Gospel Story Finder

I Can Still Hobble
I went for a run. Well, let’s be honest and call it what it really is—the tumor hobble. I exercise to keep breathing right and keep my lungs clear. However, it is difficult when my tumors hurt so much. I cried, then prayed for Heavenly Father to help me. The words of a Christmas song came into my mind, and I started singing:
Be near me, Lord Jesus; I ask thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.2
I must have looked and sounded pretty funny, but that doesn’t matter at this point. I’m just grateful for the words to this song.
Then my cousin called to tell me about her daughter that just went through her second brain surgery. She reminded me that it’s a blessing I can still hobble! Nothing changed. My pain was still there, but I was lifted. I knew I could get through this day.
When things are pressing down on you and you think things are just too hard to bear, sing the third verse of “Away in a Manger,” and our Lord will be with you.

Saint John, New Brunswick—
Growing up in a ward with relatively few young people my age was difficult. Although our stake was quite large, it was spread over such an enormous geographical area that developing meaningful and regular association with other young people in the gospel was nearly impossible.
Life was a constant challenge with all of my friends being nonmembers, and many of them not attending any church at all. When I was 14, I began to challenge the authority around me. To my parents’ credit, they remained firm and steadfast, and never wavered in their guidance or discipline. Despite my constant refusing of alcohol, drugs, and all the other activities which had become regular weekend occurrences among my friends, I remained confused and frustrated.
That year, as always, I took part in our stake temple trip. Living in the Saint John New Brunswick Stake meant an 18-hour journey to the temple in Toronto. Three buses filled with young people began the trip, and I spent the entire week with the youth of our stake. The week was full of excitement and enjoyment. We went shopping, we visited the Sacred Grove in Palmyra, New York, and had a wonderful testimony meeting on the temple grounds. However, it was during my work in the temple that I would witness one of the most incredible experiences in my life.
I had long been aware that people experience gifts of the Spirit in different ways. For many, it is the familiar still, small voice. For others, a warm sensation or a chill running up their spine. It was after having served as a proxy for a set of baptisms and confirmations that I realized my own ability to interpret the Spirit.
I was sitting quietly looking on as my friends entered and exited the font. I was overcome with a feeling of peace and warmth when suddenly I looked up and was amazed at what I beheld. I watched as the room in its entirety and all its contents began to radiate an aura of light. It was an incredibly brilliant, golden white, and it encompassed everything.
Suddenly I realized I was privileged to have been worthy to enter the temple that day. All the confusion and frustration I had felt because of the challenge of living the gospel vanished. I knew that I was party to a higher realm of existence, one of indescribable beauty and wonder.
I know without a doubt that we all have personal access to divine guidance. Living the gospel standards assures that we are all ready and able to receive the delicate intuitions that are necessary for our progression.
The strength of the Holy Ghost is more than just a tool for helping us determine right or wrong. It flows through us and gives us the power to make positive changes in the world around us.

In the end my parents passed the baton to us of the next generation. And in our final days and hours together they provided a capstone on all of their sermons on love in two simple experiences.

The day before Dad died, we invited each person in the family to have a walk-through visit with him, quick and tender. He was in so much pain. But he hid that from view, as he focused on each individual and expressed his love and admiration and hopes for them, as he had always done. The power of that visit has lingered in the hearts of his posterity. Then as I sat by his side the next day, his final, silent message to me was a hand-squeeze, not powerful physically, but a squeeze that spoke of a perfect love that will endure forever.

Recently, I visited the mother of a large family, whom I have known and admired for many years. I have watched her children grow and develop. Education, missions, temple marriages were all part of their program. I asked her what was the secret of her success. Modestly, she told me that success had not yet been achieved, that life was a continual series of tests and challenges. But she did indicate that keeping close family ties had been very important in their lives.

She said, “We have recognized that each family member needs to be treated with dignity and respect. Though the capabilities and talents of each are different, each needs to know he or she is a child of God, loved by Him. We hold regular family conferences (even after the children are married). We feel since the Church has general conference for the edification and instruction of the saints, we need to have family conferences for the same purpose. The have truly strengthened the love in our family.”

For family home evening our family decided to spread hay on our garden. It’s not in our yard, so we had to drive there. Some of us didn’t want to go because it looked like it was about to rain. Then we remembered that President Spencer W. Kimball had said to plant a garden. When we got there the storm hit, so we left. Arriving home we discovered that a big branch from our neighbor’s tree had fallen onto our driveway! If we had not left, our car would have been crushed! We are glad to be blessed when we follow the prophet.

Victor Vallecillo is a co-worker of Pedro Aviles, president of the Managua Nicaragua Stake. When Victor was seeking religious truth, President Aviles gave him a Book of Mormon. Brother Vallecillo feels so joyful about the gospel that since his baptism in November 2004 he has adopted the habit of inviting friends to hear the gospel, and he often goes out with missionaries to teach. His wife and two children have the spirit of missionary work too. One night, Brother Vallecillo recalls, his teenage son was studying a map of Nicaragua, looking at the northern part of the country where Brother Vallecillo grew up. “Papa,” his son said, pointing to places on the map, “the gospel is not here, and it is not here, and it is not here.” How soon, he wondered, would missionaries be able to go to those places so that others could share in the blessings of the gospel?

