Gospel Story Finder

Having been called to serve a mission to England, Brigham and Brother Kimball were faced with a problem. They had promised the Lord they would leave for their mission from the cornerstone of Far West Temple. Despite the threats of apostates against their lives, Brigham, Orson Pratt, John E. Page, John Taylor, Wilford Woodruff, and George A. Smith, made their way back to Far West temple site, and with a small group of loyal Saints, held a brief service. The apostles then went to Commerce (now Nauvoo), Illinois, to settle their families and prepare for their mission. Brigham got a room for his family in an army barracks across the Mississippi River in Montrose.

As I knelt by my bed to say my nightly prayers, I felt like my heart would burst—not with joy, but with loneliness and anger. This wasn’t what I had expected at all!
It was my second night at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, and I was feeling miserable. I didn’t like my companion, I didn’t like Spanish, and I didn’t like myself much for being such a baby.
I started my prayer, but then realized that I didn’t have anything to say. Although I desperately needed someone to talk to, it just didn’t seem right to express my empty, lonely, and bitter feelings to Heavenly Father. I finally said a standard, “thank you for my health and the chance to be here,” sort of prayer and crawled into bed.
Why doesn’t Heavenly Father help me? If he really knows how I feel before I ask, what is he waiting for? I thought angrily.
Then I remembered the book of Enos, which I had read that afternoon. I pictured Enos kneeling in the forest, pleading for the Lord to forgive and help him. His words echoed in my mind: “I did pour out my whole soul unto God” (Enos 1:9).
Had I done the same? Had I really humbly asked for Heavenly Father’s help? I knew I hadn’t.
I knelt again. This time I had plenty to say. I told my Father how frustrated I felt, how I couldn’t learn the language, how I needed to love my companion, and how I wanted to do a good job. I cried as I explained that I felt abandoned, and I needed his help.
“And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart” (Jer. 29:13).
This time I didn’t say a prayer—I prayed. Again, I felt that my heart would burst, but this time with hope, peace, and love. As I climbed into bed, I still didn’t know how things would work out, but I knew they would.

My mother died when I was only six, and the longing to know her always gnawed at my heart, especially during my teen years. I wanted to know about her activities, her dates, her clothes, if she ever taught Sunday School (that was my job at the time). So when I was eighteen, I made a book and dedicated it to my future eighteen-year-old daughter, so that she would know about my life.
Then, several years after my marriage, my mother’s father gave me a small notebook he had found. It was a five-month diary of my mother’s, beginning with her high school graduation in 1917. How thrilled I was to read her own thoughts and feelings at last, rather than getting second-hand reports. I found out what her daily activities were: washing and scrubbing and cooking for her family since her own mother had died two years before.
But she found time for other things: in five months, she saw twenty-four movies. I found out about her dates, her excitement in traveling to the old Saltair resort on the shores of the Great Salt Lake, of strolling through Liberty Park in Salt Lake City on Sunday afternoon, and of faithfully, every week, teaching her Sunday School class.
Then, in the fall of 1975, a cousin brought from California a photo album that had belonged to my mother’s sister, containing several dozen photos of my mother. My heart’s desire was fulfilled. She was always smiling—sparkling. And her clothes! Velveteen skirts, beribboned blouses, (blouses trimmed with ribbons), large brimmed hats loaded with flowers.
Seeing these pictures and rereading the words she wrote, I feel very close to my mother. When I meet her again, she won’t be a stranger.

Receiving gospel ordinances and keeping covenants had a dramatic influence on Diana’s family. Diana and her younger brother, Emmanuel, were the first to join the Church. Before that time, Diana says, her family argued a lot. She knew her parents wanted the best for her and her brothers, but they were strict.
“We felt more fear than love for my dad,” she says.
Several months after she was baptized, her father and older brother, Richard, joined the Church, followed more than a year later by her mother.
“My father changed,” Diana says of her father’s conversion. “When we did things wrong, he would talk to us about it. We had fewer arguments. There was more harmony in our home.”
Covenanting to follow Jesus Christ had drawn them closer to Him and to each other. They had a common purpose: to become an eternal family. A year after Diana’s mother was baptized, the family was sealed in the temple.
“It was a beautiful experience,” Diana says. “I can’t explain how I felt when we walked into the sealing room and saw my parents there. I didn’t want to leave.”

