Gospel Story Finder

Another time, we had a pop quiz in school. I hadn’t studied. Nobody had studied—the teacher had surprised us. Everybody started cheating on the quiz. I’m not going to lie—I really wanted to cheat. But something told me, “You have to sit down and do the best with what you know.” It was a soft voice. I was stressed, and the voice soothed my heart. So I didn’t look to the left, and I didn’t look to the right. I answered what I knew. In the end I was the only one who got a high score. I’m glad I listened to the Holy Ghost.

For a long time, my dad was an assistant farm manager. He worked so hard and always dreamed of one day buying his own farm.
His work ethic inspired me, especially after I left to serve a mission in Japan. I found strength and motivation when I thought about his example.
So on one preparation day, when my dad told me he had finally bought his own farmland, I was so excited for him. He invested a lot of money into growing pumpkins and told me they were going to grow large within six weeks. He found so much joy in finally achieving his goal.
But things didn’t go according to plan.
A few weeks after I heard about my dad’s new farm, the COVID-19 pandemic began and I was suddenly released from my mission. However, I couldn’t go home because of lockdowns across Australia. I was required to isolate for two weeks before going home, and it was the loneliest time of my life.
During isolation, my dad called me. I noticed right away that he was sad. Four weeks had passed since he’d planted his pumpkins, but they were frail and tiny—smaller than his hands. He worried about losing the money he’d invested in his new farm.
My dad is a good, honest, and humble man. Seeing him so upset brought me to tears later that night. My heart broke because I couldn’t be home with my family to offer my support. It was so unfair that my dad had worked so hard only for things to fail.
I prayed to Heavenly Father to know what I could do. And that’s when I got a distinct impression:
“You can fast for the pumpkins.”
At first the thought seemed ridiculous. Fast for the pumpkins? I doubted that would make a difference! But I thought about the many times I had fasted throughout my mission and how it had brought so many miracles. Sometimes it was as small as knowing what words to say while teaching or just increasing my love for those I served, but fasting had still made a difference.
So, on a random Wednesday during my isolation, I fasted—for pumpkins.
But I also fasted for my family and me to feel the Savior’s love during a difficult time.
A few weeks later, I finally arrived home. When my dad took me to his pumpkin fields, I saw hundreds of massive pumpkins. They were huge! It was truly a miracle. I couldn’t believe it.
I felt Heavenly Father’s awareness of my family in that moment.
This experience wasn’t just about the miracle of the gigantic pumpkins (and yes, my arms still feel sore when I think about harvesting them). To me, the miracle was realizing how much love Jesus Christ can bring into our homes and into our family relationships when we act in faith.
I know that Heavenly Father sees all that we might be facing within our own families. He is aware of our worries and our struggles, and He helps us express love when we ask for His help. He even saw that something as seemingly insignificant as a pumpkin patch was important to my family and helped me find a way to channel my love for them in a meaningful and miraculous way.

One night in early 1880, Desideria Yáñez was sleeping in a comfortable pueblo in the cactus-lined hills of Nopala, Mexico. As she dreamed, she saw a pamphlet titled Voz de Amonestación (Voice of Warning) that would change her life and aid her spiritually. Upon waking, she knew the men publishing the pamphlet were in Mexico City.1 She also realized it was physically impossible for her to travel the 75 miles (120 km) to the city, but she was determined to follow the impressions of the dream and find a solution.
Desideria discussed her dream with her son José. He believed her and journeyed to Mexico City in her place. He began anxiously talking to people and eventually met Church member Plotino Rhodakanaty, who directed him to the Hotel San Carlos.2
At the hotel, José found Elder James Z. Stewart correcting the printer’s proofs of Parley P. Pratt’s Voz de Amonestación, the same pamphlet Desideria had seen in her dream. After José talked to Elder Stewart about Desideria’s dream, the missionary gave José some other Church pamphlets, since Voz de Amonestación was not finished, and Elder Stewart noted the interesting conversation in his journal.3
Many dusty miles later, José reunited with his mother. Upon learning of the pamphlet’s reality, Desideria knew that the dream had been true. She pored over the pamphlets José had brought her, and the basic teachings of the gospel they contained touched her soul. She desired to be baptized.
Because Elder Stewart was still completing Voz de Amonestación, Elder Melitón Trejo, a missionary from Spain, was sent to Nopala to find Desideria and José. On April 22, 1880, Elder Trejo baptized Desideria Quintanar de Yáñez, José Maria Yáñez, and José’s daughter Carmen. Desideria was the 22nd person to be baptized in the Mexican Mission and the first woman in central Mexico.4
Later that month, José visited Mexico City again and returned home with 10 copies of Voz de Amonestación. Desideria finally saw the pamphlet from her dream. For her the pamphlet was a physical reminder of how the Lord had reached out to her personally and drawn her to the restored gospel.