I can remember only bits and pieces of that September day in 1986. I can remember going to work, but I can’t remember going home. I can’t remember, either, the meeting I had that evening as Young Women president of the Salt Lake Sugarhouse Stake with a new ward Young Women president. But she says that I did visit her and that I left her house at about 6:30 P.M. After the meeting, I must have decided to drive my new car up Emigration Canyon east of Salt Lake City, for it was there that another driver, drunk and driving at a high speed, rammed into my car.
The accident left my memory a shattered wreck and nearly took my life. And yet, in spite of the months of pain and fear I have endured, the experience has produced something of a miracle. Because of it, I am convinced to the very center of my soul that God loves each of us and that he cares for us in ways we rarely recognize.
I suppose I must have taken that drive up Emigration Canyon to enjoy the autumn colors and spend a little free time before my next meeting with the stake Young Men/Young Women committee. Whatever the reason for my being there, it cost me dearly. As I was coming around a curve, another car swerved into my lane. We met head-on. My car was totally demolished, and I was pinned inside. When the paramedics finally pried me out of the car, they were sure I would not survive. The report sent with me to the hospital read “dead or dying.”
My spleen had been ruptured in two places, my diaphragm had been torn open, and my left lung had collapsed. I could barely breathe. I had many other severe internal injuries, and something had dug into my left leg, injuring the nerves. My left arm was cut up, my right ankle was broken, my head had severe lacerations, and my pelvis had been fractured in four places.
In the emergency room, the doctors prepared to insert a tube into my lungs to inflate them, but felt prompted not to do so. Instead, they rushed me into surgery. There they found that the internal damage was so severe that putting a tube into my lung cavity would have killed me.
The only identification I had in my purse that enabled the hospital to locate my family was my temple recommend. From it, they obtained the name of my bishop, John Pruess, and he was finally able to contact my mother.
She and my youngest brother, Cal, arrived at the hospital at about 2:00 A.M. I was out of surgery by then, and Dr. Nelson apologized for not waiting to get permission. Hospital personnel hadn’t been able to contact any of my family right away, and my damaged body had required immediate attention. When Mom discovered how badly I had been hurt, she almost went into shock.
Cal called my sister Marguerite and asked her to let the rest of the family know what had happened. She said that she started praying for me immediately. It was then that she received a strong, calm feeling and the thought, “Trust me. She is in my hands. I’m in charge, I know what’s best, and I’m all-powerful.” She wondered if that meant I would be in God’s hands in the same way our Dad was: he had died two years earlier. She began to pray again and felt rather than heard the message that I would be all right and would be getting married soon. She wondered why the Lord would tell her this, but decided it must have been the best way to comfort her.
At the time, I was not dating anyone or even thinking of getting married. I was forty-nine years old and had long since resigned myself to being single. I had struggled for many years with the fact that my patriarchal blessing had promised me marriage and yet I remained alone. I sometimes wondered if the Lord really knew I was here. There were even times when I thought that I really didn’t matter to him, since I was just an average sort of person—no one very important.
The accident changed all that. When she heard about the accident, my sister Esther wondered why the Lord hadn’t protected me, since I was an active member of the Church. Into her mind came the words, “What makes you think I didn’t?” I know that the Lord truly did protect me. He preserved my life and protected me from the kind of injuries that would have left me crippled. He protected me in the emergency room by prompting the doctors. But perhaps greatest of all, he let me glimpse the almost overwhelming power of his love.
The morning after I was admitted to the hospital, Cal and a member of my bishopric gave me a blessing. Cal had no hesitation in promising me that I would recover. He said later that he had the same feeling Marguerite had—that I would be getting married soon.
I was in intensive care for a week, hooked up to all kinds of machines that helped me breathe and that monitored my condition. Other than my stake president, my family were the only ones allowed to see me during those first few days. I was conscious but not talking. I was under such heavy medication that I have very little memory of those first two weeks. Mostly, I remember isolated times when people came to see me.
After I left intensive care, I was awake and talking. I had become very dependent and wanted one of my family with me all the time, so they set up a schedule and took turns sitting with me. I was in a lot of pain.
The first thing I became consistently conscious of was an intense awareness of love. I can’t ever remember feeling so secure. I felt very much wrapped in God’s love. The feeling was so profound that even to this day I can’t adequately describe it. I was also very much aware of the love my family had for me, and I could feel it surrounding me.
This feeling expanded as I became aware of other people. My Young Women counselors came to see me almost every day, and I felt their concern. Bishop Pruess came to visit me often and told me that the ward was praying for me, and I felt love coming from the ward. Members of the stake came to see me and told me of the great outpouring of prayer for me in the stake. My friends at work visited me, and I also sensed their concern.
I felt all this love at the deepest, most fundamental level of my soul. That love, I believe, is what helped me survive the very difficult time that followed the accident.
The Lord blessed me in so many ways during the following months. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew from the first that all of my injuries would heal and that I would return to normal. I also knew that if I were to recover, I couldn’t waste any strength hating the man who had hurt me. I concentrated on getting better rather than dwelling on what was wrong. I knew that the Lord was helping me focus on love and on people rather than dwell on the horror.
After I had been in the hospital two and a half weeks, the doctors said I could leave. They suggested, however, that my family take me to a convalescent center. I was quite frightened at the thought of moving. I remember pleading with Cal to ask the Lord what we should do. I had been leaning very heavily on the Lord, and I didn’t want any decision made without consulting him. My family was there, and I had been leaning on them, but I knew that, above all, the Lord was caring for me.
On September 20, I was transferred to a care center. The medication was cut in half, so I became more aware of what was going on around me. For a week, I worked hard at building up my strength and learning how to get around with broken bones. Then I was moved to Cal’s house. I appreciated him and his wife for letting me stay with them. It felt good to be in their home. His children would come to my room after school and tell me what they had done that day. Their visits did much to ease me back into normal life.
I had been so heavily drugged in the hospital that even though I knew why I was there, I hadn’t been able to focus on any one thought. But now I was off all medication. For the first few nights at Cal’s, I was afraid to go to sleep. I felt I had such a slight hold on life that I might not wake up in the morning. While lying awake at night, I would start to think about the horror of what had happened and about my injuries. I realized that I could have been killed or permanently damaged physically.
On those nights when I became frightened, I would turn to the Lord for help. Almost immediately, my mind would be filled with peace and with an awareness of the many blessings He had given me. A great calm would envelop me, and I would fall asleep. At such times I felt overwhelmed by Heavenly Father’s goodness and love.
About seven weeks after the accident, I was able to return home. My family stayed most of the day, helping me get settled in, but I spent my first Sunday morning home alone. That was very difficult. After being with people and being surrounded by their love, I felt a terrible loneliness that day—something deeper than I had ever felt before. I had gone through the typical frustrations of being single and of wanting to be a mother. Now, after having been wrapped in the wonderfully sustaining love of my family, I wondered if I could handle living alone any more.
That afternoon, Jerry Tucker came to visit me. We had come to know each other through his calling as high council adviser to the Young Women program, so I wasn’t too surprised when he continued to visit me. Months later, though, when he proposed marriage, I wondered if I was reading my feelings correctly. I suppose, quite naturally, that I felt the need for outside assurance to confirm that my judgment and thoughts were sound. Because the Lord had been so close to me through the crisis of the accident and the slow healing, and because my family had given me such tremendous support, I felt the need for their approval and for wisdom outside my own.
So I began praying about Jerry’s proposal. My prayers were answered one day when a great feeling of peace washed over me. I knew then that this was my time to be married. I also knew that the Lord had not left me alone and that I would never be cheated of anything he had promised me. Jerry and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple on 12 February 1987.
I have wished that I could share with all my single friends the assurance that this experience has given me. I am convinced, at a deeply personal level, that though we sometimes can’t see or understand what is happening in our lives, Heavenly Father is always there, caring for us.
In time, all of my injuries healed. But I will never be the same. I learned so many things that I thought I knew but really didn’t. I have a much deeper faith and trust in the Lord now. I know he lives. I have felt his influence in my life.
I learned that miracles do happen to ordinary people. I had felt that I was no one special, and yet I know now that I am special—I am a daughter of God. We are all special, because we are all children of a loving Heavenly Father. That fact is very real to me now.
Before my accident, I didn’t know how incredibly loving and kind God is. I am sure that even now I don’t begin to comprehend the depth of his love, but I sense that it is far deeper than any of us know. I know that even if I had died or had been crippled, the Lord would have been there looking after me, blessing me in ways he saw best.
I learned how important prayer is. I could actually feel the strength of the prayers being said for me. Now as I pray for the Lord to watch over my loved ones, it has special meaning. If something distressing were to happen, I would want him to be with them as he was with me. When my miracle happened, it was several hours before anyone knew and could begin praying—but how many times had my family remembered me in their daily prayers before that time?
I learned about joy. The Lord told me in a blessing that he had extended my life and that he wanted me to make it a joyful, happy one. I understand now that it is important to him that we are happy. I find references to joy throughout the scriptures. I see far more clearly now that the gospel is a gospel of joy.
I learned the value of health. Our bodies are a special blessing, and good health is to be treasured. I feel an urgent need to take care of my health. Our Heavenly Father has given us life and everything we have. Our part is to take care of what he has given us.
Something terrible happened to me, but I have received so many blessings that I still feel in debt to the Lord. I owe him more than I can ever repay. But I don’t think he wants “repayment.” He wants my love. He wants me to be happy—and that will happen as I love and serve him with my whole soul, sharing my joy with those around me.