The black clouds hung heavily against the peaks of the faraway Santa Clara Mountains. Ben shuddered as he heard the faint sounds of thunder after each lighting flash.
“I’ll bet there’ll be a big storm,” he told himself, as he tucked his math book more firmly under his arm.
After getting off the school bus, Ben walked up the road watching the threatening streaks of light in the distance. It had rained lightly on and off for two weeks, and now more rain. A friendly “Woof” took his mind off the storm.
“Hi, Lady Belle!” he called to the big white dog who was running back and forth inside the fenced yard. Three fluffy balls were tagging right behind her. Ben reached a hand inside the wire fence to rub and scratch each of the dogs who wiggled all over with pleasure.
“Even with your new pups you came down to meet me just the way you did before they were born,” Ben said with a wide grin. Lady Belle had been his first friend when the family moved from the city.
The dogs ran along the fence on the other side, each one barking happily. When they came to the gate at the end of the long yard, Ben reached in and gave each dog another good scratching.
“You get that family back to the kennel before it rains, Lady,” Ben said as he hurried up the road toward home.
“Hello, Ben!” called Mrs. Haycock, their closest neighbor. “Mr. Larsen just took his wife to the hospital. She fell on the porch steps.”
“That’s too bad,” Ben said as he kept looking at the lightning. “Do you think there will be a storm as bad as the one two years ago?” he asked.
“Maybe even worse,” Mrs. Haycock replied. “There was one about five years ago that washed out everything. Horses, furniture, even some orange trees went down the arroyo and into the river. Mr. Larsen’s yard was filled with water and looked like a big pond just the way it was when my husband and I came here 50 years ago.”
Ben shuddered. He remembered some of the storms in the city. The lightning and thunder always frightened him a little. When the lightning crashed against the tall buildings and the water swirled down into the storm sewers, he’d run home as fast as he could.
“So you’d better hurry home,” Mrs. Haycock continued. “Will your mother be on the next bus?”
“No, she’s working late,” Ben answered.
Mrs. Haycock thought she sensed worry in his voice. “Want to keep me company?” she offered.
“No, thanks. I’m fine,” he said, turning to leave.
Ben unlocked the door and went inside. He put on some storm clothes and a pair of rubber boots. With a storm on the way there were a few things that he knew had to be done in case the storm turned out to be a bad one.
As Ben worked he remembered the first time they drove into this valley. There was a long bridge spanning a wide river filled with muddy water and tree branches. “Look, Dad,” he had said, “it must be almost a mile wide.”
“Usually it’s a big empty riverbed with just a trickle of water going down the middle,” Dad had explained. “But when it rains heavily in the mountains the water comes down in sheets, washing gravel and rocks down the stream. Sometimes it even floods over into the fields and groves.”
It began to rain a little now, and Ben kept on putting rocks and sandbags around the outside of the house. Soon he heard Lady Belle barking, and Mrs. Haycock’s words came back to him. “Mr. Larsen’s yard … a big pond.” And now with Mr. Larsen gone, Ben was worried about Lady Belle and her puppies. They were right in the middle of the yard, and in his imagination he could see them floundering in deep water.
It was raining much harder now. Ben picked up a flashlight and started down the road.
Lady Belle was barking frantically.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Ben shouted.
He reached the high gate but it was locked. He remembered that Mr. Larsen always kept the key in his pocket. Lady Belle’s fur was plastered down with water and the puppies were huddled against the fence in front of her, whimpering.
“Take it easy,” Ben said as much to himself as to the dog. He looked around for something to knock the lock off. Aiming his flashlight along the fence, he spotted a rock about the size of a baseball. Every time Ben hit the lock with his makeshift hammer, it stung his hand. But the lock wouldn’t budge.
Lightning cut the sky overhead, followed by rolling thunder. Great drops of water began pelting down. The sides of the roadway became small rivers. Rain dripped over the edges of his hat and down onto his hands, making his fingers stiff and cold.
Lady Belle whined and licked Ben’s hand as he tugged at the lock. Then he said, “Look out, Lady!” Ben struck the lock as hard as he could several more times. He was just about to give up, when he saw that the bottom of it had slipped down. It was open!
Ben dropped the flashlight and picked up the wet puppies. The little fellows wiggled and squirmed, but he bundled them inside the warmth of his coat and held them close with one arm. He grabbed Lady Belle’s collar with his free hand, and urged, “Come on, Lady. We’ll have to run for it.”
While he was rearranging the pups, Lady Belle placed her body squarely in front of them so that she broke the force of the storm. She was strong, for she was a Great Pyrenees, a breed of dog used to facing cold winds and snows at high mountain sheep camps.
Everything set, Ben took hold of Lady Belle’s collar again. As they slogged along, Mrs. Haycock came running out to her gate. She looked tired and worried, and her coat was flapping in the wind.
Ben edged over to the side of the road and gave a high shrill whistle. Mrs. Haycock heard it and pushed herself out toward them. Ben took her arm and guided her up to higher ground.
“Muddy water … it’s flooding … rocks bouncing all over!” she gasped.
Ben took her thin hand and put it on Lady Belle’s collar. He called to her over the storm, “Hang on. Our house is higher.” She nodded and clenched her hand on the collar.
It wasn’t until then that Ben became aware of the sounds, like artillery blasts. Rocks were bouncing down the cement drainage canal in back of the house, crashing into the walls and booming as they came.
Ben helped Mrs. Haycock up the steps of his house while Lady Belle went up them in one bound. Ben snuggled his face into the wet fur of the puppies and then put them all down on the doorstep.
Mrs. Haycock leaned against the door as Ben opened it. “Never thought we’d make it!” she wheezed. She reached over and patted Ben’s back.
At that moment the storm hit with a burst of sudden fury. The wind blew in wild gusts that rattled the windows and ripped at the shutters. There was a sudden “KER-BANG!” from the garage, followed by the sound of splintering boards and the rattle of cans.
Mrs. Haycock tried to keep her voice calm. “I am glad to be here where we’re all safe,” she said as she took off her wet raincoat and scarf and sat down on a kitchen chair.
Ben looked out of the kitchen window. The street was a muddy river by now. Branches, boxes, garbage cans, and tree limbs all went tumbling along in the water.
“I really think the storm is easing up some. Usually they end with a big fling, like that last,” said Mrs. Haycock, listening to the sounds from outside.
Flashing red and yellow lights were suddenly reflected through the window, and three people got out of a rescue truck. They came splashing up to the house. Ben opened the door and called, “Mom! Dad! Mr. Larsen!”
Lady Belle bounded out of the door. “Thought you and your puppies were goners for sure,” shouted Mr. Larsen.
Ben hugged his parents in relief while Mrs. Haycock smiled at the happy reunions.
“They let us come with the rescue crew when we told them how worried we were about our son who was all alone,” Mom explained.
“But I can see that we didn’t need to worry about you at all,” Dad said with pride as he smiled at Ben.
“That’s right!” Mr. Larsen exclaimed. “And I didn’t need to worry about Lady Belle either. I can see that Ben knows just what to do in an emergency. I’d like him to have a pup for his very own to take care of.”
Ben was so happy that for a few minutes he forgot all about the storm outside. Finally it quieted so the neighbors could go home.
“Well,” said Dad as he looked at the clock. “It’s almost morning but I think we better get a little sleep. We’ve much to be thankful for. This has been a night to remember.”
And Ben agreed. He knew it would be one he would never forget.

