Gospel Story Finder

David heard a horse trotting into the yard. He knew that sound—Father was home! The door opened, and Father walked in.
“I have some good news,” Father said. “The glass for the tabernacle has arrived in California!”
David felt like cheering. Everyone in their town of St. George knew about the tabernacle windows. The tabernacle was being built so the Church members in Southern Utah could have a place to worship. But the tabernacle didn’t have glass for the windows yet. They had to order it all the way from New York.
New York was a long way from Utah. Father had drawn out a map with charcoal to show David. David had traced the long line the glass had to travel by boat from New York all the way to San Bernadino, California. That’s where it was now. From there it still had to be brought the last 300 miles by wagon to St. George.
Father was in charge of leading the wagon team to California and back. “The glass is waiting for us, but we still need $800 to pick it up.”
David eyes got wide. He had never even heard of that much money!
“Do you think we can raise the money?” Father asked, ruffling David’s hair.
“Of course we can!” David answered. He ran to his room. In minutes he came back and handed a two-cent piece to his father. It was all he had.
Over the next few days, David’s family pulled together $3.87. They knew it wasn’t very much. But they also knew that if Heavenly Father wanted the Saints to build a tabernacle to worship in, then He would provide a way. They prayed for His help.
News soon spread throughout the pioneer community, and everyone gave all they could to the window fund. But when Father counted up the money on the last night before the trip, it was only $200.
“Maybe you should wait till spring,” Mother suggested. “Perhaps we could have the money by then.”
Father shook his head. “No, we have to go now. Otherwise the building will be unprotected from the rain and snow all winter. We can’t let it be damaged.”
That night they prayed for help again. They had done all they could. But it wasn’t enough. David’s father decided to start the journey to California anyway. He had faith that somehow things would work out.
Before first light, the wagon team pulled up outside David’s house. The other travelers joined David’s family inside for a prayer. Father pleaded with Heavenly Father for help.
A knock at the door startled them. When Mother opened it, a man walked in. He said his name was Peter Nielsen, and he was from a nearby town called Washington.
“Hello, Brother Cannon,” he said to Father. “You’re the man I need to see. I had a dream that I should bring you the money I’ve been saving to work on my home. I know that for some reason you need it, and God wants you to have it. Here.”
Brother Nielsen untied a red handkerchief and poured gold pieces onto the table until a big pile lay there. Father counted the coins one by one. $600! With the $200, it made $800. That was exactly the amount they needed to go and get the glass for the Tabernacle! Right away they prayed to thank Heavenly Father.
Within minutes the team was heading west. As they left, David knew without a doubt that Heavenly Father had provided a way for them.

A few years ago a member of the Church shared a copy of the Book of Mormon with an Amish friend in Ohio, USA. The friend began to read the book and could not put it down. He and his wife were baptized, and within seven months two more Amish couples were converted and baptized members of the Church. Their children were baptized several months later.

These three families decided to remain in their community and continue their Amish lifestyle even though they had left the Amish faith. However, they were subjected to “shunning” by their close-knit Amish neighbors. Shunning means that no one in their Amish community will talk to them, work with them, do business with them, or associate with them in any way. This includes not just friends but also family members.

Initially, these Amish Saints felt alone and isolated as even their children were subjected to shunning and were removed from their Amish schools. Their children have endured shunning by grandparents, cousins, and close neighbors. Even some of the older children of these Amish families, who did not accept the gospel, will not talk to or even acknowledge their parents. These families have struggled to recover from the social and economic effects of shunning, but they are succeeding.

Their faith remains strong. The adversity and opposition of shunning has caused them to be steadfast and immovable. A year after being baptized, the families were sealed in the temple and continue faithfully attending the temple on a weekly basis. They have found strength through receiving ordinances and entering into and honoring covenants. They are all active in their Church group and continue searching for ways to share the light and knowledge of the gospel with their extended families and community through acts of kindness and service.

Sometimes, when we fake our efforts, we tend to have a negative effect on the project at hand. I often think of the story of two missionaries on a bicycle built for two. They were going up a steep hill. It was a difficult climb, and at the top the two stopped to rest.
The young missionary up front, dripping with perspiration, remarked, “Boy, that was a steep hill. I didn’t think we’d make it.”
The other companion, with total composure, looked down the steep grade and said, “I’m sure we’d have gone backwards if I hadn’t had the brake on all the way up.”

Fourteen-year-old Angela realized that their trip to Japan was more than just one performance after another, more than Polynesian and Native American song and dance. She discovered this one night when she looked out into the audience while the family was singing "Love at Home" in Japanese and several people were crying.

"When I performed, I didn’t realize that a lot of people were looking at me. I didn’t realize that we might touch them a lot. I’d always thought I was just performing to entertain them," she says. "But then it really brought out the message to them that families are forever and when we have a happy family, when we go to church, and when we keep the commandments, we will be happy."

Moving was a challenge for Mary, too, but she met it with independence and tenacity. Once when they moved, “I took her to Germany, dropped her off in Frankfurt with the two boys, and then I had to fly on to Berlin for a temporary assignment,” says Elder Hales. “Mary got the boys into school, learned to find her way around the busy autobahn, and eventually learned to speak German. This was typical. She has always made it work.”

