Gospel Story Finder

Such a lesson was recounted on a radio and television program many remember with fondness. The program was entitled Death Valley Days. The narrator, known as the Old Ranger, seemed to come right into our living rooms as he would tell tales of the West.
On one program, the Old Ranger related how the glass was obtained for the windows of the St. George Tabernacle. The glass was manufactured in the East. Then it was placed on a ship in New York that sailed forth on the long and at times perilous journey around Cape Horn and up to the west coast of America. The precious glass, stored in cartons, was then transported to San Bernardino, California, to await the overland trek to St. George.
David Cannon and the brethren in St. George had the duty to go to San Bernardino with their teams and wagons to retrieve the glass, that the tabernacle of the Lord could be completed. One problem: They needed the then-astronomical sum of $800.00 to pay for the glass. They had no money. David Cannon turned to his wife and to his son and asked, “Do you think that we can raise the money, that we might obtain the glass for the tabernacle?”
His tiny son, David Jr., said, “Daddy, I know we can!” He then produced two cents of his own money and gave it to his father. Wilhelmina Cannon, David’s wife, went through the secret hiding places that all women have in their houses. Her search produced $3.50 in silver. The community was scoured for money, and at length the sum of $200.00 was accumulated—$600.00 short of the required amount.
David Cannon sighed the sigh of despair of one who had failed although he had tried his best. The little family was really too weary to sleep and too discouraged to eat, so they prayed. Morning dawned. The teamsters gathered with their wagons and teams, prepared to undertake the long journey to San Bernardino. But they had no $600.00. Then there came a knock at the door, and Peter Neilson from the nearby community of Washington entered the house. He said to David Cannon, “Brother David, I have had a persistent dream that I should bring the money I had saved to expand my house—bring it to you, that you would have a purpose for it.”
While all of the men gathered around the table, including little David Jr., Peter Neilson took out a red bandanna and dropped gold pieces, one by one, upon the table. When David Cannon counted the gold pieces, they totaled $600.00—the exact amount needed to obtain the glass. Within an hour the men waved good-bye and, with their teams, set forth on their journey to San Bernardino to retrieve the glass for the St. George Tabernacle.
When that true story was told over Death Valley Days, David Cannon Jr. was then 87 years of age. He listened to the story with rapt attention. I believe that in his mind he once again heard those gold pieces, one by one, dropping upon the table as astonished men saw with their very eyes the answer to their prayers.

A number of years ago in general conference, Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles told the story of Joseph Millett, a little-known member of the Church.
He lived in the early days of the Church and came across the plains with other faithful members to tame a desert and to find a new home. In those first years, food was often scarce. Winters were particularly difficult, and often the days stretched further than the food that was stored.
Joseph Millett wrote in his journal: “One of my children came in and said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks was out of bread, had none that day.
“I divided our flour in a sack to send up to Brother Hall. Just then Brother Hall came.
“Says I, ‘Brother Hall, are you out of flour?’
“‘Brother Millett, we have none.’
“‘Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you was out.’
“Brother Hall began to cry. He said he had tried others, but could not get any. He went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord, and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett.
“‘Well Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back. If the Lord sent you for it you don’t owe me for it.’”
That night Joseph Millett recorded a remarkable sentence in his journal: “You can’t tell me how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew there was such a person as Joseph Millett” (Diary of Joseph Millett, holograph, Historical Department Archives, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; cited in Boyd K. Packer, “A Tribute to the Rank and File of the Church,” Ensign, May 1980, 63).

In 2013, my husband and I were called to be mission leaders of the Ecuador Guayaquil West Mission. When President Henry B. Eyring extended the calling to us, we told him that neither of us had served missions when we were young, so we didn’t know anything about how a mission was run.

President Eyring’s counsel stayed with both of us throughout the next three years. He said that the Lord would be with us in the details of our mission if we sought His guidance. Our lack of certainty would teach us to rely on Him.

After we had been in the mission for about nine months, my husband had a very disturbing dream. In it he saw black clouds approaching and many people running and screaming. When he woke up, he told me about the dream, and we wondered if it might have some meaning. But things were so busy that we just kept going with our day-to-day efforts to run the mission and really didn’t think much about the dream after that. However, a month later he had a similar dream, but this time the ominous black clouds were closer, more people were running and screaming, and my husband was trying to get to the mission home where our daughter and I were.

This time we paid attention and chose to believe that it wasn’t just a dream; we started making plans to prepare our mission for an emergency. There was no hard evidence that we should prepare for anything. But we chose to believe those dreams were a warning. Although the dreams were symbolic and didn’t specify what the emergency was, my husband always felt we should prepare for an earthquake.

Because of those dreams, we prepared our missionaries by having them each put together a seventy-two-hour emergency pack that was checked monthly. We directed each zone to develop emergency plans so that each missionary would know what to do and the missionaries would have two options for safe places to go within their zones in the event of an emergency. The missionaries were all required to review those plans monthly and keep their emergency packs stocked and ready, even though many of them thought they would never have to use them. We did this for two years.

But much more important, we felt very strongly the need to prepare our missionaries spiritually and to strengthen their covenant connection with the Lord. With every teaching opportunity we focused on the power of the Savior and His Atonement, the blessings of repentance, and the protecting and strengthening power of keeping covenants and obeying commandments.

Two years after my husband had those dreams and two-and-a-half months before we finished our mission, on April 16, 2016, a powerful 7.8-magnitude earthquake hit Ecuador. The hardest hit areas were in our mission, and our entire mission was affected.

The earthquake hit early on a Saturday evening. My husband and I were three hundred miles away from the epicenter, and it felt as if the building we were in was going to collapse because the shaking was so strong. The epicenter was in the northern part of our mission, and 80 percent of the city there was destroyed. A third of our missionaries were in the hardest hit areas. The electricity had gone out as the shaking started, so the missionaries experienced the earthquake in complete darkness. Buildings were collapsing around them, people were running and screaming, and there was utter chaos and devastation. Hundreds of people were killed and thousands were injured.