The large classroom in the hospital for crippled children is full of children and laughter and clowns with rainbow-colored wigs and giant smiles.
The children have already laughed and shouted through exploding balloons and fun games. Now it’s time for clown bowling. The clowns are the bowling pins. A nurse is invited to bowl. She successfully aims a large ball at the clowns. But it never makes contact because the clowns jump and twist out of the way.
Now a little girl tries. Sitting in her wheelchair, she pushes the ball at the clowns as hard as she can, but it dribbles weakly off her lap and barely reaches the human bowling pins. The little bowler sighs, underestimating clown magic. As the ball gently nudges the foremost clown he hurls backwards as if struck by a truck, knocking down a second clown who ricochets into a third. The whole clown pile explodes like a grenade and falls apart, vanquished. The children cheer. When clowns are present, children always win.
With this wild bunch of clowns, it’s one crazy thing after another. They’re the young men of Explorer Scout unit 207 of the Riverside Ward, Colville Washington Stake. If laughter is the best medicine, these young men are physicians. They can cure sadness with smiles and cure tears with giggles. Children they visit enjoy a period of time free of thinking about operations or hypodermic needles or pain.
When this day’s performance ends, the clowns move among the patients, making balloon animals and objects—dogs, cats, swords, giraffes, airplanes. They’ll try anything the children request, and even the failures are good fun. They also draw clown stars on the children’s faces.
All too soon the good times must end. The nurses who have laughed and cheered right along with their patients begin taking them away for medical treatment. The children devise delaying tactics, stretching out the farewell moment as long as they can. One little girl hugs a clown tight, then looks into his eyes. “I love you, clown,” she says. Finally, all the good-byes are said. The children go back to their rooms, feeling as if they have been touched by some special magic.
The clowns are still full of the spirit of what they’ve been doing. So they keep their costumes and their funny faces on as they leave the hospital, pack into two cars, and drive off for a hamburger. Motorists along the way, especially little ones, gape in wonder as they see the two cars full of smiling and waving clowns.
While they eat at a hamburger restaurant, the clowns share experiences from their hospital performance. They have made many such visits.
Clown Unit 207 began when the ward youth planned a visit to the hospital. The Explorer Scouts decided to present a clown act as their part on the program. Their adviser, Ron Buchanan, asked the help of his next-door neighbor Howard Pressy, who just happened to be a professional clown. With Howard’s help the scouts prepared an act and presented it at the hospital. Brother Buchanan (also known as “Classy Clown”) recalls, “It gave us all a new perspective. Those young patients weren’t worried about social activities. They were worried about whether they were ever going to be able to walk! You can’t be the same after that experience. You come out of there changed.
“We talked afterward about the words of King Benjamin, ‘When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God’. (Mosiah 2:17.) We decided that we were going to keep right on clowning. We would serve through laughter.”
There followed a period of training in which they worked hard to learn their art. They spent hours designing their faces and costumes and learning how to put them on perfectly. They practiced comedies and learned to twist long, thin balloons into animal shapes. Then they used their talents to bless the lives of children in hospitals, orphanages, and through other worthwhile causes. Each of the young men developed some special talent. “Painter” (Donald Anderson) could fall and stop himself only centimeters from the ground. “Jasper” (Karl Watts) became spokesman for the group. “Giggles” (Aaron Griffith) developed a great Charlie Chaplin walk.
Meanwhile, Howard (also known as “Bungles”) helped them understand what it meant to be a clown. He emphasized right from the start that being a clown is very serious business.
“Anybody can paint his face and put on a silly looking costume, but that does not make you a clown. When a real clown puts on his makeup and his costume, he also assumes certain character traits which he has a moral obligation to uphold. A good professional clown doesn’t smoke, drink, or use profanity at all in costume. It just isn’t done. He doesn’t pay any attention to whether a child is black, green, yellow, or purple. He treats them all the same.
“He doesn’t ruin the impression, no matter what happens. If a child walks up and kicks you, you still love that kid—because you’re a clown.”
As the fame of the clowns spread, the younger boys in the ward began looking forward to their sixteenth birthdays when they would enter the Explorer phase of Scouting. By the time Tony Romish and Bryan McGinty came of age, they already had names waiting for them. Tony became “Digger,” and Bryan was “Doctor Funnybones.” They practiced hard and soon were full-fledged clowns.
Not content with merely being very good, the boys gets together every Wednesday to practice their routines and become even better. There is a camaraderie here, a warmth and love, but there is also a serious sense of taking care of business. The young men have often prayed that they can make a difference in the lives of those they clown for. Now they are working hard to become part of the answer to their own prayers.
Howard and Ron have always emphasized to the members of the unit that when they put on their clown outfits and makeup, they are themselves no longer. They can no longer allow their own personal fears and inhibitions to keep them from doing their duty as clowns. “When you’re in costume you have no identity of your own. You’re not yourself; you’re a clown. And you owe it to the people to make them happy.”
The Explorers soon realized that they could do things as clowns, good things, that it was hard to do as themselves.
“When I perform as a clown,” Don says, “I’m no longer Donald Anderson. I’m ‘Painter’. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I like people more because of ‘Painter’s’ influence. I’m definitely going on a mission. I used to wonder about that, but I see that ‘Painter’ helps people a lot, and I want to be able to do that as Donald Anderson too.”
All of Painter’s wonderful qualities are, of course, really Don’s own. They have merely been waiting inside for a good excuse to come out and shine.
In addition to personal growth, the clowns have been rewarded for their hard work with wonderful memories. “The first time we visited the hospital, we were all scared to death. We weren’t sure how we were going to work with crippled children. But they really responded, and it was a wonderful experience. When we finished we asked the nurse if there were any children who hadn’t been able to come.
“She took us to the room of a boy who had literally had his face ripped off in a car wreck. It looked like his face had been run through a meat grinder. He was so self-conscious that he wouldn’t come out of his room.
“So we were very careful. We walked in and said ‘Hi, we missed you. We wanted to give you a special balloon.’ At first he was really timid. But then he started to respond. And I was so proud of the clowns. They didn’t look away from him. They looked right at him and let him know that they cared about him.
“By the time they were finished, that boy was talking. He was friendly. He knew that he was somebody important, and that there were three or four clowns in that room who cared about him. He told us about his upcoming surgery, and we all wished him the best. It was one of the most giving experiences of our lives.”
Once at a baseball game for handicapped and retarded youth, the clowns adopted a team that was losing by an impossible margin. The team members had given up—until they found themselves with a real clown cheerleading squad. “We’d find out the name of the boy up to bat and then we’d start calling, ‘Come on, Charlie, you can do it. Come on, Fred!’ In that one part of the game they more than doubled their score. They still lost, because it was the last part of the game, but when they left they were so excited that someone had cheered for them.”
Sometimes it can take so little to make a difference, but to a clown that little is not optional—it is a duty. For example, at one hospital there were two Spanish-speaking boys in the audience. They were feeling a little neglected because they couldn’t understand the English jokes. The clowns combined their meager knowledge of Spanish and started some bilingual clowning. The result? “Those boys seemed to come to life.”
Working with those less fortunate than themselves has given the clowns a sensitivity and love for all of God’s children. Tony Romish reports, “As a clown, you want to help other people who are different from you. You feel a unity with everyone. We all seem to divide ourselves into different groups—the able-bodied and the handicapped, black and white, young and old, rich and poor. As clowns we feel close to everybody. We feel less separate. At school people often tease those who are mentally or physically handicapped. Before, I’d just walk on past, but now I can’t. I have to stop and defend whoever is being hurt.”
One of the secrets of the clowns’ success is Brother Buchanan. He loves these young men with all his heart. He sacrifices most of his Saturdays and many week nights for them, and considers it no sacrifice. “They’re very very special to me,” he says. “They’re wonderful young men. They give of themselves continually. And they have fun doing it. They’re my second family.”
Clowning is a uniquely unselfish form of entertainment and service. The clown receives applause, but the people applauding him don’t know who he is. They know his clown name, but they will never know his real name. There is no personal fame—only the wonderful feeling of making people happy.
But the love these clowns feel for the children they serve is far sweeter than any fame. Several of them have gotten up when they have been sick in bed to perform rather than miss that good feeling.
Clowning is hard work. But it may also be the most enjoyable form of service ever invented. “I mentioned to one of the boys that it was fun doing service projects. He said, ‘This is service, isn’t it? I’m having so much fun that I never stop to think about it.’”
Fun and service. Service and fun. And brotherhood and love and the sweet, healing joy of pure laughter. The Explorer Scouts of unit 207 specialize in lifting hearts, and you can’t lift hearts without lifting yourself.

