Gospel Story Finder

My grandfather used to graze his cattle each summer in the beautiful, lush, high mountain valleys east of our town in central Utah. However, the cattle craved and needed supplemental nutrients from licking rock salt. The rock salt came from a salt mine some distance away. Grandfather replenished the salt at the salt licks by putting a packsaddle on a sturdy horse and filling the packsaddle with rock salt. I called the packhorse Slowpoke for good reason. Grandfather put me on Slowpoke with the saddle loaded with rock salt. He gave me the reins so I could guide the horse up the mountain following Grandfather on his horse.
My horse Slowpoke was slow, but I didn’t push him because he carried such a heavy load. It took a full day to ride up the mountain to the salt licks and to unload the rock salt from the pack animal. As the day got warmer, my sweaty legs would sting as they rubbed against the lumps of rock salt in the packsaddle. It was a joy when we crossed a stream and I could get off the horse and get rid of the sting by washing and drying my legs.
Grandfather would sing most of the day. Mostly he sang the songs of Zion. But one song he sang that impressed me greatly was “Show me your companions, and I will tell you what you are.” Looking back on it, taking salt to the mountain valley was an enjoyable experience, while the additional nutrients from the rock salt fortified the cattle.

In May 1833, my fourth-great-grandfather Asahel Perry and some friends traveled from northern New York to Kirtland, Ohio. They weren’t members of the newly restored Church, but they wanted to meet the Prophet Joseph Smith. They arrived just in time to attend the first council held to discuss the building of the Kirtland Temple.
After beginning the council, the Prophet presented the business of building the temple. Then he called upon those present to express their feelings related to such a large undertaking. Most responded that the Church was too poor to tackle such a task. They proposed construction of a smaller, less-expensive building.
During the ensuing discussion, Grandpa Perry and his friends huddled, took out their money, and added it up. Did they have enough to pay for their return trip and contribute to the temple’s construction? A few minutes later, my grandfather approached Joseph Smith, pulled out a five-dollar gold coin, and presented it to the Prophet. (Such a coin today would be worth hundreds of dollars!)
Joseph stood before the council and held up the coin. Then, speaking energetically, he said that “the work had commenced and the House [of the Lord] would be built according to the pattern presented” by the Lord Jesus Christ.
The Perry family soon joined the Church in Kirtland, received their temple blessings a few years later in the Nauvoo Temple, and later crossed the plains to Utah.

Brother Jung Dae Pan was also among those who learned the gospel from the first missionaries to serve in Korea. He had dropped out of the Seoul National University to attend a theological college. His dream was to become a pastor and to lead the Christian community in Korea.
One day a friend gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon in English because a Korean translation hadn’t been published yet. He was drawn into reading the book. He even read it during a class. When his classmates asked him what it was, he said that it was a book like the Bible and recommended that they purchase one.
In the end Brother Jung got in trouble at the college. Administrators summoned him and said that he was succumbing to Satan’s temptation to fall into heresy, and they forced him to choose either the school or the Book of Mormon. The decision was not difficult for him because he already knew the Book of Mormon was true.
However, after Brother Jung joined the Church, he suffered social and economic difficulties. The scholarship from the college and the financial support from the previous church discontinued, and all his friends left him. Dr. Kim took good care of him. Later, Brother Jung contributed greatly to the growth of the Church in Korea by translating the Doctrine and Covenants and editing the hymns. The beautiful lyrics he translated still touch the hearts of Korean members.

There was a time in my life when I fantasized about how valiant I would have been had I been born at another time. If I had been born of Adam, I would have saved Cain. If I had been born of Noah, the ark would have been larger in order to carry all of my converts. If I had been with Moses, we could have cut the forty years in the wilderness down to twenty. If I had been with Joseph Smith, we would still be in Jackson County living the united order. I had some wonderful fantasies. One time, as I was winning another imaginary battle, a question was placed in my mind. “You say you would have died for the Prophet Joseph Smith. What are you doing for President Spencer W. Kimball?” I was crushed by the answer to that question and made up my mind things were going to be different.

When I was called as a General Authority, I was blessed to be tutored by many of the senior Brethren in the Church. One day I had the opportunity to drive President James E. Faust to a stake conference. During the hours we spent in the car, President Faust took the time to teach me some important principles about my assignment. He explained also how gracious the members of the Church are, especially to General Authorities. He said, “They will treat you very kindly. They will say nice things about you.” He laughed a little and then said, “Dieter, be thankful for this. But don’t you ever inhale it.”
That is a good lesson for us all, brethren, in any calling or life situation. We can be grateful for our health, wealth, possessions, or positions, but when we begin to inhale it—when we become obsessed with our status; when we focus on our own importance, power, or reputation; when we dwell upon our public image and believe our own press clippings—that’s when the trouble begins; that’s when pride begins to corrupt.

To promote modesty and values, the young women of the Torrance Second Ward in California had a modest “fashion shoot” for a recent Mutual activity. Each girl chose a value to portray in her clothing choice. The room where the young women meet was then transformed into a working photo studio, complete with studio lights and backdrop. Each girl had her own photo shoot with her value poster and then the photographer took group shots. Not only did the young women learn about the values, but they also realized modesty can be easy, fun, and fashionable. And it never goes out of style.

