Gospel Story Finder

Shortly after the initiation of BYU-TV, my wife, Marilyn, received an early-morning phone call from a friend in Pennsylvania. More than 25 years ago we lived near Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and became friends with Robert and Kathy Brueninger during the time they were investigating the Church. They joined the Church soon after we met them, and one year later we accompanied them to the Washington D.C. Temple, where they were sealed as a family. They have been stalwarts of the Church for more than 25 years. Their children have grown, attended BYU, found their spouses here, and graduated. The Brueningers have been a model convert family. When Marilyn picked up the telephone, it was Kathy Brueninger on the other end.

She began by saying, “Guess what?”

Marilyn had no idea. “Tell me!”

Kathy then indicated that she and Bob had purchased a DISH Network satellite, which had been installed the night before. That morning Kathy had turned the TV on and was switching channels when suddenly she saw a familiar face. It was the January 2000 devotional in which Marilyn and I were speaking. She was unaware that BYU-TV was even on the DISH Network. As she told Marilyn about her experience, she started to cry. And then she said these words: “For the first time since we joined the Church, I feel fully connected! I can now participate in the BYU devotionals! I can watch general conference and Women’s Conference in my own home! We can watch the CES firesides and relive Education Week.”

As soon as their conversation ended, Marilyn called me at the university and relayed the story.

I have pondered the meaning of the event in Kathy Brueninger’s life and have concluded that we do not fully appreciate or understand the importance of this university to the membership of the Church. Technology is enabling the university to reach the world. It is becoming an incredible asset in the Church’s arsenal to build a worldwide community of Saints--to build Zion. It requires the very best of us! We must meet the challenge!

Naledi Mqokozo has been coming to the temple grounds since she was small. And now that she is older and often in the temple, you could say the temple is in her—in her heart and in her thoughts. “I have a picture in my room of the Johannesburg temple,” says Naledi, 17. “I put the picture up on my wall so I can always think clean thoughts and help keep the presence of the Spirit.”
It’s a little rainy on this morning in Johannesburg, South Africa. But the rain has not dampened the happy mood of Naledi and the other youth from the Ennerdale Branch, Johannesburg South Africa Stake, who have come to the temple to perform baptisms for the dead. Naledi is here because she “wanted an opportunity to see the temple again and to experience the Spirit of the Lord.” To Naledi, a day at the temple is not just another day. “This is a special occasion and a special moment,” she says, “so we should dress and act in a special way.”
Naledi understands that the temple is a sacred place: “We should be very reverent in the temple because it is the house of God and it has the Holy Spirit inside. So we should prepare ourselves and carry ourselves in a moral way and be very clean and respectful.”

I recall visiting a college campus where I heard the usual, commonplace complaining of youth: complaints about the pressures of school—as if it were a burden rather than an opportunity to partake of the knowledge of the earth—complaints about housing and about food.
I counseled those youth that if the pressures of school were too heavy, if they felt to complain about their housing and their food, then I could suggest a cure for their problems. I suggested that they lay their books aside for a few hours, leave their rooms, and go visit someone who is old and lonely, or someone sick and discouraged. By and large, I have come to see that if we complain about life, it is because we are thinking only of ourselves.