But miraculously, not one of our missionaries was hurt, and they all knew where to go and what to do because of their emergency preparation. And although cell phone service went down immediately and stayed down for weeks, miracles happened that enabled all of them to contact their zone leaders, which enabled us to know of the well-being of each of our 185 missionaries within the space of two hours. Within forty-eight hours, many miracles happened that enabled us to get all of them out of those devastated areas and bring them to the safety of the temple grounds in Guayaquil, where they stayed in temple housing until we could accommodate them with the other missionaries.

There were many, many miracles that day—before, during, and after the earthquake—that saved our missionaries’ lives. The missionaries felt angels protecting them, and they felt great peace and God’s love for them in the middle of the extreme shaking, chaos, and destruction. That protection, peace, and love that they felt during the shaking—when so many were feeling terror—was not because of their emergency preparation but because of their spiritual preparation through their covenant relationship with their Father in Heaven and Jesus Christ.

I would like to share with you excerpts from some of the personal testimonies of those missionaries.

Sister Cox: My companion and I had been standing directly under some power lines, and a voice inside of me told me to grab my companion and move to the middle of the street. As the earth moved under our feet, we felt as if we were surfing, and the houses and buildings behind us began to fall and the power lines we were previously under snapped and fell as well. . . . I know that we had . . . angels surrounding every one of us.

Elder Valdez: We were on a balcony next to a brick wall when the shaking started and the lights went out. Buildings were falling around us, but I felt great amazement that the building we were in didn’t fall. I felt that someone was holding up the walls. But even more amazing was that I felt my [deceased] grandmother was there.

Sister Pugh: Afterward there was no cell phone service, and we couldn’t immediately contact our leaders, but I really felt very protected. I was scared, but I felt the Spirit so strongly, and I knew everything would be allright.

Elder Solórzano: I felt a great feeling of love and peace during the earthquake.

Elder Lugo: I felt immense peace in the middle of total devastation.

Sister Phippen: I don’t know why I felt so calm, but I knew that everything was going to be okay—even when we kept receiving news that our area was destroyed, that it was burning, and that many people had died.

Sister Tirrell: Although we were in the middle of a catastrophe, I felt a strong sense of peace and comfort.

Sister Ganán: I felt Heavenly Father had sent angels to hold up the walls. I felt very strongly the protection. Upon leaving the house, we saw many houses around us that seemed to be much stronger had fallen down.

Elder Ureta: After the shaking stopped, I realized that I had felt completely calm throughout the experience.

Elder Rios: I testify that the Holy Spirit guides us and that peace is so necessary in moments of difficulty. I will remember that all my life, especially when spiritual earthquakes come.

Elder Morán: I know that we have the opportunity to call down the powers of heaven and ask for help and protection. Through this experience I felt even more strongly the love of my Heavenly Father.

Elder Siggard: I felt a profound peace throughout the entire experience.

The second experience was incomparably greater in magnitude. My husband was a widower, and I gained an instant family of four sons when I married him. We had our fifth son and were barely expecting our sixth when my husband was called home to our Heavenly Father—only 19 months after we were married. I was devastated! I questioned God’s wisdom. It wasn’t fair.

Without going into all the details, I will admit that I continued grieving for three years—and I had only known my husband in this mortal life for two short years. I finally realized I had to make a decision. I could continue my prolonged pity party and have a soul like a wrinkled prune when I was reunited with my husband, or I could put my grief behind me and let joy into my life again. Although I did not understand God’s purposes—I still do not understand them all—I had to make a conscious decision to choose a positive outlook. I know I chose rightly.

I share this not as a model of coping with grief or disappointment—because it isn’t a very good one. Nor do I suggest that my suffering was worse than anyone else’s. We each have our own tailored challenges to endure. I offer my experience only as an illustration that sometimes we must consciously choose how we will react—and that choosing to come to the gospel feast can increase our happiness.

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

Malou Ducta shivered in the darkness as she prayed. The typhoon, still raging out of control, was threatening to shatter the small house where she and the others were huddled. The friendly sea had become a violent stranger. Everybody was crying.

Hours ago, Malou and her family had evacuated their small house of nipa palms and wood at the edge of the sea near the city of Sorsogon. They had waded through chilling chest-deep water and muddy debris to reach a friend’s house higher on the hill.

Now, as the tumult outside continued, Malou kept praying. Suddenly she thought of her college notebook! How could she have forgotten it? Tucked inside its cover was the money she had been awarded from a Church scholarship fund. This money would pay for her final exams. With the money, she could take the exams and graduate. Without it, her dreams of graduating—and of getting a job to help support her family—would shatter like a tiny nipa hut in a storm.

“I was praying as if talking to a friend, and I said to the Lord, ‘It’s your money, and you know that if I don’t have it, I can’t graduate from college.’ I kept praying, asking Heavenly Father to save the money.”

At 2:00 A.M., the men ventured outside. “They found out that there were no more houses by the seashore,” Malou says. In tears, everyone ran to see for themselves. “All were destroyed. All gone.”

The shore was littered with debris and with bodies of people and animals that had died in the storm. “We were just thankful that no one in our family had died,” she says. “The only things we were able to save were our lives and the clothes that we wore. I felt comforted about losing my tuition money, because it was only money.”

People started digging in the sand and mud, trying to salvage whatever they could find. “One of my cousins shouted at me: ‘Oh, this is your folder!’ I ran and got it. It was wet, but the money was all there!”

As Malou recalls that moment, she again begins to cry. “Heavenly Father really knows my need.”

The only other belongings Malou’s family recovered were some irreplaceable photos—photos of her parents when they were young, a photo of the family dressed in white on their baptism day, and a photo of the family in white on the day they were sealed in the Manila Temple.

Since that 1987 typhoon, Malou has graduated in accounting and has served a mission. With donated funds and materials, the family has built a new house on the same spot at the edge of the sea, because they have no money for land elsewhere. On the wall in picture frames are the water-stained photos and her college diploma. “It’s really a miracle for us,” she says, “a great lesson.”

