Gospel Story Finder

“You pray funny!” Lucia said after Whitney finished saying a blessing on their lunch.
“No, I don’t,” Whitney said. “Why did you say that?”
“We don’t say prayers like that at my church,” Lucia said.
“What do you mean?” Whitney asked as she picked off the crusty part of her grilled cheese sandwich.
“When you pray it sounds old-fashioned.”
“It’s just the words you read in the scriptures,” Whitney said. “I don’t think it’s weird.”
A car horn honked outside. Whitney looked at the kitchen clock. “That’s probably your mom to take us to soccer practice.”
The girls grabbed their sandwiches and raced out the door. “Bye, Mom,” Whitney called. “See you after practice.”
Whitney didn’t think much about what Lucia had said about her prayer until later that evening when Dad gathered everyone for family prayer.
“Whose turn is it tonight?” Dad asked.
“I think it’s Russell’s turn,” Mom said.
Russell bowed his head and began to pray. He thanked Heavenly Father and asked for blessings. Whitney listened closely as Russell prayed. His words did sound different from the way people usually talk: “We thank Thee. … We ask that Thou wilt bless. … Help us follow Thy prophet .…” Russell finished and everyone stood.
Whitney went to get ready for bed. She changed into her pajamas and brushed her teeth. Then she opened her closet and chose one of her best dresses for church the next day. She took it off the hanger and laid it across the back of her desk chair.
“Hey, Whit,” Dad said as he came into her bedroom with a stack of folded clothes. “Mom told me what Lucia said at lunch. Did that bother you?”
“No, not really,” Whitney said. “Well, kind of. Why do we pray with fancy words? Why not just talk the way we usually do?”
Dad picked up Whitney’s soccer uniform from off the floor where she had dropped it earlier that day. “Why don’t you wear this to church tomorrow instead of that dress on your chair?”
“Very funny, Dad,” Whitney said as she grabbed her shorts and shirt. “This is what I wear to soccer—not to church.”
“There’s a difference?” Dad asked.
“Of course,” Whitney replied.
“Right,” Dad said. “The reason we wear our Sunday best to church is to show respect and reverence for Heavenly Father. We dress differently than we do for other occasions. It’s the same way with the words we use when we pray. The words we say show love and respect.”
“So when we say those words, Heavenly Father knows we are treating Him in a special way?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “I’m sure Heavenly Father listens and understands either way, but when we use words like Thy blessings instead of your blessings and Thou hast seen or Thou seest instead of you have seen or you see, it’s kind of like…”
Whitney lifted the dress from the chair. “It’s like our prayers are all dressed up in their Sunday best!”

“During a smallpox epidemic, Grandfather’s brother and sister died. His mother grieved for many months over the loss of these two children. One day a patriarch visited the family and blessed her. He promised that she would be compensated for the loss of her two children by having a son who would be like Alma of old, a man of faith and a leader in the Church. Sometime later she gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl. My grandpa was that boy!”

Bishop Glenn L. Pace remembers from his childhood the mountains to the east of Provo, Utah, his hometown. “I fell in love with the mountains,” he said, “and haven’t gotten over it yet. As a child, I lived within a half mile of the base of the mountains and climbed them often. In fact, at age four I took off unannounced for a hike with a four-year-old friend. I was gone for two or three hours, and my parents couldn’t find me. They called the police, and many people started looking for me. It so happened that someone asked my parents, ‘Do you know where your son is? I saw him and a friend partway up the mountain.’ When my parents found me, I had a rope in my hand because I was planning to catch a bear.”

Let me give you an example of how important it is to put first things first if you are to be successful in life. As a boy I was raised on a farm, where I remained until I went away to school. I had observed how a farmer on one side of the road was very successful, while one on the other side was almost a failure as a farmer. What made the difference? They received the same amount of sunshine and rain. They planted the same kind of seeds. But one had beautiful and bounteous crops, while the other had no harvest or a poor one.

I observed that the successful farmer worked at his job. He would do his plowing, discing, harrowing, seeding, and harvesting in the proper season and at the proper time, while his neighbor was procrastinating, or off hunting and fishing while the work was still to be done. We must learn to set our priorities straight. No one can be successful in his line of work unless he works at it in the proper season and plays in the proper season.

My sister speaks Russian. Since she came to live with us, I have learned the Russian words for ice cream (morozhennoye), cat (koshka), and thank you (spasibo).
My sister’s name is Sophie, and she is four years old. When she lived in Kazakhstan, her name was Nasipzhan. Mama and Papa changed her name after we adopted her and she came to America to live with us.
Sophie doesn’t look like me or my brother. We have red hair, freckles, and a gap between our front teeth. Papa says we look like peaches with nutmeg and cream.
Sophie has black hair, no freckles, olive-colored skin, and eyes shaped like almonds. Papa says Sophie looks like a porcelain doll. When she smiles, there’s a dimple in her cheek.
We look different, but Sophie is still our sister. We play soccer together. We ride scooters together. We eat popcorn and drink chocolate milk together. We even wear chocolate milk mustaches together.
My brother and I want Sophie to be part of our forever family. So do Mama and Papa. Soon we will go to the temple. We will wear white and meet together in a beautiful room. We will become a forever family.
Until then, Sophie will come to my soccer games. We will go on long walks. We will eat popcorn and chase the cats and make lots of chocolate milk mustaches together.
And I will tell Sophie how much I lubit her. Because lubit is the Russian word for love.