In October 1959, President Hunter was in Salt Lake City for general conference.
“At the conclusion of the first session, my counselor, Daken K. Broadhead, told me that President David O. McKay’s secretary wanted to see me. …
“President McKay greeted me with a pleasant smile and a warm handshake and then said to me, ‘Sit down Pres. Hunter. I want to talk to you. The Lord has spoken. You are called to be one of the special witnesses, and tomorrow you will be sustained as a member of the Council of Twelve.’”
President Hunter could not speak. Tears came to his eyes as he humbly sat in the presence of “that great, sweet, kindly man—the prophet of the Lord” (Church News, Nov. 16, 1974, p. 5).
The next day, in delivering his first general conference address, President Hunter said, “I want you to know that I have a firm, uncompromising conviction that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, that the gospel was restored in this latter dispensation by the instrumentality of the Prophet Joseph Smith. …
“I do not apologize for the tears that come to my eyes on this occasion because I believe that I face friends, my brethren and sisters in the Church, whose hearts beat the same as mine today, in the thrill of the gospel and in service to others” (Improvement Era, Dec. 1959, p. 962).

Then one day, about a year later, one of Olivio’s American teammates said, “Hey—you’re Mormon. Don’t Mormons go on missions? Are you going to quit the team and go too?”
That started Olivio thinking. “The things I learned made sense to me, and I said, ‘Well, if these things come from God. I have to explain them to other people.”
But leaving basketball—that would be tough. Olivio had just made the Portuguese national team, and his professional team had offered him a very lucrative contract—lots of money, a car, and a luxurious apartment.
“It was a difficult decision to leave basketball, so I decided to get my patriarchal blessing. There it said that I was going to serve the Lord, so I decided to do it. God prepared me to come here and find the gospel by giving me these talents to play basketball. I don’t have a problem leaving it to serve him. I think I can help many people.”
And now, Elder Olivio Gomes Manuel, who left northern Portugal almost two years ago to serve in southern Portugal, is helping many people. He’s well known throughout the mission for his good nature and easy smile, his hard work, and his gentle rapport with the people he towers over.

María Angela Rodriguez said, “When I decided to follow Christ and make the covenants of baptism, I left everything (which wasn’t much) and followed. In the Church I have found that which I most lacked, true friendship and love. When I made my decision to follow Christ, problems and adversity did not disappear. Sometimes they seemed to increase, but I always said to myself, ‘There can’t be any halfway disciples. You must either follow Him or turn away from following.’ I am grateful to say that I always chose to follow. Like María Josefina, I, too, am acquainted with repentance. When one comes to truly understand this principle, he feels a great power in his life. The Church has made my life progress. I am progressing in the gospel and feel a very great love for all my fellow Saints everywhere.”

Because of a drought, my husband, John, and I had to either sell our beef cattle at a loss or move them from the Melba Valley, in southwestern Idaho, USA. Fortunately, John found summer range at a cousin’s family farm, located in the Preston area, about 300 miles (480 km) away.
We arranged for a trucker to take all 40 cattle in one load, but he didn’t like the looks of a rough ranch road that led to the cattle pasture, still 20 miles (32 km) away. To our disappointment, he unloaded them at nearby stockyards. There we were, late in the day with 40 head of cattle to transport and no way to do it.
John stopped a local farmer, explained our plight, and asked for help. Minutes later Bishop Steve Meeks and his young son followed us to the stockyards to see what could be done.
The cattle had become unsettled. Seeing a broken section of fence at the stockyard, they ran toward it, seeking freedom. All the cattle hurdled the fence into another enclosure—except for one cow. She managed to get most of the way over, but one hind leg slipped between two fence planks. She ended up hanging precariously on the fence, one front foot barely touching the ground. She kicked her other hind leg furiously in an effort to free herself.
Releasing the cow would require hoisting equipment. If she broke a leg, we would have to put her down. To lose a cow would put considerable financial strain on us.
The cow weighed more than 1,000 pounds (455 kg), and we could not get near her, nor help her if we did. The havoc on the fence made the rest of the cattle nervous.
I didn’t think there was anything we could do, but at that moment I remembered Amulek’s counsel in the Book of Mormon: “Cry unto him when ye are in your fields, yea, over all your flocks” (Alma 34:20). I withdrew myself from the others, knelt down, and prayed with all the sincerity of my heart. Concluding my supplication, I pleaded, “Heavenly Father, please help the cow.”
I returned to the corral, the prayer still lingering on my lips. By now the cattle had quieted somewhat, including the one on the fence.
Suddenly, the largest of the milling animals broke away from the herd. Resisting our efforts to turn her back, she moved toward the dangling cow. Lowering her head, she dropped to her knees, forced her way under the stranded cow, and staggered slowly to her feet. She lifted the tangled cow into the air and then lowered her. The cow was free! A hoist could not have done as well.
As the two cows ran back to the herd, Bishop Meeks stared in disbelief at what he had just witnessed. My tears flowed as I whispered, “Thank You, Heavenly Father.”
Anyone who knows cattle will tell you that cows do not reason things out in their minds. But there is an explanation for this incident. Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. He answered mine—at a stockyard in Preston, Idaho.

