Gospel Story Finder

When I came to BYU, my goal was to get a ­master’s degree in business administration and work for the best marketing company in the world: Procter & Gamble. It took a lot of sleepless nights, sacrifice, and my own money to earn my degree. Because of BYU, I got the job.
I remember my first day of work. I parked my car down the road and across the freeway from P&G’s headquarters in Cincinnati. I can’t describe the feeling of accomplishment I had as I walked across the overpass bridge to my new job. I had done it. I was about to start a career for which I had struggled and sacrificed.
But suddenly my thoughts changed. Do you know what I noticed? I noticed that I was walking. And I remembered my accident and I remembered the words of that blessing when Stan said, “I bless you that you will walk again. I bless you that you will hold positions of leadership and make a difference in the world.” There I was, dressed in my new suit, headed to my first day of professional work, and crying like a baby as I walked into my new life.

Let’s just cite one more example where the Lord watched over and protected his Saints in the Church. This is found in the History of the Church: There were threats of a mob on June 19, 1834. As the Mormons were making camp, five men rode up and told them that they would “see hell before morning.” They stated that an armed force from Richmond, Ray, and Clay counties was to join a Jackson County force at the Fishing River ford, bent on the utter destruction of the camp.
While these five men were in the camp, cursing and swearing vengeance, signs of an approaching storm were seen. No sooner had these men left the camp than the storm burst forth in all its fury. Hailstones struck, so large that they cut limbs from the trees, and the limbs fell all around the camp while the trees were twisted from their roots by the force of the wind. The earth trembled and quaked, and the streams became raging torrents, and the mobbers dispersed, seeking shelter that could not be found. One mobber was killed by lightning and another had his hand torn off by a fractious horse, and in fear they dispersed, saying that if that was the way God fought for the “Mormons” they would go about their business.
On the morning of June 21 (just two days later) Colonel Sconce, with two companions, visited the camp to learn what the intentions of the members were. He said: “I see there is an almighty power that protects this people, for I started from Richmond, Ray County, with a company of armed men, having a fixed determination to destroy you, but was kept back by the storm.”
The Prophet then related to these men the sufferings of the Saints, and they left the camp offering to use their influence. (See History of the Church, 2:103–6.)
During all this storm the members of the camp were protected from its fury. Why were they protected? Because of their collective obedience to the Lord.

Aside from providing a meetingplace for the little group of Saints, the new chapel has brought other blessings. Leonor Machua heard of the new meetinghouse just before leaving on a brief trip to Guayaquil, Ecuador. While in Ecuador she asked someone about the new building and the religion it represented. The stranger answered her questions and suggested she meet with missionaries once she returned home. A few days later she saw the missionaries on a street corner and accepted the invitation to be taught. Sister Machua was baptized immediately after the Saturday afternoon session of general conference in October 2009, the first person to be baptized in the new meetinghouse’s baptismal font.

Anderson School was a tall and dark redbrick building, and Jenny knew she wouldn’t like it. She remembered the low cream-colored school she had attended in California, also the modern one in Maryland before that where one wall was built completely of glass.
Clutching her mother’s hand, Jenny walked into the principal’s office. A woman behind a desk stood up to meet them and introduced herself. Jenny heard her mother’s meeting-new-people voice, telling of their arrival in Grant’s Valley two days before. Jenny knew the sentences by heart: “Our daughter has gone to five different schools and has never had any trouble adjusting.”
The lady smiled and said kindly, “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the fourth grade here, Jenny. Miss Sorenson is a wonderful teacher!”
Jenny’s mother said again that she knew Jenny would fit right in as she always had in the other schools.
But Jenny wasn’t sure that she would. She just twisted her pink handkerchief around her little finger and stared hard at the bouquet of lilacs on the principal’s desk, until the two women rose to go to the fourth grade classroom. Then she followed them down the hall, glancing at the boys and girls who sat at the old desks in the rooms she passed.
When they arrived at Room 12, Miss Sorenson was showing a movie about Washington, D.C. The teacher stopped the movie and turned on the lights so she could talk with the principal. The children turned around in their seats and looked at Jenny. The room smelled like blackboard erasers, and there were narrow windows at the side with dark green blinds pulled down for the movie. Jenny wished that her mother would stop talking to Miss Sorenson and go home. A girl with brown hair and a red-checked dress whispered something to the girl across the aisle, who giggled and whispered back, their eyes on Jenny.
At last Jenny’s mother left. Miss Sorenson said, “Class, this is Jenny Martin, who just moved here from California. Now, Jenny, why don’t you take that seat there in the second row and we’ll finish watching the movie.”
Gratefully, Jenny slid into the seat just as someone switched off the light. She watched as the scenes flashed by on the screen, showing the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument during cherry blossom time. Jenny wanted to say, “I’ve been to those places!” But she was sure no one cared about that.
Recess followed the movie. Everyone had to wait in line and march down the long halls together. In California, the playground had been right next to the classroom. Jenny reached the end of the line and slowly walked outside, wondering what they would play.
There were swings, a slide, and climbing bars on the playground. In California, the playground was an area of black asphalt without play equipment, but with painted white lines for hopscotch and dodge ball. Jenny kicked at the dirt that comprised most of the playground and watched the other children. They played noisily in their own private groups. The girls looked at her as she walked past them, but no one smiled or asked her to join them. She walked on until she went around a corner of the building and just kept going. Soon she had walked past the end of the school property and crossed the street at the corner.
Jenny continued walking. The weather was cool and, even though it was early May, she wished she’d worn a coat instead of her light sweater. Between the sidewalk and the street a stream of sparkling water rushed through the new grass. Jenny noticed how beautiful the trees were, with tiny leaves of the softest green, just the color of a dress her mother sometimes wore to parties.
At the end of the block Jenny came to a small park. It was empty except for a man picking up litter with a pointed stick. The lonely girl sat down in a swing and pushed herself slowly. It made a squeaking noise, and for a moment she was afraid someone would come to ask why she wasn’t in school. But soon the rhythm of the swing and the sound of the wind moving through the trees made her forget her fear. She closed her eyes and swung higher, pretending she was back in California playing on the beach.
When she opened her eyes, she saw the principal was standing there. Jenny almost fell out of the swing.
“Hello, Jenny,” said the principal in a kind voice. “Did you decide to come here for recess today?”
She didn’t sound angry, and for a minute Jenny almost smiled.
“I saw you walking away from the playground and wondered if you thought school was over for the day,” the principal added.
Then Jenny did a strange thing. She started to cry. She hardly ever cried, but she cried now because she was thinking of how the girl in the red-checked dress would probably laugh and whisper about her tardiness. And she was crying because she knew that she couldn’t hunt for shells and rocks on the beach anymore. But mostly she was crying because the principal was very kind and Jenny thought somehow she should be quite cross.
The principal didn’t put her arms around the sobbing girl, although she wanted to very much, to help her stop crying. She stood quietly and said, “Jenny, I imagine you noticed a lot of things about Grant’s Valley on your little walk, didn’t you? I used to live in San Francisco, and when I came here I was surprised to find that spring in Grant’s Valley is like a miracle. When we walk back to school, I’ll show you the place where I got the lilacs on my desk, and perhaps the lady who lives there will give you some to take to your mother.”
The principal took Jenny’s hand in hers and continued, “You will soon see that the children in Grant’s Valley have a good time, especially in the spring and summer. They don’t ride ferryboats across the bay, and they can’t go to the beach and find seashells. But they play games outside on warm summer evenings, and wade in these refreshing irrigation ditches. And do you know, I’ll bet if you told the class some afternoon about all the things you’ve seen and done in the places you’ve lived, they’d be glad to share with you some of the wonderful things in their lives!”
Together she and Jenny walked back to Anderson School—the friendly redbrick building.