Meanwhile, Gabin’s return ticket to Libreville remained undetermined. Fortunately, the kind-hearted Havrenne family, members of the Charleroi Ward, invited Gabin to live at their home in Erquelines, a small town near Charleroi, while his situation in Gabon was being resolved. After several weeks, his hosts insisted that he stay and proposed to have him help with the gardening around the house. “It was a difficult time in my life,” Gabin recalls. “Here I was, a trained electronics engineer with no money and no job—stranded in Belgium, pruning bushes and pulling weeds. But through it all I learned humility and this experience was one of the best lessons in my life.”
By 2005, Gabin still worked for his room and board as a gardener—and he was still struggling with the government of Gabon to organize his return. His Belgian student visa had long-since expired. In limited correspondence with his older brother in Libreville, Gabin learned that his family was very discouraged by the situation and desperately wanted him to return home.
By this time, he had received the Melchizedek Priesthood and had been ordained an elder. He also received his patriarchal blessing. In separate interviews, his bishop and stake president asked if he might be interested in serving a full-time mission. Gabin responded, “Yes, I would.” A missionary application was completed and submitted—and a few weeks later Gabin received his mission call from Salt Lake City. He was instructed to enter the missionary training centre on 20 June 2006—and then report to the Brussels Belgium Mission—a mere 60 kilometers from where he was then living.
Missionary preparation began in earnest and Gabin went to The Hague Netherlands Temple where he received his endowment. He was anxious to serve the next two years as a full-time missionary, but after having informed his family in Libreville of his plans, they became angry with him. They could not understand why he was interested in running off on a mission. “You must return home”, he was told. “After all, we supported you and it is selfish not to return home to help out the family.” Gabin became conflicted and during this personal struggle, he met with President Kevin S. Hamilton, who at the time was President of the Brussels Belgium Mission and who was to become his mission president. He asked for advice and counsel. President Hamilton, told him, “Trust in God—things happen for a reason. Everything will turn out all right, but in unexpected ways”.
A few days before his departure—and in a twist of fate that can only be understood by going forward in time to several years later—Gabin received two official letters in the mail. One, from the government of Belgium, indicated it had recently discovered that he was living in Belgium on an expired student visa and ordered him to be immediately deported back to Gabon. The second letter was from Libreville—and included his return airline ticket.
The stake president recommended that Gabin fly home and then he would work with the missionary department in Salt Lake City to get things sorted out. So, in the spring of 2006—nine years after first having left his family in Libreville—Gabin was finally going home. He packed a suitcase, and among his personal possessions were two copies of the Book of Mormon, his mission call, DVDs of both 2004 general conferences, his patriarchal blessing, a few tithing slips, and some temple garments.
Over the next few weeks, the stake president in Charleroi worked with the missionary department in Salt Lake City to resolve this unusual situation. Things became even more complicated because in 2006 the Church was not officially recognized by the government of Gabon and no ward or stake was organized in the country. Gabin, now living in Gabon, had no local priesthood leader. The Belgian government was not prepared to issue a missionary visa due to the expiration of the student visa. Finally, a decision was made to cancel his mission call. Gabin was home to stay.
He moved in with his older brother, and during that year, found a job as an electronics technician in a local business. The dreams of his higher education were beginning to come true.
With no organized Church unit in Libreville, Gabin held unofficial meetings on Sundays and family home evenings on Mondays at his home. Some friends and a few family members attended with interest. Gabin would teach from the Book of Mormon and they would watch 2004 general conference sessions.
Throughout this time, Internet services inside Gabon were unreliable and costly—and accessing websites outside the country was almost impossible. From time to time, Gabin was able to access Church websites and download a general conference talk or two. These he would print out and add to his Sunday “lesson plans”.
In 2008, he met Fleur and fell deeply in love. Gabin remembers, “I found a girl!” Fleur had a daughter, Eve, and he fell in love with her, too. Fleur and Eve usually attended a local Protestant congregation, but throughout their courtship, he taught them missionary lessons. They started attending his Sunday meetings and family home evenings on Mondays. Gabin and Fleur were married in 2013 in a civil ceremony.
At the beginning of 2014, Gabin found an article online reporting that Elder David A. Bednar, of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, had a few months earlier been in Libreville. It was just after the Gabonese government had officially recognized the Church and had permitted the beginning of missionary activities. Elder Bednar had dedicated the country of Gabon for the preaching of the gospel and he had organized the Libreville Branch. Gabin was stunned. For more than eight years he had likely been the only endowed member of the Church living in Gabon and suddenly there was a branch organized in his home city.
Using an email address found in the article, Gabin wrote to the Africa Southeast Area office, asking questions about the Church situation in Libreville. Elie Monga, president of the Brazzaville mission in the Republic of Congo, was informed and a few days later, while at work, Gabin received a visit from Elder Michael Moody, the first senior missionary to serve in Gabon.
After their initial greeting, Gabin said to Elder Moody, “I have a few questions. First, where can I pay my tithing?” For more than eight years, Gabin had carefully kept his tithing money in a small box.
“Second,” he asked, “Where can I buy new temple garments? Eight years ago, I brought a few to Libreville, and every night since I have been carefully hand washing them.” Elder Moody went to the car, opened his suitcase, and gave Gabin a brand-new pair of garments that he had been prompted to pack in his travel case that morning.
The next Sunday, Gabin, Fleur, Eve, Gabin’s nephew Yann, plus Annaïck and Pauline, Fleur’s nieces were six of the ten people sitting in the Libreville Branch sacrament meeting. Fleur was taught the missionary lessons and shortly afterward was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. And so were Eve, Yann, Annaïck, and Pauline.
In 2015, Gabin adopted Eve. And later that year the three of them—Gabin, Fleur, and Eve—flew to Johannesburg, South Africa, where this unlikely story concludes with significant eternal consequences. Fleur received her endowment, she and Gabin were sealed together, and Eve was sealed to them both in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple.
In 2016, Elie Monga, president of the Republic of Congo Brazzaville Mission, travelled to Libreville to preside over a division of the Libreville Branch. Gabin Mendene was called to serve as president of the Libreville 2nd Branch. Shortly afterward, while attending district conference, Elder Kevin S. Hamilton—former Brussels Belgium mission president and now a General Authority Seventy and president of the Africa Southeast Area—looked out from his seat on the rostrum. And sitting there in the middle of the congregation was someone he had not seen in ten years—a patient man with an extraordinary conversion story and a church pioneer in Africa—Gabin from Gabon.