Will loved the warm desert of southern Utah. He was 10 years old—old enough to go to school and climb on the nearby red rocks and help care for the trees and vegetables his family grew. Or tried to grow, anyway. It was 1899, the driest year anyone in St. George could remember.
“We need rain!” Will thought as he walked home from school one day. No rain had fallen for months, and the alfalfa fields looked brown and thirsty.
As usual, Will felt the hot sun pound down on him, and gritty sweat started to trickle down the sides of his face. But then Will noticed something that was not usual. All the grown-ups were huddled together in small groups talking. Something exciting was happening!
“The prophet, President Lorenzo Snow, is traveling all the way to St. George,” Will’s mother explained when he got home. “He’s going to hold a special conference for us.”
When President Snow came, Will went to the tabernacle to hear him speak. The prophet said he wasn’t sure why the Lord had wanted him to come to St. George. It was a hard time for everyone. The Church didn’t have enough money to pay for the meetinghouses and temples.
On the second day of the conference, President Snow asked all the children to line up in their Primary classes.
“I shall shake hands with each child present so that they may be able to say that they have shaken hands with a man who has shaken hands with a man who saw God face to face while in the flesh—Joseph Smith,” President Snow said.
Will stretched to peer over the other children as President Snow shook their hands one by one. When it was his turn, Will looked into the face of the prophet and felt warm and light inside.
Later, Will got the same feeling again when President Snow gave another talk. He said he knew what message the Lord wanted him to share with the people of the Church: They needed to pay tithing!
“The time has now come for every Latter-day Saint … to pay his tithing in full,” President Snow said. “If you do, the Lord will open up the way before you in a manner that will astonish you.”
Will knew that what the prophet had said was true. From then on, when he gathered eggs from the chicken coop, he set aside the first of every 10 eggs to take to the bishop. When his father earned a dollar fixing a wagon, he gave 10 cents to the Lord. After his mother milked the cow, she gave one jar of the milk for tithing.
For the next three months, Will’s family and friends kept paying their tithing and taking care of their crops.
But there was still no rain. They used what little water they had to try to keep their plants alive. They knew the Lord would bless them in His own time.
Several months later, tiny dark dots began to appear on the dusty dirt roads around town. It was raining in St. George! Everyone shouted for joy as the thirsty ground drank up the water falling from the sky.
“Quick, go get a barrel to catch the water that’s running off the roof!” Will’s mother said. As he ran, Will smiled up at the sky and let the raindrops splash down on his face.
That evening, he knelt in prayer with his family, thanking God for the blessing of rain.
Will watched his family’s crops grow strong and healthy that summer. He knew that something else had grown that summer as well: his testimony of prophets and tithing.

It was one of those rare Sunday mornings when, for a very special reason, I happened to be at home in my own ward. We sat on the last row, and our only son, a tall, fine young man, walked, at the invitation of the bishop, up the aisle and stood by the pulpit. The bishop spoke about my son and presented him to the congregation for their sustaining vote to his advancement in the Aaronic Priesthood. We all voted, and later I had the great privilege, at the invitation of the bishop, to ordain my son. Later, at lunch, he was telling his sisters about the events of that morning. He said it was kind of scary walking up that aisle and standing up before the congregation all alone with the bishop. But he said, “When they voted, I looked down and saw Dad’s hand higher than all the rest, and I felt all right.” And he was right. I had hoisted my hand just as high as I could get it. He is my son, you see—and that is how I feel about him. The relationship between fathers and sons is a very special one.

