Gospel Story Finder

One couple said:

“Serving a senior couple mission was our righteous desire, but we [faced] many challenges. We exercised our faith in the Lord Jesus Christ to have the Holy Ghost guide us in every step. Despite our challenges, we were blessed with peace and confidence to move forward. We were able to save sufficient funds for our mission, paid off debts, and organised our family. We are blessed to have a better relationship as husband and wife, as well as [with] each of our children.”

I had heard the same story over and over again in church, the one about testimonies and planting seeds. But on fast Sunday, I usually just slumped down in my chair and thought about how boring testimony meeting was. So of course I didn’t think that a recent lesson in my Sunday School class about testimonies would affect me any differently than any of the other things I had heard, but I was wrong.
During class I was asked to read the familiar story in Alma 32:26–43, in which Alma compares faith to a seed. I had read or heard that story many times before, but for some reason, this time I couldn’t get the line that says “Because ye have tried the experiment, and planted the seed” (Alma 32:33) out of my head. I thought about the seed of my own testimony, and how I had never really “tried the experiment” to see if it would grow.
Near the end of the lesson our teacher brought out the most beautiful plant I have ever seen. It was full of bright red and orange flowers. Then she brought out another plant, except this one was brown and wilted. Our teacher explained that the flower that was beautiful and bright had been nourished and looked after, while the wilted one had been forgotten about and neglected. She then handed us a pot of dark soil and a single seed. She challenged us to nourish the seeds as a reminder to nourish our testimonies. She also challenged us to bear our testimonies often.
By the next month my seed had bloomed into a bright, flowering plant. On fast Sunday, my Sunday School teacher bore her testimony right after the bishop, and it made me think about her challenge. I also thought about my beautiful plant and how I wanted my testimony to be just as beautiful. I knew that I had a testimony, and that part of helping it grow was sharing it with others. I had butterflies in my stomach, but I finally got enough courage to stand.
As tears rolled down my face I looked down at my Sunday School teacher, and I could tell that she was proud of me. As I sat down I thought that even though my testimony didn’t seem like much right now, I knew within myself that my testimony was the beginning of the most beautiful thing I would ever grow.

The example of a faithful pioneer sister illustrates this truth. Mary Lois Walker was married at age 17 to John T. Morris in St. Louis, Missouri. They crossed the plains with the Saints in 1853, entering the Salt Lake Valley shortly after their first anniversary. On their journey they had suffered the privations typical of other Saints. But their sufferings and adversity did not end when they reached the Salt Lake Valley. The following year Mary, then 19, wrote: “A son was born to us. … One evening when he was two or three months old … something whispered to me, ‘You will lose that little one.’”

During the winter the baby’s health declined. “We did all we could, … but the baby grew steadily worse. … On the second of February he passed away … and so I drank the bitter cup of parting from my own flesh and blood.” But her trials were still not over. Mary’s husband was also stricken, and three weeks after losing her baby, he died.

Mary wrote: “So was I, while yet in my teens, bereft in the short period of 20 days, of my husband and my only child, in a strange land hundreds of miles from my blood kin and with a mountain of difficulty before me … and I wished that I too, might die and join my loved one[s].”

Mary continues: “One Sunday evening I was taking a walk with my friend. … I was reminded of [my husband’s] absence and my intense loneliness, and as I wept bitterly I could see, as it were in mental vision, the steep hill of life I should have to climb and felt the reality of it with great force. A deep depression settled upon me, for the enemy knows when to attack us, but our [Savior, Jesus Christ,] is mighty to save. Through … the help given of the Father, I was able to battle with all the force which seemed to be arrayed against me at this time.”8

Mary learned at the tender age of 19 that the Atonement gives us the assurance that all things that are unfair in this life can and will be made right—even the deepest sorrows.

One blustery day last March, a young man named Layne Anthony climbed out of his father’s car beneath the flags to answer that call and undertake that adventure. As he lugged the heavy suitcases through the doors, he may have been thinking of the moving promises and awesome authority that had been given him the night before when his stake president set him apart. He may have been remembering the inspiring missionary farewell in sacrament meeting or the day he was ordained an elder. Perhaps he thought of the moment his eyes scanned down his call letter and he learned he was being sent to the Peru Lima North Mission. Maybe he was even thinking about his last good-bye to his girl friend. There were plenty of memories to choose from, because his old life and the old Layne Anthony were being left behind when he walked through those doors.
As the new missionaries came streaming in, a battle-wise old veteran of two or three weeks stood observing them with a knowing eye. “Once you walk through those doors,” he said, “you never come out.” And then he smiled and lent a hand with the luggage to show that he was just kidding. But whether by design or by chance, he spoke the truth, because when these young men and women boarded busses for the Salt Lake City Airport several weeks later, they would not be the same men and women who strained at their luggage that brooding gray morning in March. The real journey, the one inside their hearts, the one that would take them where no jet airliner could fly, had begun.
After leaving their luggage in a large room, the new missionaries and their families gathered in one of the Missionary Training Center’s many chapels. Allen C. Ostergar, administrative director of the MTC, addressed the assembly, telling of the joy of missionary work, recalling his own mission, and explaining some of the rules. He urged the parents not to duplicate the adventure of one lonesome mother who came and hid in the bushes to get a glimpse of her son. Some of the mothers didn’t laugh.
Recalling his own mission call, Brother Ostergar said, “As I read the call I knew I was doing what the Lord wanted me to do. I knew the Church was true. The Spirit literally touched my heart, and it changed my life. And above all other things that the missionaries will feel here, they will feel the Spirit of the Lord, and they will strengthen their testimonies. Please rest assured that that happens. We love the missionaries as if they were our own sons and daughters.”
Before long the meeting was over, and Brother Ostergar invited the missionaries to come forward and exit through doors at the front of the chapel. “Anyone who comes up this way, we keep,” he added, “so the rest of you will have to leave the way you came in.” He invited the missionaries to give their mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters a hug and a kiss and shake their girl friends’ hands. They obeyed enthusiastically, as good missionaries should. All the young ladies present were apparently sisters, because there were few handshakes. Elder Anthony gave a good hard missionary squeeze to each of his family and walked through the doors.
Emerging on the other side, the missionaries found themselves much the same as before, to all appearances, but there was a subtle difference. Now they were really on their missions. The last mooring line had been cast off, and they were embarked.