Every month it was the same. It had been that way as far back as I could remember, so by the time I was a deacon I knew the drill—on fast Sunday, Brother Andersen got the microphone first.
As soon as the bishopric member finished speaking, and before even the quickest deacon could get there with a microphone, Brother Andersen would stand up in place and start speaking in his heavy Danish accent (“Brudders and Sisters, …”) and then give his testimony of a particular gospel principle. You could rely on it like the rising of the sun, the changing of the seasons, death, taxes, and a mother’s love.
I don’t recall that Brother Andersen ever took all that long. He simply spoke about Jesus Christ, Joseph Smith, faith, the scriptures—something different every time. And you could tell he put some thought into it.
I once heard some people wonder why Brother Andersen insisted on being first. I wondered myself. Only some time later did I hear a story about him that made me see his monthly testimonies in a different light.
When Brother Andersen was a young man, World War II started and Nazi-controlled Germany invaded Denmark. Like many, he was afraid for his future. He prayed to Heavenly Father for help in surviving so that he might leave Europe and come to the United States. He promised Heavenly Father that if He would help him through this ordeal, he would bear witness of Him and His Son and of the restored gospel at every opportunity.
He eventually made it, and his monthly testimony was one way he felt he could keep his promise. Now, of course we’re not expected to bear testimony in sacrament meeting every month, but this example made me wonder how I kept my baptismal promise to “stand as [a witness] of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).

“The first time I went home teaching, I was really nervous about what I would have to say to the families,” admits Ryan Hunter. “I was glad when I only had to give the closing prayer.” But after just a couple months of home teaching, Ryan wasn’t nervous anymore. Now he looks forward to going. “My favorite part is talking to the people and learning more about them and how we can help them,” says Ryan. “If it were not for home teaching, people might not ask for help, even when they really need it.”

When Carrie and her mother, Ginger, returned home, they organized the youth in their ward, taught them how to read Old German script, and helped them prepare the names to be submitted for work at the Chicago Temple.
“We knew we were going to the temple, and we wanted to make the experience more meaningful,” explains Sister Hamer, a counselor in the ward Young Women presidency and a past president of the Minnesota Genealogical Society. “We wanted the youth to know that these names for which they would be baptized were not just names; they were actual people. We could even show them photos of their hometown.
“But it wasn’t until they began actually working with the names that the people became real. Suddenly the youth were saying things like, ‘Hey, this person was born on Christmas,’ or ‘This family had three sets of twins.’”
Young people in the stake became so interested that they spent several summer vacation days copying names. Then in October, 36 teenagers traveled to the temple and were vicariously baptized for 565 people who were no longer just names on a chart. The rest of the 1,500 names were also submitted for temple work.

Peter Miller of Bozeman, Montana, was selected to receive an International Youth Year Award from the U.S. Secretary of Education. The awards focus attention on young Americans whose deeds and actions exemplify exceptional character and citizenship.
Peter was nominated and selected for his efforts in raising money for African famine victims by organizing a musical concert held in a Bozeman city park. The event featured 24 musical acts performed by students of Bozeman Senior High School.
Peter served as first assistant in his priests quorum.

When I was in high school, a counselor read the results of my test scores and told me she did not think I would do well in college. But after I prayerfully studied my patriarchal blessing, I felt I should not abandon my lifelong goal. So, because I had insight into the Lord’s plan for me, I had hope in my heart, and I was able to move ahead confidently. I discovered that I was successful in that setting, and I earned a university diploma. When we know who we are and what we are supposed to do, it is easier to make important decisions about education, careers, and marriage. It is easier to shine our light in our families, with our friends, and in all other places.