Elisa’s mom pulled the car up to the curb near the movie theater, and Elisa jumped out onto the sidewalk. There were already dozens of people in line. Luckily, she saw her friend Tracy waving from near the front.
“Have fun!” Mom handed Elisa some change. “Call me if Tracy’s mom isn’t here to pick you up.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Elisa said, shutting the car door.
It was Elisa’s 12th birthday, and she and Tracy were going to a movie that they had been waiting to see for months. Elisa saw the movie posters displayed outside the building and started to feel excited. She patted the ticket money in her pocket.
“I’m glad I got here early,” Tracy said. “The line is already getting long, and the movie doesn’t start for another 20 minutes.”
Finally they reached the ticket window. The list of ticket prices was displayed above the cashier’s head.
“One child’s ticket, please,” Tracy said, telling him the name of the movie they wanted to see. She handed him her money and he slid a ticket under the glass.
Elisa stepped up next. “I’m getting a ticket for the same show.”
He slid a child’s ticket toward her and she put her money under the glass. Then she realized she shouldn’t have done that. The sign above his head said “Children 3–11 $3.75. Adults 12 and older $5.00.”
She was supposed to pay the full price, but the man had already pushed forward her change and was helping the next person in line. “Oh, well,” she thought. “It’s no big deal, right? I just barely turned 12.” Elisa pocketed the change and walked into the theater behind Tracy.
“This is perfect,” Tracy said as they found some seats in the middle. Elisa nodded, but she was thinking about what had just happened at the ticket booth.
“So, happy birthday!” Tracy said, smiling. “I’m so glad we can celebrate together. Are you still going to have a birthday party next weekend?”
“What?” Elisa was picturing the sign above the cashier’s head.
“The birthday party—are you having it?” Tracy repeated. “I can’t wait until I turn 12. I’ll be able to go to girls’ camp with you in July.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Elisa said. “We’ll share a tent together.”
“I’m going to miss activity days,” Tracy said, “but turning 12 will be so cool. Do you already feel more grown-up?”
Elisa felt less grown-up at that moment. She wasn’t sure what to do. “I guess so,” she said. The uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away.
“You’ll have to tell me about our Young Women’s class so I can be prepared,” Tracy said. “I don’t want to feel silly at my first activity.”
The theater lights dimmed and music started to play. Elisa wanted to go back to the ticket booth, but she thought the cashier would think she was being foolish. “It’s only a matter of 24 hours, right?” she reasoned to herself.
The movie previews started, and Elisa and Tracy sat back to enjoy the movie. It was great—just what they had hoped it would be—but Elisa couldn’t forget what had happened at the ticket booth. She hadn’t been honest.
When the movie was over, they waited in the aisle for a few minutes while everyone filed out. Elisa stared at the red carpeted wall, barely listening to Tracy rave about the movie. Elisa knew what she had to do. As soon as they stepped outside the theater, she turned toward the ticket window.
“Um, I need to take care of something at the ticket booth.”
“Ticket booth? Are you going again?” Tracy laughed. “It was good, but—”
“No, I just have to fix a mistake.” Elisa stepped toward the ticket booth.
“Wait, Elisa,” Tracy called. “My mom’s here. We need to go.”
“I’ll hurry,” Elisa called back to her. She walked quickly to the front of the line and approached the window.
“What movie?” the cashier asked.
Elisa slid her ticket stub under the glass. “Well, I just saw this movie. I bought the ticket before it started.”
“Do you want to see it again?” He looked puzzled.
“No, I paid the wrong price,” Elisa said nervously. “See, I paid for a child’s ticket, but really I’m 12 and I should have paid the full price. Today’s my birthday.”
“So?”
“Well, I should have told you I was 12, because the price is different.”
“Look, I don’t care,” he said, laughing at her. “Just forget about it.”
“Well, I didn’t tell the truth and I should have,” she said again. It didn’t feel funny to her.
“What’s the problem?” the manager asked, stepping into the ticket booth. Elisa explained to her what had happened.
“I want to pay the extra money,” Elisa said again.
“Some kids try to sneak in without buying a ticket at all.” The manager shook her head, smiling. “You can keep the change. Consider it a birthday present for being honest.”
“Really?” Suddenly Elisa did feel grown-up. She walked toward Tracy with a big smile on her face.
“Did they fix their mistake?” Tracy asked.
“No, it was my mistake,” Elisa said, “so I fixed it myself.”

The list of good men and women from whom he had the opportunity to learn goes on, but Elder Cook points out that many of them didn’t hold lofty positions at the time. They were just good people.

“We can learn from doctrine, and we can learn from good examples,” Elder Cook says. “But when you find people who have put those two together, whose lives are consistent with what they have learned in the gospel of Jesus Christ, that is a wonderful combination. And these people don’t have to be General Authorities or have some high occupation. All walks of life produce those kind of people.”

Though Elder Cook has been blessed to find good associations throughout his life, those with the greatest influence have been members of his own family.

He is grateful for a loving, involved father and a mother who “loved the Savior. They did everything they could to raise us the right way.” He appreciates the love and support of his brother, Joe, and sister, Susan.

One of the pivotal experiences of his life happened when he was 15 years old. His brother, Joe, wanted to serve a mission, but his father—a good man who had lost interest in Church activity—felt Joe should instead attend medical school. Joe and Quentin respected their father highly, so they sequestered themselves to consider his counsel.

They talked well into the night, balancing the pros and cons of each option. The bottom line, they decided, was this: If the Church is just another good institution, Joe could help people better by going to medical school. However, if the Savior truly lived, if Joseph Smith truly was a prophet, if the Church he organized under God’s direction truly is the Church of Jesus Christ, if the Book of Mormon is true, then Joe’s obligation was clear. The next morning Joe approached his father with that reasoning and bore his testimony. He left for his mission soon after, with his father’s support and his mother’s joyful blessing.

That conversation profoundly affected young Quentin. He had always had a testimony of the Savior. However, Joseph Smith, the Church, the Book of Mormon—these were another matter to a 15-year-old. He believed, but he had yet to receive a spiritual witness that confirmed their certain reality.