Lying flat on my back, staring at the mechanical paraphernalia of an X-ray machine, was not what I had expected as part of my experience in the Language Training Mission. But there I was, my right ankle all puffed and swollen; another casualty of physical activity time.
Fifteen minutes before, I had been in the middle of a very exciting soccer game. My district was ahead with only one minute left. Suddenly, our defense weakened and the ball shot toward the goal. I ran forward as Elder Duran, my best friend on the other team, fell to the ground to block my kick. Snap! A sound like the cracking of a branch wrapped in a towel made everyone cringe. I crumpled to the ground, holding my right leg, and screamed for a doctor.
I tried to get up, but the pain in my leg convinced me to just lie there and grit my teeth. The ambulance came, and soon I was lying on the X-ray table, hoping my injury would be a mere sprain or dislocation. However, my hope for a miracle was destroyed when through the partially closed door, I overheard a nurse say, “That’s the worst break I’ve ever seen.”
No one would touch me for 45 minutes. Then a specialist arrived and confirmed the nurse’s comment about my ankle. By 11:00 P.M. I was semiconscious in a hospital bed, still groggy from an operation to insert a screw into my ankle. My only thought at the time was that I would be left behind when the 21 elders in my group left for the Guatemala-El Salvador Mission two weeks later.
After four days in the hospital, I hobbled back to the LTM (Language Training Mission) on crutches. I don’t know if words can describe what it was like to be in the LTM for five weeks after I had learned all the lessons. I could say them backwards and forwards, in my sleep, in the shower, upside down, and in-between.
A group of missionaries were scheduled to leave for Guatemala four days after my cast was removed, but I still had two weeks of therapy ahead of me. By the power of fervent persuasion that only a missionary has, however, my doctor was convinced I could go as long as I didn’t do any excessive walking for the first few weeks.
Finally! The excitement in my body must have been the healing factor in my bones. By the time I got to the airport, I was hyperactive. To prove my ankle was as good as new, I hopped on one foot, danced around, and showed everybody the 20 centimeters long scar on my right ankle. I can’t remember all I did, but my antics were enough to bring gasps and concerned looks from my mother and comments like, “He hasn’t changed a bit,” from my friends.

Jeff’s dad tried to offer some sympathy. “Well, I think the coach made a poor decision,” he said. “But even if we could make him take you back, you know he wouldn’t play you. Just don’t let it get you down. When I was a freshman in high school I wanted to be a star baseball player, but I didn’t make the cut either. I was angry and disappointed like you, but instead of letting it eat at me, I got involved in other things and still had a fun four years. Just look at this as a kind of intermission,” Dad continued. “With the right attitude, you could still have a great second half.”

Like many people who pursue unusual careers, Shawn was concerned at one time with the question of whether or not his career would conflict with his feelings about the Church.
“After I had been in college three years, I wanted to rodeo for a while, and I was worried about the apparent contrast of ideals in my two worlds—the Church and the rodeo. I worried and prayed about it and spent time thinking it over. Then I realized the right answer for me was very simple. I knew the Church was true, and as long as I did the right thing and lived my religion, I couldn’t be doing wrong. I was then at peace with myself, and the Church has turned out to be one of my biggest assets on the rodeo circuit. I have been the subject of a lot of publicity because I am different. Writers casually mention that I am a Mormon cowboy and then go on to explain some of our beliefs. There are a lot of good Catholics and Methodists and other religions represented on the circuit, but their religions never seem to be mentioned.”

Some years ago, I was afforded the privilege to serve as a mission president and became intimately acquainted with more than 400 missionaries. We had one young missionary who was very ill. After weeks of hospitalization, as the doctor prepared to undertake extremely serious and complicated surgery, he asked that we send for the missionary’s mother and father. He advised there was a possibility the patient would not survive the surgery.
The parents came. Late one evening, the father and I entered a hospital room in Toronto, Canada, placed our hands upon the head of the young missionary, and gave him a blessing. What happened following that blessing was a testimony to me.
The missionary was in a six-bed ward in the hospital. The other beds were occupied by five men with a variety of illnesses. The morning of his surgery, the missionary’s bed was empty. The nurse came into the room with the breakfast these men normally ate. She took a tray over to the patient in bed number one and said, “Fried eggs this morning, and I have an extra portion for you!”
The occupant of bed number one had suffered an accident with his lawn mower. Other than an injured toe, he was well physically. He said to the nurse, “I’ll not be eating this morning.”
“All right, we shall give your breakfast to your partner in bed number two.”
As she approached that patient, he said, “I think I’ll not eat this morning.”
Each of the five men declined breakfast. The young lady exclaimed, “Other mornings you eat us out of house and home, and today not one of you wants to eat! What is the reason?”
Then the man who occupied bed number six answered: “You see, bed number three is empty. Our friend is in the operating room under the surgeon’s hands. He needs all the help he can get. He is a missionary for his church, and while we have been patients in this ward, he has talked to us about the principles of his church—principles of prayer, of faith, of fasting wherein we call upon the Lord for blessings.” He continued, “We don’t know much about the Mormon Church, but we have learned a great deal about our friend; and we are fasting for him today.”
The operation was a success. When I attempted to pay the doctor, he countered, “Why, it would be dishonest for me to accept a fee. I have never before performed surgery when my hands seemed to be guided by a Power which was other than my own. No,” he said, “I wouldn’t take a fee for the surgery which Someone on high literally helped me to perform.”
Such is the house of God.