My father was the bishop of our ward at the time of its announcement to the Church in April general conference of 1936. The world was struggling in the Great Depression. So many of the fathers of our ward were unemployed. In those days a dime for admission to a school activity would prevent many of my friends from attending because their parents could not afford even that small amount for their children’s enjoyment.
Because of my father’s calling as a bishop, I was able to gain an appreciation of the welfare program from its very beginning as I watched him administer to the needs of the poor in his ward with great love and tenderness. How often I raced home from school anticipating a planned activity. As I would round the corner of our home, there I would see sacks of flour, sugar, and other commodities. My heart would fall, as I knew it would be another evening out with Father as he delivered these commodities to those in need. The planned activity would have to be cancelled for that evening.
When he arrived home, I was always enlisted to help him put the commodities in the car and travel with him to make the deliveries. Sometimes I would grumble under my breath for having been so put upon, but then I would have the remarkable experience of watching the light come back into the eyes of a depressed family as food was brought into their home. I always returned home from those experiences with an exhilarated feeling of watching the Church in action as it was caring for its poor and its needy through fast offerings and good, kind priesthood leaders.

A young adult, Kirsten, shared with me her painful experience. High school had been her Liberty Jail. Fortunately, the band room provided relief. She said: “When I stepped into this room, it was as if I stepped into a safe place. There were no degrading or belittling remarks, no profanity. Instead, we heard words of encouragement and love. We exercised kindness. It was a happy place. The band room was filled with the Spirit as we practiced and performed music. The room was like this in large measure because of the influence of the band instructor. He was a good Christian man. Looking back, high school was a refining place. It was difficult, but I learned resilience. I will forever be grateful for my refuge, my holy place, the band room.”8

There is another story which I have told many times. It means so much to me, and that’s the reason I repeat it, even at the cost of being criticized by my wife. When I was in the government I was called to speak to a large group of oilmen in Dallas, Texas. While introducing me, Governor Gester of Texas said, “A government is fortunate to have a man like Mr. Tanner in the government.” I looked over at him and said to myself, “What can I do for you, Mr. Governor?”

After I’d finished speaking, he stood up again and said, “As I introduced the Honorable Mr. Tanner, I said that the government was fortunate to have such a man in the government. I’ll tell you why I said it. As I introduced him, I also said that he had been a bishop in the Mormon Church and was now president of the Edmonton Branch. I’d like to say to you men that any man who is worthy to be a bishop in that church needs no other introduction as far as I’m concerned.” He wasn’t complimenting me; he was complimenting those people that he knew who were bishops and held office in the Mormon Church. I thought at the time what a great thing it would be if all our people lived so as to merit that kind of introduction.