A boy in my class at school lost his home in a fire. His family was left with nothing and had to live in a hotel room. I felt terrible when I heard about it, so I gathered some of my books and dolls to give to the boy’s four-year-old sister. My mom bought crayons, paper, stickers, and other things for the children. When they saw the gifts, they were very happy, and I never felt happier myself than I did right then. I am so glad to be able to help others as Jesus did, because making others happy makes me even happier.

I was in Idaho Falls and was the guest in a home of a typical Church family. There were a dedicated set of parents and many children. The oldest was in military duty in the dreaded South Pacific, and the hearts of the family followed him from place to place. They handed me his latest letter from the war zone. I read this:

“There have been times when we were so scared, we would tremble, but the fear was out of our minds with prayer and the knowledge that we were being guided by the Lord.
“Dad, I love my religion and I am proud that I had someone like you and Mother to teach me to pray. Then I also know that you are praying for me each morning and night. …”

Spirituality is born in the home and is nurtured in the home evenings, in the twice-a-day and oftener daily prayers, in the weekly meetings when the family goes en masse. That spirituality as the foundation of one’s life comes to his rescue when emergency strikes.
Security is not born of inexhaustible wealth but of unquenchable faith. And generally that kind of faith is born and nurtured in the home and in childhood.
Prayer is the passport to spiritual power.
From World War II comes a story of a young Utah boy who was called to serve his country in the faraway places across several time zones.
On his wrist he wore the conventional wristband watch to tell him the time in the area in which he was living. But strangely enough, he carried a larger, old-time heavier watch in his pocket, which gave another time of day. His buddies noted that frequently he would look at his wrist watch, then turn to the old-fashioned one in his pocket, and this led them, in their curiosity, to ask him why the additional watch. Unembarrassed, he promptly said:
“The wristwatch tells me the time here where we are, but the big watch which Pa gave me tells me what time it is in UTAH. You see,” he continued, “mine is a large family—a very close family. When the big watch says 5 a.m. I know Dad is rolling out to milk the cows. And any night when it says 7:30, I know the whole family is around a well-spread table on their knees thanking the Lord for what’s on the table and asking Him to watch over me and keep me clean and honorable. It’s those things that make me want to fight when the goin’ gets tough. … I can find out what time it is here easy enough. What I want to know is what time it is in UTAH.” (Adapted from Vaughn R. Kimball, “The Right Time at Home,” Reader’s Digest, May 1944, p. 43.)
I knew this family well. I knew the sailor slightly. I knew this father. His cows had to feed a large family, but his greater interest was the growing children who needed more than milk and bread. I have knelt in mighty prayer with this wonderful family. The home training has carried through to the eternal blessing of this large family.
O my beloved hearers, what a world it would be if a million families in this church were to be on their knees like this every night and morning! And what a world it would be if nearly a hundred million families in this great land and other hundreds in other lands were praying for their sons and daughters twice daily. And what a world this would be if a billion families through the world were in home evenings and church activity and were on their physical knees pouring out their souls for their children, their families, their leaders, their governments!
This kind of family life could bring us back toward the translation experience of righteous Enoch. The millennium would be ushered in. Enoch was asked questions about himself; he answered, among other things, “… my father taught me in all the ways of God.” (Moses 6:41.) And Enoch walked with God and he was not, for God took him.
Enoch and his people dwelt in righteousness in the City of Holiness, even Zion. And Zion was taken up into heaven.
Yes, here is the answer: righteous, teaching parents; obedient, loving children; faithfulness to family duties.
These qualities in a home make for security and character in the lives of children.
The following verses of Ethel Lynn Beers, written more than a century ago, emphasize unity of the family and real parental love.
A childless man of wealth offers ease and security in exchange for one of seven children. Which shall it be?
“Which shall it be? Which shall it be?
I looked at John, John looked at me,
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak:
‘Tell me again what Robert said,’
And then I, listening, bent my head.
This is his letter:
‘I will give
A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given.’
“I looked at John’s old garments worn;
I thought of all that he had borne
Of poverty, and work, and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven young mouths to feed,
Of seven little children’s need,
And then of this.
“‘Come, John,’ said I,
‘We’ll choose among them as they lie
Asleep.’ So, walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band:
First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lilian, the baby, slept.
Softly the father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in a loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said: ‘Not her!’
“We stooped beside the trundle bed,
And one long ray of twilight shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so beautiful and fair;
I saw on James’s rough, red cheek
A tear undried. E’er John could speak,
‘He’s but a baby, too,’ said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
“Pale, patient, Robbie’s angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering’s trace.
‘No, for a thousand crowns, not him!’
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.
“Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son—
Turbulent, restless, idle one—
Could he be spared? Nay, He who gave
Bade us befriend him to the grave;
Only a mother’s heart could be
Patient enough for such as he;
‘And so,’ said John, ‘I would not dare
To take him from her bedside prayer.’
“Then stole we softly up above,
And knelt by Mary, child of love;
‘Perhaps for her ’twould better be,’
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl that lay
Across her cheek in a wilful way,
And shook his head: ‘Nay, love, not thee,’
The while my heart beat audibly.
“Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad,
So like his father. ‘No, John, no!
I cannot, will not, let him go.’
“And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give one child away;
And afterward toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed,
Happy in truth that not one face
Was missed from its accustomed place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in heaven.”