God uses another form of chastening or correction to guide us to a future we do not or cannot now envision but which He knows is the better way for us. President Hugh B. Brown, formerly a member of the Twelve and a counselor in the First Presidency, provided a personal experience. He told of purchasing a rundown farm in Canada many years ago. As he went about cleaning up and repairing his property, he came across a currant bush that had grown over six feet (1.8 m) high and was yielding no berries, so he pruned it back drastically, leaving only small stumps. Then he saw a drop like a tear on the top of each of these little stumps, as if the currant bush were crying, and thought he heard it say:
“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. … And now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me. … How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.”
President Brown replied, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and someday, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down.’”
Years later, President Brown was a field officer in the Canadian Army serving in England. When a superior officer became a battle casualty, President Brown was in line to be promoted to general, and he was summoned to London. But even though he was fully qualified for the promotion, it was denied him because he was a Mormon. The commanding general said in essence, “You deserve the appointment, but I cannot give it to you.” What President Brown had spent 10 years hoping, praying, and preparing for slipped through his fingers in that moment because of blatant discrimination. Continuing his story, President Brown remembered:
“I got on the train and started back … with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. … When I got to my tent, … I threw my cap on the cot. I clenched my fists, and I shook them at heaven. I said, ‘How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?’ I was as bitter as gall.
“And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, ‘I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.’ The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness. …
“… And now, almost 50 years later, I look up to [God] and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.’”5
God knew what Hugh B. Brown was to become and what was needed for that to happen, and He redirected his course to prepare him for the holy apostleship.

After my conversion, I became a better husband and father. My wife and children could not believe how much I changed. My two oldest boys, Amadou and Gausou, began to ask about the Church and read the Book of Mormon. They were baptized in 1984. Soon they were inviting other young people to see Church films and to meet the American members who lived in Mali. We had no official branch, but I kept a history of our sacrament meetings in a green book with the word Record on the cover.

As a Church member, I received many blessings. Then came a period that greatly tried my faith. In February 1988, I lost my job as a teacher and my position as a leader in the teachers’ union. I was thwarted on all sides in my efforts to find work. My life had been dedicated to teaching. How would I now support my wife and six children? And how would I feed the eleven other relatives who, for economic reasons, were living in our home?

Everybody worked hard to bring in money. My wife took in sewing, while Amadou and Gausou used a lathe to make tools to sell. Their younger brother cleaned shoes. Even my mother opened a small business selling spices. Eventually I had to sell the family car, for which we had saved for years. I pleaded with the Lord to help me provide for my family.

During this difficult time, a package arrived from Church officials in Salt Lake City containing a simplified version of Gospel Principles, which had been translated into Bambara. They asked if I would check the translation and then translate twelve hymns. As soon as I began this work, I realized its importance and tried to do it as correctly as possible. I struggled many times to find the right word or expression. Then, at other times, my mind would open in a remarkable way—as though someone were dictating to me. (When I finished the translations, I asked them to keep most of the money they were to pay me. I considered it my tithing.) I continued to pray constantly because of our desperate situation.

Little did I guess what would happen next. In May, I received a letter from an old friend, an American doctor named James Ferwarda. I had met Dr. Ferwarda during his visit to Mali in 1985. At his request, I had accompanied him on a tour of my country. Now, to my great surprise, he was sending me a round-trip airplane ticket and inviting me to visit him at his home in the United States!

I was astonished, overwhelmed at his offer. But it seemed impossible for me to leave my family at this critical time. The Church members urged me to accept the invitation, however. Perhaps, they said, the Lord would open the way for me to go to the temple while I was in the United States. Like many members, I cherished the dream of attending the temple “someday.”

