Gospel Story Finder

Christmas is a giving time of year for the young people of the Mt. Pleasant Second Ward, Mt. Pleasant Utah Stake. The youth were involved in service projects that helped emphasize the true spirit of giving.
The Mia Maids of the ward spent weeks collecting pictures of all the children of the ward, which they used to make special Christmas tree decorations. The ornaments were presented to the parents after they were used to decorate the ward Christmas tree.

I started backpacking with my family the summer I turned six years old. I carried a small pack that had a change of clothes in it and eight rolls of lifesavers—one for each day of the trip! That year we hiked fifty miles. We went over Sawtooth Pass, one of the most difficult passes in the Sierras. It’s 11,700 feet high. A ranger we met said I was the youngest hiker he had ever seen that far into the backcountry. He even took my picture!

Now, in closing, I want to share with you an important experience in my life that demonstrated to me what happens when we seek to understand a part of the doctrine of Christ and take action with that understanding.
On a later trip to Moscow, Russia, with another group of college students, we were scheduled to attend sacrament meeting in a branch just outside of the main city. It would take about forty-five minutes on the metro, and then a 15 minute walk. The metro was empty at 7:30 a.m. Interestingly enough, the nearly 40 of us all crammed into one car, so I decided to stand and hold on to a pole.When I travel short or long distances, I make it a habit to pray, to check in with Heavenly Father. As I prayed, I told him how thankful I was for a Savior who loves me. Soon, I had a distinct impression that I could do better. In fact, I felt quite chastised and ashamed to the point of a few tears. I knew that I wasn't guilty of any grievous sin, but the Holy Ghost taught me about sins of omission. I was a bit embarrassed by the tears and the tears made some of the students nervous, but I saw it as an opportunity to repent, so I asked Heavenly Father's forgiveness and promised that I would do better.
On the walk to the chapel, I kept behind the others, feeling a bit hurt that I wasn't who the Lord needed at the time. I resolved to do much better. We arrived at the chapel. There was a flurry of activity as the six missionaries from America realized that there were nearly 40 Americans who had just walked in. I sought a seat in the back. I watched carefully, as I am prone to do. As I watched and heard the details, I became a bit indignant. I had always wanted to serve a mission in Russia, but there were no Russian missions when I served in 1981. I had adored my mission to France and Belgium, but I was upset that some of the missionaries were complaining about food and culture. I reminded myself that I needed to prepare for the sacrament. We still had 20 minutes before the meeting would start.
I noticed a woman quietly going about her business. I assumed she was Russian and not a missionary. She was seated behind the piano, so I could not see her fully. I noticed that the Branch President and others spoke with her. She played the opening hymn. For some reason, the Holy Ghost whispered that she was a powerful woman, and that I needed to relay that message to her. After the sacrament and a testimony by the Branch President, she moved to the podium. I thought that she was going to bear her testimony. She sat down by the microphone, and then I realized that she was a sister missionary moving to translate for any of the Americans who wanted to bear testimony, and several did.
She had been unaffected when we arrived. She had gone about her duties as a missionary and branch member in powerful ways. The Spirit whispered, "Tell her that she is a powerful missionary, the kind you wanted to be in France and Belgium, and the kind you would have wanted to have been in Russia." This prompting occurred several times before the meeting ended.
After the meeting, I watched her speak with several of the Branch members. I positioned myself so that I could speak with her. "Sister," I started, "Are you staying for all three meetings?" She said yes. "Could I speak with you at the end of the block?" She affirmed that I could. Then she asked me if I would write down the names of the students who had participated as she had promised the ward clerk that she would get them so that he could have an accurate record. She moved on to Sunday School where she powerfully interacted with the members and helped with the lesson. I was overwhelmed at her goodness and how much the Spirit wanted her to know that she was an awesome missionary.
At the end of the block of meetings, she came to me. I did not have to find her. She asked for the list of students. Then, she said, "You wanted to talk to me?"
I replied,
"Sister, I have been overwhelmed by the Spirit wanting me to tell you what a great missionary you are. I know that some of the other Elders and Sisters have not caught on to the blessing of serving these people, but the Holy Ghost wants you to know that you are a great missionary."
Quietly she sobbed into her hands, trying to regain control of her emotions. I wasn't nervous; the Holy Ghost was present and He had carefully guided me in what I was to say. After many seconds, she looked me in the face. My tears started. She said,
"Brother, I leave for home in three days. All I ever wanted to do was serve an acceptable mission for the Savior. I have been praying for weeks for an answer; I have been fasting to know. I now know that I have."
It wasn't appropriate to hug; she never would have. She was too respectful of the Savior, of her mission, of the mission rules. We grasped hands and arms. We looked into each other's eyes and parted ways. I assume that we will never meet again.

We had some additional motivation not to cancel FSY. The year before at almost the same time, the conference had been planned for this same group, everything organized and ready to go. On the morning FSY was to begin it had to be cancelled because the Omicron variant of COVID-19 that originated in South Africa was spreading quickly. The youth had been unable to participate in any activities the years before due to the coronavirus, and now at the last minute in 2021 the light at the end of the tunnel had been ripped away from them. Would we have to repeat this again in 2022? We hoped not.