May we in the Church and in this world come to know the Lord’s ways and follow them explicitly, I pray.
I add my solemn witness that President Harold B. Lee is the Lord’s divinely called prophet to this world. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Why me? Why now? I had just gotten back from competing in a major horse show held in California and was at the height of my hunter-jumper equestrian riding abilities. I was busy with school, piano lessons, and Beehives. I was doing everything I had been taught to do, and I thought that my life was about as perfect as life can ever get. Then it changed.
I was now in a hospital bed, too sick to even open my eyes. I had been diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. My illness came just four years after my mom died from a similar cancer. I was on heavy chemotherapy to get rid of the cancer, and the doctors were saying that I would have to undergo chemotherapy for two and a half years to make sure that all the cancer was gone. I couldn’t understand why me and why now.
I soon learned that being diagnosed with cancer was not the only challenge I would face. One of the drugs used to treat leukemia is a steroid given at extremely high doses. It is very effective at killing the leukemia cells, but there is a small risk that it can result in avascular necrosis (a condition in which bones die near the joints), particularly in teenage girls. My doctors thought that, at 12 years old, I was too young for that to happen. However, within one month of my starting chemotherapy, the steroids ended up destroying most of my major joints and parts of my spine. I was living in constant pain. Four months after I was diagnosed with leukemia, I had my first hip surgery to begin trying to repair the damage done by the steroids and to lessen the pain. The surgery did not go as well as I had hoped, and my orthopedic surgeon told me that I would probably never ride a horse again. All of a sudden, the future I had planned was gone.
I was a good student, and I really enjoyed school. Now I couldn’t go to school or even out in public because the chemotherapy had destroyed my immune system. Instead, I stayed home with my stepmother. At this point I thought things were pretty bad, but they got worse.
Six months after my hip surgery, I had to have another hip surgery because the first one hadn’t worked. I was in a wheelchair because it hurt too much to walk. I was absolutely sure that I wasn’t going to ride horses again, and now I was worried if I would even be able to walk again. Living life sick, in constant pain, and confined to a wheelchair didn’t sound like a lot of fun to me.
I was praying to my Heavenly Father, and I know many other people were praying for me also. Through all of my trials, I prayed that I would be healed, that my joints would recover, and that I wouldn’t have to go through the rest of chemotherapy. I felt that my prayers weren’t being answered because I still had to go to Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City every week for more chemotherapy. I still hurt. And I was still stuck in a wheelchair. At one point, I started to think that my parents were crazy for believing in a God who wouldn’t even listen to a poor little sick girl.
Years before, I had gone through a similar trial of my faith when I prayed for my mom to get better. She was on oxygen all the time and was too weak to even walk around the house. I prayed and hoped and prayed some more that she would miraculously be healed. However, she wasn’t. After she died, I learned that we can pray for what we want all that we want to, but we need to pray for the right things—praying that the Lord’s will be done—to have our prayers answered.
Remembering this lesson, I changed my prayers from “Please heal me” to “Heavenly Father, I would really like to be done with these trials, but I will accept Thy will.” As soon as I changed my prayers, I found that I was able to handle the chemotherapy more easily, and I had a better attitude. That was just the beginning of the blessings and the answers to my prayers and questions.
My dad and grandfather gave me many priesthood blessings. Whenever I had to go in for surgery, I would ask for a blessing. The blessings helped me and my family feel calm about the procedure. One time I had a high fever, and we had to go to the hospital. I received a blessing from my dad and a neighbor before we left. By the time we pulled up at the emergency room door, my fever was gone, and I didn’t have to stay the night in the hospital. I know that priesthood power is a gift from a loving Heavenly Father.
One moment that will always stand out in my mind was the day I came home from the hospital after I was diagnosed with leukemia. The young women and Relief Society sisters had moved my stuff from the basement into a room on the main floor so I would be closer to my parents and wouldn’t have to use the stairs. They had cleaned and decorated the room to make a great place for me to live while I was sick. My family was the recipient of many other service projects. In the beginning, it was hard for me to accept service. When people would do service for me, it would make me feel like I couldn’t do anything for myself. However, I soon learned that it was OK to ask for help. When I started feeling better, I began looking for opportunities to serve other people more. Now I try to serve as much as I can. I get a good feeling when I serve other people. I have come to realize that by letting other people serve me, I allow them the same good feelings.
I have learned to think more about the future and my choices because I was so close to death. At school, I heard girls complaining about how they were having a “bad hair day.” As I was sitting there in my hot pink wheelchair with a wig on my head, I would think, “Well at least you have hair!” Girls would also complain about their feet hurting from walking around in high heels. I would think to myself, “At least you can walk.” Now I try to focus more on the big picture instead of the small things I used to worry about.
Over the past few years I have learned many other things through the blessings of having leukemia and the complications from chemotherapy. I have become closer to my Heavenly Father. My testimony has grown. And I have learned what is truly important. I have learned to appreciate all of the small things that people do for me. I am now in remission, in less pain, and gradually getting back some of the use of my joints. As I continue to heal, the blessings and learning experiences keep coming.
So why me? Why now? I don’t ask those questions anymore because I grew spiritually during my trials. I have discovered who I really am because the Lord loved me enough to let me experience adversity and the blessings that can come with it.
Note: Elizabeth is in remission and recently passed her third anniversary of being off chemotherapy. Her joints are healing, and she is no longer in a wheelchair. While there is still a risk for a relapse, Elizabeth doesn’t think about it. Instead, as a freshman in college, she is focused on studying for tests and practicing the oboe and English horn.

