Gospel Story Finder

A big figure skating competition was going to be held in my town. I would be skating against 10 other girls. The problem was that my event was scheduled on a Sunday. I didn’t want to skate on Sunday.

My other option was to skate in a higher level. This competition would be held on Saturday, but I would be the youngest in the division and would have to compete against 18 skaters instead of 10. Three of them had already competed at Junior Nationals.

My mother left the decision up to me. I followed my heart and did what I knew to be right. I skated on Saturday in the higher level. I practiced really hard and was blessed with the first-place score and the gold medal.

Even more rewarding than winning was the good feeling I had from choosing the right.

In the summer of 1825, Lafayette, the great French general of the Revolutionary War, came to Washington. As a young man, he had been an able assistant to Gen. George Washington. Now sixty-eight, Lafayette accepted President John Quincy Adams’ invitation to stay at the White House.
Wishing to show their warm friendship for the French general, people across the country sent him presents. Boxes and crates of all sizes and shapes arrived. One special messenger brought a rare collection of Louisiana swamp creatures, including ten speckled frogs and one live alligator! A White House bathroom was quickly made into a small aquarium where the alligator had the privacy of his own spotless bathtub!

Nicole Miller used her head and her hands to help a lost deaf girl find her way home. When Nicole spent the night at her friend Amy Moats’s house, Amy taught her some sign language. Nicole caught on to the alphabet quickly. She had no idea she would need to use this new skill very soon. Two days later, on her way home from school, she and another friend found a little girl crying on the corner.
They tried to talk to her, but she didn’t answer and kept pointing at her ears. Nicole realized the girl must be deaf, and she used her hands to ask the girl’s name and where she lived.
Through phone calls and more sign language, Nicole helped her new friend find her way home. School had been let out early on that day, and the little girl tried to walk home instead of waiting for her mother to pick her up as usual.
Nicole is a Beehive in the Wenatchee Second Ward, and Amy is a Beehive in the Leavenworth Branch, both of the Wenatchee Washington Stake.

Jared was baptized in the Naknek River, which empties into the Bering Sea. The beach along the river is a favorite place for the children to play, and they also catch lots of fish in the river, mostly red, king, pink, and silver salmon. King salmon may be as big as Jared, so just one will feed lots of people!
The day Jared was baptized, a special thing happened. It rains a lot in King Salmon, and it had been pouring for two days. A few minutes before the baptism the rain stopped. As the congregation walked down to the river, the sun peeped out and the usual sounds of aircraft and other noises ceased just long enough for Jared’s father to baptize him!

“Some two or three years after I was baptized, one day while I was studying, I began to reflect upon the fact that I had not obtained a knowledge of the truth of that work—that I had not realized the fulfillment of that promise, he that doeth my will shall know of the doctrine, (see John 7:17) and I began to feel very uneasy. I laid aside my books, left the house, and wandered around through the fields under the oppressive influence of a gloomy, disconsolate spirit, while an indescribable cloud of darkness seemed to envelop me. I had been accustomed, at the close of day, to go for secret prayer, to a grove a short distance from my lodgings, but at this time I felt no inclination to do so. The spirit of prayer had departed and the heavens seemed like brass over my head. At length, realizing that the usual time had come for secret prayer, I concluded I would not forgo my evening service, and, as a matter of formality, knelt as I was in the habit of doing, and in my accustomed place, but no feeling as I was used to feeling. I had no sooner opened my lips in an effort to pray, than I heard a sound, just above my head, like the rustling of silken robes, and immediately the spirit of God descended upon me, completely enveloping my whole person, filling me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, and O the joy and happiness I felt! No language can describe the almost instantaneous transition from a dense cloud of mental and spiritual darkness into a refulgence of light and knowledge that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the Holy Priesthood, and the fullness of the Gospel. It was a complete baptism—a tangible immersion in the heavenly principle or element, the Holy Ghost; and even more real and physical in its affects upon every part of my system than the immersion by water; dispelling forever, so long as reason and memory last, all possibility of doubt or fear in relation to the fact handed down to us historically that the ‘babe of Bethlehem’ is truly the Son of God; and also the fact that He is now being revealed to the children of men, and communicating knowledge, the same as in the apostolic times. I was perfectly satisfied, as well I might be, for my expectations were more than realized; I think I may safely say, in an infinite degree.
“I cannot tell how long I remained in the full flow of the blissful enjoyment and divine enlightenment, but it was several minutes before the celestial element which filled and surrounded me began gradually to withdraw. On arising from my kneeling posture, with my heart swelling with gratitude to God, beyond the power of expression, I felt—I knew that he had conferred on me what only an omnipotent being can confer—that which is of greater value than all the wealth and honors the world can bestow. That night as I retired to rest, the same wonderful manifestations were repeated, and continued to be for several successive nights. The sweet remembrance of those glorious experiences, from that time to the present, brings them fresh before me, imparting an inspiring influence which pervades my whole being, and I trust will to the close of my earthly existence.” (Preston Nibley, The Presidents of the Church (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1974), Chapter 5, paragraphs 10–12, pp. 139–140.)
Lorenzo Snow

