Gospel Story Finder

What a comfort it is to know that if we live our lives in righteousness, sealed to one another, we can spend the eternities together.
On August 27, 1982, my brother, Howard Pack, died of a heart attack while running a cross-country race. At the age of 17, he was taken from our family of 13. We love him so very much. He was an example to us all.
Howard exemplified the words, “Don’t wait to be a great man; be a great boy.” Howard accomplished things, not to be noticed by the world, but to better himself. He completed all the requirements for his Eagle Scout Award yet never bothered to turn in the necessary papers. The recognition just wasn’t important to him.
An excellent debater, Howard carried the district team to a division championship. The local paper heralded the news, but somehow they listed his name as “Harland Pike.” Howard’s response was simply, “Oh well, I know who I am.” What an assurance for us to “know who we are.”
Howard’s list of achievements includes playing the clarinet, being seminary class president, winning trophies in debate and speech, making the honor roll, and being listed in Who’s Who among American High School Students. But through everything, his family came first. Though busy, Howard would make time to pick me up from work or dry the tears of a younger brother and sister. Howard honored his priesthood and kept the Lord’s commandments. In a recent conversation with mother, Howard assured her, “Mother, I am worthy to serve a mission.” When as a young boy, Howard cut his face, a clerk asked if he had received the scratch from fist fighting. Howard responded, “I don’t fight!”
Yet, for a good cause, Howard gave all that he had. He spent several hours of piano practice so that he could play a few hymns for seminary. When others smoked, drank, or told lewd stories, he walked away from it. Howard loved the Lord and is now serving him in the heavens.
How I love my younger brother. Although I am two years older, I looked up to him. He was such a good friend. We mourn the passing of a loved one, but my family knows that “families are forever.”

Soon after the Kasues arrived in Chyulu, a branch was organized and Brother Kasue was called as branch president. The Church grew rapidly under his leadership, and religious and community leaders became alarmed when converts left their denominations to join the Church. Soon there was considerable opposition to the Church and its followers.
As the Church had not yet been officially recognized by the Kenyan government, it was illegal for more than nine adults to attend a Church meeting. When some complaints were filed, President Kasue was arrested and detained for 12 hours. He suspected that his arrest was largely due to David M. Maluti, a prominent community and religious leader who had strongly opposed President Kasue’s church work. However, when their disagreements became public knowledge, Mr. Maluti decided he wanted to end the situation. Curious about how an intelligent and respected man such as President Kasue could follow the Church, he began asking questions about the Church. Because of Mr. Maluti’s past adversarial position, President Kasue wondered about his motives and was reluctant to answer; nevertheless, he agreed to send Mr. Maluti some literature “that would speak for itself.”
Mr. Maluti read the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and other Church books and was impressed, but he was most inspired by the pamphlet The Prophet Joseph Smith’s Testimony. He read it at least 40 times. While studying about the Church, Mr. Maluti attended a public meeting where questions were raised about the Church. He fervently defended the Church and bore his testimony to those present. When he finished there was enthusiastic applause. Within six months of their first meeting, President Kasue and Mr. Maluti became close friends, and Mr. Maluti was baptized and called to be the branch mission leader.

I was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood when World War II exploded upon the world. I was ordained an elder when we were all marched away to war.
I had dreams of following an older brother, Leon, who at that time was flying B-24 bombers in the Battle of Britain. I volunteered for air force pilot training.
I failed the written test by one point. Then the sergeant remembered that there were several two-point questions, and if I got half right on two of them, I could pass.
Part of the test was multiple choice. One question was “What is ethylene glycol used for?” If I had not worked in my dad’s service station, I would not have known that it is used for automobile antifreeze. And so I passed, barely.
I prayed about the physical. It turned out to be fairly routine.
You young men should not complain about schooling. Do not immerse yourself so much in the technical that you fail to learn things that are practical. Everything you can learn that is practical—in the house, in the kitchen cooking, in the yard—will be of benefit to you. Never complain about schooling. Study well, and attend always.
“The glory of God is intelligence, or, in other words, light and truth.”
“Whatever principle of intelligence we attain unto in this life, it will rise with us in the resurrection.”
We are to learn about “things that are above, and things that are beneath, things that are in the earth, and upon the earth, and in heaven.”
You can learn about fixing things and painting things and even sewing things and whatever else is practical. That is worth doing. If it is not of particular benefit to you, it will help you when you are serving other people.
I ended up in the Orient, flying the same kind of bombers that my brother flew in England. My mission, as it turned out, was in teaching the gospel in Japan as a serviceman.
Perhaps the hardest challenge of war is living with uncertainties, not knowing how it will end or if we can go ahead with our lives.
I was issued a small serviceman’s Book of Mormon that would fit into my pocket. I carried it everywhere; I read it; and it became part of me. Things that had been a question became certain to me.
The certainties of the gospel, the truth, once you understand it, will see you through these difficult times.
It was four years before we could return to our lives. But I had learned and had a sure testimony that God is our Father, that we are His children, and that the restored gospel of Jesus Christ is true.