After he and Joe parted that night, Quentin went to his room, knelt in prayer, and asked for the same witness his brother had, a witness he desired with all his heart. And it came in a way so powerful that any doubts he had were swept away forever.

Another of the great influences in his life has been his wife, Mary. “It would be hard to find anybody in the whole world who is as good and righteous and bright as she is,” her husband says. “She has a wonderful sense of humor.”

The Cooks’ daughter, Kathryn Cook Knight, reinforces that assessment. “Dad was a perfect father,” she says. “I adore everything about him. But my mother is a saint.”

Sister Cook is very gifted musically, having taught music and filling her home with music. In fact, Elder Cook first became acquainted with Mary at a seventh-grade talent assembly. He remembers, “This little towheaded girl gets up and sings ‘On the Sunny Side of the Street.’ Even in junior high school she had a remarkably mature, deep voice. I was absolutely amazed. And that song could have been the theme for the rest of her life. She has a wonderfully bright, sunny disposition.”

During their schooling, the two had numerous opportunities to work together. In junior high he was elected student-body president, and she was elected student-body vice president. They were in debate together. And as senior-class president in high school, he worked with her as a student-body officer.

“We were friends long before we were anything else,” Elder Cook recalls. “I admired her before I fell in love with her, and marrying her was the best decision I have ever made.”

Elder and Sister Cook were married in the Logan Utah Temple on November 30, 1962.

After he graduated from Utah State University in 1963 with a degree in political science, Quentin and Mary moved to California, where he earned his Juris Doctor degree from Stanford University in 1966. Elder Cook then joined the San Francisco Bay Area law firm of Carr, McClellan, Ingersoll, Thompson and Horn.

It was there that he decided that “what I believed and who I was had to be visible.” In his work in business law and healthcare, Elder Cook associated with well-educated and affluent people. The Cooks’ son Larry remembers being touched that his father was so deeply respected among his business and civic associates. “I attended the retirement dinners honoring Dad when he left his law firm and later when he stepped down from the leadership of a health-care system,” Larry recalls. “I was in awe that colleague after colleague, none of whom were members of the Church, spoke—often with tears—about what Dad meant to them, how he had mentored and nurtured them, how he had selflessly fostered their careers without any sense that it was taking time or energy away from his own.”

At the same time, his Church service led to treasured associations with members whose cultural backgrounds were diverse and whose economic status stretched between broad extremes. Through both professional and Church experience, he developed the ability to understand and relate to people from all walks of life, and his love grew for all people.

He was called to serve as a bishop, then as a counselor in the stake presidency (to his beloved older brother, Joe!), and later as stake president. During that time he worked with not only English-speaking wards but congregations that spoke Spanish, Tongan, Samoan, Tagalog, Mandarin, and Cantonese.

Some of the members had little education and less money. But they had much to give. He remembers fondly “one of the great men I knew” who delivered bread for a living and was called into a bishopric. The man had seen ward leaders taking briefcases to their meetings, and so he decided to take one too. But since he had nothing to put in it yet, he filled it with sourdough bread to share. This humble man’s willingness to serve was surpassed only by love for others.

“Specific occupations or levels of education aren’t what I’m talking about when I say learn from good people,” Elder Cook says. “You can find good people everywhere and learn from them all.”

When he was eight years old, President Thomas S. Monson decided to have a campfire with his friend Danny. There was just one problem—the field they wanted to use was dry, prickly, and full of weeds. It was then that young President Monson had an idea: “I said to Danny, ‘All we need is to set these weeds on fire. We’ll just burn a circle in the weeds!’ He readily agreed, and I ran to our cabin to get a few matches. …

“… I recall thinking that the fire would burn only as far as we wanted and then would somehow magically extinguish itself.

“I struck a match on a rock and set the parched June grass ablaze.” Soon realizing the fire would not go out on its own, the boys ran for help, and the blaze was put out after several hours of work.

“Danny and I learned several difficult but important lessons that day,” said President Monson, “not the least of which was the importance of obedience.”3

As the time to leave Nauvoo drew near, the Brethren redoubled their efforts to endow as many Saints as possible in the temple. Brigham Young wrote, “Such has been the anxiety manifested by the saints to receive the ordinances (of the Temple), and such the anxiety on our part to administer to them, that I have given myself up entirely to the work of the Lord in the Temple night and day, not taking more than four hours sleep, upon an average, per day, and going home but once a week.”
But it was not just the Apostles who were working hard. Many faithful Saints gave freely of their time by washing the temple clothing each night so that the temple work could continue the next morning.
The Brethren planned to stop the ordinance work on February 3, 1846, before leaving for the west the next day. President Young left the temple to make final preparations to leave Nauvoo, but upon seeing a large crowd gathered to receive their endowments, he returned. This delayed his departure for another two weeks, but it meant that 5,615 Saints were endowed before they left Nauvoo.