An experience during my first year of junior high school could have left me emotionally wounded and scarred for years; but it turned out to be one of the best times in my life—all because of a very special friend.
That year, the girls my age started forming groups. There were several different groups, but “the group” consisted of the most popular girls in the school. All of my friends belonged to the group and so did I to begin with. But then something happened. I’m not exactly sure what.
One day Bonnie, one of the most popular girls in school, came up to me and told me I was kicked out of the group.
“But why?” I asked. “What did I do?”
“We just don’t want you to associate with us anymore,” said Bonnie.
I realized then that I needed to find a new friend. I thought I could make the group jealous and they’d realized they weren’t hurting me. So I made a new friend. Her name was Vicki. I picked Vicki because I was certain that the group would never pay any attention to her. She was really short, thin, and not exactly pretty. But she turned out to be a wonderful friend.
Vicki and I shared a lot of good times together. We both seemed to enjoy doing the same kinds of things. I was beginning to like being with her so much that I decided I didn’t need the group as long as there was Vicki.
Shortly after Vicki and I became friends, we were sitting on the school lawn sharing sodas and candy and doing a lot of laughing. All of a sudden, Vicki got real serious. She stopped laughing and began fumbling with a candy wrapper. When she finally looked at me, I could tell she had something important on her mind.
“What’s up?” I asked.
Vicki struggled for a minute to control her voice before answering. “I’ve never had a best friend before,” she said looking at me straight in the eye. “Can we promise we’ll be best friends forever?”
“Sure,” I said feeling great. I smiled as I picked up a candy wrapper. “I’d like that, too.”
Some time later, the group started to take notice of Vicki. “Come on, Vicki,” they’d say. “Come eat with us,” or “Why don’t you associate with us, Vicki?”
At first, Vicki declined, but then the invitations got to be too irresistible.
I remember that day clearly. When I got to school, I headed straight for Vicki’s locker as usual. From down the hall I could see the group surrounding her. The closer I came, the louder and merrier their laughter grew. A couple of my former friends looked sideways at me before throwing their heads back in forced bursts of laughter.
Vicki didn’t look at me. She was too absorbed in all the attention. I guess I couldn’t blame her for that. But had she already forgotten our promise?
Just then the girls in the group all linked arms with Vicki in the middle and gaily marched down the hall. They went right by me as if I weren’t even there.
This time I was really upset. I tried not to let the group see how much they were hurting me, but they could tell they were getting through.
Then one day it happened—one of the greatest experiences of my life. Suddenly I realized I had a friend that the group could never take away, someone who would always be there, someone I could talk to at any time, someone who would never forsake me.
As I made this startling discovery, I noticed a warm sensation starting to grow in my heart. It grew until I felt totally engulfed in it. I realized that it was my Heavenly Father telling me that he loves me. I wanted to shout, laugh, or cry. I felt so new, so special, so loved.
A short time later, Bonnie approached me. “How are you?” she asked uncomfortably.
“Fine,” I said with a puzzled expression. There was a lengthy period of silence as she struggled to continue.
“We were just wondering,” Bonnie began, “we thought that you might like to spend some time with us again. You see, we had a vote and, well, most of us still like you.”
“Thanks,” I said, “I’ll see what I can do.” It felt good to have them want me back, but I realized then that being in the group somehow wasn’t all that important anymore.
Through that experience, I had found a true friend whom I wanted to do something for, in return for what He had done for me. I remembered the scripture that said: “Go, and do thou likewise” (Luke 10:37). So I started looking around for someone who needed a friend.

As I walked down the fairway, thoughts of what had happened earlier in the round began to press in on my mind.
On the seventh hole of the junior golf tournament, my third shot had come to rest in the middle of the narrow fairway. I hit the ball. It sailed onto the green, took two bounces, and fell into the hole. My partner was impressed.
“Great shot. Is that a three?”
“Yes,” I had replied confidently. But I hadn’t really made a three. It had taken me four strokes to get the ball in the hole. But I thought one stroke wasn’t going to mean anything.
By the time I finished, I realized I had played the round of my life.
I headed back toward the clubhouse, adding my partner Joe’s scorecard as I walked.
At the scorer’s table, I handed Joe his scorecard, and he gave me mine. “You’re in first place,” he said.
I looked up at the scoreboard and thought, This score would put me in first place. Looking down at my card, I noticed the “3” I had given myself on the seventh hole was standing out like a neon sign. I could change it to a “4.” But I’m in first place by two strokes. That one stroke won’t make any difference, I thought.
I signed my name at the bottom of the card and handed it to the scorer. I watched with fascination as my name was placed at the top of the list on the giant scoreboard. I made my way to the pop machine. I was actually in first place.
While sipping on my soda, I sauntered over to the base of an elm tree, sat down against it, and began to think about what I had done.
In church, Scouting, and at home, I had been taught to be honest in my dealings with others.
I glanced again at the scoreboard. More scores were being posted. Then I noticed Fred Baker was only one stroke behind me. Now that one stroke I hadn’t counted meant the difference between undisputed first place and a tie.
Everyone cheats, I kept thinking. I remembered when Joe moved his ball to a better position when it came to rest in a bare spot of grass. Besides, no one will ever know what I did, I reasoned.
I again walked slowly to the scorer’s table and past the gigantic first-place trophy. “That sure would look nice in our family’s trophy case,” I mumbled to myself. As I walked past the trophy, I decided what I had to do.
“Can I help you, son?” the scorekeeper asked.
“Sir, I seem to have made a mistake on my scorecard. On the seventh hole, I made a four, not a three.”
“Have you already signed your scorecard?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, knowing I would be disqualified for turning in an incorrect scorecard.
“I’m sorry, son, but you know the rule.”
“I guess I’m disqualified then,” I mumbled. Tears welled in my eyes.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. What’s your name? I’ll need to remove it from the scoreboard.”
“Jae Markham,” I said. I then stood by and watched as my name was scratched from the top spot.
That afternoon I slowly walked to the parking lot with my golf bag over my shoulder. The sun was bright and figures still dotted the course.
I looked back again at the first-place trophy, and somehow it didn’t seem so big anymore.