Still dumbfounded, I did go, “not knowing beforehand the things which I should do.” (See 1 Ne. 4:6.) It was incredible that someone who was barely surviving financially could make such an expensive trip. After I arrived in the United States, Dr. Ferwarda learned of my deep desire to attend the temple, which was more than 2,000 kilometers away. Although he was not a member of the Church, he told me, “I respect your opinion, and I will pay for your ticket to Salt Lake City, too.”

I visited the Church offices as soon as I arrived in Salt Lake City. I will never, ever forget that day. Elder Alexander Morrison of the Seventy ordained me an elder. Then I went to the temple and received the endowment. Everyone in the temple was so kind. The beauty and serenity there moved me deeply. I was also impressed by the young missionaries, whom I saw for the first time. Now I knew that I wanted my sons to serve missions.

The next day, I visited the offices of a humanitarian organization that sponsors a number of agricultural and educational projects in Mali. Hoping that they might need my services, I met with several administrators but returned to Mali without a job offer.

Our family’s trial of faith lasted five more months. During that time I was grateful for the temple ordinances, which strengthened me. Nevertheless, I often felt like a man who was drowning in a deep river. Daily I entreated the Lord to deliver us from our economic crisis. Then, in November, the miracle came. The humanitarian organization that I had met with in Salt Lake City sent me a telegram, notifying me that I had been hired as their new field director. I knew without a doubt that only the Lord’s hand had plucked me from the river.

My job is a challenging one, requiring negotiations with government officials, local trainers, and village chiefs. Whenever I begin something that seems impossible, someone is sure to say, “You will never accomplish that!” But I know the Lord has the power to help me. I pray, and things work out somehow. I am still not rich, but I can feed my family and the others who depend on me. And now I am able to travel to Utah on business once a year. During these visits, I go to the temple, and I am sometimes able to attend general conference.

Other things have happened, wonderful things. In 1992 my son Amadou completed his mission to French-speaking Canada. There he helped to teach and baptize many people, including African immigrants and Moslems. Now both he and Gausou are studying in the United States. Gausou, too, wants to serve a mission some day. I pray that he will, and that all the rest of my family will join the Church. I pray that all of my children will be good students and honest citizens.

I look forward to the day when the Church will be organized in Mali. As of this writing, I am the only resident member of the Church here. I sustain myself spiritually by praying in all circumstances and by reading the Book of Mormon. And I still have in my care a worn green book with the word Record on the cover. But in my heart I carry another record. I will remember forever how the Lord has poured out his blessings upon me.

My wife, Rhonda, and I have parents who are just regular people—probably a lot like your parents. But one thing I love about our parents is that they dedicated their lives to serving God, and they taught us to do the same.
When Rhonda’s parents had been married for just a couple of years, her 23-year-old dad was called to serve a full-time mission. He left behind his young wife and their 2-year-old daughter. Then his wife was called to serve with him during the last seven months of his mission—leaving their daughter in the care of relatives.
A few years later, now with four children, they moved to Missoula, Montana, so her dad could attend the university. However, they had been there only a few months when President Spencer W. Kimball and Elder Mark E. Petersen extended a call to my father-in-law to be the first president of the newly created Missoula stake. He was only 34. Thoughts of the university were left behind as he sought to do the Lord’s will—not his own.
My parents have served in the temple for more than 30 years—Dad as a sealer, Mom as an ordinance worker. They also served five full-time missions together—in Riverside, California; Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia; Nairobi, Kenya; the Nauvoo Illinois Temple; and the Monterrey Mexico Temple. In Mexico they worked hard to learn a new language, which wasn’t easy at 80 years of age. But they sought to do the will of the Lord rather than to pursue their own desires in life.
To them, and to all such dedicated Latter-day Saints throughout the world, I echo the words spoken by the Lord to the prophet Nephi, the son of Helaman: “Blessed art thou, … for those things which thou hast done … with unwearyingness … , [for thou] hast not sought thine own life, but hast sought my will, and to keep my commandments.”8
As we seek to do God’s will by faithfully serving Him and our fellowmen, we feel His approval and truly come to know Him.

On Saturday 27th April 2024, Elder Ioan Berry, a currently serving service missionary in the England Birmingham Mission, alongside his mum, Imogen, and his older brother, Jotham, were invited by internationally acclaimed speech and language therapist and chair of NAPLIC, Stephen Parsons, to give a 40-minute presentation on “Living with Developmental Language Disorder (DLD) – A Family Perspective.” Over 200 delegates who were university academics, professionals working with people with DLD and families living with DLD were in attendance.
“‘Developmental Language Disorder’ (DLD) is identified when children, young people or adults have difficulties with understanding the language they hear or speaking in sentences to express meaning. It is a lifelong condition.
DLD can be used to describe the condition if there is no other cause for the language difficulties, such as autism.” (NAPLIC)
Elder Berry spoke first and described his experience of growing up with DLD and what support has helped and hindered in this. He spoke about his service mission and how this has helped him grow in confidence. He also shared a link to a video he made during COVID lockdown describing DLD (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bXHCjk_FCI4).
Imogen spoke about the journey to access support, language therapy and specialist education for Ioan and the 42 professionals who have been involved with Ioan’s success.
Jotham then gave a sibling perspective, and how he has supported Elder Berry as protector and advocate. Jotham was also able to speak about serving his mission in the Scotland Ireland Mission, and how his experience of growing up with a neurodiverse brother had helped him be more understanding of companions who had ADHD and Autism. Jotham also gave a report on his dissertation for his MSc degree in Occupational Psychology, in which he spoke to adults with DLD and assessed reasonable adjustments that could be made in the workplace to enable adults with DLD to succeed and thrive. Professor Courtenay Norbury from UCL, who attended the conference, is supporting Jotham in having his research paper published.
At the end of the conference, delegates were asked to complete an evaluation, and many replied that their highlight of the day was the Berry family presentation. Below is a summary of the conference compiled by Stephen Parsons:
https://www.naplic.org.uk/category/conferences/#:~:text=Recently%20the%20NAPLIC%20annual%20conference,secondary%20education%20into%20young%20adulthood.
The family were approached by various delegates over the course of the day. Elder Berry has been invited to speak to other professionals in Devon next summer and to provide an article for the nationally circulated Speechlink magazine. Many attendees wanted to talk to the family about DLD, but a number approached to talk specifically about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and a lot of information about service missions was shared.