We can find examples of those who understand this principle all around us. One sister I know recently served as a volunteer guide at a convention for the blind. Church members were asked to participate with members of other denominations in helping participants find workshops, rooms, and information. But this sister’s service went beyond the convention. She became the friend of a lonely woman who had no family to look after her. She helped the woman with shopping, daily tasks, and trips to the doctor. When the woman was seriously ill, this sister sat by her bed to give comfort. At the woman’s death, the sister made all the funeral arrangements and contacted the one relative the woman had mentioned.

Such dedicated service went far beyond what most of the volunteers did at the convention! They met the needs of the moment, but she went beyond that to give real Christlike service. That’s what remembering Christ is about. It is practicing the principles he lived and taught and becoming more and more like him. Through doing as Christ did, our understanding deepens and our ability to serve grows. We become more able to “put off” the “natural man” (see Mosiah 3:19) and to learn to heed the promptings of the Spirit.

When I was about your age, I learned the importance of a straight and narrow path and how difficult it was to be focused and stay on it. I grew up in a very small town in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies. My dad was a farmer, and I learned to work! Every summer I drove the tractor for him, mowing and raking hay, hauling hay bales, and plowing fields. I remember when I first started to learn to plow and cultivate a field. Dad explained the importance of plowing a straight furrow or a straight line. If you went crooked, there would be spots missed in the field and the weeds would take over. He said: “If you will keep your eye focused on the fence post across the field and let that be your goal, you will plow a straight furrow. Don’t let the bumpy terrain throw you off. It’s when you start looking at the end of the tractor that the holes and bumps take you off course and you begin to go crooked.” Then he left me to do the job.
I remembered about the fence post across the field for several rounds, then I started singing songs to make the time pass. I sang every song and hymn I knew, and those I didn’t know I made up. I was singing at the top of my lungs and having a good time when I noticed my dad walking through the field towards me. I stopped the tractor and he said, “Can you tell what has happened to the straight lines?”
I said, “What do you mean?”
He said: “Look at the line. Your first few rounds are straight, but evidently you quit paying attention to where you were plowing. You must have quit looking at the fence post across the field—your goal. Can you see that gradually each time you’ve gone around, you’ve just gone a little crooked until now there are big spots in the field?” He got on the tractor and drove a few rotations to straighten out the lines. As he got off to let me try again, he said, “Sharon, always pay attention to where you are going.”

Seek for Inspiration. Our prayers and faith help us open our hearts to let God change us. One woman I know felt concern about the TV shows her adult children let their children watch. She felt the shows modeled disrespect and quarreling, even though they were considered age-appropriate. Not wanting to intrude, she prayed and fasted repeatedly about what to do or say. One morning her daughter-in-law called to ask for advice about how to manage disrespect and quarreling among her children. My friend shared her observation about the TV shows, an influence her daughter-in-law had never noticed. The young parents addressed the issue with their children. Changes were agreed upon, and the atmosphere in the home improved.