Heavenly Father has given us all talents and gifts that can help us provide for ourselves and our families. Learning to recognize our talents and gifts—and interests—is an important first step in career preparation. President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency, learned from his father, Henry Eyring, to choose a career that complemented his interests.

Because of his love for science, Professor Henry Eyring encouraged his sons to major in physics as preparation for a career in science. While President Eyring was studying physics at the University of Utah, he had an exchange with his father that changed his career direction. He asked his father for help with a complex mathematical problem. “My father was at a blackboard we kept in the basement,” President Eyring recalls. “Suddenly he stopped. ‘Hal,’ he said, ‘we were working this same kind of problem a week ago. You don’t seem to understand it any better now than you did then. Haven’t you been working on it?’”

A little chagrined, President Eyring admitted he had not. President Eyring recalls his father’s response: “When I told him no, my father paused. It was really a very tender and poignant moment, because I knew how much he loved me and how much he wanted me to be a scientist. Then he said, ‘Hal, I think you’d better get out of physics. You ought to find something that you love so much that when you don’t have to think about anything, that’s what you think about.’”2

“What are you doing, Grandpa?”
At first, I didn’t think he heard me. He was lying under the great elm in our backyard, his head resting on his arms, his eyes closed. Then he blinked.
“What are you doing?” I tried again.
Grandpa didn’t answer right away. Grandpa was like that. He seemed to think a lot about what he was going to say before he actually got around to saying it. “Taking pictures,” he finally drawled.
That was something else that Grandpa did a lot, too—say things that didn’t seem to make sense, except to him.
“You don’t have a camera,” I observed.
“Do too.”
“Where?”
Grandpa tapped his forehead with a long, crooked finger.
I sprawled on my back next to Grandpa. It was a hot day, but the shade of the elm and a cool breeze made me forget that.
“The camera’s in here,” Grandpa said again, pointing at his forehead.
“Well, I don’t have a camera in my head, Grandpa.”
“Sure you do. The trick is knowing how to take pictures with it. Close your eyes.”
I obeyed, certain that at any minute Grandpa would start laughing and tell me it was all a joke.
“Now, breathe in,” he instructed. “Like this.” Grandpa closed his eyes and sucked an enormous amount of air into his lungs, like a thirsty man guzzles water.
I copied him as best as I could. “That makes me kind of dizzy, Grandpa.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll clean out that dusty attic in your head. Now smell.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“Well, don’t expect it to come up and bite you on the nose. Do it like this.” Again Grandpa closed his eyes and began sipping in air, slower this time, and through his nose, tilting his head this way, then that. A smile crept across his face.
I followed Grandpa’s lead. This time, I detected the faint smell of freshly cut hay. “Hay,” I pronounced, feeling as if I had accomplished a great feat. “But when do we get to the picture-taking part?”
“Now don’t let the pigs out of the pen until you have the slop ready, lad. We’ll get to that in a minute.”
We had never owned pigs, and I didn’t have the slightest idea what slop was, but Grandpa’s message was clear enough.
“Now,” Grandpa continued, “listen.”
“To what, Grandpa?”
“Just listen.”
I tried. I really did. But there wasn’t anything to hear—at least in my mind. “No one’s talking, Grandpa. There’s nothing to listen to.”
“Son,” Grandpa said softly, “most of what’s worth hearing in this world has little to do with talking. Now, try again.”
I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated. No voices. No words. Nothing. Then I started to hear things. A breeze gently shook the tree, and the leaves above me whistled softly. A robin cheerfully called a greeting. A cricket strummed its one-note song in the woodpile. Sounds tumbled through the grass to me. “Now I see what you mean!” I exclaimed. “There are lots of things to hear, aren’t there, Grandpa?”
“If a man has the ears to hear with, there’s plenty,” he agreed. “Ready for the next part?”
I pulled my shoulders back and wriggled deeper into the grass. “Ready.”
“Feel,” Grandpa whispered.
This time I didn’t ask what Grandpa meant; I just got down to the business of feeling. I soon discovered there was plenty to feel too. The grass—like tiny, green feathers, it gently tickled my bare feet and arms. The wind—it laughed and danced over my face, kissing my cheeks and spinning away. The sun—tiny flecks of heat dribbled through the leaves, leaving warm prints on me like footsteps on a sandy beach.
I revealed these wonders to Grandpa, who listened and nodded with a shadow of a smile etched on his face.
“Ready for the most important part?”
I quietly nodded.
“Good. Now I want you to see.”
“There’s too much to look at, Grandpa,” I protested.
“I didn’t say anything about looking,” Grandpa replied. “I’m talking about seeing. Some people spend their whole lives looking at this and that, and never really see anything. Once you take your first picture with that camera inside your head, you’ll know what I mean.”
For the next few minutes I squinted at the elm overhead. At first, I didn’t see anything—at least, not anything I hadn’t seen a hundred times before. Then, very slowly, colors and shapes started appearing. It was just like those pictures in children’s magazines, with animals hidden in the drawings. You stare and stare, then wham! there’s a turkey hidden in someone’s shoe, or an upside-down pig in the chimney.
At that moment I understood what Grandpa meant by seeing. The edges of the leaves sliced pieces from the sky like tiny cookie cutters; the brown, wrinkled arms of the elm reached toward heaven in silent prayer; the blur of brown sparrows hopscotched like daredevils through the tree.
“Now put it all together,” Grandpa whispered in my ear. “The smelling, the hearing, the feeling, the seeing. Roll it together into one big picture.”
I took a deep breath, smelled the air, heard the leaves gently rustle like giggling children, felt the breeze tickling my skin, and saw the whole picture come together in one big splash of color.
“Click!” said Grandpa. “You just took a picture. A mighty fine one too! Anytime you want it, it’ll be there. Ten years, twenty years—it doesn’t matter. When you want that picture, it’ll be there for you. And you will want it. Someday when you’re feeling down, all you’ll have to do is remember it and it’ll pop right back into your head just the way it is now—the elm, the leaves, the smell of the hay, the feel of the grass prickling at your neck, the whole thing.”
I lay quietly, listening to Grandpa’s words until they faded away on the wind, wondering where they went and if anyone else would ever hear them. “Grandpa?” I finally asked, “do you have any pictures of Grandma? I don’t remember her so well.”
“Lots,” he replied simply. “A man can never have too many pictures of the ones he loves.”
The wind began to blow stronger, spinning around the tree as if confused about where it was heading. The elm, bending ever so slightly, guided the swirling air through its branches.
“I believe it might rain this afternoon,” Grandpa observed.
A distant rumble of thunder rolled over the cornfields in confirmation.
“And if I’m not mistaken,” Grandpa continued, sitting up, “when we were doing all that smelling, I smelled fresh-baked apple pie coming from the general direction of your mom’s kitchen. Interested?”
As Grandpa and I headed inside, it felt good knowing that there was a picture of all this inside my head, a picture I could remember any time I wanted.
And I did remember it, just as Grandpa said I would: the huge, solid elm, the canopy of leaves overhead, the pillow of grass beneath me, the sounds and smells—and one more thing. Something Grandpa had not mentioned was in the picture as well—the best thing in it: Grandpa himself. He was there, too, whenever I wanted to remember him: solid, kind, patient, knowing everything about everything, and taking the time on a warm afternoon to show a young boy how to take pictures with the camera inside his head.