Dirk set the tip of the shovel into the sod and pushed hard on it with his foot. The shovel made a crunchy sound as it cut through the tough grass that had started creeping into his mother’s iris garden. Although his arms and shoulders were tired, Dirk had to admit that the iris bed was beginning to look much better. Earlier his mother had told him that if he helped her Saturday morning he could do whatever he wanted in the afternoon.
While he was digging and shaking the soil from the tangled grass roots, Dirk thought about batting a few balls with Ethan, Rick, Chad, and some of his other friends over at the park. Spring had seemed so late that they’d hardly had any time for baseball practice.
Dirk set the shovel aside and went to get the rake to finish his job. His mother had been separating and thinning her iris plants while he worked and had a pile of them at one end of the garden.
“What are you going to do with all of those?” Dirk asked.
“Aunt Maria wants a few of the yellow ones. And Mrs. Cox asked me to save her half a dozen of the blue irises.” Mother shook her head. “It seems a pity.”
“A pity?” Dirk echoed.
“A pity to throw the rest away when they could brighten a yard somewhere. If we just knew someone who could make use of them.” Mother laughed. “But through the years as I’ve separated my plants, I’ve given starts to everyone in the neighborhood who had space. The neighbors have traded back and forth until every yard on the street is filled with flowers.”
“Not every yard,” Dirk said. And he looked surprised as an idea popped into his head. “Hey, Mom, may I have the extra irises?” he asked eagerly. “There is one spot on our street that doesn’t look good. You know, the old vacant lot that’s too little for a house. No one takes care of it.”
“That’s true,” Mother said. “Mr. McCarty lives right next door to it and kept the lot looking nice for years. But now he’s barely able to keep up his own yard and no one else has cared about doing it.”
Dirk nodded in agreement. “Everyone says it’s an eyesore, but no one does anything about it. People passing the lot often throw papers on it and the kids don’t care either. I guess we’re all to blame. Maybe we’d all be more careful if a few flowers were growing there, and iris plants spread fast.”
“And they don’t need as much water as most flowers do,” Mother added.
“I could carry water until they get started,” Dirk suggested. “I believe even a few flowers near the sidewalk at the front of that lot would make people think twice before they threw trash in there.”
“I’m sure they would,” Mother said. “You have a great idea, Dirk, and are welcome to all of the plants you want. Maybe I can even find a little time to help you later this afternoon.”
After lunch Dirk was so busy raking leaves and grass and rubbish from the spot he had chosen for planting his irises on the little lot that he hardly looked up. He collected three bags of rubbish before he cleared a spot large enough to suit him. Then he started spading up the earth. When Ethan saw Dirk digging he came across the street to find out what his friend was doing. “That looks like work!” Ethan said.
Dirk answered with a grin, “It’s work all right, but it’s fun.”
After he explained about the iris plants he asked, “Do you want to help me?”
Ethan thought for a moment and then he nodded. “I’ll go home and get a shovel. This old lot has looked awful for a long time.” In a few minutes Ethan came back with a shovel and a rake. He was grinning as he explained, “I told my mother about your idea and she thinks it’s great. She’s separating some big double shasta daisies and we can plant them right next to the fence. My dad says he’ll come help us after while.”
The boys worked fast, pausing only to grin at each other now and then. They were so busy they didn’t see Monica walk by until she asked them, “Why are you raking and digging in this old vacant lot?”
The boys explained about the iris plants and the daisies. In unison, they asked, “Want to help us?”
“The old lot looks better already,” Monica said. “I’ll be glad to help. I’ll go home and get a shovel.”
In a few minutes she was back with her older sister, Andrea, who carried a box with six peony plants to put near Ethan’s double shasta daisies.
Before Dirk had finished spading his iris bed, Chad came to see why they were all so busy and decided he wanted to help too. He went home for a rake and brought back four yellow rose bushes to put at the back of the little lot where they could grow tall against the back fence.
Mr. McCarty hobbled out to see what was going on next door. His eyes brightened with interest. “I’ve wished many times that I could still take care of this plot,” the old man said, smiling happily. “If you folks are willing to plant and care for some flowers, then the least I can do is provide the water for you. We can just pull my garden hose through the fence whenever the place needs watering.”
Dirk was grateful for Mr. McCarty’s offer for he hadn’t looked forward to carrying water to get all the plants started.
The afternoon went by quickly. With so many working together, there was a lot of talk and laughter and fun. Before the sun went down, nearly everyone on the street had come to help, to offer plants or fertilizer or hours of care to keep the garden blooming.
When they had finished and each family had taken a few boxes or bags of rubbish to put out with their own garbage, they all came back to look at their new garden.
“I believe that this will be the loveliest garden in our whole neighborhood,” said Mr. McCarty. “It’s a very special spot now because it’s everybody’s garden. Not only will we enjoy it, but everyone who walks or drives past will have a spot of beauty to enjoy in place of that awful eyesore.”
Everybody’s garden, Dirk thought happily as he walked home. It was going to be fun to have everyone working together to make something beautiful.