My parents joined the Church when I was a baby, so my five little brothers and I were fortunate to grow up with the Church teachings and the Spirit in our home. My parents were very faithful and set us a wonderful example of service and gratitude to the Lord for their conversion. My parents moved to Perth, which is part of the Dundee Scotland Stake, in the Summer of 1974. Sister Anne Crook from the Perth Branch said that their arrival was an answer to a prayer and my Father was called to be Branch President within a couple of weeks.
Today I’m surrounded by faithful priesthood holders and their families. We have also been fortunate to have contributed thirteen full-time missionaries: my brothers, sons, and nephews – with three of them currently serving in the field.
It is an amazing number of missionaries from our family, and it all stemmed from our parents’ missionaries and their dedicated service.
The missionaries from our family include:
Husband: Dale Black, England Coventry Mission
Brother 1: David McGlashan, New Zealand Auckland Mission
Brother 2: Neil McGlashan, England London South
Brother 3: James McGlashan, England London Mission
Brother 4: Michael McGlashan, France Bordeaux Mission
Brother 5: Ewan McGlashan, England London South Mission
Son 1: Adam Black, Spain Malaga Mission
Son 2: Callan Black, France Lyon Mission
Nephew 1: Levi McGlashan, Alpine German-Speaking Mission
Nephew 2: Austin McGlashan, Brazil Vitoria Mission
Nephew 3: Gavin McGlashan, Mozambique Maputo Mission (currently serving)
Nephew 4: Duncan McGlashan, Alpine German-Speaking Mission (currently serving)
Nephew 5: Matthew McGlashan, England Leeds Mission (currently serving)
As a direct consequence of Elder Doug Himstreet’s missionary service, two parents, six children, six sons and daughters-in-law, 23 grandchildren and one great granddaughter have been blessed by having the gospel in their lives. We are still in touch with Elder Doug Himstreet and his wife, Celestia. They attended my eldest son’s wedding and came to the temple with us to see them sealed.

Elsie and Edwin Dharmaraju joined the Church in Samoa and were called by President Spencer W. Kimball to return back to their home in Hyderabad as missionaries to their family. In 1978, 22 of Elsie and Edwin’s family members were baptized, and from this beginning the first stake in the country was organized in Hyderabad in 2012.6

They also listened to John Santosh Murala, then serving in the mission presidency, talk about how his aunt Elsie and uncle Edwin Dharmaraju came to Hyderabad to teach their family the gospel. John was the youngest of the 22 pioneer members to be baptized in 1978.

I grew up in the Church, and my parents did their best to provide me with the things I needed to gain a strong testimony, such as learning how to pray and how to study the Book of Mormon and Church magazines. When I was close to missionary age, it wasn’t a question of if I would go—it was only a question of when. So when the news came from my bishop that I did not meet the medical requirements to serve a full-time mission, I was heartbroken.
Often I prayed asking why I could not fulfill my desire to be a missionary. My loving mother would remind me that a service mission was still an option, but my reply was always, “That doesn’t count.” The months went by, and even though I was old enough to serve, I remained at home. Each day, the plea “every member a missionary” rang through my mind until I eventually decided to look into a Church-service mission.
I browsed through the options and came across one that stood out to me. Through prayer I received the firm approval of the Spirit. When I talked with my bishop about it, he told me that the Lord had saved me for this Church-service mission rather than a full-time proselyting mission. I must admit that I agree with him now. The experiences and blessings surpass anything I could ever have imagined.
Soon I will complete my Church-service mission, and I want the youth of the Church to know that a mission changes lives, even if it’s a Church-service mission. If a health problem or other situation keeps you from entering the full-time mission field, it does not mean the Lord does not want your service. It just means that He needs you somewhere else.
Take it from a Church-service missionary.

As his love for the Maori people blossomed, Elder Cowley had even more of a desire to learn their language. Soon after rising, he would turn to his books. “I studied until noon and then had dinner and took a little rest,” he wrote. “The rest of the afternoon was also spent in studying.”5

Years later, Elder John Longden, an Assistant to the Twelve, told how Matthew, when he was only 17, was blessed to learn Maori. “He had only been out for two and one half months, and a district missionary conference was called. … Brother Cowley had an opportunity to speak. … He spoke for fifteen or twenty minutes in a fluent Maori tongue, so much so that it amazed the older Maori people in the congregation.

“After the meeting … the district president said … ‘How did you master this Maori language in such a short time?’ …

“Brother Cowley said, ‘When I came here I did not know one word of Maori, but I decided I was going to learn twenty new words each day, and I did. But when I came to put them together, I was not successful.’ By this time they were passing a cornfield, and Brother Cowley said, ‘You see that cornfield? I went out there, and I talked to the Lord, but before that, I fasted, and that night I tried again, but the words just didn’t seem to jell. So the next day I fasted again, and I went out into that cornfield, and I talked to the Lord again. I tried that night with a little more success. On the third day I fasted again, and I went out into the cornfield, and I talked to the Lord. … I told him that I had been called by this same authority to fill a mission, but if this was not the mission in which I was to serve to please make it known because I wanted to serve where I could accomplish the greatest amount of good.’