A true story from the USA.
“Are we there yet?” Justina asked.
“Almost,” Grandma said. The car turned around the corner, and there it was! The temple stood tall on the hill. It was so beautiful!
Justina and her family were here for the temple dedication. Mom said it was an important meeting where an Apostle would give a special prayer inside the temple. Then the temple would be ready for Church members to perform ordinances inside. “Temple dedications are broadcasted so members of the Church can watch them from their church buildings,” Mom explained. “But we are lucky to be able to attend the dedication inside the temple.”
Outside the temple doors, they were given white plastic covers to put on their shoes. Justina thought they looked silly. “Why do we have to wear these?” she asked Grandma.
“They protect the new carpets,” whispered Grandma. “Remember, we need to whisper inside the temple, OK? We want to be reverent in the Lord’s house.”
As they walked through the temple, Justina stared up at the high ceilings. It was so quiet that she wanted to walk on her tippy-toes and hold her breath. She was amazed when they began to walk up a spiral staircase. The stairs seemed to go on forever.
Finally they arrived at the room where her family would watch the dedication. “This is called a sealing room,” Grandma said quietly. “Do you know what happens here?”
Justina shook her head no.
“This is where families are sealed together forever. That means they can live together in heaven after they die. Look at the mirrors.” Grandma pointed to mirrors on both sides of the room. “See what happens when you look at your reflection?”
Justina looked in one of the mirrors and saw her reflection repeated over and over.
“Wow,” Justina said, making sure to whisper this time. “It goes on forever.”
As the dedication began, Justina thought about her family. Her parents were divorced. And she knew they hadn’t been sealed in the temple.
She looked at her mom and siblings sitting next to her. Would she get to be together with them in heaven? What if I can’t be with my family forever because we’re not sealed? That thought made her feel scared and worried.
Justina leaned close to Grandma and asked, “What happens if you aren’t sealed to your family?”
Grandma thought for a minute. Then she said, “I don’t really know, honey. But I do know that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”
Justina thought about that as she listened to the next speaker. Soon the dedication was almost over. It was time to sing “The Spirit of God.”
As Justina stood and sang, she felt a warm feeling in her heart. She knew the Holy Ghost was telling her that everything would be OK. She felt like her faith was growing.
When the song ended, Justina gave Grandma a hug. She didn’t have all the answers, but she had faith that God loved her and her family very much. She knew she could trust Him.

I remember a time I felt that my prayers were not being answered. I needed direction in my life, and I repeatedly went to the Lord in prayer asking for guidance. Day after day, week after week, nothing came. One night as I pled with the Lord for an answer, I remember having the thought, “Are you doing your part?” I pondered that impression and determined that I was depending on the Lord to help me when I wasn’t giving Him 100 percent. That night I made a commitment with myself and the Lord that I would increase the consistency and depth of my scripture study and temple worship. Time passed. I was working to keep my commitment through personal obedience, but still no direction. One night I got home late and went straight to bed. I laid there pondering how tired I was and thought, “It is okay to miss my scripture study just this once.” However, I couldn’t fall asleep. I had made a commitment with myself and the Lord, and I wasn’t going to break it. I was asking for something and I needed to do my part. I got out of bed and read from the Book of Mormon. There I was, late at night, half asleep reading a war chapter. Mass murders, fighting, and hatred filled this chapter. As I climbed into bed that night I was totally discouraged. The next day I decided to attend the temple. I love the temple and love reading scriptures in that peaceful environment. That day I read the next chapter in the Book of Mormon. In that chapter, surrounded by the beauty and peace of the Celestial room, I received the answer I had been seeking. If I had not been fully obedient the night before, I would have been reading the war chapter in the temple that day. Finding my answer in the scriptures in the Celestial Room was like a warm hug from Heaven. My Heavenly Father did know me, He loved me, and He was aware of my need. The answer I sought came in the Lord’s time and after I had put forth the effort.

I have been taught by mortal angels things that I wouldn’t have otherwise been able to learn. For example, my therapist has taught me how to identify and change my thinking patterns in a way that I could not have done on my own. I didn’t have the tools to do that. She has served as an angel to me to help me change and to bring me closer to the person my Heavenly Parents want and need me to be to fulfill my divine missions.

Time machines have been dreamed up in all shapes and sizes. Such fantastical devices have been represented on screen and in books as everything from hyped-up supercars to phone booths.
For a large group of youth from Arizona, USA, their blast to the past took place inside their local stake center.
This particular journey began after President Boyd K. Packer, President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, told youth, “You may wonder, at my age what I can contribute to your lives. I have been where you are and know where you are going. But you have not yet been where I am” (“Counsel to Youth,” Ensign, Nov. 2011, 16). These words prompted leaders in one stake to start thinking about ways to help youth connect with elderly people in their area.
As youth and leaders began planning, they decided to put together a program in the spirit of The Lawrence Welk Show, a popular American TV show featuring music and dancing that ran from the 1950s through the 1970s. This was a show many of the seniors in the stake knew and loved well.
Most of the youth, however, had never heard of it, and at first some of them didn’t know quite what to think of the idea.
“I was unsure,” says Lisette L., a Laurel from the stake. Adds Slade C., 15, “Honestly, I thought it was going to be kind of weird.”
After all, we’re talking about barbershop quartet music, dance styles from decades past, and the hope to form close friendships across wide generation gaps. Still, the youth jumped in with both feet and started preparing.
“We wanted the youth and the elderly citizens to get to know each other,” says Pam Nielson, one of the leaders. “We wanted them to realize they have a lot in common.”
This wasn’t an activity that could be thrown together in a few days. Preparation involved weeks of rehearsals. There was an all-youth orchestra, an all-youth barbershop chorus, an all-youth band, and all-youth dance teams who learned songs and routines from the 1920s through the 1960s. That takes time to create. “These kids were amazing,” says Pam.
For their part, Slade and Lisette were both chosen as part of an advanced dancing team. “There were lots of rehearsals,” Slade says. “After Mutual, we went down to the stake center and practiced.”
As the show began coming together, the excitement grew. “It was really fun,” says Lisette. “For most of us, it was our first time hearing any of this kind of music.”
When the big day arrived, the surprise highlight—for many—took place before the first note of music even rang in the air.
The activity was scheduled in two segments. For the first part, the 200 youth from the stake were divided into groups of four, and then each group was assigned to visit an elderly man or woman in his or her home for an hour and a half.
“That was definitely one of my favorite parts,” says Slade. He wasn’t alone, either. For many of the young men and young women, these get-to-know-you sessions were fascinating as well as inspiring.
Slade’s group was assigned to visit Hazel Cameron, a widow in their stake who lived through the Great Depression. “I never guessed at all the things she’s been through,” Slade explains. “She told us a few stories that I thought were pretty exciting.”
Slade and the others in his group spent 90 minutes getting to know Hazel, asking her questions about her life. They all enjoyed one another’s company—and none of them minded a bit when Hazel shared a few treats she’d made. It turns out baking cookies and making candy is one of her favorite hobbies!
Another of Hazel’s favorite hobbies is dancing, including the fox-trot. “She taught me a few moves,” Slade says.
At the end of their time together, the elderly members in each group shared a few words of advice with the youth. These messages were recorded and later compiled and handed out as treasured DVDs.
When visiting time was over, the youth said good-bye to their new friends and got ready for the performance later that night. They could hardly wait to put on the performance.
After all the hard work, The Lawrence Wright Show was ready to begin. The event was named for the stake president, Lawrence Wright, who played the role of host Lawrence Welk, complete with a flurry of bubbles like they had in the original show.
The youth went all-out in performing for their new friends. All night long, the stake center became a time machine as song after song turned back the years for the guests of honor. “I loved seeing how happy they were as we performed for them and brought back memories,” says Lisette.
After the grand finale—a song and dance routine to the traditional closing song from The Lawrence Welk Show—music continued, and the youth invited their friends from the audience to join them for more dancing. “It was super exciting,” says Slade, who shared a dance with Hazel.
The friendships formed that day have lasted well past the show’s closing curtain. The youth enjoy seeing their new friends at church and around town. Slade, for example, drops by Hazel’s house now and again just to say hello. He often thinks of ways to brighten her day. “I didn’t think this activity was going to be amazing, but it was,” Slade explains.
Pam hears all the time from senior members in the stake who tell her how the youth will come up and talk with them at church. “They truly made friends,” she says.
This activity ended up providing much more than entertainment. By getting to know those they served, the youth formed friendships they never knew they were missing. “No matter what age we are,” says Lisette, “we’re all part of the same family.”