We inspected the bridge to see if it would be possible for the youth to cross it by foot. We observed that most of the bridge was out of the river, but if we were to use it, the youth would still have to cross a portion of the river in at least knee-deep water that was running swiftly for the last 30 meters. We asked the Konka staff to begin setting up ropes across the bridge, emphasizing that we would not take any risks with the youth, many of whom do not swim at all. If it was clear we could cross the river safely, we would go forward with this plan.
A few hours before the youth began to arrive, we held a meeting and a quick spiritual thought with the young single adults. As a Church, our pioneers have crossed rivers in times of extreme difficulty before. “Let me tell you about the Sweetwater River in Wyoming and the story of the Martin and Willie handcart companies,” I said.
I recounted the events of Nov. 4, 1856, when the members of the Martin handcart company could go no further and wept at the thought of crossing that river in the frigid cold to find shelter from the storm at Martin’s Cove.
I told them of three members of the rescue party from Salt Lake City, all young adults, who stepped forward and volunteered to carry the entire company across the frigid river at great personal cost. I then asked, “who is willing to carry on this tradition and carry our 530 youth across the river this morning so a different kind of rescue can continue today, right here?”
The young single adults leapt to their feet volunteering in excitement to be a rescuer for the 2022 FSY and carry our youth across the river. They ran to their dorm rooms and changed into suitable clothing, knowing they were about to get very wet and dirty in the river and mud.
At 10:45 am we walked down to the water. The youth had already begun to arrive. The Konka staff had fixed the ropes to hold while crossing the water and were ready for the assistance of the young single adults. Several leaders grabbed onto the ropes and walked across the river and foot bridge to greet the youth and their parents and leaders as they arrived, to give them confidence and assurance that everything was safe, and we were moving forward.
There was shock on the faces of the youth and leaders as we explained the situation and instructed the youth to remove their shoes and socks and pull up their pant legs as far as they could. An umbrella to protect them from the rain was all most had planned on. Now they were about to cross a river on foot. As they walked down to the footbridge, several slipped, a few even falling in the deep and slippery mud. “Hang on to the rope!” was the yell that echoed for the next three hours as group after group arrived.
The young adult leaders took every suitcase and all the bedding and carried it across the footbridge. Over 500 youth made it across the river, either on the backs of the young single adults or picking their own cautious paths across the river whilst holding onto the safety ropes. A few hours later, the rain began to lessen. We had made it, and the FSY experience could go forward.
Uniformly, the youth expressed thanks that FSY had not been cancelled and we had found a way forward. Several analogies to our river crossing followed during the week, all relating back to the theme trust in the Lord. The young single adults acting as counselors not only carried and guided the youth across a literal river, but then spent the week teaching and strengthening the youth in a way that has had a deep and meaningful impact—teaching them and sharing tools for navigating an increasingly difficult world. Lives have been forever changed.

“Am I too young to have a testimony?” Jamie asked her mother.
“Why do you think you are too young?”
“Because today in Primary, Sister Johnson told us to tell our testimonies to someone who will write them down for us. We’re going to put all our testimonies into a Book of Mormon and send it to a missionary. Then the missionary can give it to someone. I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t think of what to say. Maybe I’m just not old enough to have a testimony yet.”
“Five years old is old enough for a testimony to start growing inside you,” said Mother. “You just haven’t found the way to tell it yet. Think of what you know about the Church and how you feel about it. Try to say what your heart tells you is true,” she said, giving Jamie a little hug. “Let’s ask Dad to talk about testimonies in family home evening tomorrow night.”
Jamie thought about what she could say for the rest of the day. She was supposed to have her testimony ready to give to Sister Johnson the next Sunday. But how can I have it ready if I don’t know what to say? she wondered.
It was Jamie and her sister Susan’s turn to fix the refreshments for family home evening, so on Monday afternoon they made cookies. That evening Father did give a lesson about testimonies. “A testimony is kind of like the bright, sparkling light that shines through the crystals on our chandelier,” he said pointing to the ceiling fixture above them. “It shines and sparkles inside of you. To have a testimony each of us needs to do certain things. We need to pray to Heavenly Father, and we need to study the scriptures. Obeying Heavenly Father’s commandments, attending our meetings, and partaking of the sacrament will also help our testimonies to grow. It’s important to share our testimony with others too.”
After her father shared his testimony with the family, Jamie knew that what her father had said was true. And she knew that she had been doing the right things to gain a testimony.
I want to share my testimony, Jamie thought, but how can I find the words? That night when she said her prayers, she asked, “Heavenly Father, please help me find the right words to say for my testimony.”
The rest of the week, while Jamie was busy playing and helping Mother, she kept thinking about her testimony. But when Sunday morning came, she still didn’t have anything ready to be written down. She gave a big sigh as she got ready for church. “What will I tell Sister Johnson?” she asked Mother.
“Maybe you’ll have to tell her that you’re still trying,” answered Mother. Then she asked, “Would you like to use the testimony that your sister wrote in her Book of Mormon?”
“No,” replied Jamie. “I want it to be my very own.”
Since she was the first one ready for church, Jamie decided to listen to her tape of Primary songs while she waited for the rest of the family. Jamie loved to sing along with the tape. The first song started, and she joined in: “I am a child of God, And he has sent me here …” It was her favorite song, and as she sang it, her heart told her that the words were true. Suddenly she jumped up. “Mother, Mother,” she called, grabbing some paper and a pen and running to her mother. “I know what to say now! Will you write it for me?”
“Of course,” said Mother.
Jamie spoke very clearly. “I am a child of God. So are you. He will help you know what’s true.” She was quiet for a minute, then she said, “Does that sound like a testimony?”
Mother put her arms around Jamie and held her close. “That is a very beautiful testimony,” she told her. “There are so many people in this world who don’t know that they are children of God. They need someone like you to tell them and to help them find the truth.”
At church Jamie hurried to her Primary classroom and was the first one to hand her testimony to Sister Johnson. “Thank you very much,” Sister Johnson said. Then she added, “You look so pretty and full of sunshine today!”
“It’s because of my testimony,” Jamie said excitedly, “shining like a bright crystal!”