From the front porch of my grandparents’ home, I could see the dark blue, spiny-backed ridge line of a mountain range. The road atlas called them the Clear Creek Mountains, but my Grandpa McClary said they were the Windmakers, though I never heard anyone outside of our family refer to them by that name.
“Why do you call them the Windmakers?” I asked my grandpa one summer evening as we sat on the porch, watching the sun’s last rosy light creep higher on the mountainside.
“Feel that breeze?” Grandpa replied. I did, a cool little gust that ruffled my hair and sent a shiver down my shoulders. Grandpa leaned back on his chair and wrapped his fingers behind his head. “That puff comes right from those mountains. I can tell you almost the exact spot, right up that big canyon next to that feather of snow,” he nodded. “Every day about this time, the wind blows down from those mountains. That’s why I call ’em the Windmakers. Someday I’ll let you in on a secret I know about those mountains.”
“Secret?” The word grabbed my attention, as it would capture the interest of any nine-year-old boy talking with his grandfather.
“Yes, secret. When the time’s right, you’ll understand it,” he promised, a trace of intrigue in his voice. “Don’t try to get it out of me; I won’t tell.”
So I had to be satisfied that I’d learn the secret of the Windmakers at a later time. But it was always on my mind when Grandpa, my father, and I made our annual fishing trip to the mountains.
The trip actually began 300 miles away from the Windmakers, in my hometown. On the first weekend in August, my father came home from work at noon, and we began a ritual honed to perfection through the years. We packed our car and said good-bye to my mother and little sister, Melissa. Then we began the long drive to my grandparents’ home in Springvale, a small town in the shadow of the Windmakers.
On Saturday morning, we’d spread out our camping and fishing gear in Grandpa’s backyard. Then we’d pack all of the equipment in the back of Grandpa’s pickup truck and pull a canvas tarp over it. One of Grandpa’s neighbors, Mr. Dahlstrom, always peeped over the fence during our preparations. “So, Jess, looks like you plan to do some serious fishing this week,” he’d greet. “That we do, Henry, that we do,” Grandpa replied happily.
It took all morning and some of the afternoon to get everything ready, carefully organizing every fish hook, tent peg, and frying pan. We never took much food. “We’ll live off the land, by our wits,” Grandpa winked. When we finished packing, Grandpa always looked solemnly at his truck and pronounced final approval. “We are now ready to go fishing. To the mountains, gentlemen.”
After that, my father turned the truck around and parked it front first in the driveway. “To make our getaway even faster on Monday,” my father explained. “When it comes to fishing and your grandfather, every second counts.”
Sundays, of course, we went to church. Although it was the ward my father grew up in and most people there knew our family, Grandpa took special delight in introducing us to anyone within earshot. “This is my son Richard, and his son, Jason. You remember Richard from his days as a deacon here. He was the ornery one in the bunch, but he turned out all right somehow. Credit his mother for that, I suppose.
“Anyway, he and Jason have come this week to exact a fearsome toll on the fish of the nearby mountains. Next week, I’ll let you know who was victorious—the fish, or the fishermen,” Grandpa pledged.
Early on Monday, when the sky was still black, we’d arise. Grandma McClary always had a huge breakfast on the table for us. “Last decent meal you three will get until you come back,” she teased. After eating, we were off, three generations spanning 50 years, yet close enough to fit snugly on the seat of a pickup truck. Our destination: the Windmakers, their dark outline only now taking shape against the pink morning sky.
The excitement of those mornings still lingers: Grandpa’s unfailing good humor; all of us singing on the drive to the mountains, always very loud and off-key; the fragrance of a forest morning, fresh pine and dew; and the conversation between my father and grandfather, always about good friends, good memories, and good lives.
Ninety minutes into our drive, two tracks of dirt veered away from the main road. We followed the little road a few miles to a small meadow at the foot of a dozen large trees. It was there, with the stream close by, that we pitched camp.
“In the name of our honorable family, I christen thee Camp McClary!” Grandpa exulted while jamming a shovel into the ground.
It didn’t take long for us to set up camp, a tribute to Grandpa’s meticulous packing. After the tent was up and everything in place, we broke out our rods and reels and tugged on our waders. Soon we stood at the water’s edge, casting Grandpa’s hand-tied fishing flies into the riffles and pools.
We worked our way upstream, hopscotching from boulder to boulder, from one bank to the other. Most years the fishing was good, and when one of us caught a fish, the other two invariably let out a whoop. We kept only what we needed. “It would break your grandmother’s heart if we came back a few pounds heavier,” Grandpa said.
The best memories of all, though, are of Grandpa. He was tall, white-haired, and handsome. On our outings to the Windmakers, he always wore a tattered blue hat with a dozen fishing flies hooked to it. He called it his lucky cap, and said it was as important on those fishing trips as his rod and reel.
Late in the afternoon, we hiked back to our camp. Grandpa fried our trout in his homemade lemon butter. Nothing ever has tasted quite as good as those high mountain meals cooked over a campfire. For dessert, Grandpa always had a bag of gingersnap cookies, though I never saw him pack them. We’d sit on the edge of the creek, the three of us, eating cookies and going over the day’s adventures. When the breeze kicked down the canyon in the early evening, Grandpa would lean back and announce: “The Windmakers.”
Tuesdays and Wednesdays were spent fishing. When Thursday came, the truck was loaded, though not quite as carefully as the Saturday before. We drove back to Springvale, arriving about noon. Grandma treated us to a sumptuous lunch, and we took turns grumbling about how bad the food was on our trip. “We stared starvation right in the eye,” Grandpa dead panned. “But your meal here, Sarah, has brought us back from the edge.”
“We were so hungry that we almost forced ourselves to eat some of Dad’s cooking,” my father chimed in.
On Friday, Dad and I returned home. Grandma and Grandpa stood in their driveway, waving good-bye until we turned a corner and went out of sight. We got home a little tired, with some trout in our ice cooler and enough wild tales of our adventure to the Windmakers to last until next August.
I started accompanying my father on the trips to the Windmakers when I was five, and for a decade, the trips varied only slightly. Never did I think that things might someday change. Then, suddenly, they did.