Dexter likes helping his mom bake—especially cookies. He also collects rocks, runs cross-country, and plays soccer at recess—even when the playground snow is deep. Quinlan, on the other hand, spent many recesses creating a play for his third-grade classmates to perform. Still, the brothers prefer doing things together. One snowy winter they built a huge snow fort in the front yard. It had several rooms and snow benches for resting.

These funny boys are serious about choosing the right and serving others. When their grandpa had cancer, they not only prayed for his recovery but also rolled up their sleeves and took care of his garden. They grew corn, cucumbers, broccoli, chili peppers, onions, peas, tomatoes, beets, some odd-looking carrots, and three pumpkins destined to become jack-o’-lanterns. The eggplants died, but nobody minded much, because Grandpa lived.
He has promised the boys that as each of them receives his mission call, he will buy them a 10-foot submarine sandwich to share. Now they can’t see a pickle or a slice of bologna without thinking of missionary work. They are already earning money for their missions by delivering flyers. By the time Dexter and Quinlan leave, their younger brothers, Heath (1) and Bailey (3 months) will be old enough to take over the flyer deliveries.
Looking ahead, Dexter announced one day that by the time Heath was old enough to be baptized, he, Dexter, would be a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood and could baptize his little brother. At this point, Quinlan jumped in and said, “Wait a minute. That means that when Bailey is eight, I’ll be old enough to baptize him!”
Mom laughs. “So Daddy has been bumped from the baptismal schedule.” But then she adds seriously, “I love the fact that at the ages of ten and eight they are already planning to be worthy priesthood holders.”
Quinlan and Dexter are the only Latter-day Saints in their school, but that doesn’t keep them from making good friends there. “They both know how to be loyal friends,” their mom says. Both boys are enthusiastic Scouts too. Dexter is a six-star Cub, and Quinlan has already earned four of his six stars. They have both earned their Religion in Life badges.
The Manns live disciplined lives. Quinlan and Dexter do most of their playing and book writing on Friday night and Saturday because weekdays are carefully scheduled. Homework starts right after dinner and is followed by chores. These include emptying the garbage, helping to tend Heath and Bailey, helping Mom with the laundry, and cleaning their rooms.
The boys attend a French-immersion school in which 75 percent of their class work is in French. French and English are the official languages of Canada, and speaking both will help them get good jobs someday.
Although the Mann family are serious about education and the gospel, they are not overly solemn. They are a laughing, game-playing, camping-out family. North of Winnipeg there are huge lakes and vast forests where they often set up their tent. They celebrate major holidays and family milestones at big dinners with their extended families and others who have been generously “adopted.” On Canada Day (July 1), the children bash away at a piñata filled with candy.
What are the boys most thankful for? They give the same answer: their family. “I feel 100 percent good about them all,” Dexter says. He stops and reconsiders. “Sometimes 99 percent,” he admits. He is an honest boy.
In Canada people often take off their shoes when they enter a home because there is so much wet weather outside. But it could also be a reminder that the home is a sacred place where love and laughter make a refuge from the world, a place where a child might feel equally comfortable reading scriptures or writing funny stories. The Mann home is that kind of place.

Colton slouched in a chair at the kitchen table. His arms were folded together tight, his mouth turned down in a frown.
“What’s the matter?” Mom asked.
Colton just frowned harder. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. He sighed. “Nothing.”
“Well,” Mom said, “if that nothing turns into something, let me know.”
Colton sighed again. “I’m just mad at myself.”
“Mad at yourself?”
Colton nodded. “Yeah. And I’m not going to look at myself in the mirror for a whole week, maybe two.” He pulled a little green car from his pocket.
“I ruined the car Dad gave me—the one he played with when he was little. It was on the floor, and I stepped on it. Now it’s all broken. It was so … dumb!”
Mom sat down next to Colton and reached for the broken car. “I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved this car. But you didn’t do it on purpose. It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.”
“Well, I think it’s somebody’s fault—mine!” He held up a wheel that had fallen off his car. “I shouldn’t have left it on the floor! And I’m not going to get over it until I’m ready. And maybe not even then.”
“That’s a long time to stay mad at yourself,” Mom said. She thought for a minute, then stood up to grab a pencil and notepad from a drawer. She set them on the table. “Let’s make a list of things you like about yourself. I’ll write for you.”
“Do I have to?” Colton asked.
Mom nodded and tapped the notepad. Colton stared at the paper.
“Well,” he finally said, “I do take really good care of my frog.”
“Perfect. That’s one,” Mom started to write. “What else?”
Finally Mom and Colton had a whole list of good things about Colton. He smiled as Mom read the list out loud.
He’s kind to animals and takes good care of his frog, Jumpy.
He always talks with his grandpa when we visit him at the nursing home.
He tries to choose the right every day, even when it’s hard.
When he gets money, he saves some of it in his red elephant missionary bank, and he always pays his tithing.
He tries hard to keep his room clean without being asked.
He doesn’t always complain about having to eat green beans at dinner.
He doesn’t tease his little sister. Much.
“Can I go out and play now, Mom?” Colton asked when they were done reading the list.
Mom nodded. “Who are you going to go play with?”
Colton grinned. “With me. I kind of like me again.”
“I kind of like you too. Kind of a lot. And you know what, Heavenly Father and Jesus love you too!”
Colton hugged her. “Maybe next time I get mad at me, I’ll make another list. I can think of a bunch more things I like about myself.”

I was helping my four-year-old daughter, Emma, evaluate her clothing to see what we still needed to buy for school. She looked at the clothes spread all over the floor (most of them hand-me-downs) and said, “Oh, Mom! I have so many clothes. I am so lucky! Maybe we should give some of them to [Humanitarian Services] so the little child we saw in the Ensign* can have some, too!”
My heart was touched because she was not complaining about hand-me-downs. Instead, she saw that others had less and wanted to help. Emma is an example of the gratitude we all should have for the blessings our Savior has given us. He blesses us, and we should bless others.