Sweat trickled down Nathan’s back. He fingered the candy bar in his pocket—it would melt if he didn’t eat it soon. But his craving for the chocolate and nuts had disappeared as soon as he walked out of the store with it—a candy bar he hadn’t paid for—in his pocket.
Now it was growing warm and very sticky. Nathan pulled it out and looked at it. Chocolate oozed from under the wrapping onto his fingers. Spotting a trash can, he dropped it inside. I’ll feel better now, he told himself. The candy bar is gone.
But the guilt wasn’t! As he trudged home, Nathan wondered why he’d stolen the fifty-nine-cent sweet.
Later that afternoon Mother asked, “Nathan, will you go to the store for me, please? I need a gallon of milk.”
“From Brother Milligan’s store?”
“Of course.”
“Uh … I’m sort of busy right now. Couldn’t it wait until later?”
“No, I need the milk for dinner tonight.” Taking her wallet from her purse, his mother gave Nathan a five-dollar bill. “Get a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, and a loaf of bread.” She smiled. “There should be enough left over for you to have a candy bar.”
Nathan winced at the mention of a candy bar and stared at the money in his hand.
In Milligan’s Market, he muttered a greeting to Brother Milligan. When Nathan paid for his groceries, the storekeeper put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “Nathan, you look like you just lost your best friend.”
Nathan turned and tried to smile but couldn’t. How could I have stolen from Brother Milligan? How could I have stolen from anyone? he asked himself. Aloud, he said only, “Uh … I have to get home,” not meeting the storekeeper’s eyes.
Brother Milligan looked disappointed. “Come by when you can stay a while,” was all that he said.
Nathan barely tasted his dinner that evening, even though his mother had fixed his favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs.
When Nathan knelt beside his bed to pray that night, the words caught in his throat and formed a huge lump. All he could think about was Brother Milligan, his CTR B teacher two years ago. Nathan remembered one lesson in particular, about the Saints building the Salt Lake Temple. His thoughts turned to the temple. He planned on going on a mission when he turned nineteen years old and, later, being married in the temple. How can I do any of those things when I’ve stolen something? He imagined the hurt looks on his parents’ faces if they ever learned what he’d done.
The next morning Nathan skipped breakfast. He’d asked Heavenly Father’s help and decided to fast at least one meal until he did what needed to be done. Milligan’s Market opened at eight o’clock, and he intended to be the first one there.
Inside the store, Nathan glanced around, glad that there were no other customers as yet. He found his old Primary teacher in the back. Nervously the boy cleared his throat. “Uh, Brother Milligan, I have something to tell you.”
“Could you help me lift this box of apples?” Brother Milligan asked. “When a body gets older, he can’t do all the things he once did.”
Nathan helped the storekeeper lift the crate of apples and set it on a shelf. “I stole a candy bar from you yesterday,” he blurted out.
“I know.”
“You know? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I figured that you’d get around to telling me when you were ready.” He stooped to lift another box.
Automatically Nathan bent down to help.
“As I was saying, a body needs some help when he gets older.” Brother Milligan sat on a crate and pushed his glasses on top of his forehead.
“Maybe I could help you,” Nathan offered. “After school and on Saturday. To make up for taking the candy bar.”
“Well now, that’s a good idea. A very good idea.” He patted Nathan’s shoulder. “Did the candy bar taste good?”
Nathan shook his head. “I threw it away.”
“I sort of figured you might.” The storekeeper looked at his watch and said, “You’d best be going. You don’t want to be late for school.”
“I’ll be here at 3:30.”
“I know you will, son.”
That evening Nathan told his parents what he’d done. They didn’t yell at him. In fact, they said that they were proud that he’d done the right thing in the end.
As he knelt beside his bed that night, Nathan didn’t have any trouble telling Heavenly Father what was in his heart.

When their buses pulled into the little town of Palmyra in the sleepy Finger Lakes region, where once the Mormons were spurned and the Prophet mobbed and driven out, they were greeted by banners strung across the main street: “WELCOME, MORMONS.” Dr. Harold I. Hansen, director of the pageant for more than thirty years, recalls the many years in which Palmyrans were cold to him. “I know what it is to have an alderman of the village say, when we asked to rent the electrical and sound equipment of the village, ‘I would rather personally break it with a hammer than allow you people to touch it,’” said Dr. Hansen. This year residents threw a party in the park for participants and opened up their homes to many of them. One sister was placed in a home with children grieving the loss of a parent to cancer, a situation that she had experienced in her own home. Another group of sisters were able to get a minister to accept a visit from the elders.

While some laborers at the quarry were supported through the Church’s Public Works Department, other workers supplied their own housing and donated their time. A Danish immigrant, John Nielsen, recalled, “I contributed one dollar each month for a long time toward paying the men who were working in the Temple Square, cutting rock for the walls of the Temple. I also worked some in the rock quarry up in the mouth of Little Cottonwood Canyon. While doing this I boarded myself, furnished my own bedding, and donated my work.”

Within my first few days of arriving in the Dominican Republic, my companions brought me to visit a man by the name of Amado. During that visit, we talked about the plan of salvation and the opportunity he will have to see his wife again, who had passed away. The Spirit was strong during that conversation. His daughter and a few of his grandchildren were there, testifying of the joy they had felt through living the gospel. They testified of temples and the ability to be with our loved ones after this life, through the sacred ordinances of the temple.
During the following months, we returned to visit Amado weekly. We talked about the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and that this gospel has the power of God so that we can take the necessary steps and make promises that will help us return to live with God. We taught him about the priesthood, the power of God here on earth. We explained that God loves us so much, that He gave us another testament of His Son, Jesus Christ: The Book of Mormon. Little by little we taught him about the truths of Christ and His doctrine.
He questioned why we believe this Church is the only true Church on the earth. We invited him to come to church with us to experience it for himself. He enjoyed it but missed the comfort of his usual church. We invited him to pray and sincerely talk with God to ask Him which church is His. Amado prayed and received an answer in a way that he could not doubt that Jesus Christ had restored His Church on earth again. He continued attending church with us. We invited him to enter the waters of baptism and make a covenant with God through the proper authority. When we invited him to be baptized, he asked us if he would be able to see his wife again if he were to get baptized in a different church other than where the two were married. We testified of the perfect love of God and His plan that makes it possible for everyone that has passed on to be able to accept the gospel of Jesus Christ, and that being baptized is our responsibility. We have the opportunity to be baptized in the name of and for our ancestors, so that those people who no longer have their bodies can still enter into the kingdom of God.
Amado wanted this. He was baptized by his grandson, and it was a very special day. Everyone who attended the baptism felt the Holy Ghost testify that the step he took that day was correct and was ordained of God. In the following visits, Amado testified to us that he knows that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is God’s church, and that he knew we were called by God to help him understand this. He had told many previous missionaries to go and preach to the people who didn’t know God, because he already knew God and didn’t need the missionaries. I learned even more that God places us where He needs us and that we can be instruments in His hands through our obedience and the love we have for Him and His children.