In the still darkness a bugle sounded, signaling for the pioneers to wake up. Will groped around the floor of the covered wagon for his shirt.
“Time to get up,” he said to his little brother, Tommy. “The sooner the wagon train starts, the sooner we get to Zion.”
Tommy sat up. “And the sooner we can find Mama a new necklace.”
Mama’s necklace had been a special gift from her mother before their family left for the Salt Lake Valley. But by the time they reached Omaha, Mama had smallpox, and it had been necessary to pull out of the wagon train for a time. While very ill, Mama had whispered: “Have faith. Good things can come from bad. You must sell the necklace to buy medicine and necessities to continue our journey.” So they sold Mama’s special necklace.
Now they had joined the wagon train again. Papa entered the wagon with a lantern. In the dim light, Mama’s face was pale, still scabbed with smallpox.
“Mama, stay in the wagon and rest,” Papa said. “We’ll make the bread.”
“The wagon jolts a body so,” Mama said. “It rests me to feel solid ground under my feet.”
Papa hesitated. “You are still weak. But a little while outside may do you good.”
The family knelt for morning prayer. Papa thanked Heavenly Father for their blessings, prayed for Mama’s continued recovery, then asked for wisdom in dealing with the Indians sighted yesterday by wagon scouts.
After the prayer, Papa jumped from the wagon and helped Mama down. Will scrambled out with Tommy. The boys started a cooking fire while Mama whipped up a batch of pan bread. It was almost daylight when everyone settled around the fire to eat.
Will bit into a biscuit and licked his lips so as not to waste a speck of good bread. “Butter and jam like we had in Nauvoo would be good.”
“We must be thankful for bread,” Mama said. “Only by careful rationing will we have enough to eat before we reach the Salt Lake Valley.”
After breakfast, Papa hitched the horses to the wagon. Mama made herself a bed in the wagon. Will and Tommy took care of the dishes. Then the bugle signaled that it was time to move out.
Heavy clouds of dust hovered over the wagon train as it crawled across the baked prairie land. Sweat streaked Will’s face as he and Tommy plodded barefoot alongside the wagon. Their shoes had to be saved for the coming cold weather.
Papa called, “You boys had best walk outside the dust. But remember we’re in Indian country, so keep a sharp eye out. And mind that you don’t get into cactus.”
Will and Tommy scuttled through the dust cloud, careful to avoid the prickly pear cactus. Outside the dirty air, Will stared at mounds of gravel. “Anthills!” he said.
Tommy picked up a shiny red object. “What’s this?”
“A bead. Indians who camped here must have spilled them. The ants think they are just gravel for building.”
“They’d make a pretty necklace,” Tommy said. “Have you noticed that Mama doesn’t smile much anymore? I think she’s sad about her necklace.”
Will nodded. “She used to smile all the time. Let’s make her another necklace.” He pulled a coarse thread from his ragged shirt and handed it to Tommy. “I’ll grab the beads. You string them on this thread.”
Ants swarmed over Will’s bare feet as he snatched up a handful of gravel from a mound. Jumping away, he sifted the gravel through his fingers to find beads. He handed them to Tommy.
With his tongue, Tommy moistened the thread. Twisting it to a point, he poked it through the beads.
Will waded back into the ants. He hopped up and down, wiggling his toes against painful bites as he grabbed more beads.
Finally, the thread, filled with bright beads, flashed in the sun. Will tied the ends of the string together. “We’d better run to catch up to the wagon train,” he said, and shoved the string into his pocket.
“The wagons aren’t moving,” Tommy said when the train came into view.
Peering ahead, Will forgot to watch for prickly pear. A hundred tiny barbs pierced his already aching feet. As he staggered out of the cactus bed, he heard a great commotion.
Indians! On ponies, they circled the wagons, shouting and waving guns. Will forgot the throbbing in his feet and raced for their wagon.
Unnoticed in the confusion and noise, the boys clambered into the wagon. They crouched with Mama, watching the Indians. “The wagon master said that it isn’t a war party,” she told them. “They want food. If we give it to them, they’ll leave.”
“We can’t give our food away!” Will protested. “You said we’d have to ration our food to make it last to the Salt Lake Valley.”
Reaching for Will, Mama’s hand brushed his swollen feet. “You’ve stepped in cactus!” she said. “Those spines must come out. I’ll fetch water to wash your feet.”
Clutching a pan, she stood at the front of the wagon, ready to jump down. She had to dip water from the barrel strapped to the wagon’s side.
Looking up, the Indian chief saw Mama’s scabbed face and pointed toward her. Mama jumped from the wagon. Other Indians, seeing her smallpox scabs, turned their ponies. Whooping and shouting, they galloped across the prairie and disappeared over a rise.
Mama returned with the pan of water. When she bent to wash his feet, Will slipped the necklace over her head. “Tommy and I made this for you. So you’d be happy,” he said.
Mama smiled. “It makes me very happy. I’ve always believed good things could come from bad. This beautiful necklace will always remind me of the day smallpox saved a wagon train.”