Kendall A., age 10, Costa Rica
Last year when I began elementary school, I worried very much that Mama would forget to pick me up after school. I even cried when I arrived at school. But just before class began, I said a prayer and asked Heavenly Father to help me not to cry and to help Mama remember to pick me up.
After I prayed I felt much better and didn’t want to cry anymore. When it was time to go, I saw Mama waiting for me at the front gate. I was so happy that Heavenly Father listened to me and answered my prayer.

It was New Year’s Day, and a snowstorm had just blanketed the small mountain town of Estes Park, Colorado, where I lived. Filled with the excitement of the holiday season, my older brother, Roger, and I had gone outside to play in a field near our home. A little lake where we had played on the ice many times before now lay underneath a fresh mantle of snow, flat and absolutely flawless.
No one worried about the lake being unsafe at that time of year—we lived at such a high altitude that the cold weather generally insured that small lakes would be frozen. But as we were playing, Roger suddenly fell through a soft spot in the ice. I was only six years old, and I didn’t know what to do. I could see no sticks around to pull him out with; everything was covered by snow. His heavy clothing soon pulled him under the water.
I ran all the way home through the deep snow, over a mile, to get my father. We drove back to the lake, and he dove through the ice and somehow found my brother. He tried to revive him, but by that time Roger had drowned.
That experience left me with several feelings. First, I saw the strength of the gospel in my parents’ lives. We were the only members of the Church in our community. Everyone rallied around my parents to give them support and comfort, but I think that the whole community gained more comfort and understanding by watching how a knowledge of the gospel helped my family handle that very difficult situation.
Years later, after I had a family of my own, my wife’s mother heard a caller in a radio talk show describe how he had watched a young family that had lost a son in a drowning accident. He didn’t mention the names of my parents, but the accident had occurred in Estes Park. It was obvious of whom he was speaking. He said it had taught him a great lesson about the strength of that family and the principles that guided their lives. Even then, about twenty-five years after the accident, my parents’ conduct continued to influence others.
Second, I learned about the purpose of this mortal experience. We come to earth to gain a body. Some of us are going to live on the earth a shorter time than others. When you’re literally side by side with your brother, and he goes through the ice and drowns and you don’t, it gives you a whole different way of thinking about life. It could have just as easily been me that drowned. But I’ve always felt that my brother’s mission here on earth had been completed and that he was just “called home” at an earlier age than most of us. But being the one who was allowed to remain, it was important to live as well as I could so that not only Heavenly Father but also my brother would be pleased with my actions.
Third, I learned a great deal from the courage exhibited by my father. He risked his life to break through that ice and dive underneath it to try to rescue his ten-year-old son. It was an immediate response; he did what he felt he needed to do. He showed great love, courage, and strength of character.
Mortality is significant, but it is a very small part of our eternal existence, I learned that lesson then too. I also learned to appreciate that through the ordinances and covenants of the temple our family relationships truly can be eternal.
There’s always another side to tragedy, and that side is one of greater understanding of the purpose of life. I know that Heavenly Father provides special comfort to family and friends who go through painful experiences, as He did with my family. It was a time when Heavenly Father was particularly close to us. And He will be close to you in times of difficulty if you call on Him in prayer.

One day many years ago I was fighting a personal battle in trying to be popular with everybody. In the midst of my distress, a thought came to me: Most people in this world do not care what happens to you. Only you will remember this unhappy experience a few months, weeks, days, or even hours from now. Furthermore, the people you respect are also unpopular with those who point the finger of scorn at you.

That event marked a turning point for me. I realized that we simply must not be afraid to stand, even quietly, in defense of virtue. We must understand that there really are two forces warring for humankind and that we cannot be in both camps. We cannot be popular with everybody.