Just before dawn, Jared felt Aunt Phebe’s boot in the small of his back, not too hard, but businesslike. He pulled his head out of the bedroll and squinted into the pale gray light. The circle of covered wagons stood ghostly and still, but he could hear pans clanging gently, wood thudding into piles for breakfast fires, women preparing for another day of travel.
Jared pulled himself into a sitting position, keen anticipation surging through him. A kind of magic had come into each day since Catherine and her family had joined the wagon train at Council Bluffs. He watched her every day as she walked beside her family’s wagon, often with her younger brother holding one hand. He guessed her to be near his own age. Jared had not yet had the courage to speak to her, and she seemed quite unaware of him.
Aunt Phebe had gone about the business of breakfast, and Jared quickly pulled on his boots and his hat and started out onto the prairie to gather firewood. He breathed the cool, clear air deeply, relishing this pleasant time before the prairie sun began to beat down on their heads. A cottontail darted into the sagebrush, and Jared knew he should have brought his gun. Rations were good now, but things might be different by the end of the journey. He felt his responsibility to provide food, but he hated shooting small animals. He guessed that was why he was always leaving his gun behind.
Coming back into the camp, Jared peered around his load of wood to see if Catherine was out of her wagon, but he couldn’t see her.
“Jared, please quit gawking around and bring that wood,” Aunt Phebe called to him. Jared dumped the wood on the ground by the wagon and smiled at his aunt, his mother’s sister. She returned his smile, shaking her head gently at him, and then stooped to feed the fire that was already blazing brightly from last night’s coals. Jared studied her, thinking how different she was from his mother. His mother had been tall, too, but slender, her long arms and hands graceful and quick. Jared’s stomach still tightened with grief when he thought about her—how pale and still she had lain; how suddenly and silently she had gone. Before leaving Winter Quarters his dad married Aunt Phebe. She was strong and cheerful and a wonderful cook. Jared watched her work, her generous frame bent over the fire. He loved her, and at the same time he wished it were his own mother working there. Suddenly Aunt Phebe looked up.
“Jared, don’t you have anything to do?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jared smiled at her again and turned toward the wagon. His father was checking harnesses, hitching up the oxen for their day’s work. As he moved around the animals, he patted them and talked softly to them.
Jared folded his bedroll neatly and tucked it into its place in the wagon. He looked at the black trunk that stood against one side. Jared hesitated, wondering if he had time to look at the doll without being disturbed. Then he quickly undid the latches and opened the trunk. Carefully he folded back the linens that covered it and looked at the beautiful porcelain figurine.
In spite of its age and the delicate spiderweb cracks that covered it, the colors remained pure and vibrant. Its dress was painted an exquisite clear blue; auburn hair surrounded the gentle face. Jared liked the arms, slightly outstretched as though to receive a running child. His mother had told him about the doll many times—how her grandmother had given it to her when she was a little girl; how it had always sat on her mantle. When she lay sick, she had given it to him.
“Take it to your new home, Jared, and when you are married, put it on your mantle. Perhaps your wife will treasure it.”
Jared knew his mother had grieved at not having a daughter, and now she would not see her daughter-in-law either. Jared’s eyes misted as he gently folded the linens over the doll. No daughter could treasure it more than he did, and he didn’t care who might think it silly or unmanly. Still, he didn’t want anyone to see him with it. Quickly he closed the trunk and hurried to help his father with the rest of the morning chores.
Later, as Jared walked beside the wagon, he could see Catherine up ahead, striding easily along with her little brother on one side and her older brother on the other. Jared liked the way she walked, strong and easy, a relaxed kind of eagerness in her gait. Her dark hair lifted gently on her back beneath her bonnet. From time to time she leaned down and picked up a pebble, putting it quickly into her pocket. Jared wondered what she was saving them for. He would have liked to quicken his pace until he walked beside her, but he couldn’t. She was always so closely surrounded by her family. Her four brothers packed wood and water and did everything else that needed doing. It would be ludicrous for Jared to offer to help. How could she be so close and yet so inaccessible? He wondered if they would arrive in the valley without his ever having spoken to her. The day was becoming hot. Sweat began to trickle down his spine. He envied Aunt Phebe sitting on the wagon driving the team. His father walked beside the oxen. He had often said that it would be time for strong men to ride when they were sick or injured. Until then, they walked. His father loved his oxen and spared them whenever he could.
That evening Jared helped his father set up camp. Tomorrow was the Sabbath, and they would stay here and rest. They had traveled late in order to reach the stream, but it was almost dry. Dark water lay in pools among the rocks. But large cottonwoods grew along the bank, and the spot was pleasant. Their barrels contained enough for a few more days travel, so the need for water was not desperate.
After supper and the evening chores, the men built a large fire in the center of the circle, and everyone gathered around for singing and dancing. Jared sat between his father and Aunt Phebe. He was keenly aware of Catherine only a few feet away, surrounded as always by her brothers. After the group had sung several hymns, Brother Aimes struck a lively tune on his fiddle, and several couples got up to dance. One of Catherine’s brothers took her hand and pulled her into the circle of dancers. Jared watched her continuously, his heart constricting until he felt he could hardly breathe. Her long dark hair whirled about her face. Her arms were bare in the warm summer evening. They reminded him of the doll, graceful and somehow delicate, although they were brown and quite used to work. She and her brother passed quite close to Jared. As they turned, Catherine looked directly into Jared’s eyes and smiled slightly. He felt his face redden, and his heart hammered in his chest.