Christiana smiled as she counted the last of the coins. She carefully placed them in the small wooden box and closed the lid. “It is getting so heavy!” she thought as she slid the box into its hiding place under her bed. “Surely I am the richest girl in all of Denmark!” she exclaimed aloud.
Christiana Pedersen had been tending her father’s sheep for as long as she could remember, watching over them and keeping them safe from harm. She loved the green hills near her home in Oudrup in northern Denmark. She enjoyed spending her days in the open air with the gentle sheep.
Each time her father took the sheep to market or sheared their wool, he gave Christiana part of the money earned. Christiana always put her money into a special box, never spending any of it. Her father would put her on his knee and tease, “Whatever will you do with all that money? You are getting so much!”
“I will save it all,” Christiana would reply. “I don’t know why, but someday I will need it!” Her father would chuckle and shake his head. His daughter was so unlike all the other children her age who spent their coins as soon as they got them. He was proud of Christiana. What a good girl she was!
Christiana was about 20 years old when some men wearing dark suits and coats came to her little village. She heard them on the street corners, talking to passersby about the mysterious book they held in their hands. One day when Christiana and her mother were shopping in the village, they stopped to listen to the men. Christiana learned that they were missionaries from faraway America. They had come to share the restored gospel of Jesus Christ with the people of Denmark. The book was the Book of Mormon, the story of an ancient people who lived in the Americas. Part of the book recounted a visit of Jesus Christ to those people after His Resurrection.
Christiana’s family attended a church in her village, and she already knew about Jesus Christ from her study of the Bible. She had a warm feeling as she listened to the missionaries speak about the Savior. Her mother bought one of the books from the men and accepted a few tracts [pamphlets] that explained the beliefs taught by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Christiana’s father was angry when he heard that his wife and daughter had listened to the missionaries. He forbade them from joining “that American church.”
Her mother had a little wooden chest next to the bake oven where she placed the precious missionary tracts and the Book of Mormon. Christiana continued to read and study them. She was drawn to the sacred words and felt a growing testimony of their truthfulness, but she honored her father and did not meet with the missionaries nor join the Church.
At the age of 21, Christiana decided that she must follow the promptings of the Spirit and be baptized. Her father was furious! “I warn you, Christiana,” he shouted, “if you try to cross the ocean with those Mormons, you will surely be lost at sea. I will not help you with this foolishness.”
Christiana was not frightened by her father’s words; she had a strong testimony that the truth had been restored to the earth. Although she had to leave her home and family to join the Saints in Zion, she was baptized on October 25, 1856.
As Christiana counted the coins in her little treasure box, she knew why she had felt so strongly about saving all the money she had earned tending her father’s sheep. She had just enough to take her to join the Saints who were traveling west to the Great Salt Lake Valley. She was so grateful to her Heavenly Father. He had helped her to know that this money must be saved to help her obtain a treasure greater than all the money in the world—a testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and a place with His Saints.
Christiana Pedersen left the Bol Farm in Oudrup, Denmark, in the winter of 1856, traveling to Copenhagen. She boarded the ship L. N. Hvidt to England on April 18, 1857. In Liverpool, England, she boarded the Westmoreland with 504 other Church converts on April 25, 1857. The ship arrived in Philadelphia on May 31, 1857, after a five-week voyage. She then traveled by train to Iowa City, arriving on July 9. She left three days later with the Seventh Handcart Company, beginning her long walk to Utah. She later married Christian Frederick Nelson Twede and was the mother of eight children. Her mother, Anna Marie, joined her daughter in America in 1878 after Christiana’s father’s death.