Beads of sweat trickled down Tad’s face as he dragged the lawn mower’s grass catcher through the gate into the alley. All Tad could think of was a drink of cold water on this hot Saturday. As he opened the metal garbage can to dump the grass clippings, he saw a magazine lying at the bottom.
Tad reached down to pick it up, and as he pulled it out, his arm brushed against the hot metal edge of the can. Ouch! He straightened up and looked at the magazine in his hand. On the cover was a smiling woman who was immodestly dressed.
Tad remembered Dad warning him about magazines with this kind of picture. Someone must have dropped the magazine in the trash can as he or she walked through the alley.
“Tad, would you like something to drink?” Mom called from the back porch.
Tad’s heart suddenly sped up. He knew he should leave the magazine in the trash, but he wasn’t ready to let it go.
“I’ll be right there, Mom,” Tad yelled back. He quickly rolled up the magazine and stuffed one end into the top of his jeans and pulled his shirt over it. He dumped the grass clippings and walked back through the gate. Mom handed him a glass of lemonade.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said.
“Thank you for mowing the lawn,” Mom replied. “You need to come inside now. Your face looks flushed from the heat.” She turned and walked back to the house.
Tad knew that his face was probably red from the fear of being caught. As he was putting his empty glass in the kitchen, Dad suddenly walked in. Tad jumped.
“Hey, Tad! Got the yard done?” Dad asked.
“Yep.”
“I could use your help fixing the car right now,” Dad said. “How about it?”
“Sure,” Tad said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Thanks,” Dad said and walked out the door.
“Whew! That was close,” Tad thought. He hurried to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. He pulled out the magazine. His hands trembled as he looked for a place to hide it. Tad shared the bedroom with his younger brother Alex, and he didn’t want him to find the magazine. Tad pulled a chair over to the closet. Climbing up and looking at the highest shelf, he spied an empty cardboard tube that used to hold his telescope. He slid the magazine into the tube, then pushed it toward the back of the shelf. A feeling started gnawing at him that if he needed to be sneaky he was doing something he shouldn’t. Tad pushed the feeling away and went outside to help Dad.
The rest of the day was so busy that Tad had to ignore the magazine. He was frustrated, and he felt confused too. On Sunday, as he got ready for church, he grew more and more uncomfortable. He had a dark feeling that he couldn’t shake.
“Why did I keep it?” he thought. “Why didn’t I just leave it where it was?”
In Primary, Tad’s class talked about choosing the right and, for the boys, preparing for the priesthood. Tad was deep in thought on the way home. He decided that on Monday after school he would burn the magazine. He felt better already.
When Tad got home from school on Monday, he hurried to his room. “The sooner I get this done, the better!” he thought. But as he turned the corner he almost tripped over a stack of books on the floor. A strong, fresh smell of paint caught his attention.
Tad peeked into his room and saw Mom sitting on his bed. Painting supplies were scattered across a big cloth on the floor. When Mom looked at Tad, he knew she had found the filthy magazine.
Tad’s heart started pumping faster. “What are you doing to my room?” he asked.
“I wanted to start painting it, and I had a strong feeling that I should start in the closet first,” Mom said. She motioned for Tad to sit by her. She put her arm around him and didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “The Holy Ghost wanted me to find what you had hidden in your closet.”
Tad hung his head. He was afraid of what his mother must think of him. Tears welled up in his eyes.
“Where did you get it?” Mom asked sternly.
“It was in the garbage can in the alley,” he said. “Saturday afternoon.”
“Did you look at it?”
“No, Mom, I didn’t. On Sunday, well, it just didn’t feel right. I decided to burn it after school today.”
“Oh, Tad, I’m so glad to hear that!” Mom pulled him to her in a close hug. “I’ve been so worried about you all day. Heavenly Father was worried about you too. He didn’t want you to look at that pornography because it would have put bad images in your mind.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Tad said. He felt so ashamed.
“I can see you are, Tad. I’ve been thinking all day about the wonderful gift of the Holy Ghost and the voice of warning He can be.”
Tad was glad his mother had listened. He resolved that next time he would listen too.
That night as Tad knelt by his bed, the smell of paint still hung in the air. He saw how good his closet looked without the scuff marks, smudges, and fingerprints. Even though the filthy magazine was in his closet for only a weekend, those two days had felt like the longest, yuckiest days of his life. As Tad began his prayer, he knew the first thing he would thank Heavenly Father for was his mom.

“Twelve times twelve is … one hundred forty-four!” I shouted.
“Great job, Chakell!” Mrs. Good said. My whole class cheered. I was the first student to pass off all my multiplication tables.
I grinned as I walked back to my desk. I’d practiced with Dad all week and was feeling proud of myself. But then I saw another student stand up—Jack.
“OK, Jack. Let’s see if you can pass off your twelves today too,” Mrs. Good said.
My friend Jack was really smart. We were always trying to beat each other at everything. Usually we just tied.
Jack passed off his twelves perfectly. “We’re still tied!” he said as he sat down.
“Yeah,” I said. “Good job.” I was happy for him, but I felt like something was squishing my heart. I frowned and stared at the prickly cactus growing by the window.
Passing off my twelves didn’t feel very special anymore.
That afternoon, Mrs. Good pulled out a a plastic circle with pegs on it. “This is a loom,” she explained. “We’re going to use it to make scarves.”
Jack grinned at me. “I bet I can finish my scarf before you.”
“Not if I beat you first!”
We both laughed. I was excited. This was something I could be the best at.
The next day, I brought pink and purple yarn to school. Mrs. Good helped us wrap our yarn around our looms. I grabbed my red hook, ready to start.
At first, making the scarf was easy. I used my hook just like Mrs. Good showed us. But soon, it got harder. I couldn’t remember what to do next.
Maybe I should ask for help, I thought.
But then I glanced at Jack. His black and red stitches already filled his loom. He was winning!
Why is this so hard for me? My yarn looked like tangled spaghetti.
That night, I told Mom about my scarf. “I don’t know why it’s so hard,” I wailed. “If I have to ask for help, that must mean I’m not very smart. Jack never has to ask for help, and now he’s going to win!” My eyes got watery.
Mom pulled me into a warm hug. “Asking for help doesn’t mean you’re not smart. Everyone needs a little help sometimes.”
“Everyone?” I asked.
“Everyone,” Mom said. “We pray to ask Heavenly Father for help all the time.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
The next day, it was craft time again. I stared at my loom. I looked at Jack. His scarf was twice as long as it was yesterday. I took a deep breath and walked over to my teacher.
“Mrs. Good, can you please help me with my scarf? I’m not very good at it,” I said.
Mrs. Good smiled at me. “Of course! Learning new things takes practice. You just aren’t good at it yet.”
Soon, after Mrs. Good gave me a few pointers, my yarn was finally turning into a scarf!
Jack finished his scarf a few days later. He showed me his black and red masterpiece. I showed him my pink and purple work in progress.
“Your scarf is looking great,” Jack said.
I grinned at him. “Yours too. You’re really good at this. And you beat me!”
He laughed. “I did, but I can’t ever keep up with how many books you read.”
With a smile on my face, I picked up my hook and got back to work.