“You could just go ask her. Her brother would give her up.” Aunt Phebe’s voice startled him.
“I couldn’t do that,” he mumbled, his face hot.
Aunt Phebe patted his knee.
“Well, do what you feel good about doing, but I suggest you do something before the journey’s over. Once we reach the valley, she’ll have dozens of suitors.”
Jared wondered if Aunt Phebe had meant to encourage him. What he felt was a bleak depression. He forced himself not to look at Catherine. Jared felt uncomfortable about dancing. He and his parents had been Baptists before they’d joined the Church, and dancing had been frowned on by his former congregation. He didn’t know any dance steps, although it looked simple enough. Maybe when she sat down he’d go over, but the thought of approaching her in front of all those people sent chills down his spine. His father and Aunt Phebe stood up and danced. Catherine had sat down, but Jared remained glued to the keg he sat on, feeling entirely miserable. When the wagon master stood up and called on Brother Adams to pray, Jared felt a mixture of relief that it was over and agony that he had missed his opportunity.
He lay awake a long while in his hard bed on the ground, mostly hating himself for his awkwardness. But tomorrow was another day, and the Sabbath too. There should be opportunities. Before he went to sleep, Jared determined that tomorrow should not pass without his approaching her in some way.
After the morning service and the noon meal, the Saints dispersed for naps and scripture reading. Some of the women gathered under the cottonwood trees to relax and visit.
Jared wandered aimlessly around the wagons, alert for any sign of Catherine, hoping desperately that she would not join the women under the trees. He tried to station himself between her wagon and the women without appearing to have a purpose there.
Suddenly some movement off in the sagebrush caught his eye. Someone was moving around in the brush. As he watched, Catherine came into view, bending over, studying something on the ground. Jared couldn’t believe his luck. He walked slowly toward her, trying to appear nonchalant, hoping no one would see him. Catherine did not see him until he was close enough to touch her.
“Hello,” he said.
She stood up quickly, her face flushed, tendrils of hair clinging damply to her forehead.
“Hello,” she said, smoothing her dress and straightening her bonnet.
Seeing her so flustered gave Jared some courage.
“May I ask what you’re doing?” he said, smiling at her.
“Well, actually, I was looking for rocks.”
“Rocks? What for?” Jared wanted to look into her brown eyes, remembering her look at the dance, but instead he looked just beyond her.
“I like rocks. I collect them.” She cupped the large pocket of her dress in her hand and jiggled it. It bulged with small rocks.
“Could I help you look?” Jared said, finally looking directly into her eyes and experiencing a slight shiver through his body.
“Why yes, I’d like that.” They walked in silence for a time, both watching the ground. Suddenly Jared laughed.
“I really don’t know what I’m looking for at all,” he said. Catherine laughed too and stopped walking.
“I really don’t know what to tell you. I just look for rocks that are unusual in their shape or color or texture.” She took a handful of rocks from her pocket. To Jared they looked fairly ordinary.
“Look at this one,” she said, holding it up to the light. Jared could see that it was rather translucent, a soft purple in color.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. He took it from her hand and studied it.
“I have a book that tells the names of many different kinds of rocks. When we get to the valley, I hope to learn more.” She stopped talking abruptly and looked at him. “Do you think that’s strange?”
“Why no,” he said, looking at her for the second time.
“Does it seem unfeminine to you for me to be interested in geology?” She looked at him so directly that he didn’t know what to say for a moment. Then a feeling of great warmth came over him. Something relaxed and opened within him. He wanted very much to show her the doll.
“No, it doesn’t,” he said. “Would you come back to my wagon and let me show you something?”
“Yes.”
He held the stone in his palm. “May I keep this?” he asked, opening his hand.
“Yes,” she said again, and Jared dropped it into his pocket.
They picked their way carefully over the roots and mounds in their path, and at one point Jared took her hand. When they reached the camp, they dropped each other’s hand, but Jared didn’t mind if the sisters under the cottonwoods observed them coming into camp together, which they did.
When they reached the wagon, Jared crawled inside, then took Catherine’s hand and helped her in. He opened the latches on the trunk, folded back the linens, and lifted the porcelain figurine in his two hands. He held it in the light from the back of the wagon and said nothing for a moment. Catherine took it carefully from his hands and looked at it closely.
“My mother gave this to me before she died. Her grandmother gave it to her when she was a little girl. My mother said I should put it on my mantle.” Jared was silent a moment. “Do you think it’s unmanly for me to treasure a doll?”
Catherine smiled, a warm, radiant smile.
“Jared,” she said, “in the first place, this is not just a doll. It’s a work of art and an heirloom. It’s exquisite. And if it were just a doll, I still wouldn’t think it unmanly.”
“Would this doll look right next to a rock collection on the mantle?” Jared was amazed at his own boldness. He lowered his eyes, and both were silent a moment.
“No,” she said decisively. “But something like my grandmother’s rosebud vase could stand with it.” Then she added more shyly, “Someone will have to build some sturdy shelves for my rocks one day.”
Jared took the doll from her hands and laid it in the trunk, too overcome by his emotions to speak.
“I wanted to ask you to dance last night,” he said finally.
“I was hoping you would.”
“Next Saturday night I will.” He took her hand and helped her down from the wagon. He continued holding her hand as they walked across the prairie grass to where her family rested in the shade.