I’m taking piano lessons again. This time my mother isn’t forcing me. I am actually doing it on my own. In fact I even practice on my own!
About two years ago I started having sharp pains every time I moved my thumbs. After several tests and visits to various doctors, I had surgery on both thumbs to relieve the pain. After the final stitches had been removed the doctor made the statement that would stimulate the strong urge to take lessons again. He said, “If you want full use of your hands again, try to exercise them every day. In fact, you should take up something like the piano.”
Well, needless to say, I wanted the full use of my hands, so piano lessons became very interesting.
One of the teachers in our local elementary school was an outstanding pianist. I can remember many of the little programs his classes put on for the rest of the school. He was always at the piano playing beautiful, difficult accompaniments without a piece of music in front of him. If the children were having a hard time singing because of pitch, he would effortlessly transpose to an easier key. If they were slow and listless, he would change the rhythm into a fast march. He made any song sound fun, easy, and enjoyable. When I learned that he was giving piano lessons, I knew that this was what I wanted. I had dreams of playing just as effortlessly as I had seen him play.
As it turned out, I ended up a year on his waiting list. But this gave me the time to practice on my own and build my hands back up. I had taken lessons off and on all through school, so I wasn’t a beginner. In my mind I knew I was ready for all the modern songs and rhythms. It would be so exciting to start improvising and chording any song I wanted!
As the time came for my first lesson, I excitedly rattled off my desires to play all the new fun songs. I wanted to learn to improvise. Mr. Mayberry very patiently listened and then gave me my first pieces—two by Bach, one by Beethoven, and a very difficult modernistic piece by Aram Khachaturian.
At first I was surprised, but I decided he was testing me to see if I knew how to count. I went home and with a pencil marked the counting. Then, faithfully, every day I counted out loud. After about two weeks of precise and cautious practice, I went, ready to pass off the pieces. When I finished, he commented on how exact the counting was and then said I should work on the expression. With a red pencil he marked loud and soft passages. He continued to mark such expressions as happy, sad, or dreamy. As I left he said, “Keep working on the counting.”
Once again I practiced, trying to perfect the counting and at the same time work on expression. When I returned the next week, he said it was coming fine. Now I needed to watch the phrases. One line was smooth and melted together; the next line needed to be jerky and staccato. Sometimes one hand was to be smooth while the other hand played march-like staccato.
When I was sure I was finally ready to pass off the pieces, he showed me how to properly use the sustaining pedal. Instead of just up and down at the beginning and end of each line, I was to use the pedal on each chord. Chord, hit pedal, release pedal, release chord. This was very hard for me to learn. It took many weeks of practice to unlearn old habits. With each chord I would say out loud, “Hit, hit, release, release.”
I had started lessons in September, and in January I still had the same pieces. Now I was beginning to feel like I had accomplished total perfection. At the next lesson he said everything was coming along, but now we needed to make the whole song “Presto”; it should go twice as fast. I was so close to tears, I didn’t dare blink. I felt that I would be practicing these same pieces the rest of my life.
It was at this time I was taught a very important lesson. Mr. Mayberry patiently turned to me and said, “Mary, I know you want to learn chording and improvising, but before you can learn those things you need to go back to the basics. You need to go back to the classics, the standards. Every time you go over these pieces there is something new to work on. We will never ‘pass these off,’ to be thrown out or forgotten. Every time you review, something new will jump out at you.”
Because of months of practice and reviewing over and over, I felt I was ready to pass off counting, phrasing, and expression. I knew all there was to know about the “Old Standards.” Yet these lessons were something I needed to continue working on while I went on to learn about tempo, pedal technique, and rhythm.
As I drove home I remembered a comment I had heard a General Authority make: “I’ve read the Book of Mormon over 50 times. Every time I read it I find something new I need to work on.” At first I laughed. It took Bach and Beethoven to help me understand what the General Authority had said. The old standards of the music world had opened my eyes to the importance of the standard works.
One doesn’t “pass off” the Book of Mormon. Each past lesson needs continued work, and each new lesson should bring more goals.
Now as I review my piano pieces I am reminded of the Book of Mormon. Just as I have to learn new piano techniques, I must review the Book of Mormon and learn “eternal techniques.”

The last paragraph of the declaration is as important as the earlier ones. The signers of the Declaration of Independence pledged everything they owned, including their lives and their sacred honor, in order for America to become a free nation. Today we enjoy the blessings of a free land because of their sacrifice. The signers knew the risks when they put their names on the document. The declaration represented an act of treason against the British Crown. The penalty was death by hanging if caught. Each became a hunted man.

One of the signers, Francis Lewis, a delegate from New York,
saw his home plundered and his estates completely destroyed by British soldiers. His wife was captured and treated with brutality. Though she was later exchanged for two British prisoners through the efforts of Congress, she died from her abuse. [Rush Limbaugh Jr., “Lives, Fortunes, Sacred Honor,” Reader’s Digest, July 1998, 165]
Other signers experienced similar fates. Some lost their lives. Some of their family members lost theirs. Many lost their fortunes in support of the patriotic cause. But all of them were true to the promise of loyalty to their new country and to each other.