Now it was Michael who reached out and pointed to a square. This one was solid white.

“What about this one, Grandma?” he asked. “What’s the story behind it?”

“That,” she said, noticing that Jesse had fallen asleep in her arms, “is a piece of cloth from my grandmother’s wedding veil.

“My grandmother Nellie was the daughter of a farmer. Money was scarce for farmers in those days, and things like fancy wedding dresses were for the rich. But when Nellie became engaged to her beau of three years, she was determined to have a white lace dress.

“Not far from their farm lived an Italian woman who made the most beautiful lace that Nellie had ever seen. Now, because lace-making is a time-consuming and delicate work, it is quite expensive. When Nellie learned the cost of making an entire dress of lace, it seemed that she would have to give up her heart’s desire. Even though she had scrimped and saved for three years, the amount that she had was not nearly enough for the dress. In fact, it wasn’t even enough for the veil!

“Nellie was heartbroken. She lay in her room and cried for hours. Finally facing reality, she dried her eyes and went to talk to her mother. Together, she knew, they could make a pretty dress for her wedding day.

“With the money that she had saved, Nellie bought the material for her dress and some fancy beads to sew onto it. When it was finished, she was pleased. It was pretty and fit well.

“But as it turned out, Nellie was in for a surprise. Her mother, knowing how badly her daughter wanted a lace wedding dress, had been secretly learning to make lace. The Italian woman was her teacher.

“It had taken her over two years to learn the art of lace-making well enough to begin work on the dress. She worked late each night after her family had gone to bed and was still up before them each morning to prepare breakfast. She worked each chance she got, but, because it was such painstaking and delicate work, she had only been able to complete the veil before the wedding.

“Nellie was so touched by her mother’s sacrifice that she saved the veil for over sixty years. When she was very old, she cut a square of lace and sewed it onto a piece of material she had saved from her wedding dress, and added it to the Story Quilt.”

“So the story of her mother’s sacrifice will always be remembered by our family.” Jenna pointed out.

“That’s right,” Grandma told him. “And over the years I added many pieces of cloth to this quilt before I finished it.”

About three months into my mission to France, I was at the point where I realized missions are hard. We were working very hard without much success. I could speak just enough French to realize little children were making fun of my accent. I was a little down. One evening, my companion, Elder Miner, gave me a simple compliment: “Elder Schlag, your French is really improving.” I could tell he was sincere. He didn’t say it was amazing. He didn’t embellish the truth. He just said something nice. To this day, 34 years later, I can remember how that positive comment filled me with hope. I had hope that I would continue learning French. I had hope that I could be what God wanted me to be. That hope reminded me that God called me on a mission, and I could do anything with His help. My hope was shining brightly before me that evening because my companion said a nice thing.