Meg wanted to be perfect. She brushed her hair until it was perfectly shiny. She kept her hands perfectly clean. She kept her clothes perfectly neat.
Meg didn’t like messy sandboxes. She hated it when one shoelace was longer than the other. And she really didn’t like dirt. Playing tag looked like fun … but she might mess up her hair or get her shirt dirty!
On Meg’s birthday, her mommy and daddy gave her a special gift. It was a puppy! He was tan with white paws and soft brown eyes.
“Oh, I love him!” Meg said. “I’m going to call him Mittens.”
The next day, Meg played with Mittens in the yard. She threw the ball over and over again. They had so much fun. Then Mittens jumped into Meg’s lap. With dirty paws!
“Eww!” Meg yelled. “Mommy! Mittens got me dirty!”
Mommy came outside. She gave Meg a hug. “Puppies are messy,” she told Meg. “I know it’s hard for you. But I hope you can have fun with Mittens, even if it means getting a little dirty.”
Meg looked down at Mittens. She wanted her clothes perfectly clean. But she also wanted to keep playing with her puppy. She loved him!
“I guess it’s OK to get a little messy sometimes,” Meg said.
Days went by. Meg kept playing with Mittens. Sometimes he drooled a little on her clothes. Sometimes he drooled a lot on her clothes! After a while, Meg worried less about the mess. Mittens was fun to play with! He was always happy to see her.
Soon Meg started trying other new things. She waded in the lake with her family. She played in the sandbox. She played tag at recess.
One day, Mommy even had to remind Meg to change her dirty clothes! But Meg didn’t mind. Things didn’t need to be perfect for her to feel happy.

A year or two later a business associate asked me if I would be willing to accept some counsel. I readily indicated I would be happy to receive it. He suggested that I was too abrupt, too impatient, too brusk, and too intent on achieving my goals quickly. I had such respect for this man that I spent many hours pondering his perception and have made a great effort over the course of many years trying to gain control over an intensity that might overshadow other qualities I would rather acquire. The direction of my life has been affected in a major way by this effort.

A year later, I reflected on the previous Christmas and thought about what I could do to have a better Christmas in the mission field. I realized that my feelings of sadness the year before came from focusing on myself instead of on the Savior. I also realized that Christmas is a time to remember the Savior’s birth and that I should be happy to serve Him as His representative.
In talking with my companion, we decided to buy lollipops to give to members, investigators, children, and anyone else we came across on Christmas Day. We also practiced Christmas hymns to sing. Joy flooded my heart on Christmas Day as we met with people, sang hymns, and gave away lollipops.

Just a moment ago you heard Veronica and Kaarin sing a beautiful American hymn that became much more meaningful to me as I learned its history.

In 1876 Horatio G. Spafford bid farewell to his wife and four daughters as they departed on a ship to visit relatives in Europe. Some days later their ship collided with another steamship in the mid-Atlantic. Before it sank, Mrs. Spafford prayed with her daughters and committed them to the mercy of the Lord. She never saw her children again in mortality. Mrs. Spafford was rescued and sent this cable to her husband, “SAVED ALONE.” While on the Atlantic, on his own voyage to bring his wife home, he wrote the words to this hymn:
When peace like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well with my soul.
What occurred here? While suffering the tragic loss of his children and undoubtedly knowing his wife’s trauma and sorrow, how is it that a man can come to such an expression? Here is a stunning example of heart and mind functioning together for the wellbeing of the soul. In sorrow, disappointment, or frustration, the answer—though seldom, if ever, easy begins with our ability to keep mind and heart connected and working together.