Mary Ann smoothed the pink dotted swiss fabric. “Just think, now that I’m almost twelve, I’ll have my first all-new dress for Easter!”
Mama smiled as she drew the black drip pan from the oven of the coal stove and tipped four steaming loaves of bread onto the table.
“It will be the prettiest dress I’ve ever made, Mary Ann. You’ve been so patient, never complaining,” Mama said.
Mama wrapped the hot loaves in a big white dish towel. “Do you think you can take these over to the Fitches without mashing them, dear?”
“I feel sort of funny taking things to Martha’s house. I don’t know how to talk to her.”
Mama sighed. “Martha needs a friend. I’ve noticed that none of the girls associate with her.”
“Do I have to take the whole batch? Don’t we even get to keep one loaf of hot bread for supper?”
“Now, honey, Sister Fitch is very sick. And Martha hasn’t learned how to make bread yet. I must have her over soon to teach her,” Mother continued half to herself. “She’ll have to feed that family. …”
“You mean her mother won’t ever get well?” Mary Ann cut in.
“I’m afraid not, and I’m sure Martha realizes this. That’s probably why it’s hard for her to talk. Now hurry with the bread so you’ll be back before dark.”
Mary Ann kicked pebbles all the way down the lane. The warmth of the bread felt good and its aroma made her hungry. This is all I do, she thought, carry good things from our kitchen to somebody else’s and then we have to skimp. I don’t think Mama could do her Relief Society president’s job without our help, she consoled herself.
The trill of a meadowlark perched on a fence post interrupted Mary Ann’s thoughts. And the trees along the ditch bank were breaking into a fresh spring green. They reminded her that Easter was next Sunday and that she would be wearing something new to church. Then she thought of Martha and an unhappy feeling crept over her.
As Martha opened the door, Mary Ann could tell that she had been crying.
“Mama thought you’d like a batch of fresh bread,” Mary Ann said, setting the bread on the kitchen table.
Martha leaned over and sniffed to get the full aroma. “Your mother always knows when we need something,” she said gratefully.
“Mama says you must come over and let her teach you how to make bread,” Mary Ann said brightly, trying to be friendly. Then another thought struck her, as she added, “You do have something else to eat, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, Mama told me how to make soup out of potatoes and onions from our pit.” She rubbed her hands nervously down the front of her dress. “I can’t cook very well, but I’m learning.”
A sound came from the bedroom and Martha turned to go. “Mama’s calling. Tell your mother thanks for the bread.”
Mary Ann slipped out of the door and hurried home.
Next day Mama cut out the pink Easter dress, and Mary Ann could hardly contain her excitement.
After supper when her sisters were all around the big kitchen table doing their homework in the warmth of the stove, Mary Ann watched her mother fit the last pieces of her dress together. “Now,” she said, “let’s go try it on.”
Mary Ann put down her book and slipped into the bedroom where she wiggled into a cloud of pink and white softness.
Just then, there was a knock at the kitchen door. “Mama!” her sister Liza called, “It’s Brother Fitch. He wants to see you.”
Mama hurried away while Mary Ann peered into the dresser mirror. She draped the fragile white lace around the high neck and drew the pink satin ribbon around her waist. The dress was beautiful!
When Mama returned, she was untying her apron with one hand and smoothing her hair with the other. “Take the dress off, honey. Sister Fitch has taken a turn for the worse. I’ll go with Brother Fitch and I may not be back tonight.” Mama put on her warm shawl and was gone.
Next morning Liza got breakfast ready, and Papa came in from his chores to help get the girls off to school. Mama had been up all night with Sister Fitch, and when Martha wasn’t at school, Mary Ann was really worried.
After school the five girls burst into the kitchen to find Mama treadling away on the sewing machine, the pink dress nearly completed. The aroma of chickens stewing filled the room. “Ummm!” they chorused. “Chicken and noodles for dinner.”
“Try on your dress, Mary Ann, and let’s see if it fits,” Mama said. “I’m anxious to finish it.” Then she paused and said more quietly, “Sister Fitch died early this morning, and I must make a white burial dress for her.”
“Oh, no!” Mary Ann cried. “That’s why Martha wasn’t at school today.”
“We’ll all have to pitch in and help now,” Mama said. “Liza, would you please stir up some noodles and roll them out for the stewed chicken and Mary Ann can take a pot of soup over to the Fitches for their supper. Tonight, Mary Ann, you can sew the lace on your dress while I cut out a dress for Sister Fitch. Her funeral will be Friday.” The girls could tell by looking at Mama’s eyes that she had already done her weeping alone.
That evening Mary Ann stitched the lace carefully around the high neck and the long full sleeves of her Easter dress. The white fabric was laid out on the big table. Only the click of scissors broke the stillness. Everyone was in bed except Mary Ann and Mother.
“The funeral is the day after tomorrow, Mary Ann, and I’m sure that gray dress is the best one Martha has. I wish I had material and time to make her a new one.”
Mary Ann hugged her new dress to her cheek a moment. She had been thinking of Martha even before Mama mentioned her. Finally she spoke. “Mama, I’d like to do something special for Martha. Would it be all right if I gave her my new pink dress? We could add some lace to my white one and it would be really pretty.”
Love shone in Mama’s eyes as she replied, “That would be very nice, dear, and I’m proud that you suggested it.”
In spite of her decision, Mary Ann swallowed a lump in her throat as she silently finished sewing the lace on the pink Easter dress.
On Friday when Martha followed the coffin into the small church with her father and brothers, Mary Ann caught her breath. “Isn’t she beautiful, Mama?” she whispered.
The delicate pink seemed to bring color to Martha’s pale face in spite of her sadness, and her dark hair fell in soft curls on her neck. Martha saw Mary Ann’s look of admiration and a shy half-smile lighted her sad face. Mary Ann nodded, then turned to her mother and whispered, “I hope she never knows who the dress was made for, and I won’t mind not having a new dress—I think I’ve found a new friend.”

I was an inexperienced priest in a large ward. My bishop called me on the phone one Sunday afternoon. When I answered, he said, “Do you have time to go with me? I need your help.” He explained only that he wanted me to go as his companion to visit a woman I did not know, who was without food and who needed to learn how to manage her finances better.

Now, I knew that he had two seasoned counselors in his bishopric. Both were mature men of great experience. One counselor was the owner of a large business, who later became a mission president and a General Authority. The other counselor was a prominent judge in the city.

I was the bishop’s newly called first assistant in the priests quorum. He knew that I understood little about welfare principles. I knew even less about financial management. I had not yet written a check; I had no bank account; I hadn’t even seen a personal budget. Yet, despite my inexperience, I sensed that he was deadly serious when he said, “I need your help.”

I have come to understand what that inspired bishop meant. He saw in me a golden opportunity to prepare a priesthood holder. I am sure that he did not foresee in that untrained boy a future member of the Presiding Bishopric. But he treated me that day, and all the days I knew him over the years, as a preparation project of great promise.

He seemed to enjoy it, but it was work for him. On our return to my home after we visited the widow in need, he parked the car. He opened his well-worn and heavily marked scriptures. And he gave me kindly correction. He told me that I needed to study the scriptures and learn more. But he must have seen that I was weak and simple enough to be teachable. To this day I remember what he taught that afternoon. But even more, I remember how confident he was that I could learn and be better—and that I would.

He saw beyond the reality of who I was to the possibilities that lie inside someone who feels weak and simple enough to want the Lord’s help and to believe that it will come.

Bishops, mission presidents, and fathers can choose to act on those possibilities. I saw it happen recently in a fast meeting as a deacons quorum president bore his testimony. He was about to become a teacher and leave his quorum members behind him.