Maria, a 16-year-old from Brazil, was struggling one Christmas after losing a second beloved grandparent. A few years ago it had been her grandfather on her mother’s side, and now she had lost her other grandfather.
“I remember Christmas always being a magical and incredible experience,” Maria says. “I remember singing hymns with my family, waking up in the night to see my Christmas present, performing the play of the birth of Christ in elementary school, and many other things that marked my childhood.”
“Focusing on Jesus Christ … gives me a certainty that these feelings of sadness and longing won’t last forever.”
Maria always enjoyed time with family. But now, with her second grandfather’s passing away, some of the gladness was stolen from her at Christmastime. Her path through the grief, like David’s, involved focusing on Christ.
“Focusing on Jesus Christ, especially at Christmastime, gives me a certainty that these feelings of sadness and longing won’t last forever,” Maria says. “I know that God is with me always. Over time I have felt this hole inside me being filled with the Savior’s love.”
Maria still has one grandparent living—her grandmother on her mother’s side. “I’m enjoying all the time I have with my grandmother,” she says. “Even if my other grandparents and relatives are no longer with me, I know I will see them again one day. We have an eternity together ahead of us.”

It would be an interesting experience for some of you to walk through a few days of our relationships with youth as we visit with them in person, by telephone, in interviews, by mail. It is just a few days ago that I deplaned at a major airport, met some of you leaders there, and a beautiful young college-age lady who was waiting for me. She had left her home against the wishes of her parents and others and had hitchhiked to a rock festival. On her way home from that adventure, hitchhiking now with a male companion, she was picked up by officers of the law, arrested for possession of drugs, tried, and sentenced to five years in prison. Through the intervention of our local brethren, who were reached by a distraught mother through the bishop, she was given parole freedom, but the record has been made and her life is hanging in the balance. She has some decisions to make.
On my desk is a current letter, one of many, from an anguished girl crying for help. Three times the words are repeated, “Please help me.” Within hours there has been a call, another call, from a disturbed young man seeking guidance for his friend who questions a Church position which he feels he cannot accept, which he thinks makes his position in the Church tenuous or untenable.
In my hand I hold a letter received two days ago from a faithful, brokenhearted father whose son, about the same age as the others, took his own life, notwithstanding the efforts of loving parents and a fine, wholesome family. I wish there were time to read a description of how hard these marvelous parents have tried. This is a missionary family, a committed family, a stay-together family; yet this boy, convinced of his own worthlessness, that he was a failure and that the mistakes he had made were disqualifying, took his own life. His father sent a copy of the note he left, and asked me to make such use of his letter and this letter as judgment and my feelings suggested.
What can we do? How can we help this great young generation meet the challenges of their time? I am certain that we must thoughtfully examine not only their needs and their problems, and what we have to give them, but how we undertake to give it, and what we appear to them to be as they observe it. I have been rethinking my own experience and will give you just an example or two quickly. May I do it in the spirit of a statement that to me for a long time has been very choice: “Neither laugh nor weep, nor loathe, but understand.”
What are some of their problems? These basic observations have come from experience with youth and from their own lips and lives. I can sum them up in four or five needs.
First, they need faith. They need to believe. They need to know the doctrines, the commandments, the principles of the gospel. They need to grow in understanding and conviction. They need to worship and to pray, but they live in a time when all of this is so seriously questioned, when doubt is encouraged.
Two, they need to be accepted as they are, and to be included. They need a family, the most important social unit in this world; and even if they have a good family, they need the supportive influence outside their home of others, of neighbors, of friends, of bishops, of brothers, of human beings.
Three, they need to be actively involved, to participate, to give service, to give of themselves.
Four, they have to learn somehow that they are more important than their mistakes; that they are worthwhile, valuable, useful; that they are loved unconditionally.
I knelt with my own family, at the conclusion of a great family home evening, the night before our lovely daughter was to be married in the temple. I think she wouldn’t mind my telling you that after we had laughed and wept and remembered, she was asked to pray. I don’t recall much of her prayer, the tears and the joy and the sweetness, but I remember one thought: she thanked God for the unconditional love she had received. This life doesn’t give one very many chances to feel exultant and a little successful, but I felt wonderful that night, and thank God that she really believes and understands what she said. We cannot, my dear brethren, condition our love by a beard or beads or habits or strange viewpoints. There have to be standards and they must be enforced, but our love must be unconditional.
I read you just a sentence from the letter left by the boy who ended his own life: “I have no hope, only dreams that have died. I was never able to obtain satisfactory interpersonal relationships. I feared the future and a lot of other things. I felt inferior. I have almost no will to achieve, perseverance, or sense of worth, so goodbye. I should have listened to you but I didn’t. I started using acid last summer. It’s purgatory.” What a tragic story!
We need to understand their needs. They need to learn the gospel. They need to be accepted, to be involved, to be loved; and they need, my brethren—my fifth and final point—the example of good men, good parents, good people, who really care.
I went to the funeral of my cousin a few weeks ago, and I pass on to you something that touched me deeply there. Maybe it is the message I can share with those of us who can do something, if we will, for our great young generation. A man who served as his counselor, now himself the bishop, said of my cousin: “Every boy in his lifetime has the right to know a man like Ivan Frame.”