There are several influences in my life that have instilled in me a desire to teach our children to work. The first are experiences I enjoyed as a child growing up in the home of wise and wonderful parents. Our first family work project began when I was around nine years old. One night dad came home with a shoe-shining kit that had an adaptable shoe tree that fastened to the wall. He encouraged my brother and me to be industrious and earn some money by charging fifteen cents for every pair of shoes we shined. Of course, my parents’ shoes were always well shined, but our big opportunities came when my parents entertained. I would mingle among the guests and ask if any would like to have their shoes shined. Many a person was seen in our home sitting or visiting in his stocking feet.
A few years passed, and dad came home one night with another idea. “Why don’t you boys sell Christmas wreaths?” he said. And thus we were off on another venture. We would go from door to door taking orders, and then we purchased the wreaths from a wholesaler for our customers. For the next several years mom and dad spent many hours helping us in this project.
During my college years I began to realize that there were more values to work than simply the money one earns. Three individuals made statements that have left indelible impressions upon my mind. The first statement came while I was attending the University of Utah. The director of the Institute of Religion, Lowell L. Bennion, shared with me a philosophy of raising children. He grew a large vegetable garden, and when asked what he was growing, his reply was not the usual tomatoes, corn, or carrots, but simply, “boys.”
The second statement came from a student at BYU when he offered an explanation as to why he alone among his high school friends had remained active in the Church. He said it was because of a cow. He went on to explain that while his friends had nothing to do after school and began to get into trouble, he had to go home every day to milk the cow. Although he resented it at the time, he since has been very grateful to wise parents and the cow.
The third statement was made by a returned mission president who commented that many missionaries do not know how to work when they arrive in the mission field. They lack experience in organizing their time and in being self-starters.
A philosophy of work gradually emerged in my mind. When I got married, I wanted to achieve three goals: use work as a means of “growing children”; see that they did not have too much free time; and prepare our children to effectively serve the Lord.
Following my marriage to a wonderful companion, our home was blessed with the arrival of children. In the space of a few years we found ourselves the parents of ten children—all girls but eight. We knew as our children grew older they would need to assist with family finances. This became evident when our four older children expressed a desire to learn to ski. One Christmas we bought four pairs of used wooden skis and some poles, and we acquired some used boots. On Christmas morning our children were delighted to receive their skis, and they accepted the responsibility for most of their future expenses.
Since my wife and I didn’t believe in the dole system in any form of finance, we kept wondering how our young family could begin to become self-sufficient. It wasn’t long until we were offered an opportunity to collate and distribute advertising materials to 5,000 homes. We worked at the project after school, in the evenings, and on Saturdays. Everyone was involved in collating several pieces of advertising materials. Mom or dad assisted by driving the children to different locations and offering encouragement. The project was repeated several times. Our children were beginning to earn money, and we learned that we could have fun together while working.
After a couple of years, we graduated from advertising packets to telephone directories. During several summers, we loaded up our station wagon with books and children. The days were hot, the hours were long, some streets were hard to find, some addresses couldn’t be found, the books were heavy, some driveways were long and went uphill, some dogs were mean; but we had fun. Sometimes two children would go to a home, one to play with the dog and the other to take the books.
One summer one of the boys broke his foot while on the job. Within a few days he realized that he didn’t want to be left out of the summer work; besides he loved to ski. Soon he was in the back of the station wagon unwrapping the books and giving directions to the children as to how many books were to go to each house.
At the end of a day’s work, there were stories to tell, experiences to laugh at, accomplishments to brag about—and no one had any trouble sleeping. Yes, we were having fun and experiencing a sense of accomplishment.
Our next project began when our oldest son started mowing lawns the year before his mission. We bought a 1962 truck that ran most of the time, and some lawn-care equipment. That first year he did most of the work himself and occasionally took a younger brother with him. The next year dad decided to get involved, since none of the younger boys had drivers’ licenses. We advertised, gave bids, received referrals, and increased the number of our customers. Then came the day when dad mowed his first lawn. First the edger didn’t start, so he traveled across town to find out what to do. When he returned, one mower had broken down so he went back across town again to find out what to do. After several hours on that job, the second oldest boy looked at his dad and asked, “And is this what we are going to do all summer?”
We stuck with it and are now completing our fourth year. We have learned to keep our sense of humor through broken sprinklers, a flooded basement, unexpected rain, a burned-out truck engine, broken equipment, dad pulling up someone’s prized miniature tree, and the front wheel coming loose off the truck in busy traffic. And then there are those days when every piece of equipment is working, the truck is running, the sun is shining, we are on schedule, and someone forgets to fasten the tailgate of the truck. One by one our equipment slides out as we travel to the next customer.
One might ask why we do all of these things. The obvious answers are: (1) all of our teenagers have sizeable missionary funds; (2) all of our children over eleven know they will have a job; (3) no Sunday work is involved; (4) the children have learned valuable skills; (5) they are learning to budget their resources and to distinguish between wants and needs; and (6) as their father, I have had many wonderful teaching moments with them as we have worked side by side.
But these are not all. There are values that are often hard to describe but are real. A couple of Sundays ago the boys sat down at the direction of their mother and wrote what they felt the values were of working together as a family.
An eighteen-year-old boy writes, “Since I can remember, I have been taught the value of hard work and honoring all of your responsibilities and your family name. As I look back to my experience in family projects, I can see how they have shaped my character and personality by letting me make many important decisions. I have gained confidence by meeting new people and am better able to express myself. But the most important thing about family work projects is that your family comes closer together in love and respect.”
A thirteen-year-old who has been mowing lawns for four years writes, “Family projects have really helped me to understand how to work. The harder you work, the better you feel. I am grateful for a closer relationship with my brothers and parents.”
A sixteen-year-old said, “Working on family projects has taught us the importance of being honest and dependable. It has taught us to make a lot of sacrifices in order to keep our name in good standing.”
And finally, our fifteen-year-old said, “The family work projects have helped me manage my money. When I buy my clothes and other things, I take care of them because I know how much they cost and how much work it takes to buy them. When my parents bought my things, I honestly thought there was an endless supply of money, so I wouldn’t take care of them. Also, work gives me a feeling of satisfaction—and a great tan.”
Their mother writes, “I watch other youth with too much free time and am grateful that our boys know there are people relying on them. They sometimes have to sacrifice personal wants for the sake of their work.”
May I add my own feelings. Our family work has become a big factor in bringing a higher degree of love, peace, and unity into our home. Many neighbors have commented on how much our children really enjoy each other. I am amazed as I witness our children stretching in their tender years toward self-reliance. Yes, work is a spiritual and essential principle. Our own beloved prophet has taught that “life is not wholly for fun and frolic.”
I bear testimony that family work, when combined with family prayer and family scripture study, will do much to secure the blessings of heaven for families on earth. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When I was a little boy, my widowed mother gave me the most severe discipline possible. She said, with tears in her eyes, “My son, I am so disappointed in you.” The pain in my heart was more than I could bear. A thousand lashes could not have cut me so deeply. I knew that such a rebuke could only have been made to me out of her pure love, for if there was one thing that I was certain of, it was that my mother loved me. I resolved never again to be subject to the disappointment and the broken heart of an angel mother. I believe that I have succeeded in that resolve.