He testified with great feeling in his voice of the growth in goodness and power in the members of his quorum. I’ve never heard a person praise an organization more wonderfully than he did. He praised their service. And then he said that he knew that he had been able to help the new deacons when they felt overwhelmed because he had felt overwhelmed when he came into the priesthood.

His feelings of weakness had made him more patient, more sympathetic, and therefore better able to strengthen and serve others. In those two years in the Aaronic Priesthood, it seemed to me, he had become seasoned and wise. He had learned that he was helped as a quorum president by a clear and vivid memory of his own needs when he was two years younger. His challenge in the future in his leadership and ours will come when such memories fade and grow dim through time and our success.

We have developed a game that we play in our home called “Touched You Last.” Most nights, as we tuck the children in bed, we play this fun game. One night, after we all had been in bed for a few minutes and the lights were out, my daughter got out of her bed and in the dark crawled quietly on her hands and knees from her room down the hall into our room. She crawled to my side of the bed, reached up and said, “Touched you last.” I want you to know that my heart is okay.

The fickle wind can carry balloonists into some truly quixotic adventures. They flew over Tony’s house one day, and just then the wind died, so they hung there for a while. The milkman came by on his route and looked up and said, “Those guys must be insane!” “That’s my husband,” Sister Seymour replied. Tony had his kids come out, and he talked to them from the balloon, reminding them to brush their teeth. “They’re pretty obedient when you talk to them from the sky,” he says. His little daughter Amy thought quietly about it all day and finally asked, “Mommy, did Daddy die and go to heaven?”

Kenny leaned against Sly’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of the animal in the cold winter air. “You’re a regular stove, Sly,” he said. The black horse flicked his ears and kept eating. Kenny threaded his fingers through the horse’s silky black mane and looked across the corral at the huge mounds of snow heaped along the fences. His father said it was the most snow they’d had in 14 years.
Picking up the pitchfork, Kenny went to feed the rest of the animals. For the past three days, he’d had to do all the chores by himself. His dad was sick with a high fever, and it was hard for him to breathe.
“Hey, Kenny.”
He looked up to see his neighbor standing at the gate, bundled up so just his eyes showed. He’d been sick too.
“When’s your father going into Ely next? My wife is real sick and we could use some medicine.”
Kenny’s father was a teamster as well as a farmer. Every few days he drove his wagon and team of horses from Lund, Nevada, to Ely, taking milk, grain, and other produce raised by the farmers in Lund. He brought back the mail, medicine, and other needed items.
“I’ll tell him you were asking,” Kenny said. Then he trudged back to the house through the snow.
His mother stood at the stove, fixing breakfast. “Your father wants to talk to you,” she said.
Kenny took off his hat and gloves and walked into the other room. In the dim light he could see his father’s face against the pillow.
“Did it snow again last night?” Father asked.
“Some. But the sky’s clear this morning.” Kenny hesitated, not wanting to tell him that the neighbor was asking about medicine from Ely. Father was too sick to go anywhere, and it would just worry him.
But he seemed to already know. He pushed himself up on one elbow and looked at Kenny. “What do you think about riding Sly into Ely? People need medicine, and the mail needs to go through.”
Excitement stirred in Kenny’s stomach. Ride to Ely? By himself?
“Sly is our best horse,” Father said. “He hasn’t been to Ely much, but you know the way.”
Kenny nodded. He had ridden to Ely in the wagon with his father lots of times. “I’ll do it,” he said. Fear was only a tiny fist curled deep in his heart. He hardly paid attention to it.
When Kenny awoke the next morning, it was still dark outside. His mother had hot mush, eggs, venison, and thick slices of buttered bread ready for him. In a cloth bag was more food for him to eat on the way.
“You spend the night in Ely with Aunt Sarah and Uncle Rod.” She laid a small stack of papers tied with string on the table. “Here are the names of medicines that you will need to pick up.”
Kenny tucked the papers in the saddlebag along with the mail. His little sisters watched with solemn eyes.
“When will you be back?” Thelma asked.
“Tomorrow night,” Kenny replied.
“Stay on the road,” his father warned. “Don’t take any shortcuts. The snow will be drifted bad in places.” Then his family knelt for morning prayer, and his father asked for a special blessing on Kenny and Sly.
The air was icy when they set out. It was still dark, but a rim of light showed along the eastern horizon.
Someone had already broken a trail through the flats, so the first part went smoothly. But when they reached the hills, the trail ended. Kenny looked at the untracked snow that lay glittering before them. If he squinted, he could see a slight indention where the road wound through the hills.
“Here we go,” Kenny said and nudged Sly in the ribs. The horse stepped forward, the soft snow giving way under his hooves. In some places, it was so deep it came up to the horse’s belly. Sly would paw at it, breaking a trail and moving forward.
When the sun was somewhere near the top of the sky, Kenny pulled Sly to a stop to eat lunch. His mother had packed sandwiches and apples. Kenny gave the apples to Sly, who munched them happily, the juice dribbling off his floppy lips. Then they set out again.
As they climbed higher in the hills, the indention in the snow that showed the road grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared. Snow was drifted in huge mounds, creating hills where there had been no hills and smooth places where there had been ravines. Kenny reined Sly to a halt and looked around. It was as if he had turned a corner and found himself lost in a completely foreign world. The tiny fist of fear in his heart suddenly grew large.
“Heavenly Father,” he whispered, “I don’t know which way to go. Please help me.” He took a deep breath and urged the horse on.
Suddenly Sly sank up to his neck in snow. Kenny panicked, his head pounding. “Please, Heavenly Father, please help us.” Desperate, he looked around at the flat whiteness imprisoning them. He gripped the reins, fighting an impulse to jump off the horse and run. Common sense told him he wouldn’t be able to run. He’d be completely buried.
Then suddenly he could feel Sly’s muscles moving underneath him. Sly was slowly, patiently pawing at the snow, digging his way out. Kenny reached down and began moving the snow burying his own legs.
It seemed like hours before he and his horse had cleared a space around them. Sly stood for a moment, panting, then lunged heavily to the right, stumbled, and caught himself. Finally they were standing on the road.
Kenny looked around him. They could turn around and go back home. He could tell his father he couldn’t go any farther. He’d understand. But Sly started walking again, carefully placing each hoof. Again Kenny prayed. “What shall I do? Shall I keep going or turn around? I think I’m lost.”
A quiet voice said, “Look up at the mountains.”
Kenny looked up past the hills to the mountains that surrounded their valley. The mountains hadn’t changed. They were right where they’d always been—familiar, sturdy. Suddenly Kenny knew where he was. It was as if he could see the road the way it looked in summer. There were the mountains, there were the hills, and there was the road. He could imagine how it wound up the hill.
“I think we’re supposed to keep going,” he said to his horse, but Sly was already going.
The sun was beginning to set when, at last, Kenny saw what he’d been looking for—a clear indention in the snow that was the road. And farther on, he saw something even better. Someone with a sled had driven down the road, packing the snow and making a clear trail all the way to Ely.
It was well past dark when Kenny knocked on Aunt Sarah’s door.
“Kenny! What are you doing here? You look frozen solid.”
“I’m OK,” Kenny said, his knees trembling. “But I need to take care of my horse.”
Later, over a bowl of warm stew, he told his aunt and uncle about his ride to Ely, and how his father and others were sick and needed medicine.
“You get some rest tonight,” his uncle said. “We’ll get the medicine first thing in the morning. Going back will be easier because you’ve already broken a trail.” He looked at Kenny hard. “Grown men have gotten lost or stranded in that deep snow.”
Kenny laid his spoon beside his bowl and looked at his uncle. “I had help,” he said. He thought about the quiet voice and the mountains and how Sly seemed to know just what to do. Heavenly Father was watching out for them.