It’s Friday night in Brazil. From Recife to Rio and from Salvador to São Paulo, the great megalopolises of the country teem with life as young people fill the streets, heading down beach boardwalks and downtown drives to outdoor festivals and markets, movies and shows, restaurants and clubs.
But in a certain corner of São Paulo—Brazil’s largest metropolis with a population of 21 million—all the bustle of a big-city Friday night is forgotten as dozens of teenagers play a part in something most unusual.
They sit in small groups around a large, lit-up building, occasionally checking their watches as they quietly talk into the night. They’re not staying up late to hit a dance club. They’re not lingering for the late show. They’re anxiously awaiting something of far greater significance, something their ancestors have also waited for: their assigned time to do baptisms for the dead in the São Paulo Brazil Temple.
Because this temple is the only one in a nation of more than 700,000 Latter-day Saints, its doors are open all night every Friday until late Saturday in order to accommodate the bus loads of Church members from outlying areas who are only able to travel to the temple on weekends. Upon their arrival, stakes are assigned times round the clock to do temple work.
According to temple president Aledir Barbour, handling such large numbers of temple goers “is now our greatest challenge because so many stakes want to come, but we cannot accommodate them all as we’d like.”
He pauses, then smiles and adds, “But certainly it is a challenge we like to have.”
The white-haired, soft-spoken temple president cites an example of a group of youth and their leaders who came by bus from Belo Horizonte, a large city about 200 kilometers northeast of São Paulo. Members of this stake youth group brought with them the names of 10,000 ancestors, all of whom the teens had identified through their own research. The group stayed from Tuesday through Friday, but it wasn’t nearly enough time to do the baptisms for all their ancestors.
The temple baptistry is so full of youth patrons, individuals can usually only be baptized for four or five deceased persons each time they come to the temple. And this is after many teens and their parents from outlying areas have saved for months to travel to the temple, riding on a bus for days to get to São Paulo (Brazil is larger than the continental United States).
When the São Paulo Temple was dedicated in 1978, it could easily handle the Church membership in Brazil, which then totalled less than 60,000. But membership in Brazil has increased by more than tenfold since then, and now the temple is consistently overflowing.
Fortunately, the rapid growth that has caused such a challenge is also a catalyst that is bringing about wonderful change—change that is already beginning to bless the lives of Brazilian youth.
Peering through the rails of a barrier fence, 17-year-old Fabio Fogliatto and his friends of the Canoas Stake watch intently as men in hard hats construct a building near the southern tip of Brazil. Fabio notes with satisfaction that one of the workers leaves the construction site before smoking a cigarette. “He must know this is a sacred site for us,” he says.
On the other side of the fence from the teens is a spectacular sight. Against the backdrop of the city, the walls of what will be the Pôrto Alegre Brazil Temple are rising out of the red earth.
“Just watching them build the temple, I can feel it really is a temple of the Lord,” says Ivan Carvalho, 14, of the Esteio Ward. “It makes me feel even stronger that I want to come here to do ordinances for the dead and for myself.”
Fourteen-year-old Guilherme Recordon of the Estancia Velha Ward adds, “And now that we only have to go 20 kilometers instead of 300, maybe we’ll be able to come here every week!”
The feelings of these boys represent an excitement growing all over Brazil as temples are built. Another temple is nearing completion in Campinas (a city just west of São Paulo), and yet another will be dedicated in the northern city of Recife this summer. As temples are built into the Brazilian skies, youth here are constructing their own temple-worthy lives.
Living worthy to go to the temple is anything but easy for young Brazilians. They are teased by their peers if they don’t use drugs, alcohol, and tobacco. Extreme immodesty is common on billboards and prime-time T.V. Many students carry pornographic magazines to school. During carnaval, a week-long festival for which Brazil is famous, immodesty and immorality are paraded in the streets.
But LDS youth say that looking to the temple helps them keep the commandments despite the many temptations and trials they face. “At school, when you won’t look at the [pornographic] magazines, people make fun of you. But I have a goal to serve a mission and marry in the temple, so I already know that if they push this stuff at me, I won’t do it,” says Fabio Marques, 16, of the Campinas Fourth Ward. “I’ve already made my decision.”
Fabio says having a temple so close to his home in Campinas will strengthen him and his Latter-day Saint friends. “It’s hard to get to the temple in São Paulo, but soon we’ll be able to do baptisms for the dead more easily and frequently at the Campinas Temple. And each time you do that, you make a stronger goal to return to the temple, and to be worthy to marry in the temple.”
Whenever challenges seem too much for 18-year-old Janise Figueiró, she looks at a little bottle of red earth she received from her Young Women president in the Higienópolis (Pôrto Alegre) Ward. “Whenever I look at that soil from the temple site, I remember to live worthy.”
Fourteen-year-old Juliano Garcia of the Guaiba Jardim Ward was thrilled with the prize he’d won. Although he’d only been a Church member for just under a year, he’d managed to win a scripture chase in his multistake seminary bowl. As he began to look through the pages of his prize, a booklet entitled The Holy Temple, he became fascinated with the pictures of temple baptismal fonts and celestial rooms. Juliano didn’t know much about the temple, but as he read in the booklet about baptism for the dead, his heart immediately turned to his deceased grandparents. “I thought about my grandparents, how great they were, and I thought that more than anything I wanted to go to the temple for them.” Juliano hasn’t been able to travel to the São Paulo Temple, but is now preparing to go in Pôrto Alegre.
As Juliano and other Brazilian teens continue to construct their own temple-worthy lives little by little, they do not doubt that when the doors of the new temples are ready to be opened, they will be ready to enter.
When the Angel Moroni appeared to 17-year-old Joseph Smith in 1823, he told the young prophet about the marvelous restoration that was about to take place, quoting from Malachi:
“Behold, I will reveal unto you the Priesthood, by the hand of Elijah the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.
“… And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (see JS—H 1:38–39).
This prophecy is literally being fulfilled in the hearts of young Brazilians. “The Spirit of Elijah is working … especially on the young people, to do work for their ancestors. It’s something that we cannot explain,” says São Paulo Temple President Barbour.
Take 16-year-old Jeferson Montenegro of Canoas and Suelen Alexandre (15), José Meirelles (18), Priscila Cavalieri (18), Carlita Fochetto (14), and Carolina (16), Christiane (15), and Carlos Rodriguez (12), of São Paulo (pictured above). These young people volunteer in their family history centers for 10–20 hours each week, assisting Church members in their research, entering extracted names into the computer system, and searching for names of their own ancestors.
These teens aren’t unusual. Many Brazilian youth have found the names of hundreds of their ancestors and eagerly begun their temple work. Why? “I feel the influence of the spirit of Elijah,” says Jeferson. “It makes me feel a closeness with those who’ve gone before me.”

The Auckland New Zealand Harbour Stake recently stepped back 50 years and once again made the twenties roar.
The stake held a Gold and Green Ball to celebrate its first birthday, and 750 Church members showed up dressed for the occasion—complete with flapper dresses, boas, and skimmers.
The Charleston and Black Bottom were revived, and everyone joined in chorus to wish the stake a happy birthday. The hall was turned into a makeshift garden for the event, and everyone had a roaring time.

Wishing to join the Saints in Nauvoo, Jane and eight members of her family joined other converts and traveled from Connecticut to Buffalo, New York, in October 1843. There the others in their group boarded a boat to continue the journey, but the Manning family were denied passage because of their race. Jane and her family began walking the eight hundred miles to Nauvoo.

In her journal, she wrote, “We walked until our shoes were worn out and our feet became sore and cracked open.”

When the Manning family reached Peoria, Illinois, the sheriff threatened to put them in jail because they did not have papers to prove that they were free. Finally Jane convinced him that they had never been slaves.

Frightened by the experience, they moved on. They came to a river and crossed it by walking into the stream until the icy water swirled around their necks. As they continued their trek, they were often cold, hungry, and frightened. Sometimes they found shelter, but often they had to sleep in the open, even when snow fell. They relied on their faith and each other, and when conditions became unbearable, singing hymns and praying kept them going.

