had stood still, and Brose had done his best, but when he’d finished, Brose knew he hadn’t gotten as much milk as he should have. Pa had taken one look at Old Brin and said, “She doesn’t look dry to me, Jeremy. She hasn’t let Brose have her milk. Better strip her out.”
And Brose had suffered as he watched Jeremy’s smooth, regular milking finish filling the bucket. “I tried,” Brose had said. “I tried to milk her dry.”
Jeremy had poured the milk through the white sack they used as a strainer on the neck of the milk can. “Oh, you’ll get the hang of it, Brose,” he’d replied as he picked up his wooden milk stool and went on to the next cow. “All it takes is practice. Right now, though, come over here and hold Whitey’s tail for me.”
Hold Whitey’s tail! That’s the kind of job I always get, thought Brose. A two-year-old could hold a cow’s tail! Or Jere could just tie it around the cow’s leg, the way he usually does. I won’t do it! But he did. He held it tightly. Whitey tried to swish her tail back and forth, but Brose held on. Not once did he let go of it, and not once did it hit Jeremy in the face.
After the milking was done, Brose walked over to the pumpkin patch. There they were, big and orange and beautiful in the autumn dusk. And they were his. He had raised them all by himself.
He remembered Granny saying, “When pumpkin pie time comes this fall, your pumpkins might be just what we need.” Now he wondered what she’d meant. He had plenty of pumpkins all right, but Granny ought to know as well as anyone how scarce sugar was. They could roast pieces of pumpkin on a bed of coals in the fireplace—Brose’s mouth watered at the thought of a big piece, hot, steaming, and with a big blob of Ma’s fresh-churned butter melting and running down the side—but without sugar, how could Ma make pies?
Brose decided to cut one of the pumpkins right then and clean out the seeds and take it to the house. The evening had turned chilly, and Brose shivered a little as he took out his pocketknife. He glanced up at the sky. It felt cold enough to snow, but the sky was cloudless.
His knife blade was small and a little dull. It took a while for Brose to hack through the tough stem of the pumpkin vine. Then he worked the knife into the top of the pumpkin and began cutting out a piece from the top. He had just finished scraping out the seeds when he heard Pa call.
He had forgotten again! It was time to feed the calf, and here he was in the pumpkin patch! Leaving the pumpkin on the ground, he ran as fast as he could. But he was too late to get the calf bucket ready. Jeremy already had the milk in it. Brose grabbed the bucket and went to feed the calf. That was when he made another mistake!
Later he remembered that when Pa had first given him the job of feeding the calf, he’d told Brose to always hold the bucket tightly while the calf was drinking so that none of the milk would spill out.
“That’s why we feed him on the bucket, Brose,” Pa had explained. “It saves milk. This little feller doesn’t need all the milk Whitey gives. We can feed him enough to grow on and have the rest of her milk for us. But be careful. Every person—and animal, too—in this valley knows what it is to be hungry. We mustn’t waste a thing.”
When Brose set the pail down in front of the calf, he noticed several burrs on its back. While the calf was drinking, Brose pulled a few out, but there were some so far back that he couldn’t quite reach them and hold on to the bucket at the same time. Brose only let go for a moment.
But, of course, it was that same moment when the calf gave an extra hard bunt with his nose! Brose grabbed for the bucket, but he was too late. He could only stand there and watch the milk seep into the ground.
What should he do? Just take the bucket back to the barn and not say anything to Pa? Even as he thought it, Brose knew he couldn’t do that. After all, it wasn’t the calf’s fault. That’s just the way calves are, bunting and pushing. It wouldn’t be fair to make the calf go hungry because of my carelessness, he decided. I’ll have to tell Pa.
Brose went to bed early that night, and it wasn’t until the next morning that he thought of the pumpkin. He hurried out to the patch and found it right where he had left it. It didn’t look spoiled or anything, but there was some water inside.
That’s strange, Brose thought. How come? It didn’t rain last night.
He learned over to take a closer look. There were drops of moisture oozing from the inside of the pumpkin. When he tipped the pumpkin, some of the liquid spilled onto his hand. Brose put the pumpkin down and looked for something to wipe off his hand. Not seeing anything handy, he tried licking it off his fingers. To his amazement it tasted sweet! He took another taste. Yes, it was sweet! Brose grabbed the pumpkin and ran to Granny Dodd’s cabin.
“Granny!” he cried. “Granny!”
He found her at her woodpile, gathering chips in her apron.
“Granny! Look at this! Taste it! Taste it, Granny! It came right out of the sides of the pumpkin! It’s sweet, Granny!”
Granny stood up, letting the chips fall to the ground. She looked at Brose, then carefully dipped a finger into the liquid and tasted it.
“I do declare, Brose! It’s sweet, all right, just like the sap from a sugar maple back home.” Granny had that same sort of smile that Brose had seen when she gave him the seeds. “Now what do you suppose a body might use it for?”
“Pie, Granny! Pumpkin pie with whipped cream!” Brose tasted it again, just to be sure. “It must have been the cold night that did it, Granny. Here. You keep this one. I’m going to cut open about half a dozen and leave them out in the frosty night air.”
The following evening Brose ate his dinner in a hurry, feeling he would burst with excitement if Granny didn’t come pretty soon. Finally he saw her coming across the field that separated the two cabins.
“Pie!” cried Jeremy. The sound in his voice was all Brose had hoped for. His brother’s eyes were about as round as the pie was when Granny held it out piled high with whipped cream. “Is it really pumpkin pie?”
Pa just sat and stared as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“The sugar,” said Ma quietly. “Where did you get it?”
“Brose got it,” said Granny, cutting the first piece and handing it to him. “He raised this sugar right in his pumpkin patch. It’s pumpkin sugar.”
Brose turned to see Pa looking at him, and there it was—that very look of approval and pride he had been striving so hard for—all over Pa’s face. Brose was in no hurry. He could wait for his pie, just like Pa and Jere. He handed the plate across the table. “Here, Ma,” he said. “You have the first piece.”