I believe most of us are familiar with the sad account of Thomas B. Marsh and his wife, Elizabeth. Brother Marsh was one of the first modern-day Apostles called after the Church was restored to the earth. He eventually became President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
While the Saints were in Far West, Missouri, Elizabeth Marsh, Thomas’s wife, and her friend Sister Harris decided they would exchange milk in order to make more cheese than they otherwise could. To be certain all was done fairly, they agreed that they should not save what were called the strippings, but that the milk and strippings should all go together. Strippings came at the end of the milking and were richer in cream.
Sister Harris was faithful to the agreement, but Sister Marsh, desiring to make some especially delicious cheese, saved a pint of strippings from each cow and sent Sister Harris the milk without the strippings. This caused the two women to quarrel. When they could not settle their differences, the matter was referred to the home teachers to settle. They found Elizabeth Marsh guilty of failure to keep her agreement. She and her husband were upset with the decision, and the matter was then referred to the bishop for a Church trial. The bishop’s court decided that the strippings were wrongfully saved and that Sister Marsh had violated her covenant with Sister Harris.
Thomas Marsh appealed to the high council, and the men comprising this council confirmed the bishop’s decision. He then appealed to the First Presidency of the Church. Joseph Smith and his counselors considered the case and upheld the decision of the high council.
Elder Thomas B. Marsh, who sided with his wife through all of this, became angrier with each successive decision—so angry, in fact, that he went before a magistrate and swore that the Mormons were hostile toward the state of Missouri. His affidavit led to—or at least was a factor in—Governor Lilburn Boggs’s cruel extermination order, which resulted in over 15,000 Saints being driven from their homes, with all the terrible suffering and consequent death that followed. All of this occurred because of a disagreement over the exchange of milk and cream.
After 19 years of rancor and loss, Thomas B. Marsh made his way to the Salt Lake Valley and asked President Brigham Young for forgiveness. Brother Marsh also wrote to Heber C. Kimball, First Counselor in the First Presidency, of the lesson he had learned. Said Brother Marsh: “The Lord could get along very well without me and He … lost nothing by my falling out of the ranks; But O what have I lost?! Riches, greater riches than all this world or many planets like this could afford.”

Just a few years later, Leander’s mother, who had been living with them, died of tuberculosis. In 1917, Leander also died of tuberculosis, leaving Lena Sofia a widow and pregnant with their 10th child. That child—my father—was born two months after Leander’s death. Lena Sofia eventually buried 7 of her 10 children. It was a very difficult struggle for her, an impoverished peasant woman, to keep intact what remained of her family.
For nearly two decades she did not get a good night’s rest. She hustled at odd jobs during the day to scrape together enough food to eat. At night she nursed dying family members. Death literally hung over their heads. In those days timber was split and often put in the roof rafters to dry. Those timbers were then used to make coffins for those who died. It is hard to imagine how Lena Sofia felt.
On the day I met her in 1963, I had just turned 11 and she was 87. She was stooped from a lifetime of hard labor. She was so bowed over that when she stood from her chair, her height did not change. The skin of her face and hands was weather-beaten—as tough and textured as worn leather.
She stood as best as she could, pointed to a photo of Leander on the wall, and said to me in Swedish, “Det här är min gubbe” (This is my hubby).
I had enrolled in a Swedish-speaking school earlier that fall and was just relearning Swedish. I thought my grandmother had incorrectly used the present tense of the verb when she said, “This is my hubby,” because Leander had been dead for 46 years. I pointed out to my mother that Lena Sofia should have said, “This was my hubby.” My mother simply told me, “You don’t understand.”
She was right. I didn’t understand—not as I do now. Since then, I have reflected many times on the meaning of that experience and what my grandmother had taught me.

We were already late, so when Dad called for a prayer in the car before starting our trip, I grumbled silently. We were on our way to an Aaronic Priesthood snow outing—a rarity in southern California, and not to be delayed. Dad offered the prayer himself and prayed earnestly for our safety. Before the day was over, I would be grateful for that prayer.
It was after six o’clock and dark when we finally started, but the weather was fine. It remained clear until we got to Running Springs, where clouds settled over the mountains, engulfing us in fog. The road had been cleared of snow, but the light-gray asphalt was covered with frost, making it almost impossible to distinguish the narrow highway from the snow-blanketed shoulders.
For a few miles, Dad was able to see the white center line, and we felt safe. But as we drove along in the cold air, the car’s heater and our breath began to cloud up the windows. We kept wiping the windshield to clear it, but it just wasn’t enough. Dad had to roll down his window, stick his head out, and try to see the white line.
The fog grew thicker as we climbed the mountain, and the air got even colder. There was a limit to how long Dad could keep his head out the window without freezing. We couldn’t pull off the road for fear of running off the edge of the cliff. We couldn’t stop. We couldn’t turn around. There was no choice but to go forward.
“OK, boys,” Dad said. “You’re going to have to take turns being my eyes. I’ll keep trying to see the road through the windshield, but that’s almost impossible. One of you in the back roll down the window behind me and keep me on that white line!”
By now we were grateful for Dad’s prayer. In fact, we were all praying silently ourselves. We were petrified. One of us stuck his head out the window and began calling out directions. He kept at it until his eyes felt as though they would freeze. Then we traded off.
For ten miles, we watched that white line and gave directions: “Turn a little to the right,” “Stay straight,” “A little to the left.” The line was faint and really hard to see, but we managed to keep it in sight. Of course, Dad drove very slowly, and those ten miles seemed like an eternity. As we neared Big Bear, the road improved, and Dad was able to follow it without our help. We arrived at the cabin, tired, safe, and very grateful.
The next morning we had a great time in the snow—sledding, having snowball fights, and generally getting wet and very cold. None of us was dressed for snow. We were in jeans, shoes, and thin jackets—people living in the warm flatlands of southern California aren’t prepared for snow. After lunch, we were ready to start home.
The sun had come out, and the roads were clear. As we left the Big Bear area, we all began talking about the faint white line we had followed those ten endless miles the night before. We wondered why the line hadn’t been painted much more heavily. As we came to the scary section of road, we discovered to our utter astonishment that for long stretches there was no white line at all! At first we thought that this was not the right place—that it must be farther down the mountain. As we drove on, however, we began to realize that it was the right place.
The night before, every one of us, my father included, had seen a white line. We knew we had. It was what had kept us on the road. It took a while for us to understand what had happened. Then we were overwhelmed. The Lord had provided the white line that had guided us up the mountain.
I don’t think I ever again murmured about a prayer being said before we left on an outing—even if we were late.