When they reached Nauvoo, Orson Spencer directed them to the home of the Prophet. Joseph and Emma Smith welcomed them, inviting the Mannings to stay at the Mansion House until they found homes. Eventually all the members of the Manning family found jobs except Jane. The Prophet and his wife urged her to stay with them.

Jane did stay for several months. When the Prophet was martyred, Jane grieved for him, saying, he was “the finest man I ever saw on earth.”

Following Joseph’s death, Jane lived with President Brigham Young’s family until the Saints fled Nauvoo. During that time, she met and married Isaac James, another free Black, who was also a member of the Church.

After the Saints left Nauvoo in 1846, Jane gave birth to a son, Silas, at Winter Quarters. When the first pioneers left Winter Quarters in 1847, the James family were in the lead company of the main encampment.

Jane’s family struggled during their first years in the Salt Lake Valley, and though they lacked even the most basic necessities, Jane shared what little she did have with her neighbors. When Brother Lyman, a neighbor, received a call to serve a mission in California, he left his family with few provisions. His wife, Eliza Partridge Lyman, wrote, “Jane James let me have two pounds of flour, it being half of what she had.”

Jane worked hard to provide for her family, spinning and weaving cloth, making her own soap, and raising a large garden. She also worked as a laundress to earn much needed cash. Just as it seemed the family was starting to prosper, Jane’s husband left them. Twenty years later, he returned and made his peace with Jane and the Church. Jane held his funeral in her home when he died in 1891.

Despite her meager earnings, Jane James donated to the building funds of the Logan, St. George, and Manti temples, as well as to the Lamanite Mission. When asked how she managed to care for her family and still contribute to the building of the kingdom, she replied, “I pay my tithes and offerings, keep the Word of Wisdom, go to bed early, and rise early. I try in my feeble way to set a good example to all.”

Jane died in 1908. President Joseph F. Smith and other General Authorities spoke at her funeral, praising her unwavering faith and commitment to the gospel.

These are the squares. They enjoy living all by themselves in Square City.
These are the circles. They enjoy living all by themselves in Circle Center.
These are the triangles. They enjoy living all by themselves in Triangle Town.
Here are the rectangles. They enjoy living all by themselves in Rectangle Ranch.
Each group of shapes thought the other groups were very strange and not as good as themselves. After all, they thought, anyone who was different couldn’t possibly be as interesting and beautiful as themselves. The squares felt that in order for your shape to be the best, you had to have all four of your sides look just alike, the way all of the squares did. If you didn’t, you certainly couldn’t do as many wonderful things as a square could – or so thought all the squares in Square City.
The circles, however, felt that you must be perfectly round–like them–so you could roll all around. If you were pointy or square or only had straight lines, you were boring and certainly not as nice - looking as the circles were - or so thought the circles of Circle Center.
The rectangles felt that to be really important and nice looking, you must have two short sides exactly alike and two long sides exactly alike. If not, you must be most confusing to look at – or so thought the rectangles of Rectangle Ranch.
The triangles, on the other hand, felt that the only group to be a part of was one where everyone had nice sharp points and only three sides. After all, what could you possibly need four sides for – and rolling all around was just plain silly – or so thought the triangles of Triangle Town.
The squares didn’t like the circles. The circles did not like the triangles. The triangles certainly didn’t like the rectangles. And the rectangles didn’t like any of the squares. Each group of shapes didn’t want to play with any shapes that were different from themselves. In fact, if any other shape came near their group, they would make fun of it and chase it away!
One beautiful summer day, the little squares and the little circles and the little triangles and the little rectangles went outside to play – but NOT together! While they were playing a strange thing happened.
The little circles were playing on top of the hill. Some of them rolled a bit too far and before they could stop, they had rolled right down the hill and smack into the middle of the game that the little squares were playing. The little squares were very upset. Not only was their game ruined, but they were mad about having the circles come rolling into THEIR playground. The squares yelled and made faces at the circles trying to chase them away. The circles were very frightened and tried to roll away, but they became confused and kept bumping into the little squares.
The rectangles and triangles heard all the yelling and the crying. They all stopped their playing and hurried as fast as they could to see what was happening. Soon everyone was hollering at everyone else. It was a terrible commotion! Suddenly, a few of the little circles became so frightened, that they leaped up into the air and came right down on top of some of the little triangles! Oh, wonder of wonders! Everyone was absolutely quiet. No one moved, even an inch. They just looked and looked at what had happened. The little circles and the little triangles had made some ice cream cones – beautiful, big ice cream cones!
Some of the circles rushed over to get a closer look at the ice cream cones. They didn’t even notice that they had rolled right next to a big rectangle. But then everyone began to cheer and clap because the circles and the rectangle had made a very nice wagon! Then everyone became very excited about their new discovery. Because there were so many different shapes, they were able to make all kinds of new things. Everyone wanted to help, and they all had to work together to create the special shape pictures. The squares and the circles made a train. A little rectangle made the smokestack, and some tiny circles made the puffs of smoke. Soon they were all working together to make a sailboat and many other fun things. Everyone was happy and enjoyed working together. They had discovered that each shape, because it was different, added just what was needed to make special things they could all enjoy.
When playtime was over, all the shapes were very glad the little circles had accidentally rolled down the hill. It gave them all a chance to get to know each other, and to see how much more fun it can be to play with those who seem different from yourself. They worked together to make a lovely new house and many pretty things to go with it. Now that all the shapes had all become friends, they didn’t want to live apart from each other, so all of the shapes moved their little groups into their lovely new house where they could all live together, happily ever after. They often went sailing on their new sailing ship and even renamed their new home the Friendship Farm.