There sits in this hall a man known to many of you. Some years ago he received a missionary call to the Western States Mission with headquarters in Denver. He had been to Denver a number of times as a member of the university debate team. It was only over the mountain. He and his parents had dreamed of a more exotic field, of one of those “faraway places with the strange-sounding names.” His friends smiled. Some dear to him doubted the wisdom, the inspiration of his call. Why should so choice a young man be called on a mission from Salt Lake City to Denver? But he went. He became a powerful missionary. There are those today who thank the Lord for his coming. He was named counselor to his mission president and experienced marvelous opportunities for training in leadership. He met there a beautiful girl whom he later married. Out of the remarkable and peculiar opportunities of that mission, there emerged within him qualities that have made him preeminent in his chosen vocation. Today he sits here as one of the Regional Representatives of the Twelve.
I think I should add that a man who sits here behind me, President Harold B. Lee, went to the same field, under similar circumstances, and out of that obedience came some of those great and marvelous qualities which we have witnessed in his life, and for which we dearly love him.

At age 15, I went on a Scout jamboree. There were 50 boys who weren’t members of the Church and 250 who were. On the way, we made stops so the Latter-day Saints could see Church history sites while the others went swimming. As we got off the train to go to the lake, it was almost like invisible hands turned me around to stay with the Latter-day Saints.
As I stood where the Nauvoo Temple now stands, I felt the same warm feeling I’d felt as a little boy. I felt it again at Carthage Jail when they showed us the room where the Prophet Joseph Smith was martyred. Later we went to New York and visited the Hill Cumorah and the Sacred Grove. I felt the same feeling again. That Sunday as I walked into the chapel with my Latter-day Saint friends, I had an overwhelming feeling that I was home. I came home from that trip knowing that Joseph Smith was God’s prophet.

I know what it is to have such a friend. I love my husband John for his “thousand daily decencies that daily flow from all [his] words and actions mixed with Love” in our relationship. He was kind and thoughtful and romantic in our courtship. Then even when he was going to school full time, working full time and we had three children under the age of four, he continued to be kind and thoughtful and romantic with me. He has shown this by helping me in my busy roles. He bathed the children every night. He scrubbed the kitchen floor. He was also my window to the world – keeping me abreast to what was happening out there. Through the years he provided for us in every way. He encouraged me as a mother. He supported the children in plays, concerts, athletic events, and papers to write. He would give me moments of reprieve – on walks or weekend getaways, taking me to the temple or occasionally on his travels. In my most recent assignment, he has been solicitous and loving in every way. When I come home tired at night he makes cheese toast and other such delicacies, so I don’t have to cook. He is my muse and my editor in my writing and talks. He prays for me and gives me priesthood blessings. He is a “meet” help or a help suited for me in every way.

Near my family’s home in St. George, Utah, was a big hill where I loved to play. One day as I was playing there with my older brother, Dennis, I slipped and tumbled onto a huge, prickly cactus plant. I had cactus spines everywhere—in my shoes, my trousers, my shirt. Frightened and in pain and scarcely able to move because of all those sharp spines, I started to wail at the top of my voice. Dennis tried to help by pulling out the spines, but that seemed to hurt even worse and caused my skin to bleed. Finally, to my surprise, Dennis turned without a word and ran down the hill. I thought, Oh boy, that’s great. Right when I need him, he runs away. I was afraid I was going to be left alone with that cactus in me forever.

Soon, however, I looked up, sniffling, to see him struggling up the hill with his small red wagon. He had run home to get it, and he pulled it all the way up the hill, tugging and pulling and huffing and puffing, so that he could take me home in it.

In some ways, the love my brother showed for me that day was like the love the Savior has shown for us. I would not have been able to return home without the help of my brother, just as we would not be able to return safely to our heavenly home without the selfless, loving help of our Savior, Jesus Christ. He paid a terrible price to do this for us, a price that caused him great pain and suffering. Yet because of him, our fears are calmed and we are able to have eternal life.

I got invited to a birthday party for a boy in my class. I was super excited. My mom told me the party was on a Sunday. She said I could make the choice about going to the party. I really wanted to go, but I knew that we are supposed to keep the Sabbath day holy. I told my mom I knew the right choice—I was going to skip the party. We took a present to my friend’s house on Saturday. I asked his mom if we could play on another day and explained why I couldn’t go to the party. I know I will be blessed because I chose the right and decided to keep the Sabbath day holy.