Then in late June he parked his wagon in the Joseph W. Young train’s campground about two miles northwest of Florence, Nebraska. For the next two weeks Zeb was a taxi driver, taking his wagon into Florence, picking up passengers for the Young train, and shuttling them to the campground. July 5 was a typical taxi day for him: “I left camp and went to Florence, after a load of Saints. The day was very warm, and I was very tired after my day’s work.” Missouri River steamers unloaded company after company of Saints at the giant LDS campground in Florence, congesting it; “emigrants stowed away in every nook and corner,” is how Zeb described it.
On July 11 Zeb and his train pulled out and started the “back” part of the trip, 1,000 miles to Utah.
Some immigrants were troubled by the rough-looking, rough-talking Utah Boys. According to Englishman William Yates, another diarist on the trail that year, the boys looked and acted like poorly educated frontiersmen. Brother Yates, however, was fooled by appearances, for his own diary is notches below the quality of the one kept by Utah Boy Zeb Jacobs.
The immigrants learned quickly to appreciate the boys’ abilities with oxen and wagons. And they liked to see the Utah Boys do much of the wagon trains’ dirty work. Zeb and the others had to hunt for firewood and buffalo chips, build fires, track down missing cattle, set up and break camps, haul water, and spend hours in rivers helping wagons to cross. At Loup Fork crossing, for example, Zeb “had the pleasure of getting a dunking several times, helping the wagons over.” Near Fort Laramie he wrote: “I was in the water most of the afternoon helping the teams across. The weather was cold.” The boys seemed to enjoy showing off their expertise and strength, however, especially when teenage girls were watching.
The boys’ main assignment was caring for cattle and wagons—hitching, unhitching, feeding, shoeing, corralling, guarding, and mending harnesses. This work provided Zeb with some unexpected adventures. One day, according to his diary, “I was helping to shoe an ox, and witnessed the mosquitoes and horse flies driving off the horses and cattle, and in gathering the animals we kept what is called the dog-trot for about a mile. I finally caught a horse and jumped on him, and with considerable difficulty I succeeded in getting the animals back to camp.”
One night the “mules and horses took a notion they would go and accordingly they went.” The boys started in pursuit “but the night was so dark that we had to take the advantage of the lightning to tell us which way we were going.” When Zeb saw something move in the distance he tried to run to it. “At last I got lost in a swamp but managed, after much trouble, to get back to camp without finding the animals.” Next morning, on foot, the boys found the animals more than nine miles from the camp.
One night Zeb let the terrain keep the cattle from wandering: “Being on guard, I took the mules up a large ravine and stayed until midnight, then Bro. Henry Parker relieved me.”
For teenagers life can never be all hard work. The Utah Boys had fun on the trail too. One day they “caught a string of fish.” Another time they “had a family swim in the Platte.” One morning Zeb and one of the men “crossed the river and found plenty of chokecherries and currants. After satisfying our own appetites we filled our hats and pockets.” In recrossing the river “we got ducked several times, but we hung on to the fruit.” Back at camp they shared the berries and “finding breakfast ready, we ate heartily.”
On July 24, Pioneer Day, the Utah Boys decided to help the campers celebrate. With good-humored exaggeration Zeb wrote of their fun:
“We were up at daylight and called out the ‘National Guard’ [the boys] which fired a volley of musketry, and any kind of guns that were handy. Then the ‘Martial Band’ struck up ‘Hail Columbia’ (the band was composed of tin pails, pans, bake-kettle lids, bells, and various instruments of music); then there was another volley by the Guard; and at sunrise, the firing of cannon (which was about 3 inches in length), and concluded the morning performance with an Indian jig.”
That night the boys held a “grand ball” at the “Bachelors Hall,” meaning a square dance in front of their tents.
August 17 provided one of the highlights of the boys’ fun on the trail. According to Zeb: “As we woke up in the morning all hands began laughing at each other, as our faces were besmeared with tar and wagon grease. Some of the boys from the other camp had paid us a visit and left their compliments upon our faces.”
Humor also helped Zeb describe how the mosquitoes plagued them at swampy stretches of the trail. “Some of us went in the river to bathe,” he wrote once, “but we found the mosquitoes there ahead of us. They very soon got rid of us.” Another evening he said the boys were “entertained with a large and renowned band of minstrels (mosquitoes); they kept us dancing all night.”
On August 30, in the middle of Wyoming, the teenage driver received a special honor. Captain Joseph W. Young needed to rush ahead of his train to catch up with another wagon company, so he selected Zeb to drive him in a wagon pulled by mules. (Mules travel much faster than oxen.) Zeb drove as fast as he could for three days and then Captain Young, needing to travel even faster, hailed a passing stagecoach, boarded it, and left Zeb to travel alone.
Zeb liked the fast mule team which moved him 20 to 45 miles a day, double what wagon trains could cover. But driving alone on the hot, dusty trail and camping by himself at night had its lonely moments. So he enjoyed catching up to other travelers and visiting with them. Late on September 3 he overtook the Joseph Horne train “where I joined the people in that camp in a dance.” An injured man in the camp needed to be hurried to Salt Lake, so Richard Horne joined Zeb as a traveling companion, “and I was very glad of his company,” Zeb confessed.
Zeb, the teenage driver, put his mule-pulled wagon and injured passenger into Salt Lake City in near record time, arriving on September 7 at breakfast time. He beat his Joseph W. Young wagon train there by 16 days. In total, down and back, Zeb had been on the trail for 18 weeks.
It is not known if Zeb kept any diaries after 1861. He made down-and-back trips again in 1862 and 1863. In 1866, at age 24, he married. He served in the Blackhawk War as a sergeant in the cavalry. By career he became a railroad man, working as a popular conductor on the Utah Central Railroad. Late in life he became a guard at the state penitentiary. He remained a lifelong faithful Latter-day Saint.