We answered that a quorum is a group of priesthood holders who rely on each other and stick together. The instructor explained that quorum members have a responsibility to help and lift each other. He then showed us a video about a ward in Florida that started with just one young man who invited his friend, who then invited a friend, who then invited a cousin, etc., until there were 26 active young men in the ward.

I wrote in my journal about band practice that Valentine’s Day. My friend Jill and I had to stay after school a half hour with the rest of the brass section because we couldn’t get the notes right to “When the Saints Come Marching In.”
We tried to phone home for rides, but only got answering machines. So we both had to walk the three miles. We hardly said anything the whole way. Over the last couple of blocks, it started to rain. We couldn’t run very fast because I had my trumpet case and Jill had her French horn case. When we got to Jill’s, she discovered she didn’t have her key, so we ran across the street to my house. We sat in my bedroom with our wet hair and clothes and griped about the day.
We each hoped someone would invite us to the Sweetheart Dance that night. Never mind that neither of us had a boyfriend; we thought someone secretly fascinated with us might make himself known and appear at the last moment. My friend Tara had been asked the week before, and we’d watched a bunch of girls get little bouquets of flowers all day at school. It was getting later, and no one called. We checked the messages on my family’s answering machine and then called Jill’s mother, who had finally gotten home, to ask if there was a message for Jill. The only messages were the two of us begging for someone to give us a ride home from school.
So we knew the dance was out. We were two mediocre band students with soggy hair and no romantic prospects.
Jill looked through my CDs and we played a couple of songs, but they were all about love and romance. I considered trying to see how many ways I could destroy a CD, but CDs are expensive and I only had four anyway.
So it’s no wonder we did what we did, even though there is no excuse for it.
It started when we wandered into the kitchen for a snack. Mom said, “Hi, girls. Sorry I wasn’t home or I’d have come to get you. How was school?”
I just threw her my don’t-ask look.
Mom gave us some leftover heart cookies she had made for Brandon’s kindergarten class. That’s when we saw Brandon’s blank animal valentines he hadn’t used because he wanted the Spiderman ones instead. Even now I don’t know why we took the valentines.
In my room we were feeling unloved and grouchy. We started writing on the valentines. One of them had a hippo on it. It said, “I like you a ton.” I wrote on the back “Weight Watchers, 7:30 P.M. on Tuesday” and signed it illegibly, giggling. Jill started laughing, too. She found one with a skunk on it that said, “Don’t be a stinker—be my Valentine.” On the back of it, she wrote, “Try deodorant and a fly swatter.”
Now we were really rolling. We wrote something mean on the back of every single valentine. We managed to twist every little animal into a negative label.
I’m sorry to say it was my idea to actually deliver the valentines. It was too bad the rain had let up, or it might have squelched the idea. We waited until after dinner and told my mom we would be back soon. Then we ran a few blocks away from our houses. We put each valentine on a porch, rang the doorbell, and ran. We hid behind a car or a tree, then laughed when someone came to the door and looked around with a puzzled expression, finally noticing the white envelope on the doormat. Then they would pick it up and take it into the house. I’m only glad we got tired after leaving eight of them.
At one house, a bunch of little kids answered the door and jumped up and down, hollering, when they found the valentine. We quit after an elderly woman had trouble stooping to pick up her delivery.
Jill went home and so did I, feeling more hollow as the night progressed. I’d started to wonder if the rude valentines had hurt anyone’s feelings. I hoped all the recipients had thrown them in the trash and gone back to watching TV or whatever it was they’d been doing. I thought about how I would have felt to get one of our valentines. I’d have been crushed.
The crummy day got crummier.
In the weeks that followed, Jill and I talked about it.
“Lauren, you know what? I wish we hadn’t done that.”
“I know,” I told her. “I bet that one lady had arthritis or something.”
“Yeah, and maybe her children have all moved away and no one writes to her or calls her,” Jill said.
“And then we go and leave a rude valentine on her porch. Bet that just made her day,” I added glumly.
We sat in silence for a while.
“How can we fix it?” Jill asked.
“I’ve thought about that a lot. But I don’t know. Do you remember whose houses we went to?”
Jill shook her head. “It was so random. We were just going wherever. I don’t know who those people were.”
“We wouldn’t have done it if we had known them.”
“But somebody knows them. They’re somebody’s kids or somebody’s grandmother.”
“Well, keep thinking. Maybe there’s a way to fix this.” But I knew we couldn’t undo the damage we’d done.
I prayed a lot more, all through March and then April. Jill and I both felt terrible. I didn’t write much in my journal. I just didn’t feel like it. My mom always told me I had a hyperactive conscience. But I thought it was better to have a hyperactive conscience than no conscience at all.
I went over and over what we’d done, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The next time we had to stay after school to get a song right, we walked home together. We didn’t even call for a ride because we didn’t feel we deserved one.
On a boring Tuesday in May, I was drifting off in Mr. Bates’s history class when a folded sheet of looseleaf paper slid onto my desk. I popped awake.
I opened it.
It read: “Hey, cute stuff! Tried to call your house but got no answer last night. Do you want to go with me for dinner and a movie on Friday? Let me know after class.” It was signed “Nate Campbell.”
Nate Campbell? Talk about cute stuff!
I folded the note up and turned around to give Nate my most dazzling smile when I saw the name on the front of the note: “Shannon.” It might as well have said in red neon letters, “NOT YOU.” I turned down the wattage on my smile and passed the note to Shannon, two seats up.