While I was serving as a mission president in Bolivia, a wonderful elder came to see me. It was near the end of his mission. He was very depressed.
He spoke to me about the difficult time he had experienced in the Missionary Training Center. While he was there his father had died, and for a brief period the elder had considered returning home. But, encouraged by a loving mother, and spurred on by individual commitment, he continued his training.
He recounted the initial efforts he had made in the mission field to work hard, pray often, follow all the rules—hoping, of course, to be rewarded with hundreds of baptisms. But, unfortunately, the baptisms had not come. Gradually he began to slacken his pace. He felt his prayers were not being heard. The mission rules seemed to be burdensome and restrictive. They were silly things, written by the mission president only to goad and irritate him.
In despair he told me, “I’m nobody! What I do won’t make any difference.” Then, as if searching, he quickly asked, “Will it, President Hammond?” For an instant similar questions passed through my mind. Can he make a difference? Can I? Can anyone? Does it matter what one person does?
Then, in my mind’s eye I saw a myriad of people and events who had made a difference. I reminded him of the work of Copernicus, who revolutionized the science of astronomy; and Mohandas K. Gandhi, who in preaching peace and love, brought freedom to his native India.
There are many men and women who have truly made a difference, I said. I thought for a moment and then continued with the stories of two others.
I placed my hand on the young missionary’s and asked him if he was ready to go back out into the field of labor? I asked if he could make a difference in the lives of the special Bolivian children of our Heavenly Father?
His attitude had changed. With a renewed spirit of dedication, tears slipping down his face, he committed himself once again to the work of the Lord. We knelt in prayer together and I blessed him that he would be able to find the way.
Although he had been weak, I felt an inner confidence in him. I surprised even myself by assigning him to one of the most difficult and remote areas of Bolivia—a small community named Bermejo near the Argentine border. The work had gone badly there for some time, with only a few baptisms to reenforce the handful of Saints who were discouraged and found it hard to keep the faith.
In his weekly reports the missionary told of his diligent efforts to contact the people and preach the gospel to them. He indicated that they were slow to listen, but that he was continuing his faithful stewardship in that part of the Lord’s vineyard.
And then it happened. Overnight a small river that runs near the village, fed by heavy rains in the mountains, rose to a height never before known. Homes were swept away and people were drowned. The only bridge connecting the city to the main road was torn from its footings and washed downstream. There was chaos everywhere.
Two young missionaries were caught in the turmoil. And one, perhaps remembering that “a man can make a difference,” threw himself into the turbulent waters to rescue many who were drowning; he sought those buried beneath fallen buildings; he gave relief to the injured and succor to the hungry.
And a miracle occurred. He became a hero. He was lauded by the newspapers. People mentioned his name with reverence. Those who had previously rejected him and the message that he carried now searched him out. Their doors were opened to receive him. They loved him. They accepted his burning testimony of Jesus Christ and the gospel restored through the prophet Joseph Smith.
In the few months that remained of his mission he brought scores of wonderful people into the Church. Today, a beautiful chapel stands in Bermejo. On the Sabbath day it is full of members who still remember one faithful elder who made a difference.