In Basingstoke, Rebecca Barnsley used social media to promote her ward’s harvest appeal event. On the day, they had a drop-off area at their chapel with the missionaries handing out flyers at the chapel gates. Several members of the local community turned up to donate food. Rebecca said, “It was a huge success and we delivered two carloads of food to the Basingstoke Food Bank.” One of those donating said, “I have a friend who has used the foodbank, they are so important, and I wanted to give and be kind. It’s so important to be kind.”

The sun was low in the sky, and the air was cooling when Cal Fredricks came over to our camp. My father was sitting next to our tent. They shook hands, and then Cal took his wallet from his back pocket and began peeling off greenbacks.
“Never seen anything like what you and the Scot did,” he exhaled the words of emphasis. “Nothing like it. It was worth the hundred. There’s a dance and a party a little later. You’re sort of the guest of honor. Your wife and daughter are welcome to come up to the house to clean up.” He turned and walked away. “What a contest. Never seen anything like it.”
My father put the money into a small box with the rest of our earnings and then put the box under the seat of our truck and locked the door.
The dance was a wild foot-stompin’, hootin’, Montana-sheep-man dance with plenty of fiddle players, fried chicken and, in our honor, homemade root beer. It was held on a wood platform on the edge of the grass and sagebrush prairie. The moon was monstrous and bright yellow that night; hanging low against the rolling hill it threw almost more light than the lanterns hung from poles around the platforms. I remember seeing the silhouette of a flock of birds fly across the moon. The air was cool, still edged with winter and smelling of the rain, cool enough to make you want to keep dancing for most of the night.
To watch my father you would never have guessed he’d sheared 330 sheep that day. At about midnight, with the help of Cal’s son, I threw an entire carton of firecrackers onto the floor, just to quicken the pace of things a little. My father didn’t even ask any questions. He took one look at me and told me to go to bed and added that we’d be having a pretty serious discussion in the morning. I fell asleep with the music of the violins and the shouts of the dancers.
“Bobby.” My father was shaking me. “Wake up.” I opened my eyes. It was still dark. My father was holding a lantern in his hand.
“Someone broke into the truck. Did you hear anything?”
I shook my head. “Did they get the money?”
My father nodded as he turned and walked out of the tent.
“Did you notice the truck when you came back?” he asked when I came out of the tent. I shook my head again. All of our money had been in the truck, all of it.
I looked down at my bare feet. “Went straight to bed,” I whispered.
My father hung his head for a few seconds and took a deep breath.
“I’ll go up to the house and call the sheriff.”
The money was never found. The next morning my mother came out of the tent carrying another small bag. She handed it to my father. He opened it and pulled a handful of money from it.
“This is our tithing money,” he whispered.
She nodded. “It’ll get us home, maybe buy seed for the farm. We can pay it back.” She had her head down. “It’s all we have.”
My father looked down for a few seconds and then he looked up grinning. “Bedbugs with green paint on their backs. Come on, there’s something we need to do.” He started toward the truck. “Won’t take long.”
We drove down into Helena where my father stopped the truck in front of a bank. He leaned on the steering wheel.
“I’m going to get a check for this money,” he said. “And then I’m going to send it to Bishop Anderson. It’s not our money to decide what to do with.”
I thought my father had lost his main drive bearing. He had to be crazy, sending the only money we had back to the bishop.
What I remembered most about the rest of the summer was the terrible feeling of being stranded 700 miles from home. Work was hard to get. The shearing season was over. All the big sheep operations had finished their shearing. We took anything. We made a few dollars helping Cal bag his wool and load it for market. My mother took a job in Jack’s Dirt Cheap World Famous Truckstop and Post Office as a cook. Kathey and I washed dishes.
My father found plenty of work, but where he had been making over twenty dollars a day shearing, he was only able to make one or two dollars for work that was just as hard.
It was late fall before we were able to make our way back home, and it was several years before I would begin to understand what my father had done.