In my earlier years of marriage, I found myself asking these questions and was discouraged by what I perceived to be the answers. Although my husband was an excellent father, I often felt irritated and angry. I wanted him to fit the image of what I thought he should be. I had certain ideals and goals that I wanted implanted in him.

One day, I turned to my father for advice. Because of his training as a psychiatrist, I knew he wouldn’t be too critical of his son-in-law. His first words were like a bucket of cold water over me: “Martha, if you continue like this, you could drive your husband away.”

My jaw dropped. “What do you mean by that?” I asked. This wasn’t going at all as I had expected.

He held up his hand to ward off my indignation. “Just let me explain. Not long ago, I counseled a Latter-day Saint woman who had left a basically good marriage. She felt her husband wasn’t living all the Church standards. Years of nagging and pleading hadn’t changed him. She thought that if she left him, he would change his ways in order to win her back. She never suspected that he would find someone else who loved and respected him as he was. He remarried happily after their divorce, and she was devastated.”

Why am I getting this lecture? I wondered. I had never considered leaving my husband. “Are you saying I should just quit being assertive and forget my own ideals?” I asked defensively.

“No, I’m saying lead but don’t drive. Be gentle in your persuasion while recognizing his strengths and achievements. Be an example without criticizing. In your rush to achieve your goals, you may be sending a silent message that he’s not good enough for you. He’s a good man, Martha, and he needs to know that you think so, too.”

I sat, unable to speak as tears welled in my eyes. I was torn. I understood my father’s words, but I expected my husband to be what I had always dreamed of.

My father tried a different approach. “Have you heard the story about the farmer who hitched two mice to his wagon? His neighbor saw him climbing into the wagon and laughed at the farmer. ‘You don’t really expect those two little mice to pull that wagon, do you?’ he asked. The farmer replied, ‘Why not? I have a whip.’”

I laughed in spite of myself. The image of me in the wagon was clear. I had been using anger and resentment as my whip, with just about the same chance for success.

“Okay, I guess I am being too pushy,” I said. “But I see other men who lead the way I want to be led. Is it wrong to expect that?”

Dad’s voice was gentle but firm. “You are going about this with the wrong attitude. One of the most treacherous developments in any marriage is when partners wonder if they made the right choice. The marriage begins to fall apart because they quit working at it.”

“Dad,” I interrupted, “it’s because I love him that I get discouraged. I want him to reach his full potential.”

“It’s all a matter of loyalty. Do you realize that disloyalty begins with your thoughts—that you are actually being disloyal when you compare your husband to others?”

I was losing my argument fast, and I knew it. I tried one more time: “My commitment to him is eternal. The day-to-day choices he makes as the priesthood leader affect the family eternally.”

“Patience and love are eternal, too.” He opened his scriptures and read: “No power or influence can or ought to be maintained by virtue of the priesthood, only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned;

“By kindness, and pure knowledge, which shall greatly enlarge the soul without hypocrisy, and without guile” (D&C 121:41–42).

I knew these verses. They were written for priesthood holders about exercising unrighteous dominion. Why was he reading them to me?

“These two verses,” he explained, “contain the elements for success in any relationship—and especially the relationship between husband and wife. One of the great challenges in marriage is to accept all the differences in personality, background, and motivation—and to work toward being one in purpose. That’s no easy task, and it may take a lifetime. But as you pointed out, marriage is an eternal commitment.”

Then he told me about a farmer he had known when he was a boy. The man used to catch wild horses in northern Arizona. They were free and available to anyone who wanted to catch them, but they were difficult to tame and train. Late at night, he would round up part of the herd into a temporary corral near the watering hole. Then he would select the best one and tie one end of a cotton rope around its neck and the other end to his strong white mule, leaving just enough space for them to travel side by side. Then he would leave them in the desert to work out their own compromises.

The mule knew the way home and would gladly travel in that direction. If the horse tried to go another way, the mule would stand firm and not go. If the mule got off track, the horse would be unwilling to move. So it went until they had worked through their differences. Within two weeks, the two would come trotting home to food and shelter. The horse would be ready for training, and it and the mule would behave as though they had been together all their lives. Dad added, “I almost left out the most important part: that rope around their necks was a very soft rope.”