The school bell rang as I finished copying the last spelling word from the board. I stuffed my books into my backpack. Kim, who sits between Eddie and me, left as Eddie rummaged around in his desk. Crumpled papers and books flew all over the floor.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“My spelling list for tomorrow’s test. My mom gets mad if I don’t bring it home. She says it’s the only way to keep making As, but it isn’t!”
I wish I always made As. I’m not very good at spelling. Dad helps me study every night, and I’d sure like to give him a 100 percent correct, A+ spelling test for Father’s Day, along with the shaving lotion I got him. He’d like that.
I laid my paper by my backpack and picked up a dirty, torn paper Eddie had stomped on. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He shoved it into his pocket.
Erasing the board, Miss Clark said, “You boys had better get going.”
I helped Eddie stuff books and papers back into his desk, and we left. He lives next door to me, so we usually walk home together.
“Want to play a video game?” he asked. “Mom bought me a new one.”
“I’d like to,” I said, “but I have to study for the spelling test tomorrow. I don’t make As like you do, no matter how hard I study.”
Eddie looked at me funny. “You sit next to Kim. She always gets 100 percent.”
I wondered what that had to do with anything. “You sit next to her, too.”
He smirked. “Yeah, that’s the point.” He marched in the house and slammed the door.
When I got home I headed into the kitchen and tossed my backpack on the table. “I have some heavy studying to do to get that 100 percent on my spelling test tomorrow,” I said.
“Have a snack first,” Mom said. She placed a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk on the table.
“Thanks, Mom.” I gobbled up the sandwich and washed it down with milk, then dug around in my backpack for the spelling list. I couldn’t find it.
I dumped everything in my backpack out on the table. “Mom!” I said. “I can’t find my spelling list.”
Mom searched through the books and leafed through my notebooks. The list wasn’t there. She knew how much I wanted to give Dad a 100 percent correct spelling paper for Father’s Day, so she looked again. No list.
“Where do you remember seeing it last?” she asked.
“I laid it on my desk by my backpack while I helped Eddie find his list. Then Miss Clark said we’d better hurry.”
“Then it’s probably still on your desk. But you can call Eddie and ask him to give you the words.”
On the phone, Eddie started telling me the words, but he said the paper had gotten so dirty and torn that he couldn’t read most of it. “I told you, don’t worry about it,” he said. “You sit next to Kim.”
I hung up the phone. I had something to worry about, all right. I had trouble spelling. What difference did it make to me if Kim was a genius?
I told Mom all the words I could remember, and she wrote them down for me. I tried my best, but I couldn’t think of all of them.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mom said. “Remember, in our family we love each other no matter what. We care about making good choices and doing the best we can.”
When Dad got home, he helped me study. When I could spell all the words I had, he said, “Try to sound out the others. The important thing is to do your best.”
The next day, when time came for the spelling test, I sharpened my pencil and put my pink eraser by my paper. I wanted that 100 percent so much my hand shook.
I knew the first five words. The next one I had to sound out. I glanced past Kim to Eddie, wondering if he was having trouble, too. He was craning his neck, staring at Kim’s paper—cheating! So that’s what Eddie meant about sitting next to Kim! I kept my eyes glued to my own paper, afraid the teacher would think I was cheating, too.
Suddenly Miss Clark swooped behind Eddie. Without a word, she picked up his paper, crumpled it up, and threw it in the wastebasket.
Dad wouldn’t want a paper I had cheated on. He’d be disappointed in me, and I’d feel rotten about myself.
My back hurt from sitting stiffly while I sounded out words, erased them, and sounded them out again until they looked right.
I closed my eyes. “Please, Heavenly Father, help me keep my eyes off Kim’s paper and do the best I can,” I prayed silently.
Miss Clark called out another word. I felt more relaxed and could think more clearly. I finished my test and handed it in.
We got our papers back before the end of class. I covered mine for a minute, afraid to look at my score. Then I saw “100% correct, A+!” written in red ink. I couldn’t wait to get home to show it to Mom.
On the test I wrote, “To the best dad in the world, who helps me with spelling, and teaches me to choose the right and to do the best I can.” Then I put it with the shaving lotion.
I could hardly wait for Father’s Day.

Ellen was a young girl who really gained an understanding of repentance. While at the store, she took an item without paying for it. But when she got home, she felt miserable. She confided in her mother: “I’m so sorry I took it; will you take it back for me?”
Her mother said, “I can’t repent for you, Ellen. You must repent yourself. You will have to take it back and say you are sorry.”
It was hard, but she did it. “This is my first repentance,” Ellen said. “I’m glad I know how to make things right.”

Amid carefully tended flowers in my garden grows my favorite rosebush. Its lanky branches are wild and useless. Too heavy to support themselves, they creep across the grass. My father and my husband have encouraged me on numerous occasions to pull out the rosebush, but I simply will not do it. It was a Mother’s Day gift from my son, Jon.*

I remember the day he gave it to me. At first, I thought Jon had forgotten that it was Mother’s Day because he left early that morning without saying a word. I wondered where he was. It wasn’t like him to totally ignore a holiday. In spite of it, I enjoyed church, the lovely gifts others in my family lavished on me, and the nice dinner they prepared.

Finally, late that night, Jon arrived home with a beautiful, blooming rosebush in a small pot. He had planned to purchase the rosebush and then go to church with me as a special Mother’s Day gift, but like so many of his grandiose and thoughtful plans, this one had gone awry. In his search for the perfect rosebush, he had lost his car keys and become stranded. I listened to his explanation as I read the handwritten note he gave me. He promised to go to church with me next week. Tears blurred my vision. His eager words weren’t empty promises; he really planned to keep them. But something always interfered.

I mothered that rosebush in its small pot for more than a year. I followed the detailed directions that had come with it; I took it into the garage during the winter; I shaded it when the Arizona* sun was too hot. And I never stopped praying, along with everyone else in my family, that Jon would someday flourish and bloom as I hoped the plant he’d given me would.

When we moved from Arizona back to my Wyoming hometown, I took the rosebush with me in the car. Jon stayed behind because he wanted to try being independent. Since Wyoming was to become our permanent home, I planted Jon’s rosebush in our flower garden.

The first year, it did poorly—even though I fussed over it, read gardening books, and asked advice. I soaked the roots, fertilized it, and kept the aphids off it. I tried everything. It stayed alive, but it never flourished. Every time I tended it, I thought of Jon back in Arizona and prayed for him. He called occasionally and sounded confident: “Doing great, Mom. No problems.” But we worried. As I anxiously tended the rosebush, I hoped that next year it would do better.

In the fall, I pruned the rosebush back and packed manure around the roots to protect it. That winter was the coldest in forty years. I waited anxiously to see if my one special plant had survived. With my coat flapping in the whistling wind, I knelt in the snow and looked at the bare limbs of the rosebush. Was there any sign of life under the dirty snow? I couldn’t tell.