For a long time I struggled with an eating disorder called anorexia nervosa, where you eat less and less and worry about gaining weight. It affects you mentally—you start to feel guilty for eating and don’t understand your body’s needs. It didn’t help that I constantly saw unrealistic standards online or at school, and I compared myself to my family and others around me.
My eating disorder was definitely something I hid. But my mom noticed the changes in my eating habits. She sat down with me and gave me as much time as I needed to tell her what was going on. There were a lot of tears, but I think the Spirit helped guide her to know I needed help. Together, we made a plan and started gently working through it.
During that time, I also decided to get my patriarchal blessing. I wanted to know what my life could be like outside of the darkness that I was experiencing. I came in asking God, “Who am I?,” “Do You love me?,” and “Why am I here?” The first thing the patriarch said was an answer to those questions. My blessing helps me learn about my true identity and what God has in store for me. Whenever I read it, I feel the Savior’s love for me and remember what I can become with Him.
Even with the support of my patriarchal blessing, my family, my Heavenly Father, and my Savior, it took me a long time to process the feelings I had about my body. It’s still hard sometimes to accept myself for who I am and the way I look. But because of my dark times, I am starting to appreciate the growth and light that come from recognizing my true identity. I’m a daughter of Heavenly Father. I’m a disciple of Jesus Christ. They look upon me with love and encouragement, and that matters more than anyone else’s opinion.

Sitting on the set of a local TV talk show, Elise Jenkins thought she was going to lose it. Being on television wasn’t getting any easier for the shy 18-year-old, even though she’d already been on other TV and radio talk shows and appeared twice on the evening news.
“I really didn’t want to be on TV,” Elise says, “but in order to make my cause well known, it had to happen.”
What started out as a Laurel project for this small-town girl from Valley Springs, Arkansas, has turned into a worldwide effort that has thrust her into the public eye. The project? Show Hollywood producers that there is a market for G-rated versions of today’s popular movies. “Since they’re already making edited versions of movies for airlines, why not make them available to the public?” Elise says.
Elise’s novel idea is slowly spreading, and people from around the world are taking notice and lining up behind this otherwise bashful teenager. On her petition to Hollywood, Elise has so far gathered some 75,000 names—more than 370 times the number of people living in her hometown. She’s received at least one signature from every state in the union, as well as signatures and letters of support from as far away as China, Australia, Austria, Belgium, and England. “I even got a letter from Pago Pago,” says Elise. “Where on earth is that?”
Elise’s story started four years ago as she was thinking of an idea for her Laurel project. “All the language, violence, and immorality in movies has always bothered me, so I thought trying to change things would be a good idea,” she says.
Elise mailed postcards to family and friends to see if they’d be interested in petitioning Hollywood. Few responded. Undaunted, Elise tried a high-tech road more traveled: cyber-space. “That’s how it started to spread,” she says.
In an e-mail message, Elise asked recipients to make copies of her petition, gather signatures to mail in, and then pass on her e-mail to others. Encouraged by the responses that started trickling in, Elise set an optimistic goal for the number of signatures she wanted: one million. “I know that’s a really big number, but I wanted something that could actually convince movie producers to change,” she says.
Despite her efforts, after five months Elise had only managed to get about 2,000 signatures. Just as her goal of one million names was beginning to seem utterly unattainable, Elise received a phone call that would drastically change the course of her campaign.
David Longhurst, a Church member from Port Angeles, Washington, had been impressed with Elise’s story after reading a Church News article about her. A professional Web site manager, David offered to create a Web page for Elise’s petition and to add it to his own nonprofit “Good Works” Internet site, at www.goodworks.net. The response was overwhelming.
“It took five months to get 2,000 names by mail; then it took five days to get 2,000 more through the Internet,” says Elise. “I remember one day David called, and he said he was getting signatures on the Web site something like one every five seconds.”
The publicity from the Internet also brought in more written responses: a stack of 821 signatures gathered by a young woman in Layton, Utah; 642 names from another girl in Ontario, Canada; 611 names from the Oklahoma Oklahoma City Mission. Nearly every day, Elise found herself carrying home a huge stack of mail from the post office.
Today, Elise loves to look through the scrapbook she’s compiled of all the letters she’s received from around the world. The messages inspire her:
“You have touched many people’s lives and may have made the difference in our society. Many people feel the way you do.”
“Hooray for you! It’s wonderful to see someone do something I’ve been thinking needs to be done for a long time.”
“A few people may not make much of a difference except to themselves, but if everyone who feels this way will act upon their convictions, it will make a difference.”
Elise says she’s been amazed at the enthusiasm and numbers of the responses she’s received. As she continues her crusade, she doesn’t know whether she’ll make her goal of a million names, but she does know she’s provided an avenue for many people to take a stand for what they believe in. “I’ve been trying to stand as a witness of Christ and encourage others to do the same.”
And no matter what happens when her petition reaches Hollywood, Elise says she’s learned a powerful lesson: “One person really can make a difference.”