Somewhere in the pages of the journal Sharla kept during her junior year in high school, the handwriting becomes difficult to read. It looks a little like Sharla was keeping her journal while riding in a car or making a trip on a plane during a bumpy ride. That year, Sharla did both of those things many times. But it wasn’t the shaking of a car or plane that made her handwriting look funny.
Her hand shook because she was undergoing an intensive round of treatment for acute lymphoblastic leukemia—which was diagnosed just a few days after Sharla discovered an unusual lump on her neck. Her treatment started in El Paso and involved visits to several specialists. Then she and her mom flew to Houston, where she could receive a new kind of treatment not available in El Paso.
Sharla was spending all her time in a hospital bed, too weak to do schoolwork, see friends and family, or even speak above a whisper. It might not seem like the kind of thing that anyone would want to remember. But Sharla wanted to record it, not only to ensure that her journal would be historically accurate, but also because of the many spiritual experiences she has had as a result of her challenge. Sharla received numerous priesthood blessings. Her family held a special fast. She even had the opportunity to give a Book of Mormon to one of the nurses in the hospital where she was staying.
For a time, Sharla was too weak to even pick up a pencil, but she didn’t let that stop her from maintaining her habit of keeping track of important events. Sharla softly whispered to her mother (because she was too sick to speak in a normal voice), who took short notes about what Sharla felt was significant. Later, when Sharla felt a little better, she used the notes to help her remember what she wanted to write.
Sharla says she owes her life, in a very real way, to her family. Her journal is full of stories about how her mother sat by her bedside, helping her eat, dress, and take medications. She has also written about how grateful she is for her father and sister and brothers for keeping things running at home. But Sharla’s not the only one in the family who keeps a journal.
Life is much more normal for Sharla now, but it will be quite some time before she finishes her last treatment. It will be even longer still before her cancer is declared in remission.
Although she is much better than she was, the road ahead could be a difficult one. But if things get tough, Sharla can look back at her journal and remember that she’s made it through hard times before. She’ll also be able to see that, mixed in with the rough stuff, there were moments of happiness and laughter. Times when she could forget herself and focus on others. Days when she felt so grateful for her blessings she could hardly remember what her challenges were.
Because she’s been so diligent about keeping a journal, Sharla will never forget the good that has come from this experience.

For as long as I can remember, my family has read scripture stories every night. We started with the books that have lots of pictures, then gradually moved up to books with more words and fewer pictures. It wasn’t until my mom read the requirements for earning a Gospel in Action award that we made the jump from scriptures stories to real scriptures.
“‘Read the scriptures daily for at least one month,’” Mom read from the award form. “We could all do that together,” she said enthusiastically.
“You mean scripture stories, don’t you?” my little sister, Crystal, asked.
“I think that you’re old enough to read the actual scriptures,” Dad said.
Crystal and I looked at each other.
“I don’t think Crystal’s ready for scriptures,” I said. After all, she was only seven and hadn’t even been baptized yet.
“I am, too, ready!” she shouted, offended. She didn’t understand that I was just trying to keep Mom and Dad reading from the scripture story books.
“Then it’s settled,” Mom said. “We’ll start tonight.”
So we started reading the Book of Mormon. Dad suggested that we try to read one chapter per night. Each of us took a turn reading three verses at a time. Then we finished up by reading the chapter heading. I like the chapter headings. Sometimes that’s the only part that I understand.
We began, of course, with 1 Nephi, and after a few days, I decided that the actual scriptures weren’t as tough as I thought they’d be. We read about how Lehi’s family left Jerusalem. Then Nephi and his brothers, Laman, Lemuel, and Sam, went back and got the brass plates. I already knew the story, but it was interesting to read it the way that Nephi himself told the story. Then Nephi and his brothers went back to Jerusalem to get Ishmael’s family. And after a long time, they all sailed to the promised land.
I learned things that I had never known before, like how the Lord taught Nephi to build a boat. And how some of the sons of Ishmael were just as mean to Nephi as Laman and Lemuel were. And I had never realized how long they all lived in the wilderness before they sailed to America.
Toward the end of 1 Nephi were a few chapters that were very hard for Crystal and me to understand. The chapter headings always ended with a note that said to compare them with a chapter in Isaiah. Dad explained that Isaiah was a prophet from the Old Testament who Nephi really liked. I didn’t think much about it until we got to 2 Nephi, where we read chapter after chapter that didn’t make much sense to me. There were even parts where Mom and Dad just shook their heads and said that we’d understand them better when we’re older.
I was just about ready to tell Mom and Dad that I didn’t think I was old enough to read real scriptures, when Nephi started to use words that I understood again.
Then one Monday night we read 2 Nephi 31. Crystal was reading when we came to verse 20. She read, “‘Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men.’”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “That sounds familiar.”
Crystal, who is usually annoyed when I interrupt, added, “I’ve heard it before, too.”
“Where do you think you heard it?” Mom asked.
It popped into my head: “In Primary, in singing time!” I started to sing, “‘Press forward, Saints, with steadfast faith in Christ.’”
Crystal joined in. “‘With hope’s bright flame alight in heart and mind, With love of God and love of all mankind.’”
Mom and Dad sang the last line with us. “‘Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!’”
“Well done,” Dad said after clapping. “We’re impressed!”
“It’s out of the Hymns book,” Crystal said, trying to impress them a little more.
“That’s right, and I think it’s hymn number eighty-one,” I added.
I could tell that Mom and Dad were surprised, so I went over to the piano for our hymnbook. “Look it up,” I said, handing it to Mom.
She turned to hymn number eighty-one. I was right. There it was—“Press Forward, Saints.”
“We learned this hymn for the Primary program last year,” I reminded Mom. “And the words are almost the same as in the Book of Mormon.”
Mom pointed to the bottom of the page in the hymnbook. It said, “Text: Marvin K. Gardner, b. 1952; based on 2 Nephi 31:20.” Then she explained that the words to the song were written by a man named Marvin K. Gardner, who was born in 1952. He took the scripture that we had just read, and wrote it as a poem to be sung.
Mom played the piano, and together we sang all three verses. Then we went back and finished chapter 31.
“Nephi wrote those words a long time ago,” Dad said as he closed his scriptures. “But they mean as much now as they did then. We still need to ‘press forward.’”
I went to bed that night understanding that the scriptures are more than just a story about people who lived a long time ago. The scriptures are here for us to read and learn from. I felt that night as if the scriptures were talking to Crystal and me. It was as though Nephi was telling us to always press forward and do our best. I could use that kind of encouragement every day. I plan to keep reading the scriptures every night. Someday I’ll even understand the parts from Isaiah.