A true story from Singapore.
“It’s time for our art lesson!” Madam Nadirah said. She carried a big box to the front of the classroom. The box had bottles of paint and paintbrushes sticking out of it.
Adam smiled. He loved art time! They always worked in groups on their projects. Maybe this time he would get to be with one of his friends.
Madam Nadirah pointed at the first table. “Group one is Enzo, Ivan, Mei Ling, and Adam.”
Adam stood and moved to sit at the table. He didn’t know anyone in his group. But he was good at making friends. Maybe they would become new friends!
Once everyone found their group, Madam Nadirah started to pass out supplies. “Your challenge is to use these items to make art,” she said.
She put three cups on each table. Adam leaned forward to look inside their cups. One cup had nutshells in it, another had wooden sticks, and the last one had colorful beads.
Adam frowned. He didn’t know what to make with these things.
“You only have time to make one project,” Madam Nadirah said. “So work together to decide what you are going to make.”
Loud chatter filled the room as the groups started planning their projects.
“What should we make?” Adam asked his group.
Mei Ling pointed at the sticks. “Definitely a tree. The sticks can be the trunk and branches, and the nutshells can be the leaves.”
“What would we use the beads for?” Enzo asked.
“Some of the beads are green,” Adam said. “Maybe we can use them for leaves.”
Ivan shook his head. “No, we should make a house. The nutshells are for the roof. The sticks are for the walls, and the beads are for the windows.” He grabbed some shells and sticks to show them.
Mei Ling snatched the last cup away before Ivan could get the beads. “But I want to make a tree!”
“Well, I want to make a house!” Ivan tried to grab the cup back from Mei Ling.
Adam looked at his new friends. He didn’t want them to fight. But they were only allowed to make one project. They couldn’t make a tree and a house.
Then Adam had an idea. Maybe there was a way they could do both. “What if we make a house in a tree?”
Mei Ling and Ivan stopped fighting over the cup of beads and looked at Adam.
“Like a treehouse?” Mei Ling asked.
“Yeah!”
Mei Ling set the cup back down on the table. “OK.”
Ivan nodded. “Let’s do it!”
Adam got paper and glue from the art box. Enzo picked out paint colors. Then they started making their treehouse. At first, Mei Ling and Ivan only worked on the parts they wanted. But soon they were all working together and laughing when paint got on their fingers.
Slowly their sticks, shells, and beads turned into a tall, colorful treehouse. Adam added a nutshell to the roof.
“I didn’t know making a treehouse would be so fun,” Ivan said. He glued another bead to the tree.
“Yeah, this was a great idea!” Mei Ling said.
Adam smiled. It was fun to work together. He hoped he could work with his new friends again for the next art lesson!