On Sunday morning of the Auckland Papatoetoe Stake April 2021 conference, while the chapel was still fairly empty, members of the Massey Park Ward filled the seats behind the pulpit to prepare for our final choir practice. In less than half an hour, we were going to perform the prelude song, to invite the Holy Spirit and to set the tone for our last session of conference.
At the piano, I waited for my cue. Our conductor, Brother Moroni Westerlund, readied our singers then waved in our choir’s first note—and my heart sank. We had practiced for months, but still, this song had not come together the way it should have.
Over my piano accompaniment, I could hear so many unsure voices. I heard parts fading out as sections gave in to their insecurity, and in my mind, I prayed: “But Heavenly Father, we tried so hard.”
As we proceeded with our last run through, I reflected on all our preparation for this day. Our bishop had eagerly accepted this stake choral assignment, with complete faith in his ward. Our music coordinator, Sister Benjy Maugatai, recruited her conductor and pianist, and then organised our music and called all our practices. We chose hymn arrangements that were beautiful but simple, because we knew that only a handful in our ward could read notes, and many had never even sung in a choir before.
But they showed up. Despite their many other commitments, our choir eventually got so big, they could barely fit on the stand and we had so many practices.
It was clear from early on we weren’t going to be a very polished choir, but for Brother Westerlund, as long as our singers were happy and trying their best, “Just let them sing,” he would say.
We completed our discouraging final rehearsal, and I looked at Brother Westerlund. He just smiled then addressed the choir one last time.
“We’re performing this music not to show off our skills,” he said, “but to share our testimony. While you sing, remember that someone in the congregation needs to feel your spirit and your faith. That is our true assignment here today.”
It wasn’t long before the chapel was packed, right to the back of the hall. While stake and area leaders took their seats, Brother Westerlund gestured for our choir to stand.
I started the piano introduction for our prelude hymn, and when the choir’s first note rang out, I could not believe my ears. It was a full, bold, harmonious sound! I looked up from my sheet music in awe. “Who is singing?”
Sure enough, it was our same group of beaming, faithful ward members, but as clear as the ray of sunshine that slipped through the chapel’s curtains just then, I also heard a host of unseen, accomplished singers bolstering the choir. Our prelude was beautiful. Our next two songs were just as lovely, and so was the sweet spirit that permeated our entire meeting.
I wasn’t the only one who recognized a miracle that day. Desmond Maugatai—one of our tenors—later said to me, “I can testify, when we started singing, I heard two new voices, one near my left shoulder, one on my right, and they were not anyone I know in our choir.”
Twelve-year-old Kayla Tagavaitau relayed a similar experience to her mother. It had been her first time in a ward choir, and after the conference she said, “Mum, it felt like when we were singing, the angels were singing with us.”
I’ve been a part of many church choirs over the years, but this one confirmed to me a pattern I have often noticed. When we do our best to learn the music, when we try our hardest to commit to practices, when we don’t give, up even through setbacks and frustrations, when we labour diligently, despite our weaknesses and, “after all we can do,” (2 Nephi 25:23), Heavenly Father can make up for our shortcomings, “that by his grace [we] may be perfect in Christ” (Moroni 10:32).
He can even send His angels to sing with us.

Umana Effiong Umana, Birmingham Stake
Umana Effiong Umana served as deputy security manager at the Sandwell Aquatics Centre. When the security manager could not continue, he had the responsibility as the venue security manager of keeping five thousand staff and spectators in the venue safe and secure. He recounts his best experiences as meeting then Prince Charles, Prince Edward, and other VIPs.
Umana was able to assist an accessible athlete and they discussed the years of training for a competition that was less thanfive minutes long. Umana recounts, “This taught me some great lessons on planning for success.” He adds, “I really appreciate my membership in the Church because it gave me a platform and opportunity to build a faith that saw me through the entire experience.”

As I left the building, I considered going to see some friends. I even thought about going up on the university campus and walking through the greenhouses. Although I had already graduated, I was still helping Professor Gotlieb work with some sunflower research. And then I decided to talk to my dad.
My parents are pretty understanding. We’ve always talked together fairly well. When I quit going to priesthood, and then Sunday School, and then Church completely, they never threatened or yelled at me. I’m sure they felt unhappy inside, but I always knew they loved me. I never really ignored my parents, but I had friends and things at school and got pretty busy. In fact, when I first started going back to church, because of two great home teachers, I didn’t say much about it to my parents. I remember the little pause the first time after I asked them to attend church with me at the institute, and then my dad said, “Are you sure?”
I was surprised when I got home and found the lights off and the car gone. But I noticed the backyard light was on, so I got out of my car and went around the side. Out back I saw my dad working on his pride and joy, his small, old sailboat. When I was little we would go sailing on Lake Lourraine, up north. The boat really wasn’t very much. Only one at a time could get in it, but we all liked to try it, even if we spent most of the time in the lake and not the boat. As everybody grew older, everybody got busier, and we didn’t take the boat out much. Finally, it sat pushed against the garage until my youngest brother scraped it with the car; then, we hid it under some waterproof canvas behind the house. Now that all the kids are gone, my dad’s interest in sailing has increased again. Late last year he started to work on the boat. A few weeks ago, I helped him paint it white.
“Ship ahoy,” I called as I walked around the house.
“Hey, what a surprise! Just what I needed, another hand.”
“Sounds fine. I was in the area and thought I’d come by. Where’s mom?”
“Oh, she’s over at the neighbors. Did you just see Bishop Smith?”
“Whatever happened to not asking direct questions?”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking about you tonight. Here, help me sand a little.” My dad gave me some yellow, fine-grade sandpaper. We both started to work.
“Well,” I said, “do you want to know what we talked about?”
“Whatever happened to subtlety?”
I smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
“Did you tell him you’re too old?”
“Yes.”
“Was he fooled by it?”
I looked quickly at my dad. He was grinning at me. “No,” I said, “bishops aren’t fooled by much of anything. I guess dads aren’t either.”
“I guess not. So, what are your plans?”
I walked over to the back steps and sat down. “I don’t know. What do you suggest?”
“What’s more important is what you think. It’s up to you Jeff. You and the Lord. Have you ever talked to him about your future, about a mission?”
The words weighed on me, and I played with a stem of grass I had pulled up. “No,” I said quietly, surprised that the night was so still.
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“I’m afraid he wouldn’t answer or want me. I’ve let him down before.”
My dad started sanding again, and I looked up at the sky and saw Venus burning brightly. “Isn’t she a beautiful boat?” my dad said.
I was glad to change the subject. “She sure is. A real beauty.”
“I hope you’ll go sailing with me sometime.”
“You can depend on that.”
“She might sink on us, you know.”
“Oh, no,” I laughed. “She’ll float just fine.”
“Well, she used to be a wreck.”
“But look at her now,” I said. “We’re proud of her. I’d be a fool not to sail in a boat as good as this one.” I paused for a moment and looked straight at my dad. “You know, I get the feeling you want to tell me something.”
“Son, we’d all be in pretty bad shape if we couldn’t start over when we make mistakes. We wouldn’t have a chance to become better.”
“I know, dad.”
“Why don’t you ask the Lord, Jeff. You might be surprised.”
“Do you think he’ll answer me?”
“I promise you he will.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking at my dad’s hands still holding the sandpaper. “I mean it.”
“You know, Jeff, maybe you’d like to fast before you ask. Your mom and I would be glad to fast with you.”
We sanded some more, and I told my dad about work with Professor Gotlieb. When mom came home, we talked about fasting together. My parents supported me, and we agreed to do it. As I drove to my apartment, I could smell the scent of rain on the pines in the mountains mixed with apple tree blossoms. I thought of some things I’d like to do before I fasted. And for the first time, way back in my mind, I knew I’d be calling Bishop Smith soon, sooner perhaps than even he expected. And this time, I wouldn’t be going to his office with any excuses.