Searching for a great idea for a youth conference? The Aurora Colorado Stake has a suggestion.
Work.
Hard work.
Like shoveling gravel, digging dirt, weeding, painting, washing cars.
Mixed with fun and fellowship.
There’s an explanation. The young people from Aurora wanted to do something different for their youth conference, something special. So they spent three days cleaning up a city.
“We asked the stake youth committee what they wanted to do,” explained Richard C. Humpherys, second counselor in the stake presidency. “They said, ‘something to help someone else,’ and ‘something to build our testimonies.’ Since they asked for it, we encouraged them to go ahead.”
Inspired by a story on service in the Tambuli (see “Building a House Helped Build Testimonies,” February 1988, page 47), the youth committee looked around for a community they could help. They settled on Granby for three reasons: it was close to Aurora; economically the community wasn’t doing very well; and the mayor, town council, and chamber of commerce seemed genuinely interested in providing projects for the youth to work on.
There was an added benefit, too. The small Latter-day Saint branch in Granby, with a total of five active families, had youth who would welcome some company and fellowship with other Church youth. And, while the young people from Aurora were there, it was decided, they could help paint the Granby chapel.
Buses left Aurora at 7:00 on a Thursday morning. By 10:30 A.M., eighty-four young people divided into eight teams were busy all over Granby. Since they were all wearing identical T-shirts, they were fairly conspicuous. And a local radio station advertising the Latter-day Saint youth’s free car wash also let people know who they were and what they were doing.
Besides cleaning up the main street of Granby, washing cars, tidying the cemetery, spreading gravel at the train depot, and chopping weeds at a main intersection on the highway into town, the youth painted the city’s historic log church, landscaped its grounds, and polished the benches and the organ inside.
And of course, that’s very much what the youth were saying over at the chapel.
The Granby youth and the youth from Aurora did everything at the conference together, not only the service projects, but the other activities as well. They played volleyball together. They played football together. They even played soccer with an oversized ball.
Activities included a Hawaiian-style dinner with a floor show, a swimming party, and a dance. But the main activity was conversation, a sharing of ideals and fellowship.
Over the three-day period, the youth from Granby and the youth from Aurora grew comfortable discussing common goals—missionary work, reading and sharing the Book of Mormon, morality and standards, maintaining faith when the world’s full of doubt. That closeness was also reinforced at nightly devotionals, where leaders stressed themes such as “Little Decisions Made Now Have Big Consequences Later,” “Gospel Suggestions on How to Be Happy,” and “Your Most Important Possession is Your Testimony.”
But of course, as it always is, the final meeting of the conference was the highlight. In a sunlit room, the Latter-day Saint youth met Granby’s mayor, Jerry Roberts. The presented him with framed historical photographs of Granby, which now hang in the train station, and with a Book of Mormon, which they hope he will read. They listened while he expressed the community’s gratitude.
Then the youth and their leaders spent an hour or two talking to each other, speaking from the heart.
Of course, as they talked, the youth also offered an evaluation of their three days of service.
Then the president of the Granby Branch, Gary M. Cooper, spoke.
“The branch was formed fifteen years ago, he said, “and I can honestly say that this is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. We appreciate that you took the time to come here and bring us into the limelight in our Community. It’s something we’ve wanted to do for a long time. You did a lot of work and you cleaned up the community, and that’s important. But what I really hope is that because of your example, someone will accept the gospel. That would be the greatest service of all.”

When I was 11, my family moved to West Germany. My father and my mother ran a laundry to make a living, and I was the laundry delivery boy. I saw some shiny red bicycles, and I wished I could have one to make my deliveries. But I needed a heavy-duty bicycle to pull the cart with the laundry on it. I rode around pulling that heavy laundry cart before school and after school. It was hard seeing the other children play. But everyone in our family had to work hard, and I was an important part of the family business.
As I grew older, I learned about the blessings of doing things that at the time you don’t realize are important and good for you. When I was very little, I came down with a lung disease, but no one knew it at the time. When I grew older, I joined the air force. The doctors saw spots on my lungs. Because of the hard work of pedaling that heavy load, somehow my body had healed itself. I had built up endurance. I had built up strength. The doctors said that the disease took care of itself and that I passed my physical. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to become a pilot.