It was in the middle of November, when I was looking for a yardstick in Mom and Dad’s closet, that I found the skateboard and other Christmas presents hidden behind a box and a bag of old clothes.
I had ached all over to have a new skateboard because the best skateboarding hill in the world was over at Adam’s Park, not two blocks away.
My best friend, James, and I went there every chance we got and used a skateboard that we’d bought together at Tilly’s Secondhand Store for five dollars. It was small, banged up some, and had metal wheels that squeaked and rattled as we bumped down the winding walk at the park. But this skateboard wasn’t something Mom and Dad had picked up at Tilly’s Secondhand Store!
Sitting in the closet, I ran my hand across the skateboard’s shiny, smooth surface and spun the red “poly” wheels. There was a picture of a guy flying through the air on a skateboard, and underneath, in brilliant red letters, was “SPEED DEMON.”
“I found my Christmas present!” I called out as I rushed up James’s driveway and found him trying to fix a back wheel on his little brother’s trike.
“Christmas?” he muttered, looking up at me and zipping his coat tighter around his chin. “Who’s thinking of Christmas? We haven’t even had Thanksgiving.”
“I accidentally found my parents’ Christmas gift to me,” I gasped, dropping down beside him.
James set his pliers down and squinted at me. “What’re you getting?”
“A skateboard! Not a crummy one, either. You know the one we’ve looked at in the window at Benson’s Bargain Barn?”
James nodded.
“It’s as good as that one any day.”
James whistled softly. “And it’s yours?”
“With four sisters who could care less about skateboarding, it has to be mine.”
“A skateboard!” James whispered, shaking his head. “You’re a lucky dog, Aaron.” He grinned, and I knew he was happy for me, but I could see a hint of disappointment in his eyes because he knew that there would be no new skateboard for him.
Since Dad had been on just sick pay for several weeks, we hadn’t had much. But James’s family was poor all the time. His mom was a cashier at the supermarket. On Saturdays and some evenings, she cleaned people’s houses to get money for clothes and stuff like that for him, his brother, and his little sister. He didn’t even know where his dad was. James never expected much for Christmas.
That night as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I thought of James. I was happy about my skateboard, but I knew that having a skateboard wasn’t going to be all that great unless James had one too.
I tossed and turned, then started figuring. I’d already bought my family’s gifts, except the ones I was making in woodshop at school. The skateboard at the Bargain Barn cost over ninety dollars. I had twenty-seven dollars, money I’d been saving for months to buy a baseball glove. I had a set of baseball cards that Brandon had been coaxing me to sell him for fifteen dollars. I was sure that I could collect ten dollars’ worth of cans by Christmas. That was fifty-two dollars right there. And I could do odd jobs for folks in the neighborhood.
I had nearly six weeks till Christmas, and I was going to get James his own skateboard! Suddenly I was more excited about James’s skateboard than I was about the one Mom and Dad had tucked away for me in the closet.
“Do you still want to buy my baseball cards?” I asked Brandon the next day at school.
He stared at me. “You’re willing to sell?”
I nodded.
“Fifteen dollars?”
I nodded again.
“You have those cards over at my place this afternoon, and I’ll have your money for you.”
As soon as school was out, I sprinted home, dug my baseball cards out from under the bed, and galloped over to Brandon’s place. He had his money ready for me. Of course, Brandon didn’t ever have to worry about money. He was the only kid in his family, and his mom and dad gave him just about anything he wanted.
I checked with everyone in our neighborhood about doing odd jobs. Brother Tubbs let me clean out his garage. Sister Wells had me rake leaves and trash from her backyard. I took care of the Parkers’ dog and two cats and watered houseplants while they were gone for a week and a half.
Two weeks before Christmas I had seventy-two dollars. With my money stuffed into a bag, I entered the Bargain Barn. “I know the skateboard costs ninety-five ninety-five,” I said to Brother Benson as I pushed the bag across the counter, “but if you’ll save that skateboard for me, I promise to get the rest of the money to you as soon as I can.”
He thought a moment, rubbing his chin and gazing at my money. “Aaron, you must want that skateboard pretty bad.”
“I’m getting it for a friend.”
“He must be a pretty good friend.”
“The best a guy could have.”
“I’ll save the skateboard for you.” He hesitated, then added, “I could use a little help around here between now and Christmas. Maybe I could help you earn some of that money.”
“Would you?” I asked, hardly believing my ears.
Brother Benson’s eyes twinkled. “I think we could work something out.”
For the next two Saturdays and some afternoons after school, I worked at the Bargain Barn. I broke down cardboard boxes for recycling, straightened up the storeroom, swept the parking lot, ran errands, and did anything else I was asked to do.
“I can’t find my Christmas presents anywhere,” Brandon complained the day before Christmas vacation as we walked home from school. “Usually I’ve found where Mom and Dad have hidden them by now. They always give me one big thing that I really want, and clothes I need, and other stuff, but I haven’t found anything, and I’ve looked all over.”
I shrugged. “Why not wait and be surprised like everyone else.”
“Don’t you ever wonder what you’re getting for Christmas?”
A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. “I don’t have to wonder this year. This is going to be my best Christmas.”
“Well, Aaron,” Brother Benson said the day before Christmas Eve as he was closing up his store, “you’ve been a real trooper. When I told you that you could work here for a few hours, I didn’t know you were going to give me such a hand.”
“How much do you figure I still owe on the skateboard?”
Brother Benson chuckled. He stepped into his office and returned with a huge oblong box, wrapped in silver paper and tied with red ribbon. “You’ve earned it,” he said, handing it to me.
I took the package with shaking hands. I could hardly wait to see James’s eyes bulge when he saw his gift.
Christmas Eve was a busy day. I helped Mom make cookies and candies for neighbors and friends. We finished doing a few decorations around the house—the Christmas tree had long since been decorated. There weren’t a lot of packages under the tree, but that didn’t bother me because I knew that the best gift was hidden away in Mom and Dad’s closet.
It was well after dinner before I could take my gift over to James. I rushed to my room, pulled the silver package out from under the bed, and ran my hand gently across the paper. “You’re going to love it, James,” I whispered. “We’ll both be skateboarding pros.”
I got up, threw on my coat, grabbed my gift, and rushed down the hall toward the back door. As I burst into the kitchen, Mom and Dad were there, and the skateboard was on the table. I froze in my tracks.
“I wish we could afford to buy one for our son,” Dad was saying to Mom, shaking his head and staring at the table.
Mom shrugged. “Janet just wanted to surprise Brandon for once, so she asked me to keep his gifts. Every other year he’s found his presents weeks before Christmas.” She laughed. “She told me yesterday that they’re sure he’s searched their house a dozen times and is pretty worried.”
“This is Brandon’s?” I asked, feeling sick.
Mom turned and saw me. She nodded. “His mother’s on her way over to pick all these things up.” She gestured to a pile of packages on the counter as well as the skateboard. “Where are you headed, and what’s that under your arm?”
“I was going to see James,” I rasped. “I have a gift for him.”
“OK. It’s nice of you to think of him.”
After I rushed out the back door, for a moment I stood in the driveway, clutching the skateboard. I’d never had a skateboard as nice as the one under my arm.
I can keep this one, I thought to myself, and find something else for James. No one would know. I deserve a good skateboard after I worked so hard. Then I thought of James and how fun it had been working to get something nice for him. And I knew that I could never truly enjoy this skateboard, knowing it had really been meant for him.
Slowly the sick feeling went away and a warm, peaceful feeling took its place. It was the same feeling I’d had since deciding to buy the skateboard for James. I started for his house.
“What is it?” James asked, surprised, as I pushed the huge silver package into his arms.
“Open it and see.”
“Now?”
“I won’t be around to watch you open it tomorrow,” I pointed out.
James hesitated, then tore the silver paper away and gazed at the skateboard. His mouth dropped open. “Are you joking, Aaron? You’re not really giving this to me, are you?”
“It’s all yours, James.”
“But—but how? … Why … ?”
“You’re my friend, and I knew you’d want one.”
“What’s yours like?”
I shook my head and laughed. “I found out that Brandon’s mother had asked Mom to hide that one for him. But I think yours is the best one around.”
James’s smile drooped. He pushed the skateboard toward me. “Aaron, I can’t take something as nice as this. But thanks for offering.”
“You have to take it,” I argued. “You can’t give a Christmas gift back.”
For a moment he just stood there holding the skateboard, blinking back tears. Then he said, “Half of it is yours, then.”
I shook my head.
“I’m giving half of it to you, and like you said, you can’t give a Christmas gift back. It will be ours together. And the day after tomorrow we’ll try it out at Adams Park!”
I nodded, fighting back tears, too, then headed home, knowing that no one—not even Brandon with all his gifts from Santa and his parents—would ever have as nice a Christmas as mine.