“That was the spirit of Brother Cowley. He said, ‘The next morning, as we knelt in family prayer in that Maori home, I was called upon by the head of the household to be mouth. I tried to speak English, and I could not. When I tried Maori, the words just flowed forth, and I knew that God had answered my prayer and this was where I should serve.’”6

The strong, stocky man with a beard stood looking across the valley where the river flowed. Behind him dusty, footsore men and women stood waiting.
He raised an arm toward the valley below and said simply, “This is the place.”
The place? The Salt River Valley in Arizona. The people—seniors in the Westwood High School Seminary of Mesa, Arizona. The bearded man—Keith Magnusson, senior representative. Their nine-mile trek was ended.
It began in the foothills of the Superstition Mountains where some 150 students gathered in calicoes and levis, shod in boots, Keds, clodhoppers, waffle stompers, and burlap bags; sporting sunbonnets, sombreros, stetsons, and Davy Crockett coonskins. They came armed with lassos, pistols, rifles, muskets, and even one slingshot.
It was time for the annual pioneer trek, high point of the year for Westwood seniors. They divided into twelve families, each with its father, mother, and children. Three of the fathers were also called to be captains over four families each. Waiting for them in the desert were two wagons and a handcart.
Two girls settle into the box of the handcart.
“I hope we don’t get pulled over.”
“If you start to fall, just grab hold of a wheel.”
One of the young men, waiting to pull the cart, glances back at the girls and then at the hills and washes ahead. “Why me?” he asks.
While the horses and mules are being hitched up, several girls plait some of the abundant wild yellow poppies into their hair. Some of the boys wear them in buttonholes and hatbands. There’s plenty of laughter, horseplay, and maybe even a little courting.
One girl is asked what she plans to get out of the trek.
“Sore feet,” she answers, and then more seriously, “and an appreciation for what our ancestors went through, only it was twice as hard for them, and this will only give us an idea of what it was like the first day out when they were still fresh.”
A young man says, “We’ve studied Church history all year long—about the different ways the Saints came out here—and what we’re trying to do is get the same feeling they had and do the same things they did.”
“I’m going for the steak,” says an elfish female voice from somewhere in the crowd.
Keith Magnusson, known to the trekkers as Brigham Young, calls the group to order, asks everyone to stay with the proper family, and instructs them to obey all orders from Mark Riggs, alias Wilford Woodruff, the seminary council president.
The pioneer men and women then kneel humbly around the wagons and handcart and pray for protection and inspiration. It isn’t hard to imagine that you’re really on the plains of ’47, just starting a day’s journey.
Brigham gives the signal, and the drivers start their teams off through the tall saguaros, followed by the handcart and the families on foot. The families break into song. “You Are My Sunshine.” “On the Road to California.”
Their voices are strong, and they sing parts.
“Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel.”
The handcart is heavy, hills are steep, and the sand is often soft. Soon the girls in the back are out and pushing.
Family problems are ironed out.
“Daddy isn’t walking with Mommy,” a child complains.
“Where’s my husband?” asks another.
“Keep up with your brothers,” a father tells his daughters. “Pretend you’re late for class.”
“I knew she’d eventually catch up with me,” says a husband whose wife has just managed to overtake him.
“Hurry, children!”
The going is rough now, up and down hills and through washes. It’s rocky, sandy, and often steep. The pioneers have to steady the wagons over uneven ground and hold them back to keep them from rolling downhill too swiftly and tipping over. One young man in an Ozark hat and striped suspenders hangs from the back of the handcart, digging his feet into the ground—a human brake.
But the desert is beautiful. Recent rains have carpeted it with grass and wildflowers. These, with saguaros, palo verdes, ocotillos, barrel cactus, chaparral, and other desert plants shroud the rugged stone of desert cliffs in green fire. To the east the Three Peaks rise like lost icebergs. Every turn of the trail works a new miracle of scenery.
It’s clear that these young people are proud of their desert home.
“And some people say the desert is barren!”
“That’s what I used to think before I moved here, but wow!”
The trail is level for a moment, and the group breaks out in song again. The whole caravan sings together, almost as if they had a conductor. And sure enough, they do. Brigham Young stands swaying in the bed of the open wagon, feet braced wide apart, beating time for the long line of marchers following him. “When pioneers first to the west. …”
At the side of the trail a young man kneels, tying a girl’s shoelaces.
After a while the song breaks off into fragments and eddies and dies away—rough road ahead! A steep narrow, rutted stone descent to a washbed below. The first wagon starts down. It’s going too fast!
“Give us a hand here!”
Men and women rush forward to brake the wagon, clinging to the back and trying to plant their feet. It begins to tip over sideways, and they prop it from that side. The way is steep, and feet are struggling for a place on the slippery rock. The rear wheel is slipping toward a deep rut that could flip the wagon.
“Keep it out of the dip! It’s liftable—push it!”
Backs bend; muscles strain; the rear of the wagon is lifted right off the ground and swung to safer going. Brigham goes before, leading the horses.
“I’d like to try this on a skateboard,” says one adventurous young man.
Soon all three vehicles are down, and the long trail of pioneers follows them onto the sandy wash bottom.
The deep sand clings to the wheels of the handcart, and the pullers have to keep it moving fast to overcome the friction. Fortunately, they’re all athletes.
With the up and down of the trek behind them, there’s time again to settle family problems.
“Now you mind your father,” says a mother’s voice from somewhere in the rear, “or the crickets will get you.”