But soon after I began using it, I became Anderson’s close friend.
It happened in gym through a bizarre accident. We were on the field playing soccer, when suddenly a ball came sailing from nowhere.
“Save it, Jack, save it,” I heard, and the next thing I felt was a terrible blow to my head. Some primitive instinct told me to fight back, so I kicked with all my strength and heard a crunch before I fell into blackness.
When I awoke, I saw the white curtains of the infirmary and knew I was going to be sick.
“Want me to call Ol’ Collins?”
I rolled over and in my misery saw Anderson’s grin with a slightly fat lip and missing one tooth.
“Anything you want,” I groaned.
Collins came bustling in, murmured about “concussion” and “our mother” and bustled out.
“I didn’t know you could kick so hard.” Again I saw the snaggly grin.
“It must have been the blow to my head. It gave me strength.”
“Your head is only half your problem. We also have two months in the clink together for fighting.”
“Fighting? Who was fighting? And what’s the clink? Where am I, Africa?”
“You and I, sir, have two months in detention hall.”
And that’s how I met Scott Anderson.
For a first friend there could have been no better. He showed me how to play soccer, and I showed him geometry and sentence diagraming. He explained to me the caste system of Eaton from the lowliest freshman to the headmaster. His parents had been assigned to a post overseas, so he was at Eaton finishing up his junior year. His comprehension of human systems astonished me just as my understanding of split participles fascinated him. I felt as though that day of our soccer crash had been for me a grand awakening to a world that had always been but I had never seen. I was a blind man granted sight.
It was four weeks into our detention that I mentioned to Anderson his famous quote from World Problems.
“That was some line,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s no joke, you know. I really am going on a mission.”
“A mission, a mission, what is a mission, Dr. Livingstone?”
“I’m going out into the world to teach people about the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“Why?”
“Because the Church is true.”
“Are you really Mormon?”
“Sure thing, died in the wool, true blue.”
“No kidding. I never thought they got out of Utah.”
“Yeah, they did. Got out all over the world.”
So not only did I meet Scott Anderson, but also the Mormon church.
Too soon the term came to an end. When I came back from vacation, Scott Anderson was gone. “Moved,” somebody told me, “back to Utah.” I clung even more to his famous one line in memory of our friendship.
It was a fresh April day at the Apothecary Outdoor Restaurant when I had a final chance to use Anderson’s line. We had just finished our salad and were beginning our soup when an acquaintance of my mother stopped to greet us. He added the usual, “And what are you going to be doing next year, Jack?”
“I will be going on a mission for the Mormon church, sir,” I replied.
“You will?” He seemed more than astonished. “Why I didn’t know you were Mormons!”
“We’re not,” my mother smiled her let’s-get-on-to-other-things smile.
“But I am,” the man went on. “As a matter of fact, I’m bishop of the Manhattan Third Ward.”
“A bishop? I’ve heard of bishops,” I said. “You see, I had this friend at school …”
And so I met Bishop Beesely. And now I am going on a mission for the Mormon church. My father thinks that I am tomorrow’s Dr. Livingstone because I am going to South Africa.
My mother, though, is her same plural self. Just yesterday she said, “We’ll be needing some white shirts and dark suits now, won’t we, Jack?”

Almost as soon as the caravan stopped at the end of the forest road, the doors popped open and Scouts, dads, and a lot of backpacking equipment and fluorescent-orange life jackets came tumbling out of the cars and trucks. In no time at all the Scouts were lined up, drawing their allotment of food to carry, and stuffing it into their packs. Everyone seemed to know his duty and how to perform it. The few dads who were along to help were impressed with the organization. In fact, the only person not surprised by all this super efficiency performed by 12- and 13-year-old boys was their Scoutmaster, Nob Wimmer.
For Brother Wimmer this trip with the American Fork Utah 14th Ward Scouts was only one of hundreds of Scouting outings he has participated in during his 25 years of Scouting experience.
When asked how he got 12- and 13-year-old boys to perform much beyond their years, he commented on his philosophy:
“The age of the boys isn’t that critical. With cooperation you’d be surprised what even young boys can accomplish. There are three elements that do seem to make for a great trip. First, you need to plan well in advance. Second, a trip needs to require effort from everyone. Preferably the work starts a long time before the trip. If it does, the people involved get more excited about the actual event, they learn more, and they improve their teamwork. Then when we have taken care of all the variables that we can control, the third element of a great trip often comes into play. This is the element of surprise—the unexpected or the unusual happening that really makes the event stay alive in people’s minds long after the trip is over.”
To the 35 Scouts and adults who went, the trip was a success. They had been planning for months; each of them knew his duties and how to carry them out. They had also been working very hard to get ready. They learned how to handle canoes. They conditioned themselves to their backpacks, and many of the Scouts invested extra hours in learning to tie fishing flies. They worked one evening a week with Brother Wimmer learning how to do it, and then they tied quantities of flies in anticipation of the trip. In addition, every meal of the five-day camp was carefully planned in advance. Then, a few days before the trip, the food was bought and repacked so it would be easier to carry. They used off-the-shelf grocery items rather than the more expensive dehydrated backpacking foods. They even made their own oven-dried jerky to save on weight and expense.
Once the gear was out of the vehicles and strapped on backs, everyone started up the trail together. The few miles to the lake seemed more like a dozen since each person not only had to carry his own personal gear but also had to take a turn helping to carry one of the canoes.
At the lake, supplies and Scouts were ferried across the water to a lovely campsite. Scouts built simple, plastic-covered shelters under the pines, and had camp completely set up and organized in time to take in an evening’s fishing.
It was easy to get to sleep that first night. David Miller, however, woke up in the middle of the night with a creepy feeling that he wasn’t alone in his bag.
“I thought I felt something in my bag. I lay still for a while, and pretty soon whatever it was began running down my back. I grabbed it between the folds of my sleeping bag, got out of the bag, and woke my father. He helped me brush it out. It was a little squirrel, and it seemed as glad to be out of the bag as I was.”
The next morning Bishop Bean found fresh moose tracks around his sleeping bag, and there were deer tracks all through camp. After that everyone kept watch for the abundant wildlife in the area. Every morning and evening they were able to watch moose saunter down to the lake for a drink and a swim.
“The wildlife provided the unusual and the unexpected on this trip,” said Brother Wimmer. “Each day most of the boys got to see deer and moose in their natural setting. The animals didn’t even seem frightened of us. We didn’t bother them, and they seemed content to let us share their lake for a few days.”
Everyone caught some fish, and even one boy who had been cool on the trip in the first place had a terrific time. He told the leaders when they were planning the trip, “I don’t want to go up in the woods somewhere and play cowboys and Indians.”
““He sure got interested when the fish started biting,” said Bishop Bean. Like the rest of the boys, he had set goals he wanted to accomplish on this trip. Each boy became more proficient at some skill, and they were all better trained to operate as a group than ever before.”
During lunch one day one of the adults was swatting at some of the huge horseflies that seemed to be everywhere. “These horseflies are terrible,” he said.
Brother Wimmer piped up, “Don’t say that! Nothing up here is terrible!”
“Okay, I’ll just say the horseflies are mildly aggravating.”
“Fine,” said Brother Wimmer with a smile, and then let silence complete the sermon. It was a sermon that was relived time and again as the boys later shared the memories of this experience at troop meetings and a special ward banquet in their honor.