I often reflect on the wonderful mothers I have had in my life, especially when Mother’s Day gets close. Although many sons could say many good things about their mothers, I briefly offer my own experiences and circumstances—they may be a little different. I publicly declare my enormous appreciation for mothers, despite having experienced much motherly absence in my own life. I am also conscious that Heavenly Father was most likely involved in the positive aspects of my short account. He certainly was in later years when I was blessed by being baptised at the age of 33, along with my wife, Jenny.
My natural mother, Irene, was unknown to me; she died from a serious infection in 1946 caused by inadequately clean medical instruments. I was 8 months old at the time, so the key consequence for me was the loss of that physical bond so essential to an infant in their early years. I was the fourth child, so very fortunately there were older siblings who had some memories of Irene; and even more fortunate was the connection I made with Shirley, the dear lifetime friend of my oldest sibling, Gwen, who fondly recalled her memories of my mother.
Shirley would often visit our home in Hayes, within a stone’s throw of her own home. She always remembered the very kind lady that was my mother. This connection with Shirley was made when I was in my fifties, and fortunately well before Gwen passed away in her late 70s — this long-distance friendship between Shirley in England and Gwen in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, was crucial to me in becoming better acquainted with my early departed mother.
Following Irene’s death, my father, Joe, had to decide on his children’s care. My two oldest siblings (Gwen and Peter) were placed into an orphanage called Spurgeons, located in Reigate, Surrey (now the headquarters of the Surrey Fire Service). My immediately older sister, Sue, was taken in by Grandmother Ada, Irene’s mother. In my case, my father made an unusual arrangement by letting a young married couple, the Tappins, move into our house and become my foster parents. They cared for me while my father went to work in Nigeria for the next six years. (In later years I tried to find the Tappins, unfortunately without success.)
Then in 1950, my three siblings were shipped out to what was then, Southern Rhodesia under the Fairbridge scheme, set up to provide opportunities in the British colonies for fruitful lives for orphaned British children.
In my case, I escaped shipment by coming under the care of my stepmother, Hilda, in 1949, who moved into our house in Hayes with my half-brother John, when the Tappins moved away. Hilda was a marvellous lady and loved me as her own; she was in fact a good friend of Irene’s sister Molly. Hilda, John, and I, then spent 1951 and 1952 with Joe in Nigeria.
Among many very good deeds, Hilda was largely responsible for gathering the whole of Joe’s offspring as a family. In late 1952, Joe, Hilda, John, and I went to Southern Rhodesia, and siblings Gwen, Peter and Sue were taken out of the Fairbridge home, located near Bulawayo in the south, to join the rest of us now located in what was Salisbury, the capital. We were all together in the one home for a precious two years. Then, due to concerns about space in our three-bedroomed Rhodesia-Railways-provided house, Gwen left to live in a special establishment set up to house young single women.
Those years in colonial Rhodesia were wonderful, especially for John and me. As youngsters we lived a largely outdoor life, often running around barefoot and getting up to mischief, but mostly creatively (building platforms in trees; forming rowing boats from corrugated metal sheets — usually used for roofing purposes; fabricating catapults from carefully chosen branches of trees and rubber strips from old car-tyre inner tubes, and bows that we used to shoot arrows made from dried elephant grass with pins in their heads and chicken feathers as fletching). Hilda was always around to attend to our injuries, and provide as best she could for us, including repairing clothing.
Most significantly, Irene was a devoted Christian, of the Anglican order. She gave time to keeping the local church building clean and tidy. It was she who was responsible for bringing a knowledge of Christ into my life and helping me to prepare for confirmation in the Anglican faith when I was twelve (I also had to be baptised just before, as there was no record of this having been done when I was an infant). I remember many of those times.
But, tragically within a year, Hilda died from a bloodborne disease, probably arising from an insect bite, but never confirmed. So, the wonderful architect of our recovered life was taken away from the family that she had gathered, loved, and cared for during the 1950s.
Life thereafter was very much based on the children taking up various responsibilities, the greatest burden falling on Sue (Gwen married a year later in 1959). Gwen nevertheless became a confidant during my growing teenage years. My formal attachment to the Anglican faith quickly faded, my father being a declared atheist. However, I often wonder whether, in some way or another, the spirit of Hilda, in her post-mortal state, was influencing events when I became a member of the Church in 1979 (I do like to think so).
Now, onto my third ‘mother’, in fact my mother-in-law, Christine. Jenny’s parents Christine and Bill were a wonderful kindly couple — what examples they were to Jenny and me as we started our own family (eventually including six children). There came a time after some house moves during our early years of our marriage, that Jenny’s parents relocated a few miles away from our home in Tunbridge Wells. Christine was an ever-present support to Jenny in those days, and she was always very welcome to our home. I mostly remember the happy banter she and I would have. When she passed away in 2000, in her mid 80s, it took me years to come to terms with her absence; one always seems more appreciative of loss in later years. To say I had a soft spot for Christine would understate it. She was my adopted mother, whether she knew it or not. I remember, once so shocked and agitated by Jenny’s and my joining the Church, Christine in subsequent years became a staunch defender, while remaining wedded to her Anglican faith. Close to her death she occasionally expressed doubts, but I tried to reassure her that her faith in Christ was not misplaced.
Finally, I must add my love for my wife of 55 years — what a mother she has been to our children, someone who has been ever ready to serve them, and her grandchildren, as well as her slothful husband, without question or reservation. What a treasure!
What treasures are all our mothers.

It was on Monday, December 20, 1852, when the first large company of 294 Saints left Copenhagen, Denmark. They boarded the ship Obotrit and sailed from the customhouse under the direction of Elder John E. Forsgren. A great many Danish people gathered at the dock as the ship left. The atmosphere was filled with hate because fellow countrymen were disgracing themselves by following a “Swedish Mormon priest” and departing for America.