Many years ago, there was recounted to me an experience of a President Ballantyne who grew up in Star Valley, Wyoming. This is harsh country. The summers are short and fleeting, while the winters linger and chill. President Ballantyne told of a special Christmas season from his boyhood days. He said:
“Father had a large family; and sometimes after we had our harvest, there was not very much left after expenses were paid. So Father would have to go away and hire out to some of the big ranchers for maybe a dollar a day, a little more than to take care of himself and very little to send home to Mother and the children. Things began to get pretty skimpy for us.
“We had our family prayers around the table. On one such night when Father was gone, we gathered together, and Mother poured out of a pitcher, into the glass of each one, milk divided among the children—but none for herself. I, sensing that the milk in the pitcher was all that we had, pushed mine over to Mother and said, ‘Here, Mother. You drink mine.’
“‘No. Mother is not hungry tonight.’” Mothers are never hungry in cases like that.
So he said, “It worried me. We drank our milk and went to bed. I could not sleep. I got up and tiptoed down the stairs, and there was Mother, out in the middle of the floor kneeling in prayer. She did not hear me as I came down in my bare feet, and I dropped to my knees and heard her say, ‘Heavenly Father, there is no food in our house. Please, Father, touch the heart of somebody so that my children will not be hungry in the morning.’
“When she finished her prayer, she looked around and saw that I had heard; and she said to me, somewhat embarrassed, ‘Now, you run along, Son. Everything will be all right.’
“I went to bed, assured by Mother’s faith. The next morning, I was awakened by the sounds of pots and pans being used in the kitchen and the smell of cooking food. I went down to the kitchen, and I said, ‘Mother, I thought you said there was no food.’
“All she said to me was, ‘Well, my boy, didn’t you think the Lord would answer my prayer?’ I received no further explanation than that.
“Years passed, and I went away to college. I got married, and I returned to see the old folks. Bishop Gardner, now reaching up to a ripe age, said to me, ‘My son, let me tell you of a Christmas experience that I had with your family. I had finished my chores, and we had had supper. I was sitting by the fireplace reading the newspaper. Suddenly I heard a voice that said, “Sister Ballantyne doesn’t have any food in her house.” I thought it was my wife speaking and said, “What did you say, Mother?” She came in wiping her hands on her apron and said, “Did you call me, Father?”
“‘“No, I didn’t say anything to you, but I heard a voice speak to me.”
“‘“What did it say?” she asked.
“‘“It said that Sister Ballantyne didn’t have any food in her house.”
“‘“Well, then,” said Mother, “you had better put on your shoes and your coat and take some food to Sister Ballantyne.” In the dark of that winter’s night, I harnessed the team and placed in the wagon bed a sack of flour, a quarter section of beef, some bottled fruit, and loaves of newly baked bread. The weather was cold, but a warm glow filled my soul as your mother welcomed me and I presented her with the food. God had heard a mother’s prayer.’”

One day, when Sister Gurney and Sister Sasaki came to teach a lesson to Andrea, they told her that Theresa was going to be baptized and asked her if she would also want to get baptized. Andrea told the sisters that she would pray about it. She had experienced the influence of the Holy Spirit in the past and said that if she had that same feeling when she prayed about joining the Church, then she would be baptized. If not, then the answer was “No.”
She later shared her experience, “When I prayed about baptism, I had this eagerness; I became so anxious to do it. I discussed it with my husband because he was waiting for me to be ready, so we could get baptized together. I said, ‘Let’s continue to pray.’ So, we did, and I kept having the eagerness.”
Andrea’s husband, Wusu, was going to be leaving in two months, so when they attended Theresa’s baptism, they told the missionaries that they wanted to be baptized right away. The whole family spent the next three weeks learning about the gospel, and on June 4, Wusu, Andrea, and Patricia, their oldest daughter, were all baptized, and then confirmed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I had a particular experience in my life that showed me how using the wrong word can shock those who do not expect such an utterance to come from you. I was in boot camp in the Marine Corps during World War II. Of course, the language among my fellow Marines was not of the caliber that you would want to repeat. Being a recently returned missionary, I determined I should keep my language above the level which they were using. I endeavored consistently to keep from saying even the simplest and most common of swear words.

One day we were on the rifle range firing for our final qualification scores. I had done well in the 100-, 200-, and 300-yard positions. Now we were back at the 500-yard position. All I needed was a reasonable score—just hitting the target without even having to hit the bull’s-eye, and I would make Expert Rifleman. We had been charged up with the desire to excel and be the top platoon in firing for qualifications. I tensed up at the 500-yard standing position, and on my first shot threw my shoulder into the rifle. Of course, the flag waved—I had missed the target. And likewise, I missed the opportunity of being named an Expert Rifleman.

Out of my mouth came a little four-letter word that I had determined never to use. Much to my shock and chagrin, suddenly the whole range stopped firing and everyone turned and looked at me with their mouths open. Any other Marine firing from that position that day could have used the word I used without anyone paying attention. Because I had determined that I would carry the standards of the mission field into the Marine Corps, everyone was shocked when I forgot myself.

One summer as a teenager, I worked on an oyster boat off the coast of Long Island in New York to earn funds for college. The other members of the crew were seasoned oystermen, hardened by the harsh winter environment in which they spent much of their lives battling the icy ocean and raw wind to secure their catch. I was an enigma to them, easier to distrust than to understand. They shunned me as a company spy, then as a crazy kid who didn’t know how to be a man. Later, I became better at my duties and tried to build friendships. They offered to make me “a real man” by inviting me to join all-night indulgences. I thanked them but declined, and the tension grew more intense.
The summer weather was beautiful and the ocean magnificent. We were engaged in relatively simple tasks, such as transferring small oysters to a more distant portion of the sound where the nutrients accelerated their growth and improved their flavor. Except when a dredge full of oysters was dumped onto the deck, signaling a flurry of intense activity, there was much time for contemplation. While my deck mates dozed by their shovels, I read and pondered the content of the Book of Mormon. I cannot adequately express the powerful awakening within me that came from those weeks of study of the Book of Mormon under singularly unusual circumstances.
We slept in envelope-type bunks sandwiched into the restricted space between the ship’s diesel engine and hull. One night at dockside I retired early since some of the crew planned unrighteous activity outside our boat. I was suddenly shaken into consciousness by the powerful hand of a deck mate, Toddy, a giant of a man. He was brandishing a hammer in my face, and his breath reeked of alcohol. Stunned, I realized that there was no way that I could escape him. I thought I had come to the end of the road. Then I heard what he was shouting: “Scotty, get your fins and mask. There’s a man overboard, and you can save him.”
That night I learned a lesson I have never forgotten. Publicly the crew members ridiculed me, but privately they respected me for my standards. The confidence that came from that knowledge let me quietly help three of them with some serious personal challenges.