My younger sister and I received our endowment together, just a few days before she left on her mission. I was excited to attend the temple with her, and I was ready to take the next step on the covenant path.
But that day, my emotions were everywhere. It was the end of summer. A daunting school semester loomed before me. In anticipation of moving back to college, leaving my family, and saying goodbye to my sister, I felt suddenly inconsolable.
And although the endowment ceremony was beautiful, it was a lot to take in. I understood very little and was ready to leave the moment the session ended.
My sister had a different experience. In the celestial room, she calmly and curiously asked my parents questions about the endowment and seemed to have grasped much more than I had. Meanwhile, I sat in a stupor of silence. I remember holding back tears of frustration and embarrassment that my experience was playing out so differently from hers.
I was momentarily tempted to feel bitter that I hadn’t had the experience I’d hoped for. But then I remembered two specific things that my temple preparation teachers had told me:
I would likely not understand everything that happened during my first endowment session. They told me that instead of trying to make sense of it all in the moment, I should try to focus on the peaceful feeling inside the temple.
I might leave the temple feeling spiritually tired and overwhelmed. And that was OK.
Their wise words slowed my spiraling thoughts and have stuck with me over the years. I believe the same counsel can help us as we reckon with expectations we have about other spiritual experiences, both inside and outside the temple.
I’m happy to say that I enjoy attending the temple now, and my understanding of the endowment has grown over the past few years.
Comparing my temple experience to my sister’s was discouraging for me. Because I didn’t want that first experience to get in the way of my enjoying the blessings of temple worship, I had to consciously decide to move past the differences in what my sister and I felt and understood that day.