The journey to Kiel, Holstein (now part of Germany), was stormy and unpleasant, but the ship arrived safely on December 22, 1852. The journey continued by rail to Hamburg. On December 24 the Saints boarded the steamship Lion, which proceeded down the River Elbe. Because of fog, the ship’s captain cast anchor and they celebrated Christmas Eve aboard ship.

On Christmas morning the ship sailed to the mouth of the river. Because of heavy headwinds the ship didn’t reach the open sea until midnight. A terrible storm ensued as the ship sailed the North Sea. The ship’s bridge was damaged, but the emigrants were not injured. On the evening of December 28 the ship steamed into the harbor of Hull, England. It was learned that about 150 vessels had been lost on the North Sea during the storm.

The Saints continued their journey by rail to Liverpool on December 29. On December 31 they boarded the packet ship Forest Monarch. Storms prevented the ship leaving port for about two weeks. One night the ship became entangled with another vessel and sustained some damage. A few days later, because of a storm, the anchors were pulled and the ship was set adrift. Two tugboats came to the rescue just before it ran aground.

Finally, on January 16, 1853, the Forest Monarch began its voyage to America. There were 297 souls onboard ship. Although very pleasant weather accompanied the voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, a perfect calm hindered the journey for several days. Also, provisions were poor and the supply of fresh water ran out.

After arriving in America at the mouth of the Mississippi River, the Saints took a steamboat from New Orleans to Saint Louis. After about a month in Saint Louis, where commodities were purchased, they traveled to Keokuk, Iowa, by steamboat. There they spent several weeks receiving their wagons and teams of oxen. They left Keokuk on May 21 and finally arrived in the Salt Lake Valley on September 30, 1853. As many as 20 emigrants had died during the journey, some children were born, and a few had lost their faith amid all the hardships.

Charles received another mission call in 1862. This time he was to take his family and help settle St. George, where he planted cotton, corn, peaches, and sorghum. St. George was a difficult place in which to live because it was very hot and dry. The pioneers tried many times to dam the Virgin River so that they could irrigate their farms, but each time a spring flood washed out the dam. At times Charles had to go back to Salt Lake City to work as a watchmaker for a while to earn enough money to feed his family. Finally, after ten years of his family’s living in a one-room house, he was able to build a larger home in St. George.

A week later, the two of us were lying on the grass of the football field staring into the deep blue expanse above. We were the only people left after track practice.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“Go for it,” I encouraged, not expecting to hear what came next.
“Does your church make you happy?”
I stared at her in surprise, my heart immediately leaping into my throat.
“Yes,” I croaked nervously. In our two-and-a-half-year friendship, she had never asked me anything about the Church. It was always me offering pieces of information hopefully, never getting much of a response.
“Why?” Annemarie ventured timidly. Before I could even take a breath, she rushed on. “Is it because you have friends in your church? Ever since I’ve decided not to party with my friends, it’s been harder than I thought it would be. Thank goodness I have you.”
I sensed her loneliness. I had watched her. She wasn’t teased or even shunned, but something was definitely different between her and her old friends. A sense of camaraderie had vanished.
“It must be nice to have lots of friends who don’t resent you for your morals,” she concluded wistfully.
“Annemarie,” I began carefully, “I have made wonderful friends through church. They’d all love to get to know you better too. You’re not as alone as you think. However, the Church does not make me happy because of my friends.” Gulping, I tried to keep my voice from wavering. “The Church brings joy because it’s true.” Suddenly I was overcome with warm confidence and satisfaction at bearing such blunt testimony.
Unfortunately, her reaction was not one of tears or even strong interest. Annemarie merely smirked. “That’s what my church says too. But it has not changed my life much.” She pulled herself off the grass and onto her feet, stretching toward the sky. “We’ve been here for almost an hour!” she exclaimed. “Race you to the locker room.”