Each time I would visit an older widow whom I had known for many years and whose bishop I had been, my heart grieved at her utter loneliness. A favorite son of hers lived many miles away, and for years he had not visited Mother. Mattie spent long hours in a lonely vigil at her front window. Behind a frayed and frequently opened curtain, the disappointed mother would say to herself, “Dick will come; Dick will come.”

But Dick didn’t come. The years passed by one after another. Then, like a ray of sunshine, Church activity came into the life of Dick. He journeyed to Salt Lake to visit with me. He telephoned upon his arrival and, with excitement, reported the change in his life. He asked if I had time to see him if he were to come directly to my office. My response was one of gladness. However, I said, “Dick, visit your mother first, and then come to see me.” He gladly complied with my request.

Before he could get to my office, there came a phone call from Mattie, his mother. From a joyful heart came words punctuated by tears: “Tom, I knew Dick would come. I told you he would. I saw him through the window.”

Years later at Mattie’s funeral, Dick and I spoke tenderly of that experience. We had witnessed a glimpse of God’s healing power through the window of a mother’s faith in her son.

“In this new school year I want each of you to take a turn at the beginning of class in discussing with us the book that has impressed you most in life,” said our literature teacher, Mrs. Protschka.
I wondered what book I should present. Mother and I were living in Bonn, West Germany then, and I had just started ninth grade. I thought maybe I would introduce Lew Wallaces’s Ben-Hur. But was that really the book that had impressed me most in life?
No. I knew it was the book the two young missionaries who had baptized my mother and me had given to me a few years before—the Book of Mormon.
But I was the only Latter-day Saint in the school; could I dare to introduce this new scripture in my class?
I remembered how I had read this book, prayed about it, and received a confirmation that it was holy scripture.
When I told my mother about my idea, she encouraged me to do what I felt was right. The hard work began. I decided to start by explaining the Book of Mormon like a story, beginning with Lehi and his family’s departure from Jerusalem. After much prayer and thought, the right words began to flow into my mind. God was answering!
As I waited for my turn, I noticed that many of the other students presented books that in some way dealt with Satan and the dark side. Now more than ever, I wanted to be the Lord’s advocate to these people.
At last it was my turn. Usually the students wrote the titles of their books on the chalkboard at the beginning of their presentations, but I asked our teacher’s permission to save it until the end. I told her I wanted it to be a surprise.
Mother told me later how she had spent almost the entire morning of my presentation praying that my report would go well and that the class would be receptive. And indeed her prayers helped. At the beginning, when I started explaining Lehi’s vision and his travel through the desert, some students wanted to make fun of it, “It’s the Bible! It’s the Bible!” But suddenly the class became quiet, and I related the history of the Book of Mormon smoothly and calmly, bearing testimony of its truthfulness. The Spirit of the Lord was so strong it seemed almost tangible.
After about twenty minutes I finished, leaving my teacher and the class speechless. Then Mrs. Protschka asked what they thought. They all began to speak very highly of me and expressed admiration for my courage in presenting such a religious book at school.
I was asked to talk more about the Church and my mother’s and my conversion. After class, some of the students even asked me for a copy of the Book of Mormon.
From that day, I made friends to whom I still feel very close, friends who defended me later in front of others. They even wrote and supported me years later when I served a mission in Spain.