When he was just 10 years old, Joshua Dennis spent five days trapped in the pitch-black darkness of an abandoned mine. When rescuers finally heard his faint cry for help and pulled him out of the horrible darkness, he was disoriented, cold, and exhausted. Much to their surprise, he wasn’t afraid. Josh spent his time sleeping, yelling for help, and praying. “Someone was protecting me,” he explained. “I knew people were going to find me.”
Joshua’s simple but profound faith had been nurtured by his parents, who taught him that he had a Heavenly Father who knew where he was at all times. They taught him he had been born with the Light of Christ within him. Truly, Josh had been brought up in light and truth (see D&C 93:40) so that when he found himself huddled on a ledge 2,000 feet deep in a mine, he had drawn upon that light to sustain and comfort him, to give him courage and hope. Josh experienced what Abinadi taught when, speaking of Christ, he said, “He is the light and the life of the world; yea, a light that is endless, that can never be darkened” (Mosiah 16:9).
Remember little Josh Dennis? He is now Elder Dennis, serving a mission far away from the dark mine which held him captive. Now Elder Dennis finds his way along the narrow, unfamiliar paths of Honduras, sharing a message of hope, salvation, and light. What he teaches every day is the paradox he experienced as a young boy lost in a mine: that amidst encircling gloom, amidst the darkest possible circumstances, it is possible to feel hope, peace, and comfort—all because of the light which is stronger than all darkness, the light of Jesus Christ.

The preparations were everywhere! Peter’s third grade class was planning an Easter party, his Primary was singing with the ward choir for the Easter program, and his mom was busy planning for relatives coming to visit for the holiday. His friends were all busy and excitedly awaiting the Easter holiday.
But Peter was having a difficult time. He wasn’t excited about treats and visitors because Grandpa Jensen was very sick. He was so sick that Mom and Dad had told Peter and his brothers and sister that Grandpa Jensen would soon go back to live with Heavenly Father.
Peter was sure that there was some terrible mistake! Doctors didn’t always know everything. Grandpa Jensen was strong and good, and everyone loved him. He just couldn’t be dying!
Peter prayed and prayed. “Please don’t take Grandpa home with thee, Heavenly Father,” he pleaded. He knew that he should say, “Thy will be done,” but it was too hard to say. If I say it out loud, Peter thought, it might mean I’m giving up.
Peter thought about how lonely it would be without Grandpa. He thought about how Grandma would feel without Grandpa by her side. And he knew that all of his family would miss their wonderful Grandpa Jensen. Sometimes Peter would find himself laughing and having fun with his friends. Then he would stop and wonder how he could play and laugh and joke while Grandpa was so sick.
That week in family home evening, Peter’s older brother, Thad, told the story of the Savior’s death and about the joy that Mary Magdalene felt when she knew that He was resurrected. Then Thad explained that although death would separate the members of their family, because of Jesus they would someday be together again. He also talked about the great importance of going to the temple and receiving its blessings. He ended his lesson by saying that all people take the love and affection they feel with them when they die. Grandpa would still love everyone in his family as much as ever, even though they were separated. Family is still family—grandpas are still grandpas!
Peter felt much better about Grandpa’s condition after that lesson. But then he began to wonder if it would hurt Grandpa to have his spirit leave his sick body. Grandpa was already suffering so much that Peter couldn’t stand that thought. Mom suggested that he talk to Grandpa about it. She said that Grandpa lived close to Heavenly Father already and that he would explain his feelings to Peter.
Sure enough, when Peter told Grandpa his concern, Grandpa explained, “Petey, do you remember that day I took you to the zoo last year?”
“Yes. We stayed so long and had such fun that I fell asleep in the car on the way home.”
“That’s right. You didn’t know that when we got home, I lovingly picked you up and carefully tucked you in your bed. The next morning you were surprised to see where you were. You knew that you were in a different place from where you fell asleep. You didn’t know how you got there, but you knew that someone who loved you took you there. Well, that’s how I believe it will be. Perhaps I will fall asleep, and when I awake, my spirit will be somewhere else. I won’t hurt anymore or be uncomfortable, and I’ll know that Someone who loves me took me there.”
Feeling Grandpa’s arm about him while they talked helped Peter realize that Grandpa wasn’t frightened. And as he closed Grandpa’s door behind him, Peter felt a sense of reverent excitement for the eternal things that Grandpa would experience.
The next Sunday was Easter. During sacrament meeting, Peter listened carefully to everything. Jesus’ prayer, “Thy will be done,” the cross, the thorns, the sepulchre, and Mary Magdalene’s joy—all meant much more to him that day.
Jesus had gone through all he had endured because he loved Peter and Grandpa Jensen and everyone else in the world. If Jesus had not atoned in Gethsemane and died for all of God’s children, there would be no hope to ever see Grandpa Jensen again after he died. But because of Jesus, there is hope for every little child and every grandpa to be together again.
As Peter listened to the first line of the sacrament hymn, “God loved us, so he sent his Son,”* his heart swelled with joy. That’s it! he thought. That’s the happy message of Easter!