“What are you doing with my ball?” Rodney Sims growled at me as I stood under the huge sycamore tree at the park, admiring the new football I’d found on the grass. He stomped toward me, his face red and sweaty from playing ball in the sun.
I nodded at my friend Frank. “We were just riding past on our bikes and spotted it here. I figured somebody lost it.”
“Well, I left it here,” Rodney barked, snatching the ball from my hands and tucking it under his arm. “It isn’t lost, and I don’t want anybody stealing it.”
“I wasn’t trying to steal it,” I said, climbing back onto my bike. “It sure is a nice ball, though. If it were mine, I’d write my name on it so I wouldn’t lose it.”
“Hey, kid, you want to buy it?” Rodney’s tone was suddenly friendly. Surprised, I turned to face him. “I have another one.” He nodded at the guys who were still playing football. “If you like this one, I’ll sell it to you.”
I laid my bike down again and took the ball—it fit my hand perfectly. I had seen some just like it at a sporting goods store near my home. I had wanted a ball like this one, but it cost $10.
“I like it,” I said, gripping the ball tightly, cocking my arm and pretending to throw a pass. I shook my head and handed the ball back to Rodney. “But I don’t have $10.”
Rodney studied the ball as he rolled it in his hands. “I’ll sell it to you for $5.”
“Five dollars?”
“I have my other ball, so I don’t need this one, anyway.”
My mind began to race. I had $4 at home in my drawer, and I could borrow $1 from my little sister, Stephanie. I licked my lips and grabbed the ball again, searching for flaws. There were none.
“I’d have to go home for the money,” I explained, picking up my bike. “It will take me 15 or 20 minutes.”
“I’ll be here. But the price is $5. And no refunds or returns.”
I sped home so fast Frank had a hard time keeping up with me. Stephanie agreed to lend me $1. I snatched the other $4 from my drawer.
“You’d better think about this,” Frank warned as I crashed out the front door and leaped for my bike. He was still straddling his bike in the driveway.
“What do you mean, think about it? I’ll never get another deal like this! Five dollars, Frank, for a $10 ball! And if I bought it at the sporting goods store, I’d have to pay tax, too. I can’t pass this up.”
“Something’s not right, Joshua,” he cautioned me again. “Has Rodney ever been nice to you?” I thought a moment and shook my head. “So why’s he suddenly doing you this great big favor?”
“He has an extra football, and he doesn’t need it. I’m just helping him out,” I answered defensively.
“Something has to be wrong with the ball. Maybe it has a slow leak. Have you thought of that?”
“I checked the ball out, Frank. It’s brand new. Nothing’s wrong with it.”
“I wouldn’t buy it if I were you, Joshua.”
I stared at my friend. “You’re just jealous because he’s not selling it to you. I’m getting that ball before Rodney changes his mind.”
Rodney was waiting for me under the sycamore tree with one of his buddies. The others had left. He had the new ball and another one that was a bit scuffed up. I held the money out, and Rodney snatched it. As soon as he was sure it was all there, he handed me the football. “You just bought yourself a ball, kid.” He laughed and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Holding the ball, I watched the two run off. They were smirking as they glanced over their shoulders in my direction. An uneasiness stirred inside me. I thought of Frank’s warning. Maybe there was something wrong with the ball. I tossed it around a bit. It felt good. I squeezed it to see if it was losing air. It seemed firm enough. If there was anything wrong with the ball, I sure couldn’t tell what it was.
For the next two days, my friends and I played with my new ball. It was everybody’s favorite. It didn’t have a slow leak, either. It was brand new, just like it looked. I kidded Frank about being worried and asked him if he wished he had come up with the $5. He shook his head, but I still figured he was jealous.
One afternoon as I sat on the front steps, tossing my ball in the air and catching it, he rode up on his bike, looking serious. “I found out something about your ball,” he said.
I grinned. “Are you still worried about this ball, Frank?”
Frank didn’t smile. “My brother Derek knows one of Rodney’s friends. According to him, Rodney stole that ball.”
“What do you mean stole it?”
“Rodney stole it from the sporting goods store. A couple of his friends covered for him, but he was the one who sneaked it out of the store. That’s why he wanted to sell it.”
It felt as if Frank had punched me in the stomach. I looked at the football. “Maybe this isn’t the same ball,” I argued, feeling myself get angry.
“Rodney stole a ball exactly like that one the same afternoon you bought it from him. This is the one, all right.”
“Well, I didn’t steal it,” I snapped at Frank. “I paid for it, so it isn’t my problem. And I didn’t know it was stolen when I bought it from Rodney. He’s the thief, not me.”
Frank shrugged and turned away. “I just figured you ought to know.”
I was angry at him for telling me about Rodney’s stealing, because I liked that ball and I wanted to keep it. “Are you going to tell anybody?” I shouted after him. He turned back and stared at me. Slowly he shook his head.
After he left, I put the ball away. When Stephanie asked me to play catch, I said no. I kept telling myself that the ball was mine, fair and square, and that I hadn’t done anything wrong. But I still didn’t feel good about having it. I didn’t even want to play with it anymore. And I sure didn’t want to tell Mom and Dad what Frank had said. They hadn’t been happy about my borrowing the dollar from Stephanie in the first place, but they had left it up to me.
The next day I went looking for Rodney. He was riding his bike over in the school parking lot with a couple of his buddies. Walking up to him, I handed him the football. “I want my $5 back!”
He looked at the ball and then at me. “I told you—no refunds and no returns. Besides, I’ve already spent most of the money. And,” he added, nodding down at the ball, “it doesn’t even look new, anymore.”
“You stole this ball,” I hissed.
The grin disappeared from his face. Jumping off his bike and letting it clatter to the pavement, he grabbed the front of my shirt and jerked me toward him. “Who told you that?”
“There are guys who know,” I rasped. “And I don’t want a stolen ball.”
“Don’t you go blabbing around that I stole that ball, kid, or you’re going to be in a bunch of trouble. Nobody can prove I stole it. Besides, it’s your ball. You paid for it.”
“I don’t want it now.”
“That’s your problem. If you don’t want it, throw it away.” He gave me a hard shove, climbed onto his bike, and rode off with his friends.
My feet dragged as I left the parking lot, carrying the football that had been such a prize. Now it was a cold, hard reminder of dishonesty. I saw the garbage dumpster in the corner of the parking lot. I considered throwing the ball away. But I couldn’t. I’d paid $5 for it, and I still owed Stephanie $1. I couldn’t just get rid of it.
I tried telling myself I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t known the ball was stolen when I bought it. I hadn’t been the one to take it. I had tried to give it back to Rodney. What else was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to lose my $5 because Rodney had done something wrong?
I shook my head. All my excuses wouldn’t make the sick, guilty feeling go away. I thought of the sporting goods store. I had always liked going there and looking around. Now every time I even passed by, I thought of the stolen football. And even though I hadn’t been the one to steal it, the store was still missing a ball. And I had it. I knew what Dad and Mom would say, and I knew I wouldn’t feel good again until I did it.
I walked home, climbed onto my bike, and rode downtown. It was tough walking into the store. I asked for the manager, Mr. Turley. One of the clerks took me to his office in the back of the store.
“Well, hello, Joshua,” Mr. Turley greeted me as I stepped into the office. “How can I help you?”
I set the football in the middle of his desk and stared at it. “This ball was stolen from your store,” I announced quietly. “I didn’t steal it, though,” I quickly added. I told him the whole story.
“So it’s not my ball,” I finally ended. “You might not want it, either, because it’s been used and I wrote my name on it with a black marker.”
Mr. Turley leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. For a long time he thought without saying anything. Finally he leaned forward and took the ball from his desk and rolled it around in his hands. “Joshua, first of all, I want you to know I’m happy that you had the courage to come in. I don’t expect that was very easy.” I shook my head without looking at him. “It’s not always easy to be completely honest. In this case, it cost you $5. And you weren’t even the one who stole the ball. But being honest is more important than this football or the money you spent to buy it.”
Mr. Turley smiled at me. “I’m going to try to make your being honest this time a little easier. I have some work around here that you could do to pay for the ball.”
“You mean I could keep it?”
Mr. Turley smiled. “You just be here tomorrow morning.” Grinning, I turned and started for the door, the sick, guilty feeling gone. “Hey, Joshua,” Mr. Turley called out. I turned. He laughed and threw me the ball. “You’d better take that with you, or someone might walk off with it.”