The march settles down to the sound of feet pulling themselves out of the sand. On the roadside, hats off, two young men kneel sorrowfully before a wooden marker on which is scrawled: “Here Lies Lilly.”
A few turns of the wash later, the wagons halt, and the good news comes back up the line. “Lunch time!”
Out come lunch sacks bulging with sandwiches, potato chips, soda pop, brownies, fried chicken, and other pioneer foods. The tired lunchers settle in the shade, wherever there is any, eating in family groups. The voice of one young man can be heard asking a blessing on the family’s food. “And we thank thee for the privilege of learning what the pioneers went through. …”
“Amen. Who has the brownies?” says a voice from a nearby family.
The modern pioneers soon prove themselves equal to the originals when it comes to hearty appetites.
“I don’t feel quite like a pioneer yet,” one young man admits. “I’m starting to get a pretty good blister though.”
“It’s a lot tougher than I thought it would be,” says another.
“Their feet must have been awfully sore,” says a third.
“I think it’s fun!” declares a fourth, and all four agree.
Brother Shelton goes among the families giving encouragement. “Let’s go! It’s all downhill from here on, and we’re already a third of the way there!”
And so they’re off again down the winding wash. No more hills to climb now, just slow sand, and that takes its toll. The horses and mules have to rest frequently. The water cans in the back of the handcart are empty, and the sun is hot. Those who brought canteens share with those who didn’t, and soon it’s a dry trek. Around one corner the group finds water trickling from the hill, and everyone goes down on his hands and knees to drink. It’s meager and muddy, but oh so good!
Flowers cover the sides of the wash, the hills are green, and spirits are still high. But feet are beginning to feel the weight of their responsibility.
“This is so beautiful!”
“My feet ache!”
A girl picks a sprig of mistletoe from a palo verde tree and puts it on her bonnet. But all the Romeos are too busy pulling their feet out of the sand to notice.
At the tail end of the group, two girls kneel, tying a young man’s shoelaces.
“These women know their place,” he says. They meekly finish tying and walk on. When their master tries to follow, he finds his laces have been tied together.
After a rest stop some girls take over the handcart. It’s tough pulling, but they keep at it.
“Bet the pioneers had blisters,” one of them says.
“At first,” her friend replies, “and then some callouses like you wouldn’t believe.”
By now most faces are sunburned, but there are worse horrors on the pioneer trail. Under a gravel ledge two boys lie with arrows in their backs. They are left unburied.
Spirits remain high in spite of it all, and the pace is still swift. Everyone senses that the end is near.
Brother Brigham takes up Brother Shelton’s watchcry and exhorts the Saints, “Onward! It’s all downhill!”
And it was. Before long the trekkers glimpsed blue water through green trees. The Salt River! The trek was over.
The company took time for a long pause by the river to bathe their feet and rest their legs. Some of the young men even felt inspired to jump in, but mostly they felt inspired to help other people jump in.
There was even time for a little quiet satisfaction at having made it. “It was easy.”
“It wouldn’t be fun every day, but it was fun today.”
“I didn’t expect it to be half as rough as it was.”
“I really liked it. I’m tired, but I feel this is very important. It has touched my life deeply.”
Then there was food, delicious and abundant. Beef, potatoes, gravy, and fluffy, dutch-oven rolls with plenty of butter and jelly, and then donuts for dessert.
The pioneers filled in the few quiet moments available by throwing their instructors into the river, which was running high and cold.
Then there were games. Egg tossing produced a lot of fun and yolk. “I didn’t deserve this!” one young man lamented, watching the gooey yellow stuff drip from his fingers.
Then came three-legged races, sack races, stick pulling, capture the flag, and square dancing.
The stick-pulling competition was one of the high points of the evening. Muscles strained and bulged as the students pulled each other from the ground. The winner was awarded the Joseph Smith prize, in honor of the stick-pulling prowess of the Prophet.
Soon it was dark, the bonfire was lit, and everyone was ready for some old-fashioned pioneer dancing. And what dancing! Arizona hasn’t had such a stomping since Cochise led his braves in the war dance. Virginia reel, polka, square dance—the caller tried to get them to rest between dances, but they weren’t listening to any of that. They just wanted to dance. And dance they did, by the wavering glow of the bonfire, on tired feet that suddenly weren’t tired any more, and on and on as if they would never stop.
And so the tradition of the pioneer trek, already strong, has grown a little stronger. It’s something the seminary students look forward to for four years. Maybe that’s partly because it’s really theirs. No one else plans it for them. They do it all for themselves. Seminary council president Mark Riggs was in complete charge of the operation this year, and he delegated responsibility to many others. They all came through splendidly. Everything happened right on schedule and just the way it was supposed to. Everyone took his responsibility seriously. For example, the young man in charge of the wagons and the teams to pull them was up at 5 A.M. the day of the trek, making sure everything was ready although the trek didn’t start until 10:30.
The day before the trek one of the students asked Brother Shelton what was going to happen, and he replied, “You know more about it than I do.” It was their show, and they knew it.
But the preparation went far beyond the physical details. The students’ spiritual and intellectual preparation has been going on all year long. They’ve been studying Church history, reading pioneer journals, learning pioneer songs, practicing their square dancing, and getting a feel for their heritage in every way they could. They started the trek knowing a lot about what it means to be a pioneer.
Now they know a lot more.