In Charles Dickens’s timeless classic A Christmas Carol, Bob Cratchit hoped to spend Christmas Day with his family. “‘If quite convenient, Sir,’” he asked his employer, Mr. Scrooge.
“‘It’s not convenient,’ said Scrooge, ‘and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you’d think yourself ill used.’ …
“‘And yet,’ said Scrooge, ‘you don’t think me ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work.’
“The clerk observed that it was only once a year.
“‘A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!’ said Scrooge.”
For Scrooge—as with any selfish, or “natural,” man—sacrifice is never convenient.

In A Christmas Carol, Mr. Scrooge changed his ways—he was not the man he had been. Likewise, this is the gospel of repentance. If the Spirit is prompting us to more fully obey the law of sacrifice in our lives, may we begin making that change today.

Let me share with you for a few moments the positive, progressive attitude of a friend of mine formerly confined in the Utah State Prison. “I don’t want to blame anyone back home for my being in prison, but it is factual that I had no family relationships. I was involved in the family home evening program at the prison. Without the people [parents] who had been assigned to me through this program, many times I would have given up. These people loved me as if I were their own son. I have never had that, even when I was a small boy. Now with their help and the help of others I believe I can make it back a day at a time. I am not proud of having been in prison, but I am proud of my recent experiences while there. We have a tendency to blame others. We don’t want to blame our parents for not loving us, because we know they do, but maybe they didn’t have the guidance and direction in their lives to apply when they were bringing us up.”
Perhaps in the minds of many of us this fine young man would be justified in knocking his parents, knocking society, and knocking our systems, but he didn’t. Instead, he is thanking those who have helped him and is sincerely grateful for the direction in which his life is moving today.
Church attenders in prisons are, unfortunately, in the minority and are often classified by their associates in uncomplimentary terms, but this fine young man, bless his courage, is not ashamed to be identified as a member of “God’s Squad.”

An invitation to face her fears came in 1868, when President Brigham Young asked Eliza to help organize Relief Societies throughout Utah. “I want you to instruct the sisters,” he said. The idea was so frightening that Eliza described her heart skipping a beat.3 But she found the courage to do her best, and over time she learned that accepting challenging callings filled her with strength beyond her own.

When I first entered Young Women, I felt alone because I had left my friends in the Valiant class. However, I tried to support the young women, and they also supported me, and I was able to make new friends and interact with them. I no longer felt alone, and that made me happy. Now I am the president of the Beehives, and if I see a new sister who feels uncomfortable being with us, I talk with her, explain what we do in class, and make her feel that she is part of us.
Gredy G., age 14, Lima, Peru

Forgive me for a personal conclusion, which does not represent the terrible burdens so many of you carry, but it is meant to be encouraging. Thirty years ago last month, a little family set out to cross the United States to attend graduate school—no money, an old car, every earthly possession they owned packed into less than half the space of the smallest U-Haul trailer available. Bidding their apprehensive parents farewell, they drove exactly 34 miles up the highway, at which point their beleaguered car erupted.
Pulling off the freeway onto a frontage road, the young father surveyed the steam, matched it with his own, then left his trusting wife and two innocent children—the youngest just three months old—to wait in the car while he walked the three miles or so to the southern Utah metropolis of Kanarraville, population then, I suppose, 65. Some water was secured at the edge of town, and a very kind citizen offered a drive back to the stranded family. The car was attended to and slowly—very slowly—driven back to St. George for inspection—U-Haul trailer and all.
After more than two hours of checking and rechecking, no immediate problem could be detected, so once again the journey was begun. In exactly the same amount of elapsed time at exactly the same location on that highway with exactly the same pyrotechnics from under the hood, the car exploded again. It could not have been 15 feet from the earlier collapse, probably not 5 feet from it! Obviously the most precise laws of automotive physics were at work.
Now feeling more foolish than angry, the chagrined young father once more left his trusting loved ones and started the long walk for help once again. This time the man providing the water said, “Either you or that fellow who looks just like you ought to get a new radiator for that car.” For the second time a kind neighbor offered a lift back to the same automobile and its anxious little occupants. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry at the plight of this young family.
“How far have you come?” he said. “Thirty-four miles,” I answered. “How much farther do you have to go?” “Twenty-six hundred miles,” I said. “Well, you might make that trip, and your wife and those two little kiddies might make that trip, but none of you are going to make it in that car.” He proved to be prophetic on all counts.
Just two weeks ago this weekend, I drove by that exact spot where the freeway turnoff leads to a frontage road, just three miles or so west of Kanarraville, Utah. That same beautiful and loyal wife, my dearest friend and greatest supporter for all these years, was curled up asleep in the seat beside me. The two children in the story, and the little brother who later joined them, have long since grown up and served missions, married perfectly, and are now raising children of their own. The automobile we were driving this time was modest but very pleasant and very safe. In fact, except for me and my lovely Pat situated so peacefully at my side, nothing of that moment two weeks ago was even remotely like the distressing circumstances of three decades earlier.
Yet in my mind’s eye, for just an instant, I thought perhaps I saw on that side road an old car with a devoted young wife and two little children making the best of a bad situation there. Just ahead of them I imagined that I saw a young fellow walking toward Kanarraville, with plenty of distance still ahead of him. His shoulders seemed to be slumping a little, the weight of a young father’s fear evident in his pace. In the scriptural phrase, his hands did seem to “hang down.” In that imaginary instant, I couldn’t help calling out to him: “Don’t give up, boy. Don’t you quit. You keep walking. You keep trying. There is help and happiness ahead—a lot of it—30 years of it now, and still counting. You keep your chin up. It will be all right in the end. Trust God and believe in good things to come.”