The old station wagon bumped and squeaked as Leonard and his mother crossed the cattle guard and started up the dirt road to the pasture. Outside the car, snow swirled wildly about, blurring the bleak white landscape and obscuring the road. Leonard’s mother leaned forward, peering intently into the storm. “If we lose this cow, Leonard, we’re giving up and going back to the city,” Mother stated. She turned the big car off the road, bumped through the field, and came to a stop.
Leonard’s stomach muscles tightened with anxiety. Mother had expressed the same feeling last spring when three newborn calves died one after another, and again last summer when Jiggs, their young white bull, dropped dead in the field. But she might mean it this time. He knew that mother really loved Lucy, a bony Holstein whose hooves had frozen as a calf; afterward she could only limp slowly to her feed and water. Last spring Lucy had given birth to a beautiful, healthy calf. Then a few days ago Uncle Jim had found Lucy floundering in an icy ditch and had pulled her out onto the bank, where she had lain ever since.
Leonard savored the warmth of the car for a moment, then pushed the heavy door open against the wind, which struck his face like a blow. He pulled his stocking cap down over his ears and pushed against the wind to the back of the station wagon. His mother released the latch, and Leonard pulled out an old wooden sleigh. He and his mother lifted a milk can full of water and a covered bucket of grain onto it.
“I’ll take some grain to the calves in the west field and come back for you,” Mother shouted as she turned back to the car.
Leonard nodded, picked up the rope tied to the sleigh, and started across the field. He kept his head down, following the trail to the gate. When he reached it, he could see Lucy’s black spots against the snow. Bales of hay formed a windbreak at her head. Lucy lay motionless, and Leonard wondered if she were dead already. A lump like a jammed-up sob arose in his throat. If only his dad were here, he would figure out some way to get her on her feet. The snow and cold had come too early. It was only November, and they weren’t ready. Since his dad’s death the year before, his mother had tried hard to run their little farm with only Leonard’s and his two sisters’ help.
As Leonard swung the gate open, Lucy slowly raised her head, and Leonard felt a warming relief. He hurriedly dragged the milk can from the sleigh, removed the cap, and poured some water into the pan near her head. The water was still slightly warm, and steam rose into the air. He poured the grain into another pan and hunched down beside Lucy. He brushed the snow from her back and stroked her furry flank. She looked at him with her gentle, unquestioning brown eyes and lowered her mouth to the water and drank. She moved her head toward the grain and snorted, sending a small dusty cloud into the air.
Leonard remembered how beautiful she had been as a calf, how starkly white and black against the green of the pasture behind the house. He remembered the pain in her eyes the morning her first calf was born and how the wobbly little creature had followed her and nuzzled her side for milk. That calf was big now and grazed with the other cows, and Leonard knew that Lucy was due to have another one in the spring. Her munching and swallowing now was a warm and homey sound against the wind that whined around them.
Feeling a peculiar kind of happiness in being near the cow, in hearing her eat, in knowing that she was still alive, Leonard didn’t think that he could stand living in the city. He remembered the long days spent at his grandmother’s house when he just sat on the front lawn and watched the traffic. He knew that kids did things in the city, but to him there seemed to be nothing fun to do. He didn’t want to leave the cows and the chickens and Ralph and George, the two huge labradors, or the wide fields and open sky, the pond, and his tree hut. There had to be a way to help Lucy somehow! After standing up and putting the can and bucket back on the sleigh, the worried boy patted Lucy’s head as she licked up the grain with her long pinkish tongue. Then he started back across the snow to meet his mother.
Later, back at the house, Leonard and his five-year-old sister, Susan, each carried a load of firewood into the house and dumped it behind the black stove. Jenny, his ten-year-old sister, and his mother were setting dinner on the table.
After the family had seated themselves at the table and the blessing on the food had been said, Susan asked, “How’s Lucy?”
“She’s still eating well,” Leonard said. “But if she doesn’t get up in another day or two, I don’t think she ever will.” He turned to his mother. “There just has to be some way we can get her on her feet! How about using the winch on the tractor?”
His mother sighed. “The tractor broke down before we finished the fall plowing. I really don’t know what we’d use. Maybe things are getting too hard for us to handle.”
“I love Lucy,” Susan said. “I’m going to pray for her. She’ll get up.”
Leonard smiled at his little sister, then at his mother. When she returned a faint smile, he felt a flicker of hope. “What about Uncle Jim’s tractor?” he asked.
“Maybe. But he’ll be out of town all week. By the time he gets back, it will probably be too late.”
Leonard ate in silence, still thinking about Lucy. Finally he said, “Why don’t we go down in the morning and try again to get her up? Maybe if we all encourage her, she’ll make the effort.”
The next morning Leonard and his two sisters climbed into the station wagon with their mother and drove down to the field. The gusting wind blew swirls of white snow off the fields here and there as they all helped to feed Lucy. The girls petted her thick winter coat and stroked her nose. After Lucy had eaten, more hay was spread around the cow to help her get her footing on the hard ground. Then everyone encouraged her to get up.
When plain coaxing didn’t work, Leonard found a smooth fence pole and wedged it under the cow’s side. Then he and Jenny found a rock to use as a fulcrum, and they began pushing down on the fence-pole lever while his mother pushed Lucy’s neck. Susan encouraged the cow by talking to her and wiggling her tail. The cow strained to raise her bulk. She kicked, but her legs only scraped against the ground beneath her. Lucy made a last struggle to rise, then flopped her head back down and refused to try again.
Leonard and Jenny lowered the pole. Susan let go of Lucy’s tail and sat down and laid her head on the cow as tears ran down her cheeks. Leonard’s mother sat on the grain bucket and put her chin in her hands.
Heartsick, Leonard looked off across the fields at the Uintah Mountains, their jagged peaks white against the blue sky. In the other direction the fields stretched far to the cedars and sagebrush beyond. He loved the expanse; it seemed to belong to him. He looked at his mother, sitting so forlornly on the bucket, and at his two sisters, gently stroking the animal’s side. “Maybe Susan had the solution,” he said softly.
His mother looked up at him, her eyes puzzled at first, then warm and comprehending. They all knelt on the spread hay, the wind gusting around them, and Mother spoke the words, explaining their need for the cow and how much they loved her. When Mother had finished, they all knelt silently a few moments longer.
“Let’s let her rest a few more minutes and try again,” Leonard said. “Then how about using two poles, one under her shoulders and one under her hips?” He looked at the cow again. “Her legs are more under her than they were when we started.”
He found another pole and a second rock. He and Jenny manned one pole, Mother and Susan the other.
“When I say ‘go,’” he directed, “start pushing, and shout to encourage her.”
“It would help if we had more people,” Jenny said.
“It would,” said Leonard, “but remember how Nephi had extra strength when he was holding onto Zoram. With the Lord’s help, we can do it.” He hesitated a moment, then shouted, “Go!”
The startled cow began to struggle. Mother and the three children pushed, wedging their poles a little farther under Lucy as she struggled. “Up, girl! Up!” they shouted, pushing and straining. The cow snorted and threw back her head and tried to dig her hooves into the ground. With a great heave the animal brought her legs under her, her back end and then her front end rising until she was standing. She swayed, and four pairs of hands steadied her. Lucy took a faltering step on her weakened legs, then another. Then she began to nibble the straw from one of the bales!
Leonard smiled across the cow’s back at his mother. She returned his smile, and he knew that she wouldn’t give up on the farm—not yet anyway. As the family knelt on the hay again in the thin winter sunlight, Lucy’s shuffling and munching provided a pleasant background to their prayer of gratitude.