Of course the note wasn’t for me. Shannon probably didn’t write mean things on valentines and deliver them to the elderly. A wave of embarrassment swept over me, and I kept fully alert for the rest of the day. Who knew what else I would do to humiliate myself before the day was out?
School ended for the summer, and we still hadn’t figured out how to repair the damage we might have caused by our rude valentines.
The summer passed, and I kept practicing my trumpet. We marched in the Fourth of July parade. I dropped my trumpet once, and some boys laughed and pointed at me. I had to run to catch up to the rest of the band. My face was already hot because of the temperature; afterward, it felt even hotter. My family was nice and told me how well I’d done, avoiding any mention of my klutziness.
The orthodontist put braces on me in July, and I decided I was being humbled by degrees.
I played with Brandon during the summer, and we built a zoo in the backyard with his stuffed animals in cages made out of overturned laundry baskets. We made tickets, and I popped popcorn for everyone who visited the zoo. Word got out in the neighborhood, and some of Brandon’s friends came three times.
I helped Jessica, my seven-year-old sister, set up a lemonade stand, and I counted change and went back and forth to the house to keep her in paper cups. She turned eight and was baptized just before school started again. My brother Stephen gave a short talk about the Holy Ghost, and my sister Emily gave a talk about repentance. And I thought about what I’d done on Valentine’s Day.
Dad baptized Jessica, and she came out of the water smiling and fresh.
I remembered my own baptism and wished I could go back in time. It wasn’t like I’d killed someone, but I was frustrated because I had deliberately done something hurtful I couldn’t undo. If I’d hurt someone I knew, I could have gone to them and told them how sorry I was. I decided that I really needed to think about what I was doing before I did it. What we did wasn’t such a huge thing, but it preyed on my mind.
After the baptism, I found a note on my pillow:
“Dear Lauren, It seems like you’ve been having a rough time lately. If you want to talk, I have two listening ears. I want you to know how proud I am of you. You’ve been a big help with your little brothers and sisters this summer. You’re a thoughtful, kind person. I love you very much. Love, Mom.”
The next morning, I waited until everyone else had gone out to play or work. Mom was busy doing dishes.
“Mom, thanks for your note. I needed it.” I took a breath as she turned around. She was smiling until she saw my face.
“Except I’m not really such a thoughtful person.”
Mom dried her hands with a towel and asked me, “Why not?”
I didn’t want to be too specific. “I just did something mean awhile ago.”
“Did you repent of it?” Mom asked gently.
I shook my head. “I’m still trying to figure out how.”
“Do you need to talk to the bishop about this?”
“No, it wasn’t that mean. I just did something mean to people I don’t know, so I can’t even tell them I’m sorry.”
Mom looked thoughtful. “That is a tough one. But being kind and considerate to your family and everyone you come in contact with may help. You really have been wonderful with the little kids.”
School started and I was lugging my trumpet back and forth again. We put on a concert, and Jill and I did pretty well. I don’t think I played any wrong notes when we played “When the Saints Come Marching In.” I think I had finally gotten it right.
Homecoming came and went. Jill got asked to the dance, but I didn’t. It really didn’t matter. I tended my brothers and sisters while Mom and Dad went out that night. We had a good time watching a Godzilla movie, turning the sound off and making our own subtitles and monster noises.
Jill and I made plans for Halloween. We had received an answer to our prayers, finally coming up with the best thing we could think of to repent for our meanness. We did some baking and targeted certain homes in our ward.
We headed for Sister Campbell’s first. She was living by herself in a tiny farmhouse in the middle of an apple orchard. We rang the doorbell and waited.
“Treat or trick,” we yelled, when she answered the door.
“What?” asked Sister Campbell. “Oh, girls, I wasn’t expecting anyone clear out here. I’m sorry, I don’t have a scrap of candy. But you’re welcome to the apples.”
“That’s okay,” we told her. “We’re reverse trick-or-treating. We bring you the treat.” She laughed and invited us inside. She told us about the things she used to do at Halloween.
“Some of us played terrible pranks.” Jill and I looked at each other. “We knocked over an outhouse while a boy was in it.”
“Oh, no!” I laughed, though I didn’t mean to.
“I felt awful about it,” Sister Campbell said.
“What happened? Did the boy get even with you?”
Sister Campbell giggled. “I’ll say he did. He married me.”
Next we visited the Shepherd family. They have seven kids, ranging in age from three months to 12 years. We offered to help paint faces on the kids and get them into their costumes. Sister Shepherd gladly turned over their Halloween preparations to us while she finished getting dinner ready.
We took some cinnamon rolls to Brother Baird, who walked with a limp. We helped him out to his porch. Then we covered him with a blanket so he could watch the trick-or-treaters. He laughed at the costumes and the excitement of the little kids.
Last, we left notes on some porches. One went to one of our Young Women advisers, thanking her for her wonderful lessons; one to the bishop’s family to thank them for loaning their dad and husband to the ward; and one to Julie Beck, a girl a year older than us who didn’t date much and was shy and quiet. We told her what a nice person she was and how good she was with animals, since she had two well-groomed cats and a parakeet.
We signed the notes legibly this time.
We came home empty-handed but full-hearted, in time to help pass out candy to the little neighborhood ghouls. Maybe we had canceled out our Valentine’s Day mischief. We both felt better about ourselves. We felt like we had repented.
I’ve got it all down in my journal. For a while, I didn’t have anything very good to write about. But I have been writing a lot more lately. Ever since Halloween, I’ve enjoyed holidays so much more.
And life in general.