In early July 1829, with manuscript in hand, Joseph knew the Lord wanted him to publish the Book of Mormon and spread its message far and wide. But the publishing business was unfamiliar to him and his family. He had to keep the manuscript safe, find a printer, and somehow get the book in the hands of people willing to consider the possibility of new scripture.
Publishing a book as long as the Book of Mormon would also not be cheap. Joseph’s finances had not improved since he started the translation, and all the money he made went toward providing for his family. The same was true for his parents, who were still poor farmers working land they did not own. Joseph’s only friend who could finance the project was Martin Harris.
Joseph set to work quickly. Before he completed the translation, he had filed for the book’s copyright to protect the text from anyone who might steal or plagiarize it.1 With Martin’s assistance, Joseph also started looking for a printer who would agree to publish the book.
They went first to Egbert Grandin, a printer in Palmyra who was the same age as Joseph. Grandin declined the proposal at once, believing the book was a fraud. Undeterred, Joseph and Martin kept searching and found a willing printer in a nearby city. But before accepting his offer, they returned to Palmyra and asked Grandin once more if he wanted to publish the book.2
This time, Grandin seemed more willing to take the project, but he wanted to be paid $3,000 to print and bind 5,000 copies before he even started work. Martin had already promised to help pay for the printing, but to come up with that kind of money, he realized he might need to mortgage his farm. It was an enormous burden for Martin, but he knew none of Joseph’s other friends could help him with the money.
Troubled, Martin began to question the wisdom of financing the Book of Mormon. He had one of the best farms in the area. If he mortgaged his land, he risked losing it. Wealth he had spent a lifetime accruing could be gone in an instant if the Book of Mormon did not sell well.
Martin told Joseph his concerns and asked him to seek a revelation for him. In response, the Savior spoke of His sacrifice to do His Father’s will, regardless of the cost. He described His ultimate suffering while paying the price for sin so that all might repent and be forgiven. He then commanded Martin to sacrifice his own interests to bring about God’s plan.
“Thou shalt not covet thine own property,” the Lord said, “but impart it freely to the printing of the Book of Mormon.” The book contained the true word of God, the Lord assured Martin, and it would help others believe the gospel.3
Although his neighbors would not understand his decision, Martin obeyed the Lord and mortgaged his farm to guarantee payment.4
Grandin signed a contract and began to organize the massive project.5 Joseph had translated the text of the Book of Mormon in three months, assisted by one scribe at a time. It would take Grandin and a dozen men seven months to print and bind the first copies of the 590-page work.6
With a publisher hired, Joseph returned to Harmony in October 1829 to work his farm and be with Emma. Oliver, Martin, and Hyrum, meanwhile, would oversee the printing and send Joseph regular updates on Grandin’s progress.7