We couldn’t help being a little nervous. Mrs. Hall was one of our strongest investigators. She already knew the Church was true, even though she was not a member. Other missionaries had initially contacted her, and as she had received the standard lessons and read the Book of Mormon, her inclination to believe had grown into a strong testimony. My companion and I had encouraged her continued study of the gospel.
But now her sister, Joan McArthur, was coming to visit. Mrs. Hall’s husband and all the relatives on both sides of the family were devoted to other churches, and she did not want to be baptized until her husband (who was, at least, friendly with the missionaries) would embrace the gospel with her. She was also concerned about antagonizing other family members, particularly her parents, by joining the Church before they fully understood what she was doing and why.
It was easy to imagine that Mrs. Hall’s sister was being sent to check up on her and to warn her to quit associating with Mormons. Still Joan was only 20, and it would be her first time away from home. She must have been as full of apprehension during her journey to Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, as we were waiting for her to arrive.
Mrs. Hall, however, seemed unruffled. She simply invited us to dinner a few days later when Joan had had time to get settled. I think Joan was surprised when her sister greeted us at the door and ushered us into the living room. Maybe she had suspected that “missionaries” had to be middle-aged men or raving fanatics. We were happy and yet earnest; she, in turn, seemed at ease chatting with two young ladies approximately her own age. Following the meal, we showed a filmstrip. She had plenty of questions, and we promised to return.
At the next appointment, Joan nearly came dressed in armor. Every argument and falsehood she had ever heard about Mormons bristled. But she didn’t fling them at us. Rather, she laid them on the table and asked for an explanation. As she described her apprehensions, we responded as best we could. Our answers seemed to satisfy her. She knew her Bible well and referred to scripture after scripture. She seemed genuinely interested in the passages we quoted, and all of us looked them up and discussed them. From that day on, I was impressed with her deep spiritual insight. At the end of the conversation we all felt a little more at ease. We explained why we were called “sisters,” talked about our homes and families, and shared the convictions that had led us to our 18-month calls of service to the Lord. She told us about the excitement of her first cross-country train trip.
The next lesson was about the Apostasy. Joan desperately fought it, finally asking us to leave and not come back. She said she didn’t want to hear any more. She was upset; we were disappointed and frustrated. She later wrote in a letter, “I remember that after you left that evening, I cried bitterly because of the words in the Joseph Smith tract that said all of the other churches were ‘an abomination in my sight.’ That really hurt because my church meant something very special to me. I had believed all my life what my parents had taught me, and a statement like that dashed my whole world. How could Joseph Smith say something like that? But he had said the Lord had said it. That was the big difficulty.
“Jessie (Mrs. Hall) didn’t force me to continue studying, but she did encourage me. I don’t think I would have continued without her. But there was too much love between us as family members for me not to.
“I was angry and felt indignant, feelings I marvel at now. I wonder how I remained teachable, but the Lord was kind to me and patient. My problem was, I thought I could believe everything the sisters were teaching me and still remain a member of my church. I clung to that idea.”
But Joan was a truthseeker. After a week of prayer and soul-struggle, she called us back. She had changed her mind. When could we come teach her more? I noticed as we presented the next discussion, about the restoration of the gospel, that a change came over her. She stopped resisting. She seemed to be thirsting—eagerly asking questions as though the answers wouldn’t come quickly enough. She was understanding that Christ’s visit to Joseph Smith was an act of love; that the truth is on earth in its fulness, not for those who want to find fault, but for those yearning to fill in missing pieces.
The same spirit prevailed at the next lesson. Topic: the plan of salvation. I knew my companion and I weren’t alone doing the teaching. Words flowed freely. Scriptures were located without trouble. Spirit communed with spirit. Overcome with excitement, Joan exclaimed, “Now I see why Jessie wants to be baptized!”
Despite all her declarations that she would never join the Church, Joan was a different person than she had been when she first arrived to visit her sister. As we left the house, I felt inspired to turn to my companion and say, “I know that someday she will join the Church.”
We spent a few more visits with her, teaching a strong gospel lesson each time. Then I was transferred. I heard no more about this sincere young lady, or about the Hall family, until after I returned from my mission.
Then one day a letter with Canadian stamps was waiting in my mailbox. It had taken them a long time to track down my address and to write to me, the letter said, but Joan and Sister Hall wanted me to know that they had both been baptized two years before in a cold lake just outside the city!
It was the start of a string of surprise letters. Two years later one told me that Joan was on a mission in South Africa and that Sister Hall’s husband, Barry, though still not interested in studying about the Church, loved the missionaries and members as he always had and was taking the family to Sunday School. Later I received a wedding announcement from Joan. She was being married in the Salt Lake Temple to a returned missionary. Later that same year Sister Hall wrote that her husband had been baptized and loved working in the Church. The next year they brought their children with them to be sealed as a family in the Salt Lake Temple.
Since then Brother Hall has been a branch president, a member of a stake presidency, and is now a member of a stake high council. Joan’s husband, Dale J. Laub, became a bishop. Both sisters are active in their callings and have done genealogy that has allowed them to accomplish temple ordinances for several hundred ancestors.
As a young lady just out of her teens, Joan McArthur had come to Victoria determined that she would change her sister’s mind if necessary. Instead, she had the courage to change her own. Her sincerity in calling upon the Lord would not allow her to do otherwise. Her sister Jessie was wise enough to be patient while explaining the gospel, allowing the Lord’s Spirit to do the persuading.
Both of them learned to listen to their hearts, and many others will be eternally grateful that they did. Joan McArthur not only changed her opinion about the Church—she changed her life.