One song that is a favorite for Primary children throughout the world is “I Am a Child of God.” It was written for a Primary conference in 1957 by Sister Naomi W. Randall and Sister Mildred T. Pettit. Sister Randall prayed for help in writing the message. She awoke in the middle of the night with the words of the song in mind. She mailed the words, or lyrics, to Sister Pettit. Sister Pettit put the words to music.

Thank you for the interesting articles about decorating your room without spending a lot of money. I have found the ideas very helpful—especially in fixing up a shabby wooden desk and bookcase. My sister and I got a pale color to match the walls and painted both pieces; then we got a darker color and put on the edges of the shelves and around the edge of the top of the desk. It looks great.
Kathy OkerlundOrem, Utah

Amanda pulled the silky ribbon around the loop and tightened the pretty bow. "There you go, Emma," she said.
"Thanks!" Emma said as she looked over her shoulder, trying to see the bow on the back of her dress. "It’s hard for me to tie it backwards."
"That’s what big sisters are for," Amanda said. She picked up her scriptures and headed to the kitchen for breakfast. It was Sunday, and the family was busy getting ready for church.
On her way to the kitchen, Amanda found Clara sitting on the floor. Clara was frowning. Her shoes were on the wrong feet.
"Let me help you with your shoes, Clara," Amanda said.
She undid the straps of Clara’s shoes, put them on the right feet, and tightened the straps. Clara stood up and marched around happily. "Thanks, Amanda!" she said.
Amanda smiled. "That’s what big sisters are for," she said.
In the kitchen, Amanda found Megan and Rachel sitting at the table.
"We’re hungry," Megan said. "Where are Mom and Dad?"
"Mom is taking care of the baby, and Dad is at a meeting at church," Amanda said. "I’ll help you get breakfast."
Amanda poured cereal and milk into two bowls and put two slices of bread in the toaster. The toaster ticked as Megan slurped her milk and Rachel listened to the crackling cereal. When the toast popped up, Amanda spread on butter and strawberry jam. She put the toast on two plates and handed them to her sisters.
"Thanks, Amanda!" they said.
"That’s what big sisters are for," Amanda said, and she put another piece of bread in the toaster for herself.
A few minutes later, Mom walked into the kitchen carrying baby Ruby. When Mom saw the girls eating breakfast, she smiled gratefully at Amanda.
"Thank you, Amanda," Mom said. "You’re such a big help to me and your younger sisters. You’re a great example for them—even little Ruby!"
Ruby blinked and smiled at her oldest sister.
At church, Amanda sat quietly with her family. When the organ started playing the opening hymn, Amanda opened a hymnbook. She loved singing the hymns in sacrament meeting.
"‘Come, follow me,’ the Savior said," she sang. "Then let us in his footsteps tread."
Amanda looked down the row at her sisters and saw that they were watching her. Then they opened their hymnbooks and began to sing. Megan and Rachel shared a book while Emma pointed out the words to Clara.
A warm feeling grew inside Amanda. She was glad she could serve her family by helping her younger sisters. She promised herself that she would always try to be helpful and to be a good example for them. After all, that’s what big sisters are for!