Bro. Tew: President Hinckley has spoken often of his wonderful mother. On one occasion he said:

"My mother died 65 years ago. She died while I was a student at the University. I went on a mission after that. It was in the bottom of the Depression. Money was terribly scarce. My father had a lot of property, but all that he was getting out of it was tax notices—no income from it. We discovered that my mother had established a savings account with the nickels and dimes and the quarters she got in change when she bought groceries, and that spelled the difference that made it possible to cover my expenses in what was then the most costly mission in all the world."

Her small change saved a little at a time made a big difference!

Girls in the Idaho Falls Idaho East Stake, working for their Summiteer Award in the Young Women camp program, mounted horses and headed for Dead Horse Point on a riding adventure.
For most, riding horses on mountain trails with a sleeping bag tied on behind was a new experience. After receiving instructions on the care of her horse (each girl was expected to brush, saddle, bridle, feed, and hobble her assigned horse during the trip), they headed into the mountains. Past camp experience prepared them for making camp with a minimum of equipment, but long hours in the saddle had the girls discovering new, untested muscles.
After maneuvering up a steep trail to a site appropriately named Dead Horse Point, the group was treated to a spectacular view of the Teton Range from the summit.
At the end of the three days, the girls and their leaders were becoming accustomed to the skills needed to ride the mountain trails. With rain threatening, the group broke camp, loaded the horses, and headed home from an adventure that brought them closer together and left them confident of their abilities to survive and enjoy the outdoors.

Earlier in the week, we had been together in Kinshasa for an amazing young adult meeting, which filled every room in the stake center and overflowed into a large outdoor seating area. The questions were excellent and the teaching so inspired. I was sitting off to one side when—during the second hour of the meeting—Elder Bednar came over and quietly whispered for me to go into one of the other rooms where young adults were watching by broadcast, and ask if anyone had a question they would like to ask Elder Bednar. I entered one of the rooms where they were reverently watching, and as I began to ask if anyone had a question, they pointed to a bishop who was walking up to me and who then handed me half a dozen pages of questions he had already collected from all the rooms. I was astonished and asked why he did that (knowing no one had told him to do so). He simply said he knew we would be coming and felt it was the right thing to do. The Lord is in charge and through His Spirit clearly orchestrated all aspects of that extraordinary experience with thousands of excited young adults so anxious to see and learn from an Apostle of the Lord.

Kellene Trentham, 14, was awarded an Outstanding Community Service award from the Chief of Police in Chubbuck, Idaho. Kellene has been the editor and publisher of a community newspaper that has been helping the police instruct citizens about crime prevention.
Kellene’s newspaper started as a get-acquainted effort in her subdivision. One of her neighbors was the Crime Prevention Officer from the police department. At that time, the police were attempting to organize a Neighborhood Watch program where neighbors learn to secure their homes and report unusual activities in their residential area. Kellene started including the information in her newspaper. Soon others were interested in receiving the paper, and local merchants began contributing articles on topics of interest or services. The paper, which is printed once a month, is now being delivered to 1,200 homes.
Kellene has expanded her activities to her local junior high school where, with the help of the police, she is organizing a youth crime prevention group.
Kellene is a member of the Seventh Ward, North Pocatello Idaho Stake.

I once investigated an airplane accident where a young lieutenant was trying to practice the basic fighter maneuver called a pop-up attack. The plan called for him to approach the target at low level and high speed, acquire the target, then pull up abruptly, and, at the appropriate altitude, roll over and attack the target at a 20-degree dive angle—for more effective weapons effects. This particular lieutenant tunneled his vision solely on the target, not paying attention to anything else, and suddenly he found himself in the clouds. But if you’re in the clouds and your only reference is the ground, then you’ve lost the ability to effectively continue the attack.

Instead of discontinuing the attack and executing the appropriate escape maneuver as he’d been trained, the young pilot thought, “Well, I remember where the target is, so I’m going to keep going.” Because he’d had no real reference, he’d flown too high. So when he rolled over, he exited the clouds at a steep 45-degree angle and was flying much too fast to avoid hitting the ground. Realizing his mistake, he immediately pulled the ejection handle, just prior to the airplane impacting the ground. Because he failed to perform a single basic maneuver, he lost a valuable combat aircraft and came within about a half second of losing his life.

In conclusion let me share an experience that is tender and even sacred to me. When I was first called to serve as Young Women general president, I felt terrified and inadequate. I lay awake for many nights worrying, repenting, and crying. After several nights of this, I had a very moving experience. I started thinking about my young women nieces, then about the young women in my neighborhood and ward, then about the young women I saw regularly at the high school, and then I envisioned young women of the Church throughout the world, over half a million of them. The most wonderfully warm feeling began to envelop me and surge through me. I felt such exquisite love for Latter-day Saint young women everywhere, each one of you, and I knew that what I was feeling was our Heavenly Father’s love for you. It was powerful and all-encompassing. For the first time I felt peace because I knew what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. He wanted me to witness to you of His great love for you. And so I testify to you again that I know beyond doubt that Heavenly Father knows you and loves you. You are His special daughter. He has a plan for you, and He will ever be there to lead you, guide you, and walk beside you (see “I Am a Child of God”). I earnestly pray that you will know this and feel this, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Three Christmas trees stand out in the memory of Elder Gary B. Sabin.
The first was a beautiful Christmas tree of his youth. When Gary scaled the tree trying to reach a candy cane, the entire tree crashed to the ground.
The second was an evergreen branch he found as a missionary while serving in Belgium and the Netherlands from 1973 to 1975. Elder Sabin and his companion took the branch home to their apartment and propped it up around the Christmas cards they had received from home.
The third was a tree made of Christmas lights strung on the IV stand next to his daughter’s hospital bed. One of three Sabin children to suffer from cystic fibrosis, his daughter had received a double-lung transplant one year after the death of her brother from the same disease.
“We have learned a lot more from our children than they have learned from us,” says Elder Sabin.
As a General Authority he will remember the Christmas trees and the lessons he learned from them. Each tree highlights portions of his journey—from a young boy wanting a candy cane to a missionary teaching the plan of salvation to a father who relied on the plan and the Savior’s love to sustain his family through mortal trials.