I remember as a deacon watching the priests as they would officiate at the sacrament table. One priest by the name of Barry had a lovely voice and would read the sacrament prayers with clear diction—as though he were competing in a speech contest. The other members of the ward, particularly the older sisters, would compliment him on his “golden voice.” I think he became a bit proud. Jack, another priest in the ward, was hearing impaired, which caused his speech to be unnatural in its sound. We deacons would twitter at times when Jack would bless the emblems. How we dared to do so is beyond me, for Jack had hands like a bear and could have crushed any one of us.

On one occasion Barry, with the beautiful voice, and Jack, with the awkward delivery, were assigned together at the sacrament table. The hymn was sung; the two priests broke the bread. Barry knelt to pray, and we closed our eyes. But nothing happened. Soon we deacons opened our eyes to see what was causing the delay. I shall ever remember the picture of Barry frantically searching the table for the little white card on which were printed the sacrament prayers. It was nowhere to be found. What to do? Barry’s face turned pink and then crimson as the congregation began to look in his direction.

Then Jack, with that bearlike hand, reached up and gently tugged Barry back onto the bench. He himself then knelt on the little footstool and began to pray: “O God, the Eternal Father, we ask thee in the name of thy Son, Jesus Christ, to bless and sanctify this bread to the souls of all those who partake of it. …” He continued the prayer, and the bread was passed. Jack also blessed the water, and it was passed. What respect we deacons gained that day for Jack who, though handicapped in speech, had memorized the sacred prayers! Barry, too, had a new appreciation for Jack. A lasting bond of friendship had been established.

A few months before Cécile’s first visit to Banipur in 1986, a local welfare organization had managed to build a poultry yard with 120 hens, which provided each of the eight hundred ashram children with one egg per week. The eggs were a valuable source of protein in a food diet made up exclusively of rice and roots dug up in the jungle. Unfortunately, by the time Cécile arrived, the hens were dying.
“When I returned to France,” Cécile says, “I decided that if I went back to Banipur, I would build a poultry yard, because it was vital for the children. The conditions there had moved me so deeply that I knew I had to find a way to get back again to help in some real way.”
It took five months for Cécile to recover from paratyphoid. But “as soon as I felt better, I resumed my work and started saving money. But it did not take me long to realize that my personal means would not be sufficient. I prayed and asked Heavenly Father to help me,” she says. “And I felt that I should tell my family, friends, and fellow Church members about my project. At a party at my place, many of them—without previously consulting each other—gave me envelopes containing money for food, for the hens, and for the general welfare of the children. I was deeply moved by their confidence and their love.”
Next, she told her stake president, Daniel Pichot, about her project. “He advised me to write a letter to the members of the stake and tell them about my project in Banipur. Three days later, I received with emotion a check from the stake. It was the proceeds of the stake’s ‘drop of water’ campaign—voluntary contributions that had been collected during a stake fast to help relieve misery in the world. Stake leaders had now decided that the money would be used for the poultry yard.”
The following September, Cécile was back in Banipur. There, she bought 120 laying hens, 120 chickens that would start laying eggs five months later, enough building materials for a poultry yard, enough grain to feed the hens for a year, and thirty laying ducks—whose droppings would feed the fish in a nearby pond. With the rest of the money, she bought enough powdered milk to last the children in the ashram six months.
Cécile had asked French poultry experts for advice on how to manage the poultry yard. Thanks to their help, the Banipur hens now lay hard-shelled eggs, which is unprecedented in the area.
Through this emergency hunger-relief action, Cécile taught principles of self-reliance: “Now the children are responsible for the good care of the poultry yard. They collect and count the eggs; they all have tasks, even the youngest. And they are learning to be responsible for one another—because in an ashram there are only two adults in charge and three handicapped cooks for one hundred children.”

It’s nice having one whole coach to yourself, especially if he’s your dad. It provides services you couldn’t expect from ordinary coaches. For example, Dene was really shaken when he had a kick blocked in one game. Brother Garner took him back out on the field after the game, while the stands were still emptying, and had him kick ball after ball from the same spot. He hit 48 before he missed one. Brother Garner then explained that it wasn’t his fault if a kick was blocked occasionally, and Dene went away with his confidence restored.

But Brother Garner didn’t leave it at that. He did something positive to help overcome the problem. He built a ten-foot-high barrier for Dene to kick over. As a result, Dene has learned to chip PATs or short field goals so high that Goliath would have a hard time blocking them.