We know the Lord makes His servants bold. The young boy Joseph who saw God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, in a grove of trees was transformed into a spiritual giant. Parley P. Pratt saw that when the Prophet Joseph Smith rebuked the vile guards who held them captive. Elder Pratt recorded:
“On a sudden he arose to his feet, and spoke in a voice of thunder, or as the roaring lion, uttering, as near as I can recollect, the following words:
“‘SILENCE, ye fiends of the infernal pit. In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still; I will not live another minute and hear such language. Cease such talk, or you or I die THIS INSTANT!’”
Of that experience, Elder Pratt wrote, “Dignity and majesty have I seen but once, as it stood in chains, at midnight, in a dungeon in an obscure village of Missouri.”3

When we got home I invited my best friend on the team, Rosa, to go to church with me. She enjoyed the meetings and felt peaceful there. After that, Rosa came to church almost every week. It was so wonderful to see the gospel touch her life.
About a month later I received an unexpected phone call from a young man on the men’s cross-country team, Brendan. He told me that he had taken the missionary lessons and was getting baptized in a week! I was so happy and thrilled for him. Both Rosa and I attended Brendan’s baptism. Rosa also took the missionary lessons and later chose to be baptized.

The student council election results are in.
Matt told me the bad news. How are you doing?
I’m really disappointed.
I’m sorry you lost. But I’m also very proud of you.
Really?
Of course. You had some great ideas for your school, and you worked hard to get elected. You can feel good about that.
The next morning …
You’re right, Mom. I did my best. Now I’ll share my ideas with the new council. And next year I’ll start earlier, meet more students …
Will I be calling her “President Mandy” someday?

Martin’s Cove holds special meaning for Jashley Simpson of Afton, Wyoming. To her, this spot is marked by sorrow for the trials of the people who died here. But it is also a place of joy, for it was here in the Sweetwater River that Jashley was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Not very many people are baptized in rivers anymore, and Jashley probably wouldn’t have been, either, if the baptismal font in her stake center had not been under repair. As her eighth birthday neared, she and her parents, Evan and Beverly Simpson, realized that they had to find an alternative place for her baptism.
About a month before Jashley’s birthday, on May 12, 1997, her mother was reading an article in the Church News about the new visitors’ center at Martin’s Cove. Suddenly, the idea came to her that Jashley should be baptized there. At first, it seemed like an impossible thought, but as her mother lay awake at night, pondering the idea, it felt more and more like it was what Heavenly Father wanted them to do. She shared the idea with Jashley’s father, bishop of the Afton Third Ward, Afton Wyoming Stake, and he thought it was a great idea.
They made many phone calls but were unable to reach Brother Carvel Jackson, director of the center, to make arrangements in time for Jashley’s birthday. So the Simpsons just decided to take the eight-hour drive and visit the center on that day, hoping that things would work out when they got there. If nothing else, they would go on the short handcart trek organized by the visitors’ center.
Jashley’s five sisters—Bethany (16), Amory (14), Emily (11), Kelsey (5), and Courtney (3)—as well as both sets of grandparents came to spend this special day with the birthday girl. Jashley was particularly excited that her mother’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa Gibson, were able to come. They were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and Jashley looked forward to sharing part of its history with them.
Upon the family’s arrival at the center, they were finally able to speak with Brother Jackson, who gladly helped them find an ideal spot for the baptism. But first they took the handcart trek! Grandma Simpson and Grandma Gibson waited at the visitors’ center as the rest of the family loaded up handcarts and set out on the two-mile hike to the actual Cove.
As they climbed the trail, the wind blew fiercely around them. It was a hard trek but fun, even when Jashley fell on a cactus! Everyone enjoyed reading the plaques that described the journey of the handcart companies. They pushed the handcarts up one mile to the opening of the cove area. There they had to abandon their carts and hike up one more mile to the cove itself. Then they hiked the mile back to their handcarts, and completed the remaining two and a half miles of the loop trail back to the visitors’ center.
After the trek, the family prepared for the baptism. The place Brother Jackson had suggested was a beautiful spot on the Sweetwater River with Devil’s Gate in the background. However, everyone worried that the strong wind would affect the baptismal service. When no one was watching, Jashley bowed her head and closed her eyes and whispered a prayer to Heavenly Father that the wind would stop blowing just long enough for her to be baptized. Heavenly Father answered her prayer. The wind was completely still.
Jashley and her father were also surprised at how warm the water was. She had been concerned that the water would be icy cold from the melting snow in the mountains. In every prayer she had made for the last month, she had asked Heavenly Father to make the water “sort of warm.” Her prayers were answered once again, and the water temperature was just right.
The baptismal service was beautiful. Jashley’s father baptized her while her Grandpa Simpson and Elder Erickson, a missionary from Star Valley, acted as the witnesses. Afterward she saved some of the water from the river in a special old-fashioned glass jar with a clamp and rubber seal. She said that being baptized was wonderful; it made her feel “really clean.” She wrote in her journal all the way home about the exciting events of the day.
This day was definitely one to remember for Jashley and her family. Martin’s Cove had a special spirit that touched them all. Even Grandma and Grandpa Gibson were very impressed.
Whenever Jashley thinks of her baptism day, she remembers the faith and courage of those men and women. She will honor them and try to be like them, for she has truly experienced their story “in her bones.”