That winter I sensed that Jon’s life wasn’t going as well as he had hoped it would. Many a night, when the east wind blew and our windows rattled, I lay sleeplessly wondering if he was going to church, eating right, or still running around with friends who used drugs. Though Jon never told us in his phone calls, we felt that he was struggling with problems he could not handle. He sounded as though he was suffering from clinical depression. I reminded him that we loved him and missed him and that he was always welcome to come home. I told him we were willing to pay for him to get medical attention.

When spring finally came, my other rosebushes started sending out tiny red leaves, but my special bush stood bare and lifeless. I watered it by hand and brushed away the dead leaves that covered it, hoping that I could somehow revive it.

One afternoon, my father, who is an expert gardener, inspected my rosebush and declared it dead. He stamped his cane at the gnarled, brown stub and said it was time to give up and plant another bush in its place. But I didn’t.

That spring I increased my fasting and prayers in Jon’s behalf. I went more often to the temple and always put his name on the prayer roll. Then one midnight, we received a phone call. Jon had decided to come home. He didn’t tell us why, but that didn’t matter; we were just happy that he was joining our family again.

Not long after that, while working in my roses, I noticed a tiny green shoot poking its way out from deep under the roots of my special rosebush. Despite the odds, it had lived! I was so thrilled that I insisted my father come over and view the miracle growth.

“It’ll be wild,” my dad said. Patiently, he poked at the manure-covered shoot with his cane. “That growth is a sucker, coming out from below the graft, so it’ll never bear roses. You’d be better off pulling it up now and planting a new bush.”

“Never,” I said. Tears rolled down my face. It had survived the winter, though we thought it was dead. I couldn’t give up now.

So I continue to tend my rosebush. Often I work in my flower gardens early in the morning. I treasure the tranquil feeling that comes over me as I kneel in the grass, tend my roses, and pray for Jon. I am grateful that he is home. Our family’s prayers for Jon continue. We’re all glad he has come back. At least we don’t worry whether he’s eating or not. My motherly intuition tells me that something is still not right. My husband and my father remind me that Jon is young and that eventually he’ll mature and straighten up. I hoard the morning’s quiet pleasures. Too soon the heat and frustrations and challenges of the day will disturb them. But not yet.

Working in my garden reminds me of my grandmother and of her faith in my grandfather. The clippers cramp my hand as I prune my wild, overgrown rosebush. I carefully lay the branches in a neat pile. A blast of loud music from a radio in Jon’s room in the basement startles me, but it is quickly squelched and quiet reigns again. Jon will be getting up soon.

By the time I finish pruning, the sun is up, warm on my face. The pile of branches is higher than I’d expected it to be. My hands and arms are scratched and torn as I force the thorny limbs into a garbage bag. Several strong thorns have pierced my hands, and they are bleeding. I hear a bird call as I kneel on the grass, and I wonder if birds feel anything as they watch their babies fly for the first time. My heart is as sore as my hands, and I know the heat will soon be so intense that I will have to go in.

I hear Jon’s motorcycle as he roars off to work, and I rest for a moment. My tears drop like rain as my heart follows him. Then I remember my grandmother. I remember watching her graft a branch from one of her most beautiful rosebushes onto an old, half-dead bush. Her voice echoes to me from years ago. “I won’t give up on this bush without a fight,” she had said to me on that long-ago morning. “It’s too precious not to try to reclaim.”

The sun stretches out from its mountain bed and showers its rays across me as I kneel next to my own special bush. I wonder if I can graft some branches from some of my father’s rosebushes onto the unproductive bush Jon gave me. Maybe then it could be productive. Perhaps my father’s garden even contains some roses that are descended from those in my grandmother’s garden. I close my eyes and see my grandmother working industriously in the dawn, tending her fragrant roses. I wonder if others tried to convince her that roses would never grow in Idaho’s arid soil. Did others ever suggest that Grandfather would never change during all those years that he was not a member of the Church? Did Grandmother listen to them? Or did she keep working and praying and hoping?

I don’t care if I’m not practical. I don’t care if we pray for miracles that to some seem unlikely. I’m going to go to my dad’s garden and cut some starts from his roses. I will not give up on my special rosebush.

I was released from the hospital on New Year's Eve and found my world upside down. True, I wasn't in the hospital anymore, but being home with my children who clearly were having a hard time connecting with me was much worse than I had thought.

One night I was in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, pondering unanswerable questions. Who is that person in the mirror? Will I ever like the way I look again? Can I love myself if I look this way?

I wondered if makeup would help. I hadn't opened my makeup bag for months, but I knew it had been unpacked and put in our bathroom. I found a tube of mascara and with my clumsy hands brushed it on my eyelashes.

I had been taught--and thoroughly believed in--my infinite worth as a daughter of God. I knew my value as a person transcended my looks, but that belief was being tested as I looked at my disfigured reflection in the mirror. Mascara didn't help.

I stood in front of the mirror crying, dark mascara streaming down my face, and Christian came in and wrapped his arms around me. I closed my eyes and tried to absorb another of his loving speeches.

There was a cry from downstairs. Nicholas. We both knew he wanted Christian and not me. If I went down, he'd probably end up crying even louder and wake up Ollie and the girls. But I wanted to be the one to comfort him. Nicholas cried out again, and Christian started toward the stairs.

"No, let me try," I said. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe tonight he would let me soothe his troubled sleep, like I'd always been able to before.

Christian helped me down the stairs, and when I got to the boys' room, Nicholas was crying and Ollie was zonked with a Zorro mask and cape still on. "Nicholas, Mommy's here," I said softly, and I lay beside him on the edge of the bed. " I'm here," I crooned, in much the same voice Christian had used to comfort me just a few minutes earlier. Nicholas settled down a little, and I proceeded cautiously, shocked that he was letting me touch him at all. He lay beside me, breathing deep, relaxed breaths. I looked at every detail of his face and his long brown lashes resting against his round cheeks. His chubby hands nestled their way under his cheeks. Even his white-blond hair seemed to be peacefully resting on his smooth, soft forehead. His perfect beauty struck me, and I was filled with love for this little boy, and gratitude that he would let me lie down near him. I had almost missed these precious moments with my children.