Years ago, as a young missionary, I was assigned to a group of seventeen small islands in the South Pacific. At that time, the only means of travel between islands was by sailboat. Because of misunderstandings and traditions, it was difficult to find people willing to listen to us. However, one day a member told us that if we would be at a certain harbor on a particular island when the sun set the next day, a family would meet us there and listen to the discussions.
What joy that news brought! It was like finding a piece of gold. I was working alone at the time but quickly found four other members who were experienced sailors who agreed to take me to this island the next day.
Early the next morning the five of us started out. There was a nice breeze that moved us swiftly along the coast, through the opening in the reef, and out into the wide expanse of the vast Pacific Ocean.
We made good progress for a few hours, but as the sun climbed higher and the boat got farther from land, the wind began to play out and soon quit altogether, leaving us bobbing aimlessly on a smooth ocean.
Those familiar with sailing know that to get anywhere, you need wind. Sometimes there are good breezes without storms and heavy seas, but often they go together. Sailors do not fear storms, for they contain the lifeblood of sailing—wind. What sailors fear is no wind, or being becalmed.
Time passed. The sun got higher, the sea calmer. Nothing moved. We soon realized that unless something changed, we would not arrive by sundown. I suggested that we pray and plead with the Lord to send some wind. What more righteous desire could a group of men have? I offered a prayer. When I finished, things seemed calmer than ever. We continued drifting.
Then one of the older men suggested that everyone kneel and all unite their faith and prayers together, which we did. There was great struggling of spirit, but when the last person opened his eyes, nothing! No movement at all. The sails hung limp and listless. Even the slight ripple of the ocean against the side of the boat had ceased. The ocean seemed like a sea of glass.
Time was moving, and we were getting desperate. This same man now suggested that everyone kneel again in prayer and each person in turn offer a vocal prayer for the whole group. Many beautiful, pleading, faithful prayers ascended to heaven. But when the last one finished and everyone opened their eyes, the sun was still burning down with greater intensity than before. The ocean was like a giant mirror. It was almost as though Satan was laughing, saying, “See, you can’t go anywhere. There is no wind. You are in my power.”
I thought, “There is a family at the harbor that wants to hear the gospel. We are here in the middle of the ocean and want to teach them. The Lord controls the elements. All that stands between us and the family is a little wind. Why won’t He send it? It’s a righteous desire.”
As I was so wondering, I noticed this faithful older brother move to the rear of the boat. I watched as he unlashed the tiny lifeboat, placed two oars with pins in their places, and carefully lowered it over the side.
He looked at me and softly said, “Get in.”
I answered, “What are you doing? There is hardly room for two people in that tiny thing!”
“Don’t waste any time or effort. Just get in. I am going to row you to shore, and we need to leave now to make it by sundown.”
I looked at him incredulously, “Row me where?”
“To the family that wants to hear the gospel. We have an assignment from the Lord. Get in.”
I was dumbfounded. It was miles to shore. The sun was hot, and this man was old. But as I looked into the face of that faithful brother, I sensed an intensity in his gaze, an iron will in his very being, and a fixed determination in his voice as he said, “Before the sun sets this day, you will be teaching the gospel and bearing testimony to a family who wants to listen.”
I again objected, “Look, you’re over three times my age. If this is to be, let me row.”
With that same look of determination and faith-induced will, the old man replied, “No. Leave it to me. Get in the boat. Don’t waste more time talking. Let’s go!” At his direction we got into the boat, with me in the front and the old man in the middle, his feet stretching to the end of the boat, his back to me.
The glazed surface of the ocean was disturbed by the intrusion of this small boat and seemed to complain, “This is my territory. Stay out.” Not a wisp of air stirred, not a sound was heard except the creaking of oars and the rattling of pins as the small craft began to move away from the sailboat.
The old man bent his back and began to row. Dip. Pull. Lift. Dip. Pull. Lift. Each dip of the oar seemed to break the resolve of the mirrorlike ocean. Each pull of the oar moved the tiny skiff forward, separating the glassy seas to make way for the Lord’s messenger. Dip. Pull. Lift. The old man did not look up, rest, or talk, but hour after hour he rowed and rowed and rowed. The muscles of his back and arms, strengthened by faith and moved by unalterable determination, flexed in a marvelous cadence like a fine-tuned watch. It was beautiful. We moved quietly, relentlessly toward an inevitable destiny. The old man concentrated his efforts and energy on fulfilling the calling he had from the Lord—to get a missionary to a family that wanted to hear the gospel. He was the Lord’s wind that day.
Just as the sun dipped into the ocean, the skiff touched the shore of the harbor. A family was waiting. The old man spoke for the first time in hours and said, “Go. Teach them the truth. I’ll wait here.”
I waded ashore, met the family, went to their home, and taught them the gospel. As I bore testimony of the power of God in this church, my mind saw an old Tongan man rowing to a distant harbor and waiting patiently there. I testified with a fervor as great as any I have ever felt that God does give power to men and women to do His will if they will have faith in Him. I told the family, “When we exercise faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, we can do things we could not otherwise do. When our hearts are determined to do right, the Lord gives us the power to do so.”
The family believed and eventually was baptized.
In the annals of history, few will be aware of this small incident. Hardly anyone will know about this insignificant island, the family who waited, or the obscure, old man who never once complained of fatigue, aching arms, painful back, or a hurting body. He never talked about thirst, the scorching sun, or the heat of the day as he relentlessly rowed uncomplainingly hour after hour. He referred only to the privilege of being God’s agent in bringing a missionary to teach the truth to those who desired to hear. But God knows! He gave him the strength to be His wind that day, and He will give us the strength to be His wind when necessary.