Tragically, some believe their sins are so serious they can never be forgiven. President Spencer W. Kimball told of a woman who confessed a serious sin but said, “I know that I … can never be forgiven.”

President Kimball replied, “You can be forgiven.” Together they read scriptures detailing the Savior’s willingness to forgive, including Matthew 12:31–32 [Matt. 12:31–32], where the Lord says he will forgive every sin except “blasphemy against the Holy Ghost.”

With renewed hope, she looked at President Kimball: “I believe you. I shall … obtain that forgiveness.” She returned sometime later “a new person—bright of eye, light of step, full of hope.” She had repented and felt the Lord’s healing forgiveness (The Miracle of Forgiveness [1969], 340–42).

Outside of the airport, a man was waiting with our names and a taxi to take us to the temple where we were going to stay. Before we got there, we stopped by a supermarket to buy some groceries. The following day, my husband received his own endowment, and we did a few more sessions, spending the day at the temple. Then the big day arrived for our family sealing. Everyone there had heard about us and knew what we were there for. On that day we had the temple to ourselves. We got ready, and when we arrived, some missionary couples were there to assist us. When we got to the sealing room, everything was prepared; we were sealed first, and then our two daughters were sealed to us. It was the most wonderful thing, the way that we felt is unexplainable. There was not a dry eye in the room. All the missionaries who were there and the sister who had fed us at the airport was there, and they were all in tears. The Spirit was so strong and was felt by everyone in the room.

Amy hated riding in the car. It bumped along the road, turning corners and making her feel dizzy. She was too little to see much out the windows. “Are we there yet?” she asked Mommy a lot.
Today they were on their way to Grandma’s. Amy was eager to play with her cousins in Grandma’s big backyard. She hoped that they would pick yellow flowers out of the grass and make a pretend house under the trees. But first she had to get there—and that meant more time in the car than Amy thought she could stand.
“Mommy, my tummy hurts,” she grumbled.
Her baby brother whimpered. “I think Baby Jacob’s tummy hurts, too,” she said.
Amy wanted to cry. “At least Jacob can see out the window,” she whined. “Why can’t we go any faster?”
“Well,” Mommy said, taking a deep breath, “there are a lot of cars on the highway, and nobody is going fast.”
“Oh.” Amy scrunched her eyebrows. “So how much longer?”
“I’m not sure, sweetheart.” Then Mommy smiled, and in the mirror at the front of the car, Amy saw her eyes grow wide. “Amy,” she said, “if you look out your window, way up high, I think pretty soon you will see the top of the temple.”
“The temple? Where you and Daddy were married?”
“We were married in the temple,” Mom said, “but not this temple. This is the Seattle Washington Temple, where Grandma and Grandpa go to help with baptisms.”
Amy craned her neck to look through the window at the sky. “Mommy, I don’t see it!”
“Sit up as tall as you can, Amy. Look for the Angel Moroni on top.”
Amy said a quick prayer in her head. Heavenly Father, please help me to see the temple. Then, in the middle of dark green trees, she spotted a spire. “Mommy, Mommy! I see it! There’s the Angel Moroni!”
Amy looked to see if Baby Jacob was watching, but he was busy looking at his fingers. “That’s the temple, Jacob,” she said, pointing out the window.
“‘I love to see the temple,’”* Mommy sang, beginning Amy’s favorite Primary song.
“‘I’m going there someday,’” Amy joined in. Even when the temple disappeared behind the trees, she kept singing. “‘To feel the Holy Spirit, To listen and to pray.’”
When they finished the song, Amy asked if they could sing it again. Soon they were pulling into Grandma’s driveway.
“How’s your tummy?” Mom whispered, turning off the car. Baby Jacob was sound asleep.
“All better,” Amy said. She unbuckled her seat belt and jumped out in the sunshine. “I’m going to tell Grandma we saw the temple!”

Tanning and tooling raw cowhide into a handsome, functional, well-balanced saddle is an almost-lost art. Although the trade flourished in the last century, it is today a rare craft. Yet Rich Pearce was fascinated. He came by his interest quite naturally because of the historic western town he comes from—Show Low, Arizona. There wasn’t a saddlery in Show Low, however, so Rich took two summer vacations and spent them in Vernal, Utah, as an apprentice in a saddle company. Rich can now make a saddle any pioneer, sheriff, outlaw, or city dude would be comfortable in and proud to use.