I had a choice: I could go from victim to survivor. But I didn't want to just be a survivor; I wanted to be a thriver. And I knew it was my choice, and I also firmly knew that the only way I could achieve happiness again was through my Savior, Jesus Christ.

That night I poured out my heart and soul to God. I told him that I wanted my job back again. And I didn't just want to be part of the family; I wanted to be in charge again. I wanted to do everything I did before the accident. I was determined to be present and active.

I missed me. I missed my long hair and healthy body. I missed holding my babies, and I missed snuggling up to Christian after a long day. But each day I found success knowing that I was that much closer to getting my apron back on or my fancy heels on for a weekend date.

During my first two years of teaching seminary in Nevada, I assigned two students in each class to be what we called “seminary phantoms.” They were to do nice things throughout the year for their fellow students, without anyone knowing.
Most of the students in my early-morning class were from the same two wards, except for one freshman. His name was Clark, and every day he sat by himself near the front of the room. About three months into the year, I had the class grouped into teams. I asked one boy to let Clark be on his team, and he asked, “Who’s Clark?” It was then that I realized how few people knew Clark.
A few weeks later, as the Christmas season drew near, we geared up to do our annual seminary Christmas activity called “secret Santas.” Students who wanted to participate signed up to do nice things, anonymously, for another student during the week before Christmas break. As the sign-up list went around, nearly everyone signed up. Everyone except Clark.
After class, I pulled aside my two seminary phantoms and asked if they would do a favor for someone in the class. They both willingly agreed. I explained about Clark and asked if they would mind doing just one nice thing for him from his secret Santa.
The following Monday, Clark’s book slot was decorated with ribbons and candy. Tuesday, there were small gifts. As the class came in both days, they crowded around him to see what he had received. Again on Wednesday, there was a small surprise left for him on my desk. When Thursday came, he found a gingerbread house on his desk. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
The next morning was Friday, the last day before Christmas vacation. Clark came into class with a present of his own. It was a huge gingerbread house that must have taken him and his mother all evening to make. He asked if I would please give it to his secret Santa. When class was over, Clark was slow in leaving, hoping to find out who I would give his gift to. But I convinced him that his Santa wanted to remain a secret. As he walked down the street, a car which a few minutes earlier had appeared to drive off, turned into the parking lot again, and two girls got an early Christmas present.
Seminary became Clark’s favorite class. Throughout the remaining three years, he had some wonderful friends in seminary. I can’t help but think that it was partially the result of those two seminary phantoms. The year that he graduated from high school and seminary, I was transferred to another state.
The following summer, my family and I came back to visit. Late one evening, at the home where we were staying, we heard a car drive by. The horn honked and someone yelled, “We love you, Brother Fowler!” In the morning, I found my car “decorated” with toilet paper. Inside was a note with a copy of a mission call attached to it. It was from Clark. It read, “Seminary was the inspiration for the day and for my life. Thanks!”

Now come with me to another part of the world, forty-four year later, when I was in Tonga with another nursing faculty member, Shelly Reed, and eight nursing students. We were there to learn about Tongan culture so that we could learn how to provide nursing care in culturally mindful ways. On these beautiful islands I learned the importance of acting on promptings when I receive them.

While we were in Tonga, one of the few small interisland planes crashed, and the other interisland planes were grounded, pending an investigation. This meant that any travel between the islands had to be by ferry. We had already traveled by ferry once, from Vava‘u to Tongatapu, and had planned to make one more interisland trip to ‘Eua.

As the day for this trip grew closer, it became apparent that the planes would still be grounded and we would need to go by ferry—this time on a much smaller ferry than we had used for our first interisland trip. I began to feel uneasy about the trip; in fact, it became pretty clear to me that I should not go. I did not know why, and the prompting seemed to be for me personally—not for the whole group. In addition, I felt a responsibility to be with the group, and staying back would mean I’d be alone in Nuku‘alofa for my birthday. That did not sound like fun to me. Nevertheless, the promptings persisted. Finally, and foolishly, I decided I would go to ‘Eua and be really careful.

We completed the two-hour ferry ride to ‘Eua without incident or seasickness, which was a blessing. We visited the small health clinic on the island and toured the island a bit that evening. Consider for a moment how isolated Tonga is—and the island of ‘Eua is isolated in Tonga. It truly feels like it is a million miles from anywhere, and there are no lights along the roads. The night darkness is deeper there than I have experienced anywhere else. We only stayed one night, but I was ready to return to Nuku‘alofa. As you can imagine, I was nervous, feeling I was there against heavenly advice.

The ferry left very early in the morning, well before sunrise, and we had to travel to the dock in two groups because there was only one vehicle available to transport us that morning. I offered to go with the first group of students. When we arrived at the dock, the only light around came from inside the ferry. Looking into the ferry, I could see quite a few people had already boarded, and I felt concerned about securing enough seats so that no one in our group would have to stand for the long ride back to Nuku‘alofa. I thanked the driver, jumped out of the vehicle, and scurried across the dock ahead of the students, hoping to secure seats for our group.

Unbeknownst to me, there was no plank to provide a walkway between the dock and the ferry, and my eyes were fixed on the seats inside. As I stepped where I thought a plank would surely be, I felt the dreadful sensation of falling. My arms instinctively reached out, trying to grasp the side of the ferry so I would not fall to the ocean below. I did not succeed in preventing my fall, but I did manage to badly scrape my arms and legs on the side of the ferry.

As I hit the water, I knew this was why I had been warned not to go to ‘Eua. I continued my descent a long way down in the water. Even in the watery deep I immediately began to pray and apologize for my disobedience while also pleading for help. I struggled mightily in the disorienting watery darkness but somehow managed to find my way to the narrow passage between the side of the ferry and the wall of the dock. Eventually I was able to reach the surface of the water. Illuminated by the light from the ferry, as I looked up I could see the horrified expressions on my students’ faces melting into looks of relief. I was so grateful to breathe air again. I thanked my Heavenly Father that I had survived—so far.