Eleven-year-old Ted was excited. Today he and Benjamin, his 14-year-old brother, were going to take their dad’s fishing boat out on the ocean all by themselves.
Father worked as a fisherman, catching cod, haddock, halibut, and Dover sole. Every morning he took the family’s small wooden boat and rowed into the ocean near their home on the coast of England. When he returned, Mother would take the fish to Chester Market and sell them.
But today was different. Ted’s parents needed to take the family’s horse and wagon into town to get supplies, and Ted had volunteered to do the fishing while their parents were gone.
“Remember, stay close to the shore,” Mother said as Ted and Benjamin began to row the little boat out into the ocean. “Always stay close enough that you can see our house. We should be home about the same time you get finished.”
“And be careful with the nets,” Father added. “Don’t lose them.”
Ted knew how important the nets were. Without the nets, his family wouldn’t be able to catch any fish. And then they wouldn’t have any money to buy food and clothes. All the money the family had came from selling the fresh fish in the market.
After Benjamin rowed the boat a little way from the shore, Ted helped his brother put glass floats on the nets and throw them overboard. After waiting for a while, Ted and Benjamin used all their strength to pull the nets back into the boat. They removed the fish one by one until finally they had gathered and stacked all the cod, halibut, and other fish.
“Could you start pulling up the anchor rope?” Benjamin asked Ted. “Then we’ll go back to shore.”
Ted pulled up on the rope until he could see the anchor in the water below him. As he lifted the heavy anchor, his wet hands slipped. The anchor skidded off the side of the boat and back into the water, dragging all three tangled nets overboard. The weight of the anchor overcame the floats, and the nets began to sink.
Ted stuck out his hand to grab the nets, but Benjamin pushed his hand away. “Don’t! You’ll be pulled overboard by the weight of the anchor!”
Ted watched the three nets and the anchor disappear beneath the dark ocean water. There was nothing he could do to stop them.
When the anchor reached the end of the rope, Ted and Benjamin began pulling the rope back into the boat. But when the anchor finally came back to the surface, the nets were gone.
“Maybe they floated up somewhere else,” Benjamin said hopefully. But Ted couldn’t see the nets anywhere. He said a silent prayer that Heavenly Father would help them find the nets.
They rowed around looking. But no matter how far they rowed, they couldn’t find the nets. After a little while they saw their parents waiting for them on the shore. Ted knew Mother and Father would be worried because they had been out with the boat longer than usual.
When they got to shore, Ted saw the worried look on Mother’s face and began to cry.
“What’s wrong?” Mother asked.
“We lost all the nets,” Benjamin said. His voice was quiet. He told his parents what had happened.
While Benjamin and Ted loaded the fish onto a cart for Mother to take to market, Dad took the boat out to look for the nets. But a storm was coming and the sky was turning black. As the ocean became choppy, Father returned. He had not been able to find the nets.
That night Ted heard Mother and Father talking.
“We don’t have enough money to buy even one new net,” Mother said.
During family prayer, Father prayed for a special blessing: “Please help us find our lost nets.”
The next morning the whole family searched along the beach.
Then when the tide went out, Ted and Benjamin went with Father in the rowboat. They spent the whole morning looking for the nets, but they didn’t find anything. Ted could tell that Father was starting to lose hope.
Just then, Ted thought he saw something glimmering in the water near the horizon. It could be another spot of sea foam or floating seaweed.
Or it might be the nets.
“Let’s row over there,” Ted said, pointing to the glimmer. “It looks like there is something floating.”
“I see something too,” Benjamin said.
As the boat got closer, Ted saw green seaweed leaves. His heart sank. But then, mixed in with the shiny leaves, he saw a glass float.
“It’s one of the floats!” he cried out. “I think the nets are there too!”
As Father pulled the boat alongside the float, Benjamin and Ted pulled the heavy, wet nets into the boat. All three nets were there. And they were full of cod, haddock, halibut, and Dover sole!
They had so many fish that some were spilling over the sides and back into the ocean. There was not enough room for all the fish.
“If we hurry, we can still get these fish to Chester Market,” Father said. But before they rowed the boat to shore, they stopped to say a prayer. They thanked Heavenly Father for helping them find all three of the nets and enough fish to fill the boat.

Marie-Frédérique Carter, 15, is a member of the French-speaking Lemoyne Ward. She lives in a nice, suburban part of town, where she attends a large écolesecondaire (high school) named in honor of a Catholic monsignor. Her friends know her as an aspiring violinist. They also know her as a Latter-day Saint who keeps her standards.
“I got into quite a discussion with one of my friends concerning the law of chastity,” Marie-Frédérique explains. “She thought I was really old-fashioned. She didn’t agree with my standards at all. But she finally saw I was going to stick to my principles no matter what. I want to be a good member of the Church, and I know that obedience now will bring blessings later on.”
Just the same, it isn’t always easy. “It’s hard when you get to a certain age, and you see your friends who aren’t LDS start dating and having boyfriends, and your desire is to remain faithful to the Church and to the standards that have been given to us by a living prophet. At first, I found that difficult. But not anymore. I find that I am happy doing what’s right and knowing that I’m blessed by my Heavenly Father.”

For Fu Pak Wai, an idea blossomed into a business that answered a prayer.
Fu Pak Wai says, “We can’t see everything ahead of us. We just move forward step by step.”
For many years, Fu Pak Wai worked in computer animation in Hong Kong. He enjoyed the work, but it demanded a lot of time.
“When I returned home from work each evening,” he says, “my son was already in bed.”
As he thought about his family and future, Brother Fu attended one of the Church’s “Starting and Growing My Business” self-reliance groups. For 12 weeks, group members discussed how to start, grow, finance, and improve a business. They also talked about how to find and keep customers.
Armed with new knowledge, Brother Fu got an idea, which blossomed into a business that answered a prayer.
In his spare time, Brother Fu started selling bicycle accessories and second-hand bicycles online. Then he took online courses to learn how to repair bicycles. Finally, he found a small building to rent that would accommodate a bike shop.
“I still had my full-time job while I was selling bicycle accessories and fixing bikes part-time,” he says. “After doing that for a year, I quit my full-time job.”
Now Brother Fu has more time for his family.
“It was an answer to prayer,” he says. “And now I get to see my son in the morning before he goes to school and in the afternoon after school. It’s the best.”
Starting his own business has also given him more time to serve his community and God’s kingdom, doing missionary work and helping others become self-reliant.
“As I developed my business,” Brother Fu recalls, “I also developed a stronger testimony of keeping the Sabbath day holy and living the law of tithing. I don’t know how everything will work out. We can’t see everything ahead of us. We just move forward step by step, and God will prepare the way.”