The gray October sky threatened snow at any moment. We shivered as we posed for a few photographs outside the gold-domed chapel at the top of the hill in Logan, Utah. Moments before, we had been married in a brief civil ceremony in our branch president’s office. I remember nothing of what was said except the final words: “as long as you both shall live.” We were in love, and the fact that we had not been married in the temple seemed unimportant.
I had joined the Church five years earlier and had received several lessons concerning the importance of temple marriage. But at age 20, eternity seemed such a long way off. Besides, I came from a family in which divorce seemed the norm, and in the back of my mind I kind of assumed that our marriage would only last a few years anyway, so why even think about an eternal commitment? I also felt temple marriage was for the “elite” of the Church, not for someone like me who was still stumbling about with a youthful testimony.
My in-laws were devastated, and the rebellious side of me made that an even greater reason for not being married in the temple. I did not want to be another statistic, just so these people could say all of their children had been married in the temple.
Three days after our wedding, I was back at work part-time and trying to finish a nursing degree. My husband was back in the grind of being a full-time student.
We became members of a student ward, filled with couples who had been married in the temple. I was shocked! Here were many young women, not much different than myself, who had made the choice to be married in the temple. And they were no more “elite” than I was. I felt myself longing to go to the temple as they had.
My greatest jolt about the nearness of eternity came five months after our marriage when I discovered that we were expecting our first child. I felt nauseated, thrilled, humbled, and terrified all at the same time. As the months passed, a deep love for that little person inside of me began to grow and fill my very being. As this love grew, so did the reality that I wanted this child to be ours for all eternity. Thoughts of this little one being born prematurely and dying overwhelmed me at times, because I knew she would not be born in the covenant.
My love for my husband was also blossoming beyond anything I had ever imagined. As he left for classes each day, I feared that something would happen to him, and our marriage would be over. The words “as long as you both shall live” began to haunt me. Eternity was creeping ever closer, and I wanted our happiness to last forever.
I feared divorce now, instead of feeling it was an inevitable part of life. Would this man still love me enough after the ups and downs of that first year of married life to want to be married to me for all eternity?
Our ward would often schedule temple trips, and as I stood on the sidelines, I felt very alone. I did not want to be married in the temple just to be part of the crowd, but I was learning that unless I made the covenants that are part of the temple ceremony, I would be on the outside looking in for the rest of eternity. All of my thoughts became centered around what I would have to do to be worthy of entering the temple.
Our first year of marriage flew by. It was a year of painful maturing, emotionally and spiritually, and of learning to be worthy to go to the temple. But finally, one year and two days after our civil marriage, my wonderful husband and I knelt across the altar from each other in the Ogden Temple, surrounded by smiling friends and family members. We gazed on our “eternal” reflection in the mirrors, tears cascading down our cheeks.
Four weeks later, our first beautiful baby was born in the covenant. Never had we seen such a living miracle, and she was ours for eternity.
Over 16 years have passed since that day in the Ogden Temple. The doubts and fears of our first year have been replaced by the peace of knowing ours is a forever family. I shudder to think of the chance we took, and of what these past 16 years would have been like if we had not been sealed in the temple. Many of the couples who begin as we did never do go to the temple.
I cherish being able to return often to the temple. Within its walls I am reminded that I now possess all I need to be truly happy—forever.

When students in an institute class in Kreuzlingen, Switzerland (above), began studying the Book of Mormon, they felt a great spirit of peace in their lives, and they decided to share that spirit with the members of their branch. The students bore their testimonies of the Book of Mormon during sacrament meeting. Using Isaiah 12:2 as a theme (right), they encouraged branch members to read one chapter a day for one month.
Even after the month-long challenge was over, the members of the branch kept up their reading habit. And with their reading came the same spirit of peace the institute students felt. Arletta Riesen explains: “The Spirit in our branch is so strong now. Every member is more willing to do what the Lord wants, and we can feel the love we have for each other. It’s the same love Jesus Christ has for each one of us.”

And guess what! There’s a new girl named Debbie in our class at school. She has a funny accent and bright red hair. The boys call her “Carrot Top.”
One day while the three of us are walking into the cafeteria, Shiela says, “Look, there’s that new girl, Debbie.”
Laura and I glance across the crowded cafeteria to where the redhead sits eating alone. “She’s always by herself,” Shiela informs us. “It’s hard to be new. Let’s go eat lunch with her.”
“Good idea!” Laura and I say at the same time.
“Maybe we should make her some cookies after school,” Laura suggests with a smile. We all agree.
I smile too. It looks as though we are going to be secret pals to every new classmate. But that’s OK with me. I like doing it. You can never have enough friends.