But my troubles were not yet over. I was still in the water, and it was dark in that narrow, watery space between the dock wall and the ferry. I could not figure out where to go, so I treaded water until I felt I no longer could. Then I looked up, and a Tongan man had lain down on his stomach on the dock and leaned far over the edge, extending his arm to me. Braced by a large rubber tire attached to the dock wall, I could reach up and just barely grasp his hand. How comforting the grasp of his hand was! Symbolically, how important it is for us to look up when we are in need of help! My students shouted encouragement, but I soon began to lose strength in my arthritic hand.

Just then a young Tongan man was at my side. I do not know how he got in the water, but I remember the overwhelming gratitude I felt for him and his bravery. He did not speak English, but he managed to guide me toward the front of the ferry, where the dock surface was closer to the water. Two large Tongan men reached down, each grasping one of my arms, and quickly pulled me to the safety of the dock.

The Tongan women quickly gathered around me to comfort me and tell me more about what I had just experienced. They told me it was a miracle I had survived. They explained that the ocean was unusually calm that morning. If there had been the slightest movement in the ocean, I would have been crushed between the rocking ferry and the dock. My knees went weak as I realized the tender mercies I had experienced, and I felt the love of my Heavenly Father, despite my disobedience to the promptings I had been given. Angels, seen and unseen, helped me through the peril I had created by my disobedience and taught me a lesson I hope to never forget.

Interestingly, from this experience I am left with a constant, gentle reminder that I need to obey the Holy Ghost’s promptings. You see, when two large Tongan men pull you out of the ocean, you come out in a big hurry. The strain of the pull on my right shoulder wrenched it enough so that to this day, nearly four years later, I continue to experience varying amounts of shoulder discomfort. I let this pain serve as a reminder that I not only need to listen to the still, small voice but that I need to obey so that I can have the Holy Ghost lead and guide me through my mortal journey.

To help explain what the Savior has done for us, President Boyd K. Packer, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, told the story of a man who borrowed a great deal of money. He bought something he had always wanted. But when the bill came due, he could not afford to pay it. He knew that his creditor would take away his possessions as payment and throw him in jail.
Then the man’s friend came to rescue him. The friend asked, “If I pay your debt, will you accept me as your creditor?” The man gratefully agreed, and his friend told him, “You will pay the debt to me and I will set the terms. It will not be easy, but it will be possible.”
Because the friend was willing and able to pay, the creditor received the money that was fairly owed him. At the same time, the man was able to keep his possessions and not go to jail. (See Ensign, May 1977, 54–55.)

Another gospel first the youth recently experienced was the opportunity to attend their district’s first seminary graduation ceremony. Three Malaysian youth—Kelvin Anand Kumar, Aun Luck Tan Ernest, and Hamish Steven Parsons—earned seminary diplomas.

Kelvin, who was baptized in 1999, attended seminary during the first four years he was a member of the Church. He says the knowledge he gained there increased his testimony. “I am glad I graduated from seminary,” he says. “Seminary helped me to make correct decisions and plan my education. Because of the things I learned in seminary, I know someday I will marry in the temple.”

Christian Mavinga, president of the Kigali-Rwanda Mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, undertook an arduous eight-hour journey on a hazardous road from Bujumbura, Burundi, to Baraka, South Kivu in DR Congo, to create a new branch of the Church on Sunday January 14, 2024. He was accompanied by Nuru Mirungo Salomon, first counselor in the Bujumbura District presidency, Lokwa Hoga, president of the Kalundu Branch, and Désiré Mpawenayo, communications director in Burundi.
Before becoming a branch on January 14, Church members in Baraka were organized as a group (a small congregation subordinate to a branch) for 10 years. A branch is a fully functioning congregation of the Church with Melchizedek Priesthood holders who are presided over by a stake president or, in the case of the Baraka Branch, the mission president. The first members of the Church in Baraka were converted in 2009, and since then the number of faithful has grown steadily.
According to the Church members in Baraka, this was an unforgettable day because the new branch was an answer to their prayers. “We say thank you to our Heavenly Father for this wonderful blessing that has been bestowed upon us after many years of perseverance,” said one member.
During the meeting, President Mavinga sustained the new leaders of the Baraka Branch. Trésor Amani Amani was called as branch president, Isaya Timothée M’mumbeleca as first counselor, Onda Joseph Asende as second advisor, and Venas Ben Rosen Byaombe as branch clerk.
President Mavinga said: “When we were on our way here, I asked myself the question, why organize a branch today after more than 10 years of the group’s existence here in Baraka? I know that it is not by my strength but rather by your perseverance and your prayers as well as the missionary work that you have accomplished, the Lord has answered your prayers.”
He continued, “The Church here was not going to continue operating under the leadership of the Kalundu Branch. This branch comes as an answer to your prayers and the efforts you have made in the work of the Lord. I bear you witness that the priesthood is the power of God. Our Heavenly Father has given this power here to Baraka so that you can act in His name, is this not a proof of His love? Through the priesthood, you will lead your new branch well moving forward. We bless the members, we heal the sick and it is through the latter that we prepare its children to enter the celestial kingdom. I urge you to continue to persevere in keeping the commandments, standing firm, and always strengthening your faith in Jesus Christ to receive the greatest blessing which is eternal life.”
Trésor Amani Amani, the new branch president, expressed his satisfaction at seeing the organization of this branch. He told the members that they have fought a great battle of perseverance for 13 years, “I urge you to tithe honestly and completely, to love one another, to remain united, and to share the gospel finally to spread this restored gospel of our Savior Jesus Christ.”
“Dear brothers and sisters,” he testified, “I know if we serve our fellow men, we will progress until we have a second branch, and a third. If we continue to share joy with others in unity through faith in Jesus Christ, through repentance, baptism, receiving the gift of the Holy Spirit, and persevering to the end, we will have eternal life. I know that the priesthood is the authority and power of God, our dear President Russell M. Nelson is called of God, all Church leaders as well as our dear mission president, I pray that when Jesus Christ returns and that he will find the members of Baraka rejoicing. I also know that if we read the Book of Mormon we will be greatly blessed.”