Our family’s best Christmas ever didn’t happen on Christmas Day. It happened on Easter.
One Christmas had been overshadowed by worry for our son Tanner, who was struggling in the hospital with a life-threatening illness. He was in a medically-induced coma for 10 weeks. He literally slept through Christmas.
Gloriously, Tanner slowly regained his strength and was able to come home in the spring. As Easter approached, we talked about Tanner’s missed Christmas. His sisters and brother decided that he deserved a make-up. We thought about how fun it would be to turn Easter into a double holiday.
To get ready for our springtime Christmas celebration, we pulled out a box of Christmas lights, fashioned a little Christmas tree, and bought and wrapped small Christmas presents for each other.
The night before Easter, our “Christmas Eve,” we dressed up in old bathrobes and makeshift costumes for a family Nativity pageant. We read from the scriptures about the angel appearing to Mary and Joseph, their journey to Bethlehem, and their search for a place to stay but finding no room at the inn.
We also read about the shepherds tending their flocks at night, the angel of the Lord appearing to them, and a choir of the heavenly host singing, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men” (Luke 2:14). In our pageant, shepherds visited the stable where our children were dressed as farm animals (that year, our Nativity stable also included a giraffe!).
Our family Christmas pageant didn’t end there. Because it was Easter, we continued reading about how baby Jesus grew in stature, visited and taught scholars in the temple, performed miracles, ministered to His people, and met with His Apostles in an upper room in Jerusalem, where He introduced the sacrament.
We reverently read the account of Jesus entering the Garden of Gethsemane to begin His mighty atoning work—to suffer, bleed, and die for us. Then we read how He was risen on the third day. He overcame death—His own death and ours. We were reminded that because of Him, everything is possible.
On Easter morning, we got up extra early. We delighted in the glow of bright, colorful Christmas lights against the pre-dawn darkness. We excitedly opened our gifts and ate our customary Christmas breakfast of pull-apart bread. As the rising sun brightened the world outside, we hunted for Easter eggs and celebrated the wonder of the Resurrection. At church, we partook of the sacrament, which brought the reality of the Savior’s Atonement forward into the here and now.
For each of us, that “Christmas-y Easter” caused us to see more clearly that Christmas and Easter are best understood together. Christmas because it is filled with promise, and Easter because it is bursting with promises kept.
We look back happily on this experience because we would only have Tanner with us for one more Christmas before his mortal mission closed. Today, we look ahead with confidence that our separation from Tanner is just for a while because we rejoice at Christmas that “a child is born” (Isaiah 9:6), and we remember at Easter—and will remember always—that “He is risen” (see Matthew 28:6).

I’ll give you an example. Three little boys were flying a kite in a field away from their homes. It began to rain, and they wanted to save their kite. As they hastily pulled it from the sky, it caught on a tree limb high over their heads.

They found a long stick and tried to pull it down, but they couldn’t reach it. They tried everything they could think of to get it down, but the kite just turned and twisted in the storm. One of the boys finally said to the others, “I think we should pray.” The other two looked at him, then followed his lead, bowing their heads while he said the words. As they opened their eyes, they saw a car coming toward them down the road that let to the field. As it neared, the boys stood motionless and almost breathless, staring at the lady driving the car.

Their stares fascinated the lady, so she stopped and called to them, “Are you having trouble?”
“Yes,” they said. “Our kite is caught on the tree. Will you help us get it down?”
“I’ll try,” she said. “Stand away while I back up.”

She backed her car to position it under the kite, then she got out, climbed on top of the car, and, with the long stick retrieved the kite.

When the boy who had offered the prayer carried his kite into the kitchen, he told his mother about the kite’s getting caught in the tree. She asked, “Who helped you get your kite down?”
“Heavenly Father,” he replied. The boy, who had prayed with perfect trust, knew the answer to a prayer when he saw it.

I was eighteen—and enrolled in a Book of Mormon class at Brigham Young University—when I realized I did not know whether the gospel was true. The realization itself was shock, since I had collected an array of hundred-percent awards, been extremely active in every kind of church activity, and always assumed that the Church was true. But assumption is not knowledge.
So, obedient and believing, I applied the instructions in Alma 32 and Moroni 10:4–5, and I received from God the verification I sought.

Once, following little more than a hunch, the representatives took a taxicab to a village 30.5 kilometers from the Nigerian town of Owerri, in search of a man whom they had heard was interested in the Church. Following directions from a native, they drove directly to “a little building with a sign across the front, ‘L.D.S. Nigerian Mission.’” Elder Cannon says, “We knew we had arrived.” The founders of that “mission” were later baptized into the Church.