In 2017, my goal for visiting Wales was to discover Margaret Rowland, the sister of Job Rowland, my great-great grandfather who immigrated to the United States in 1849. I had records that indicated that her husband, Morgan Thomas, had been buried in Pant Cemetery in Merthyr Tydfil, but nothing about her, and I was determined to suss out her information.
In March of 2017, my friend Sandra, my two brothers and their wives and I set out on a journey that would take us across the south of England, through Scotland and straight into our family’s history in Wales.
The day we arrived in Merthyr Tydfil, we went to the local history centre and spent a couple of confusing hours trying to decide how to begin our search. At a loss, we decided to pick up a few pamphlets and go to the Pant Cemetery where we were sure we could find the grave of Morgan Thomas, Margaret Rowland’s husband, or at least find someone who could guide us to the grave.
When we arrived, we were stunned, having been used to our western American cemeteries of limited size. Pant was huge! Hill upon hill of ancient gravestones in every conceivable state of disrepair. We all stood in disbelief as we stared at the task before us. We ultimately decided just to walk around a bit as we prayed to be guided in the right direction. After about 30 minutes of wandering, we met and determined that this would be a hopeless endeavor and somewhat discouraged, we left for dinner.
The next morning, we went to the Engine House (a genealogical repository and information center) in Merthyr to begin our research. It is there where the miracles began as we entered the Engine House and met miracle number one, Terry Jones.
My brothers Richard and Joe, Joe’s wife, Eileen, and I were downstairs learning about the history of the iron industry in the town when Richard’s wife, Sharon, and my friend Sandy went upstairs to wander and look for restrooms. There, they encountered a gentleman working on a computer and began a conversation with him about our quest. When they mentioned trying to find one grave amongst the 10,000 in Pant Cemetery he realized that we really did need some help. He introduced himself as Terry Jones and arranged for us to meet him at the cemetery office across the street where he introduced us to Deb, the keeper of records. Here we not only found Margaret’s grave site number, but others who were related and resided next to her. We were able to arrange with Deb’s husband, the caretaker of the cemetery, to meet later that day to see the graves.
Miracle number two occurred when we returned to the cemetery and realized that all six of us had previously stood very near the actual site of the graves at some point as we wandered the cemetery. The reason we didn’t see the graves was they were covered entirely by a huge tree that had completely swallowed them. We had previously photographed the tree because it was so immense and imposing, but for no other reason.
We returned later to cut away some of the lower branches so that Sharon could crawl inside and read the writing on the headstones, and we discovered that we had many more relatives buried in this plot than we realized.
Miracle number three came with a visit to the Colly Isaf farm upon which Margaret and Morgan Thomas farmed. It is no longer in the Thomas family, but the current owners allowed us to visit and to photograph the place where our family lived. We discovered the name of the farm listed on the back of a photograph found in material one of our aunts had given us.
Miracle number four occurred throughout the following year as Terry continued to do research for our family and discovered many more links in the family chain, but culminated with a discovery of John Thomas, a direct descendant of Margaret Rowland and Morgan Thomas.
John currently lives on Penrhiw farm which has been in the family since 1724 and he and his wife, Celia, were willing to meet with us. He sent us a lineage chart of all the siblings of Job who remained in Wales, adding much needed information to connect our family to those who had died. This discovery came about through another miracle, number five, that of Terry meeting Father Powell at St. Catwg’s Episcopal Church. While looking for Edward Rowland and Ann Miles, he mentioned John as a possible Thomas still living on the farm.
Miracle number six, cheap tickets to Wales even though it was at the time of the royal wedding. The window for these tickets was short, and directly after we booked them the price doubled.
Miracle number seven again involved Terry Jones who had looked for one year for the marriage of Edward Rowland and Ann Miles (Job and Margaret’s grandparents). Three weeks before we returned to Merthyr in 2018, he found it.
When we arrived in Merthyr, the scene had already been set by those who had been directing our lives for the past year. It felt as though we were in a giant genealogical chess game over which we had no control. Terry was beginning to feel the same forces in action as well. Every morning he would present us with a list of places we would visit that day. One day he showed us his list, which had two sides. He said that he created one list the night before and then this morning, for some unknown reason, he changed it and added a new place: Gadfield Elm Chapel in Gloucestershire. He said he didn’t know why he added it but thought it would be interesting for us to see. Of course, we acquiesced.
Miracle number eight: As we got to Gadfield Elm we discovered the reason. The first ownership of the chapel was given to Wilford Woodruff by the United Brethren, but it rested on or near brother Benbow’s farm. Many of the early members were baptized in Benbow’s pond. And Benbow was the maiden name of Terry’s wife. Terry was stunned. He kept saying he had no idea why he had changed the itinerary for the day, but we all knew why.
The next day we visited St. Catwg’s church and we were met by Father Powell and his lay reader Carolynn Corbin, who showed us around this very impressive 2,000-year-old building. While chatting, my brother Richard discovered miracle number nine that Carolynn was a Parry and quite likely a very close cousin of ours. We exchanged emails and discovered that we did indeed have a common ancestor. This led to a wonderful afternoon tea and the uniting of another branch of Welsh and American lines. After just a few minutes with this family we knew we had met before.
Miracle number ten: We discovered that we were not in charge in other ways as we went to Terry’s home for juice and to collect a book of remembrance that he had found when cleaning out the Engine House. He had asked Richard and Sharon to take the book of remembrance back to Logan where they live to find its owner. He showed Sharon this photo of a family reunion taken in 2004 (he had been doing research for the person who sent it to him), and she recognized someone. She immediately texted that person, and as a result, the connection was made between the photo and the owner of the book of remembrance.
There were more miracles during our visit that involved finding graves that were hidden in cemeteries, discovering writing on tombstones that were covered in lichen and moss, and potentially uncovering ancestors of whom we had no knowledge. If you ever doubt that the veil is thin or that there are others across that veil who wish their work done, let these experiences prove to you that you can be an instrument in their hands. If you allow yourself to be open to the impressions, the promptings, or urgings, as a member of this Church or not, the work of Elijah can be accomplished. Please always live so that you can be a vehicle in the work of redeeming your dead; so that when you meet them, they will encircle you with their joy and gratitude.