The night of the dinner, the aroma of fresh-roasted turkey, steaming hot dressing, homemade rolls, and spicy pumpkin pie filled the hall of the stake center. But this time it was the Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels, instead of the Relief Society, who were found in the hot kitchen energetically filling plate after plate. And it was the deacons, teachers, and priests who were serving the meal, filling water glasses and clearing empty dishes. It was all a way of saying a big thank you to the senior citizens in the Taylorsville Stake—an appreciation dinner planned, prepared, and presented almost entirely by the Mutual-age youth in the stake.
The idea had originated in a stake youth committee meeting several months before. “We wanted to do a service project, something that would be a challenge and at the same time rewarding,” explained Kelly Jorgensen, stake youth chairman and member of the priests quorum in the Taylorsville Fifth Ward. “Our teachers quorum had given a dinner for the senior citizens in our own ward once, and we wondered if we could do the same thing on a stake basis. Someone mentioned that a lot of older people don’t have any children who come home for the holidays, so we decided to make it a Thanksgiving dinner in appreciation for all they have done for us.”
Two young people from each of the five wards were appointed to the planning committee. They were assisted by Sister Emma Morris, the stake Young Women president. Together they planned the evening and then worked diligently, sacrificing Saturday mornings and weeknights to see that all the details were completed before the night of the dinner. Committees were assigned to arrange for decorations, invitations, centerpieces, transportation, and food. With the exception of roasting the turkeys, the young people prepared most of the meal. One Laurel class adviser held a special pie-making workshop to help her girls in preparing their share of the evening’s desserts.
To help with the invitations, ward clerks provided lists with the names of all the persons over the age of 65. After delivering the invitations, hours and hours were spent calling to determine just how many would be able to come to dinner. A take-out service was planned for those who were not able to leave their homes.
Stake President Melvin M. Hall expressed appreciation for the work of the Mutual by saying, “We think this is a really nice thing our young people have conjured up! Too often we get so caught up in the hustle and bustle of what we do that we forget to look over our shoulders to see who needs us. Too often we forget about our senior citizens.”
The night of the dinner was one of those late autumn, early winter evenings when the air is chilly and the setting sun reveals snow clouds over the mountains. As the guests arrived, usually accompanied by a young member of the priesthood and an adult leader, many buttoned up coats and sweaters and pulled cloaks a little snugger as they walked from the parking lot into the cultural hall.
Inside, the last details were being completed: the water poured, the microphone plugged in, the turkey sampled. The basketball nets in the hall had been decked with balloons and plastic streamers earlier that afternoon, and the turkey centerpieces made from pineapples were sitting on the tables. The entering guests were greeted with friendly smiles and warm handshakes. Those who had volunteered to help were kept busy throughout the dinner as they enthusiastically saw that everyone was served and made to feel welcome.
Midway through the dinner, however, after serving plates and plates of hot food, one hungry young deacon scrunched in the corner against the wall. When asked who he was hiding from, he sheepishly replied, “The food! We can’t eat until everyone is served!”
An added treat at the dinner (following the pumpkin pie) was a musical program. Before introducing the performers, Kelly told the older people, “We’d like to thank you and your generation for all the things you’ve done for us, for building this strong community we live in, and for raising good families.”
The first number on the program was performed by a trio of three young women who sang, “Who Are You?” an original composition by Michelle Nicoulaz and Marty Tyree. They were followed by six young men and women dressed in bluejeans and straw hats, who sang, “Grandma’s Feather Bed,” accompanying themselves on the piano and guitars. A modern dance number, which was choreographed by Michelle, was next, and the Harrison Family trio (piano, clarinet, and flute) completed the program with a medley of patriotic songs.
As the older people chatted with friends before leaving, it was easy to see the gratitude they felt at being remembered. Sister Sue Huggard, an 80-year-old member of the 21st Ward, exclaimed, “That was lovely to honor us old folks—I mean us young folks!” Sister LaVern Jones North of the First Ward added, “It couldn’t have been better. I wish we had a way to thank them.”
But the youth felt they had received all the thanks they needed. As Kelly expressed it, “It’s really great when you can see they are enjoying themselves, laughing with their friends, having a good time! That’s the best thanks of all.”

I was seven years old, and I didn’t know how to swim, so my mom enrolled me in afternoon swimming lessons with my friend Angie. At the end of each lesson, our teacher would take us out into the center of the pool to practice our strokes. We were always safe in the middle since our teacher supported us under our stomachs and we wore “bubbles” on our backs.
One day Angie and I didn’t have our bubbles on, so we clung to the side of the pool. Angie decided she wanted to try to swim across the corner to the adjacent wall, about four feet (1.2 m) away. I was hesitant at first, but then she dared me. So even though I was scared, I took in as much air as I could and plunged under the water, hoping to reach the other side. Instead of floating with ease as I had done before with my back bubble, I began to sink. I was in a state of panic. I knew I was going to drown. Then I remembered what my teacher had told me a few weeks earlier: “If you lose control while swimming, just stretch one of your arms straight up out of the water, and someone will come help you.”
With this thought in mind, I stretched my arm in the direction I thought was up. I didn’t feel any air. I stretched my arm in every direction, never finding the top. Just then my head bumped against the side of the pool. Angie was there waiting for me. I guess she hadn’t realized I was “drowning.”