We often don’t know the reach of a simple act of kindness. The Prophet Joseph Smith was a model of compassion and love. One day, a group of eight African Americans arrived at the Prophet’s home in Nauvoo. They had traveled from their home in Buffalo, New York, some 800 miles away, so they could be with the prophet of God and with the Saints. Although they were free, they were forced to hide from those who might mistake them for runaway slaves. They endured cold and hardship, wearing out shoes and then socks until they walked on bare feet all the way to the City of Joseph. When they arrived in Nauvoo, the Prophet welcomed them into his home and helped each of them find a place to stay.
But there was one, a girl named Jane, who did not have a place to go, and she wept, not knowing what to do.
“We won’t have tears here,” Joseph said to her. He turned to Emma and said, “Here’s a girl who says she [doesn’t have a] home. Don’t you think she has a home here?”
Emma agreed. From that day on, Jane lived as a member of the family.
Years after the Prophet’s Martyrdom and after she had joined the pioneers and made the long trek to Utah, Jane said that sometimes she would still “wake up in the middle of the night, and just think about Brother Joseph and Sister Emma and how good they [were] to me. Joseph Smith,” she said, “was the finest man I ever saw on Earth.”

Elder Orton was born on 24 August 1936 to H. Frank and Gwen Riggs Orton and was raised in Panguitch, Utah. His parents had been married in the temple, but not long afterward his father became less active. It wasn’t until young Robert was 12 years old that his father determined to return to full activity. “That took place after many years of hoping and praying and pleading,” Elder Orton says. “He had always been a good father, but there was now a calmness and sweetness in our home because of the spiritual relationship that existed between my father and the rest of our family.”

There was a song I heard first when I was a little boy—a song about Christmas and home. Those were days of war when many people were away from their homes and family—a dark time for those who feared that they might not be reunited with loved ones in this life. I remember my feelings for home and family when I walked by one house on the way to school at Christmastime and saw a little flag with a gold star on it hung in the window. It was the home of a girl I knew in school. Her brother, not much older than I, had been killed in the war. I knew his parents and felt some of what they did. On the way home after school, I would feel grateful anticipation for the glad welcome I knew awaited me.
When I turned on the radio in our living room during the Christmas season, I would hear words and music that still echo in my mind. A few lines of that song touched my heart with a yearning to be with family. I was living with my parents and my brothers in a happy home, so I knew somehow that the yearning I felt was for more than to be in a house or in the family life I then enjoyed. It was about some future place and life, even better than I knew or had yet imagined.
The line of the song that I remember best is “I’ll be home for Christmas / If only in my dreams.”1 The house in which I decorated Christmas trees with my mother and father in those happy days of my childhood still stands, largely unchanged. A few years ago I went back and knocked on the door. Strangers answered. They allowed me to step into the rooms where the radio had been and where our family had gathered around the Christmas tree.
I realized then that the desire of my heart was not about being in a house. It was about being with my family, and it was a desire to feel enveloped in the love and the Light of Christ, even more than our little family had felt in the home of my childhood.