I began to see the connection between the story and the scripture he had quoted—and I knew it wasn’t about being as stubborn as a mule. Marriage commits us in purpose as surely as that rope between the mule and the horse. Even though we recognize our ultimate destination, we don’t always travel in the same direction or at the same pace to get there. The soft strands of the rope that tie us together—representing love, patience, commitment, and faith—should prevent the rope from chafing. If the rope material is too rough, one of the partners might decide to cut it rather than endure pain and suffering.

I had misunderstood. Was I really willing to have a dynamic, take-charge leader for a husband and stand in his shadow, being pulled toward a goal or ideal? On the other hand, I wondered how much my husband appreciated being dragged along by my unwavering zeal.

I have studied the last six verses of Doctrine and Covenants 121 with new understanding. The principles they teach have strengthened and enriched my marriage. When one partner is less enthusiastic about the path they are following, it’s easy to blame the other partner—and that is what I had been doing.

I’m grateful to my father for a gentle reminder that made such a difference in my life. The deep love and respect my husband and I enjoy in our seventeen-year marriage is a product of my father’s advice. Each time I’m tempted to be domineering, I hear my father’s words: “He’s a good man, Martha, and he needs to know that you think so, too.”

Thanks, Dad. You’re so right.

A few days ago, I heard two accounts of God leading His children to safety on the coast of Thailand when that monstrous tsunami wave struck.

One was of people who accepted His apparently routine invitation to a Church meeting on a Sunday. The meeting was called by ordinary men who hold the priesthood of God. The meeting place was on higher ground, away from the coast. The people who gathered with the Saints were spared from physical death, while the places on the coast where they would have been were destroyed. As they were spared physical death, they were being strengthened against spiritual temptation and the wave of eternal tragedy it will bring to those who are disobedient.
The other account I heard was related to me by a Latter-day Saint who was led to safety by the Holy Ghost. He checked into a hotel on the ocean front in Thailand the day before the wave struck. He walked out on the beach. He felt uneasy. He went back to his hotel determined to check out. The hotel staff, I think worried that he didn’t like the hotel, pressed him for a reason. They only reluctantly agreed to his leaving. He moved to another hotel, away from the beach. It was on higher ground. Because of that, he not only survived but stayed to serve the survivors.
The Lord is anxious to lead us to the safety of higher ground, away from the path of physical and spiritual danger. His upward path will require us to climb. My mother used to say to me when I complained that things were hard, "If you are on the right path, it will always be uphill." And as the world becomes darker and more dangerous, we must keep climbing. It will be our choice whether or not to move up or to stay where we are. But the Lord will invite and guide us upward by the direction of the Holy Ghost, which He sends to His leaders and to His people who will receive it.

I know from experience the troubled mind of such a young person. When I was preparing to go on my mission, some surprising forces tried to discourage me. One was my dentist. When he realized my appointment was so I could be a missionary, he tried to dissuade me from serving. I had not had the least notion that my dentist was against the Church.

The interruption of my education was also complicated. When I asked for a two-year leave of absence from my university program, I was informed that it was not possible. I would lose my place at the university if I did not return after one year. In Brazil, this was serious since the only criterion for admittance in a university program was a very difficult and competitive examination.

After repeatedly insisting, I was reluctantly informed that after being absent for one year, I could apply for an exception on extraordinary grounds. It might be approved or not. I was terrified at the idea of retaking that difficult admissions test after two years away from my studies.

I also was especially interested in a young woman. Several of my friends shared that same interest. I thought to myself, “If I go on a mission, I’m running a risk.”

But the Lord Jesus Christ was my great inspiration not to be afraid of the future as I strove to serve Him with all my heart.

Remember the challenges that I thought I faced prior to my mission? My dentist? I found another. My university? They made an exception for me. Remember that young woman? She married one of my good friends.

But God truly blessed me richly. And I learned that the blessings of the Lord can come in ways different from how we expect. After all, His thoughts are not our thoughts (see Isaiah 55:8–9).

Among the many rich blessings He has given me for serving Him as a full-time missionary are a greater faith in Jesus Christ and His Atonement and a stronger knowledge and testimony of His teachings, so that I am not easily swayed by “every wind of doctrine” (Ephesians 4:14). I lost my fear of teaching. My capacity to face challenges with optimism increased. By observing individuals and families I met or taught as a missionary, I learned that the teachings of God are true when He says that sin does not bring true happiness and that obedience to the commandments of God helps us prosper both temporally and spiritually (see Mosiah 2:41; Alma 41:10). And I learned for myself that God is a God of miracles (see Mormon 9).

All of these things were instrumental in my preparation for adult life, including possible marriage and parenthood, Church service, and professional and community life.

Oliver Wendell Holmes (1841-1935) who was an Associate Justice on the United States Supreme Court from 1902-1932 was riding on a train, and when the conductor came by to pick up his ticket, the Justice couldn't find it. Recognizing Mr. Holmes as being very famous, the conductor said, "I'm sure, Mr. Holmes, that you will be able to find your ticket when you return home. I am certain that the Pennsylvania Railroad can get by without that ticket until you find it. Why don't you just mail it to us?" "Young man," said Mr. Holmes, "You don't understand. The problem is not where is my ticket; it's where am I going?"

Later in my youth, my brother and I slept in an unheated bedroom in the winter. People thought that was good for you. Before falling into a warm bed, we knelt to say our prayers. There were expressions of simple gratitude. They concluded in the name of Jesus. The distinctive title of Christ was not used very much when we prayed in those days.

I recall jumping into my bed after I had said amen, pulling the covers up around my neck, and thinking of what I had just done in speaking to my Father in Heaven in the name of His Son. I did not have great knowledge of the gospel. But there was some kind of lingering peace and security in communing with the heavens in and through the Lord Jesus.