Another Mormon boy was sent east to an officers training school. A new commanding officer came into the camp, and they put on a banquet to honor him. There, by every plate, was a cocktail glass. When the proper time came, every one of those potential officers stood up with his cocktail glass to toast that incoming officer. All but one boy, and he raised a glass of milk. It would take a lot of courage, wouldn’t you think, to stand there with all those officers, and see all of those cocktail glasses come up, and stand and raise a glass of milk!
Well, the officer saw it. He made a beeline for that boy after the entertainment was over, and he said, “Why did you toast me with a glass of milk?”
“Well, officer,” he said, “I’ve never touched liquor in my life. I don’t want to touch it; my parents wouldn’t want me to touch it; and I didn’t think you would want me to either. And I wanted to toast you, so I thought you would be satisfied if I toasted you with what I am accustomed to drinking.”
The officer said, “You report at headquarters in the morning,” and told him what time.
I suppose that boy spent a sleepless night, but when he went into the officer’s quarters the next morning, you know what happened? The officer assigned him a place on his staff with this explanation: “I want to surround myself with men who have the courage to do what they think is right regardless of what anybody else thinks about it.” Isn’t that wonderful! He was an uncommon boy, wasn’t he? I hope you are all uncommon. I hope that if you are ever in a situation like that you will make the proper decision.

Tim’s foot hurt. His cast felt hot and itchy, and he was tired of just lying on the couch.
“Mom,” Tim called and waited.
“Mom,” he called again, a little louder. She must be upstairs with the baby, he decided. He looked over the stack of movies she had borrowed from the library. He’d already watched them all—twice. He looked out the window. In the backyard, little Heidi climbed up on her plastic slide while David slid down. Sun lit their hair, and he could hear them laughing. “It’s not fair,” Tim grumbled to no one in particular. He wished his foot wouldn’t ache anymore.
He heard a rumble approaching the house, followed by a loud squeal. The school bus. Soon the front door creaked open, and he heard the thud of backpacks and instrument cases hitting the floor. Brian and Eric are home, he told himself. He listened to their footsteps heading toward the kitchen.
“Hey, Tim,” Brian’s voice said.
Tim couldn’t see him over the back of the couch. “Hi,” he answered quietly.
“Feeling any better?” Brian’s head popped into view.
Tim frowned up at him. “No. And I’m bored.”
“Do you want a snack?” Eric called from the kitchen. “There are lots of frozen treats in here.”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll have a grape one,” Brian said.
Tim heard a box snap open and wrappers crunch as Eric fished one out.
“Catch.”
Tim flinched when the frozen treat hurtled over the couch and bashed against his cast. “Ouch!” he yelled.
Brian grabbed the treat.
“Oops, sorry,” Eric called, taking his treat outside.
“So, have you worked on your castle yet?” Brian asked.
Tim shook his head.
“Why not?”
“It’s downstairs.” Tim had crutches, but he wasn’t supposed to use them yet. His bedroom—and everything else downstairs—had been pretty much off-limits since his foot surgery last week.
“Do you want me to get the stuff for you?”
Tim shrugged. The castle was to be made out of tiny plastic blocks of many shapes and colors. Even though the set was brand-new, it would take him hours to find all the pieces he’d need—especially because he wasn’t supposed to even sit up for very long.
“I can help you put it together,” Brian offered. “I don’t have that much homework to do.”
Tim smiled. “Really?”
“Sure. We can build it on this table right by the couch. I’ll hand you the pieces, and you figure out how they fit.”
“OK.”
Brian threw his empty stick into the trash and tromped down the stairs. Tim listened to hear his steps coming back up.
“Here it is.” Brian handed the box to Tim.
“Thanks.” Tim slid his finger between layers of cardboard and opened the box. Inside, the pieces glittered in plastic bags. He handed Brian some colorful pages with pictures and directions.
“Awesome,” Brian said. He moved the box to the table and began sorting blocks. “Here’s one you’ll need for the foundation,” he said, holding it out for Tim.
By the time Dad got home, the castle was almost finished.
“Tim, this looks great!” Dad exclaimed.
“Brian helped a lot,” Tim said.
“Wow, Brian, that was nice of you!” Dad looked at Tim again. “And how’s your foot?”
“Lots better,” Tim said. “I even forgot it hurt.”
Dad patted Brian on the back. “You should be a doctor, Son.”
Brian grinned down at the last few blocks. “We’ll call it the castle cure,” he said.

I had been taught by my parents and Church leaders to believe in the truthfulness of the gospel. I had been active in Church and seminary. But the real hour of my conversion didn’t come until I was a young man traveling to serve in the West German Mission. In those days, we traveled by train and by boat. After four days on the train, we arrived in New York City and got on a large steamship called the America.
It was very stormy on the North Atlantic Ocean that November, and my traveling companions and I were seasick. We sang hymns, studied the scriptures, and tried to stay cheerful.
As I was out on that ocean where I could see nothing but water in all directions, it dawned on me, “I have always felt the Church is true.” But suddenly the question came into my mind, “Can I look into the eyes of strangers and say without any question that I know?”
Alone in our little room aboard that ship, I got down on my knees. The ship trembled because of the big propeller driving it forward through the storms, but in that moment I couldn’t tell if it was me or the ship trembling! I poured out my heart to the Lord and said, “I have to know, because if I don’t know I can’t testify.”
Over the remaining two or three days on the ship, my prayer was answered. Peace came over me and I knew. Not only did I know that the Church was true, but I also knew that I could stand up to anyone who might challenge the doctrine. I knew that I wouldn’t buckle or weaken or be frightened, and I never was. From that moment on, I never felt any hesitation to share my testimony.