While at the hospital where they took my daughter Natalie (who had already passed), I was in a state of shock. I was completely numb, physically and mentally. Things were happening around me that I could see but not feel: police asking questions, friends crying, medical staff informing. It’s all a blur yet perfectly clear.
My former bishop and his wife were there. A colleague of mine had called them. My daughter, Natalie, and I had moved from their ward only a few months prior. My bishop and his wife were beloved friends of ours.
The bishop’s wife, also named Natalie, said I would be staying with them. The next thing I knew, I was in their vehicle riding back to my old neighborhood. I had no comprehension of time passing, yet I was aware it was dawn of the next day when I received a priesthood blessing from the bishop and a friend.
I was kept in the loop with all of the funeral arrangements, yet I was unaware of all the details. I would get dressed when I was told to get dressed. I would get in the car when I was told we had somewhere to go. I was a robot following simple commands. That was all I was capable of doing. Surprisingly, I had not yet shed a tear.
My daughter’s funeral was beautiful. There was a lot of laughter mixed with tears, and the Spirit was very much present. My oldest daughter, Victoria, traveled back to Utah from another state. She wrote a song and performed it at the funeral.
I was never approached about the funeral costs except to be informed it was being handled. Within a few weeks the funeral had been paid in full by donations from Church members.
At the time, I was still staying with my former bishop’s family. Members from my previous ward were looking for a new place for me to live. A cute little basement apartment became available, and the next thing I knew, I was signing a lease. This did not happen by my own doing. It was the actions of a network of Church members, including my dear friend Natalie, the bishop’s wife.
Ward members helped move my personal effects and got me and Victoria settled in. The first two months’ rent had been paid in advance—again, by Church member donations. I still had no perception of time, and I was still emotionally numb to a certain degree, yet I was starting to get feeling back.
A few weeks after my daughter’s death, the realization and magnitude of what had happened started to creep in. It was like heavy, thick black smoke seeping in at first, followed by all-consuming billows until I was surrounded by complete darkness. Grief in its rawest has its own dimension of blackness.
Natalie had died on Thanksgiving Day. It was now Christmas. The holidays only magnified my loss. The agony lingered throughout the day and tormented me throughout the night. It was relentless. The tears poured endlessly for days. Minutes passed like hours. Hours passed like days. Days passed like years.
As a divorced woman, I did not have a husband who could go out and earn a living. If I could have, I would have curled up in a ball, locked myself in a closet, and remained there forever. But I didn’t have that luxury. I had to somehow gather the strength to function. I had to find a job. I was working when Thanksgiving Day happened, but somehow in all the chaos, I had forgotten about my job. I could have gone back to it, but my Natalie loved to hang out there, and the thought of going back without her was unbearable.
By the first week of January, I had gotten a low-paying job. I tried to act like I was normal. My body kept going, but I felt like my soul had died. No one knew I was a hollow shell of a being just going through the motions. It was only during the drive to and from work that I was able to break down emotionally. This was my new normal.
I started going to my new ward a little at a time. I just knew if someone asked me how I was doing, I would fall to pieces. I desperately wanted to go to church, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone, much less make eye contact. I wished with all my heart that I could be invisible. More than anything, I just wanted to rip this all-consuming pain out of my chest!
I have no idea what the sisters in Relief Society thought of me, and at the time I didn’t much care. I was too busy just trying to breathe! I’m sure I gave off the impression that I wanted to be left alone, for none of them bothered me. They did, however, occasionally give me a warm smile that I found a little comforting—just the exact small dose to keep me from running out the nearest exit, which was a constant thought.
Time is a healer. It doesn’t erase events, but it allows gaping wounds to slowly close.
That fateful Thanksgiving Day was in 2011, and it took me a few years to realize just how much I was helped by my brothers and sisters in the Church. I felt like I was carried off the battlefield after having been critically wounded. I was nursed back to health and cared for until I could stand on my own.
Countless blessings have come my way, in a variety of ways. My testimony has grown to near full maturity. I know now what it feels like to be held in the loving arms of our Savior.
So to answer my friend’s question, “How did the Church help you through this ordeal?” I say, “They didn’t help me. They saved me.”

I recall clearly my first profound experience of personal revelation. I was 17 years old. It happened in my parents’ home in Suva, Fiji. I was in my bedroom alone, reading from the Book of Mormon with a determined desire to know for myself if the book was true. This was the challenge that full-time missionaries Elder Rian Nelson and Elder Randy Price had given me after their lesson on the Prophet Joseph Smith and how he had received gold plates from an angel, and then translated the text into English.
Those missionaries read passages from the Book of Mormon during our discussion and they shared strong and enlightening testimonies. I was touched deeply, and I wanted to know for myself if what they had shared was truly of God . . . and I wanted to say what they said with the same conviction and confidence.
I read 3 Nephi chapter 11. Almost immediately I began to understand and become enlightened. I visualized the Savior, Jesus Christ, descending out of heaven and standing amidst the multitude with outstretched hands, inviting them to come unto Him, to feel the prints of the nails in His hands and in His feet. This they did one by one, and afterwards, they fell to the earth and worshipped Him as the promised Messiah2.
Feelings of warmth, comfort and peace overcame my whole person and I cried tears of love, gratitude, and appreciation for the Lord and for His mission of love and mercy. Instantly I recognized this was a spiritual witness from heaven . . . that what I was reading and feeling was true and of God.
The wonderful feelings I had experienced with the missionaries the day before returned, but this time I was alone. The influence of the Holy Ghost was personal and powerful. I did not want this precious moment to end. I knew then what personal revelation was. Whenever I have shared that experience over the past 40 years, that sweet reassuring witness of the Holy Ghost fills my heart.

Starting in his early teen years, Colby’s alarm clock would ring each morning at 4:00 a.m., telling him to get up so he could be on the boat by 5:00. You see, Colby is a third-generation lobsterman from Maine, USA. He needed to be out on the waters with his dad by 5:00 a.m. so they could get in a successful lobster fishing day.
Colby had to put in a lot of time and hard work to gain his own lobster license. He spent 200 days and 1,000 hours training on the water over the course of a few years. He had to learn about handling lobster boats and navigation, and he also studied the safety regulations and rules of the industry.
He says, “I was six years old when my dad took me fishing for the first time. Even at that age, I was given the job of ‘banding’ the lobsters, or putting heavy rubber bands around the lobsters’ claws.”
When Colby turned 14, his dad hired him as a sternman, and at 15, Colby bought his own fishing boat. He also got an education about small engine mechanics and carpentry to prepare him to be a part of the lobstering business.
Being a lobsterman has been a fun and educational part of Colby’s life. It taught him to manage his own boat and be responsible for the decisions that he makes on and off the water. “Lobster fishing is hard physical work and can be dangerous,” he says.
The safety rules that his dad taught him protect him physically, just like the Lord’s commandments protect him spiritually. If they work hard and are safe throughout lobstering season, their family gets together to have a “big lobster feed” each summer to commemorate the family legacy of lobstering.