Skye MacMillan leaned over the top rail of the bucking chute and watched the feisty 300-pound young steer rear up and try to climb over the steel gate. Her right knee quivered, and her mouth was dry. She was on chute number three, and the announcer was calling out the names of the riders. His voice echoed inside the hard helmet that fit snugly over her ears. The nose guard and chin strap felt alien and uncomfortable on her head. Her two brown pigtails were cupped against the back of her neck by the helmet. She dry swallowed.
This was the third and toughest event she had entered today. While she waited for the bareback steer-riding to start, she had time to think about the other two events she had won.
The first event, barrel racing, she hadn’t won easily. Her trusty pony, Apache, was quick and fast, but she had hit one of the barrels with her knee. Fortunately, it hadn’t tipped over—all the hours of practice in the south corral at home had paid off. Then Apache had bellied flat-out over the finish line, and they had won by six-tenths of a second over the nearest competitor.
The second event, goat-tying, had been even harder. Again, Apache had given her the edge. He wasn’t spooked by goats, and they had practiced and practiced until she could dismount as close to the goat as possible. Apache had learned to slow down at the last minute so that Skye could leap off over his shoulder and maintain her run toward the goat without falling. In fact, Apache was so savvy that he would pace himself right beside her. Skye could keep her right hand on his shoulder, and he helped her maintain her balance as her feet hit the ground. At the last second he would veer off and let her finish her run to catch the goat.
Skye’s dad had let her practice at home on some of the smaller calves. She was good at kneeing them over on their sides and fast-tying three legs together with tight, fast wraps and slipknots. The goat had been tougher. Its legs were skinny in comparison, and Skye had been afraid it would kick free after she made her last wrap and slipknot. As she had leaped up and thrown her hands in the air to indicate that she was finished, she had held her breath. The goat had kicked and wriggled to get free of the ropes, but the ropes had held, and her time of 15.09 seconds had beaten the nearest competitor easily.
This was her second year competing in the PeeWee Rodeo Association county meet. Last year she had done well, but she had won no firsts. This year she already had two firsts. If she could win the bareback steer-riding event, she would have three firsts and a trophy as all-around cowgirl to take home. She would also qualify to go to state finals.
Skye’s thoughts jerked back to the ornery critter rearing and jumping in the chute. Her dad and one of the chute helpers were attaching the cowbell and getting the belly strap cinched up on the young steer. Her dad looked at her and gave her a thumbs-up sign.
She grinned back at him nervously. She slapped her leather-gloved hands against her thighs. Then she rubbed the palms of her gloves together to work in the resin so that she wouldn’t lose her grip on the ropes.
The announcer called for the first chute to open, and Skye watched as Billy Marten, who was in her 4-H horse handlers’ group, rode out on the back of a Hereford steer. His steer jumped out of the shute sideways and ran in a straight line for about ten paces. Billy tried to get the animal to buck, but it wouldn’t. Then the steer came to a complete stop. When Billy kicked it in the shoulders, the steer made a quick half-turn and pitched him off.
Billy sat up and yanked off his helmet. He spit dust disgustedly as he got up and walked away. A rodeo clown ran over and lured the steer away as it headed back toward Billy.
Ginny Helms was waiting her turn in chute number two. But when her gate opened, she fared no better than Billy had.
The announcer called Skye’s name, and she climbed over the rail to get onto the back of the pawing, snorting black steer. Her dad was beside her, helping her to get astride the steer and to wrap the rope around her left hand. He looked her square in the eye and said, "You don’t have to ride this year, honey. You have plenty of years ahead of you."
Skye shook her head, "No. I’m going to do it!"
Her dad gave her a quick hug and said, "Now, remember, if you start to fall, let go of the ropes—first right hand, then left hand, and you’ll be free and not get dragged."
She nodded at him and then at the chute helpers, who were shouting all kinds of instructions at her:
"Lean way back."
"Keep jabbing his shoulders."
"Jump wide when you hear the time whistle."
"Stay flat after you fall."
"Let the clown lead the steer away from you."
"Hang tight."
Skye’s head was buzzing with all the directions when the gate flew open.
The steer jumped sideways out into the arena. It jumped straight up. When it hit the ground on all four feet, Skye landed on its back with a teeth-rattling jolt. She recovered instantly, though, and leaned far back and kicked the steer’s shoulders with her heels. It spun to the left. It spun to the right. Skye’s only thoughts were to hang on and to pray that the time whistle would blow so she could let go and jump off. The steer kicked out with its hind legs, then tucked its head between its front legs. Then it stood on its hind legs and whirled around with its front legs pawing the air.
When the whistle blew, Skye instantly let go and flew over the steer’s right shoulder. She hit the dirt flat on her back, and the wind gushed out of her lungs.
Her dad came to help Skye. He loosened her belt and unbuckled her helmet as she struggled to breathe again. He kept asking her if she was hurt. All she could do was shake her head, because she hadn’t caught her breath yet. When Skye finally managed to gulp down enough fresh, clean air, she grinned broadly. Her dad helped her up, and as they walked out of the arena together, he lovingly put his arm around her shoulders.
Later, as they watched the remaining contestants try their skills, Skye looked at her dad and asked, "Dad, would you have been awfully disappointed with me if I’d chickened out?"
"Of course not. As a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering if you really want to go on with this rodeo business. I’m not sure I like seeing you get tossed around like that!"
Skye hugged him tightly and said, "Yeah, I’m going to go on with this rodeo business. After all, they say the first time out of the bucking chute is the worst. Besides, that trophy’s going to look awfully good on the mantel over the fireplace."
Skye leaned against her dad, put her head back and let out a long "Whoooopeeee!"