Mango season had arrived in Retalhuleu, Guatemala. The heavy costal rains had ended, and the heat of the dry season settled over the Guatemalan pueblo. My missionary companion, Sister Coronado, and I didn’t mind the rising temperatures—at least not too much—because during the heat of the day we would gaze overhead at the mangos ripening in the sun. We loved mangos. We practically lived on them. Our generous investigators and members would fill our backpacks with them, and when it was too hot to eat anything else, Sister Coronado and I would feast on them and laugh at each other as the juice dribbled down our chins.
Hermana Coronado and I were good friends. As we walked around our area each day we would talk about everything. One of Hermana Coronado’s favorite topics was what I call “everyday miracles.” As our time together progressed, Hermana Coronado taught me to recognize these little miracles. Things like meeting someone who was feeling lonely, or running into an investigator that we hadn’t been able to contact were often miraculous blessings.
One day Sister Coronado and I were disappointed to find that a family we had an appointment with wasn’t home. Just outside the family’s home, we spotted the most beautiful mangos we had ever seen. This tree was loaded with what promised to be perfect fruit. We found ourselves drawn towards the makeshift family store that was propped up against the base of the tree.
“¿Hay Maria?” From the counter of the deserted store we called out the traditional Guatemalan greeting.
“Si, ahorita vengo,” a teenage girl replied that she would be right with us.
We asked the smiling girl if we could buy two of the mangos, but she explained that they had sold the entire crop of mangos to a company from the capital city, so they were only allowed to eat those mangos that fell from the tree naturally. We must have looked terribly disappointed because she apologized profusely that there weren’t any mangos lying on the ground. She assured us she wouldn’t charge us for the mangos if we came back another day when more had fallen from the tree.
“Oh, it’s okay,” we sighed and began to turn away. The girl watched as we pulled out our weekly planners and decided what to do next. Then all three of us heard a big thump from behind the store.
“Wait!” the girl called out and ran around the back. She came back with two beautiful, ripe mangos. They had fallen together and were still connected at the stem. We wondered if Heavenly Father had sent us a thank-you note in the form of two mangos to let us know our work was appreciated. It was a small thing, but that day in the Guatemalan heat, recovering from the disappointment of not being able to teach the family we had an appointment with, it was a small miracle.
Sister Coronado gave me an invaluable gift—the ability to recognize the hand of God in my life.

Once in Utah, Dan Jones settled in Manti, where he was elected the first mayor in 1851. A year later, however, he was called to serve a second mission in his native land. Again he responded without hesitation. With a few others, he began the long trek east. When about eighty miles out of Salt Lake City, he met a group of Welsh Saints coming to the Valley. They had been baptized during his first mission, and they could scarcely contain their feelings when they met their beloved leader, they on their way to the valleys of the West, and he on his way to the valleys of Wales. They sang; they wept; they spoke with words of true affection. They spent a happy day together before parting. As they were separating, Elder Jones gave William Morgan a letter to be delivered to the Presiding Bishop of the Church, Edward Hunter. It breathes the spirit of this remarkable man and his love for his Welsh brethren and sisters:
“Esteemed Bishop Hunter.—Many of my compatriots are coming across in the 13th Company; I do not know their condition; perhaps their money and their provisions are scarce. If so, when they reach the Valley, I shall be grateful to you for furnishing them their needs, through the hand of [Brother Morgan], and I shall pay you in Manti, San Pete Valley.”7

For example, when my daughter was 18, she would not go to bed and insisted on leaving her light on all night. She would get very angry and say, “I don’t want to go to bed because there are missionaries hiding in my dresser drawer.” I recognized this as clearly delusional.
Rather than being angry, I tried to understand. What would cause her to be so frightened? As I thought about it, I realized that many of her friends were getting married. She had attended bridal parties where they had received beautiful things they would put in their dresser drawers. They were getting married, leaving her, and were no longer available as her friends. She also longed to have those same experiences and had expressed concerns: “Will I ever marry? Will anyone ever love me? Will anyone ever give me a bridal party and beautiful things?” Her friends had married returned missionaries. She could see that returned missionaries were great husbands. Somehow, all of this went together. She was also poignantly and painfully aware that she lacked the skills and the ability to manage the demands of a marriage. She was unable to verbally express those conflicts or even fully understand them, so all we heard was a delusion about missionaries hiding in the drawer. Once I began to understand her inner experience, I was able to talk it through with her. We worked together to verbalize her conflicts and grieve the sorrow of not being able to marry. The problem behavior stopped, and she was able to sleep peacefully.

Grandma and grandpa really knew how to enjoy themselves. But wait! Who says it is only the gentle folks of the 1800s who could enjoy such great tastes and times? In the Ames Ward (Des Moines Iowa Stake) the young people still know how to put together ice and cream and old-fashioned fun.
The young men and young women insisted that everyone in the ward be invited personally to their ice-cream social, and so they began a phone-calling brigade. They then remodeled their cultural hall into an 1800s setting, including a sweet shoppe, general store, jail, claims office, some cactus, and hitching posts. The main attraction was the Oasis Ice Cream Shop where you could buy the “Great Divide” (a “splendiferous” banana split), a “Pie Alamo(de),” a “Golden Nugget,” a “Ghost Two Special,” and a “Flash Flood Float.”
While ward members ate, they were entertained with a talent show. Even the missionaries got in the act with a short skit called “A Typical Day in the Life of a Missionary.”
Two months of work went into the Oasis Ice Cream Shop—two months of work and gallons of ice cream, toppings, nuts, and bananas. The youth did it all themselves—with an adult leader here and there scooping ice cream, impersonating sheriffs, and complimenting the youth for one “very cool” job.