My day had been absolutely miserable. I wasn’t prepared for a pop quiz in biology, the teacher put me on the spot in English, and after our class ran laps for the entire period in P.E., I was exhausted.
I was a Mia Maid and my Young Women leaders had planned a service project that night for Sister Simmons, an elderly woman whose husband had passed away a few years ago. Sister Simmons’s health was failing, so it was almost impossible for her to accomplish simple tasks. Tonight the Mia Maids were going to do some deep cleaning in her home.
I had had such a terrible day at school, and I did not want to go and participate in this activity. All I wanted to do was watch TV and relax. While sitting in front of the TV, something kept nagging at my heart: “Would you deny this woman of your service?” As I sat there I pondered the Young Women value; good works. Yes! This was definitely good works. I knew that I must go and serve Sister Simmons.
My mom drove me to the church. I walked in feeling tired and worn out, but I was glad I had made the right decision to come to this activity.
Sister Simmons lived a block away from the church, so after opening exercises the seven of us Mia Maids ran in the rain to her house, carrying cleaning supplies. Sister Stout, our Mia Maid adviser, knocked, and Sister Simmons slowly opened the door, looking a little shocked to see us all. She said “Oh my, I had forgotten that you were coming.”
We all filed inside and were assigned chores. Carlene and I were assigned to scrub down the kitchen. Carlene washed all the dishes and the countertops, while I meticulously cleaned the front of all the oak cabinets and the old, white stove. As we worked, Carlene and I were giggling and talking. I was actually having fun.
An hour and a half later we had finished, and the house was sparkling clean. Time had gone by so fast. As we were all heading towards the door telling Sister Simmons “good night,” and giving her a hug, she stopped us and, with tears in her eyes, thanked us profusely.
I left that night with tears in my own eyes. I had learned so much about service. I had always been taught that when you serve someone else, you forget about your own problems. Now I knew that was true. I fell asleep peacefully that night, not thinking about myself at all.
The next morning Mom came into my room as I was getting ready for school. She sat me down on the side of my bed and explained to me that Sister Simmons had passed away in her sleep that night. I was shocked as I sat on my bed sobbing, thinking to myself how glad I was that I had been prompted to go and serve Sister Simmons. I am so grateful for the promptings of the Holy Ghost, and what I learned that night about serving others.

“Bonjour, Maman (Good morning, Mother),” said Nicole as she ran into the kitchen.
“Good morning, little one,” said her mother, who was slicing a long loaf of bread. Its shiny crust snapped and crunched as the knife cut through it.
“Today is the first of May, n’est—ce pas (isn’t that so)?” asked Nicole.
“Yes. I know you’ve been waiting for a long time for today to come. Would you like to make the bouquets this year?”
Each year on May first, Nicole’s family took small bunches of flowers to their friends and neighbors to show their friendship.
“Oh, yes, Maman,” said Nicole. She started to run into the garden.
“Just a minute. Don’t forget your breakfast.”
Nicole’s mother took a slice of the fresh bread and spread it first with pale butter and then with currant jam. She poured Nicole a cup of hot chocolate.
“While you eat, I’ll get the things you will need.”
Nicole ate quickly so that she would be ready when Maman returned. Her mother soon brought a basket with a pair of scissors and some string in it. Nicole took the things and went into the garden.
Under the almond tree, where the garden was the shadiest, Nicole put her basket by a bed of shiny green leaves. When she pushed the leaves back with her hand, she saw the tiny white flowers called muguets (lilies of the valley). They smelled even more delicious than fresh bread with currant jam.
She began to cut the flowers and leaves and put them into her basket. She was careful not to disturb the roots. Her papa always told her that the roots would make more muguets the next year if she did not pull them out of the soil. After she had cut a basketful, she tied the flowers and leaves into small bundles with the string. When she finished, she picked up a tiny flower that had fallen off its stem. It looked like a tiny china cup.
Taking the basket full of little green bundles into the house, she showed it to her mother.
“They are well-made, Nicole,” Mother said. “Would you like to deliver them too?”
“Will you come with me?” asked Nicole.
“Well, I am busy now. You would have to wait.”
Nicole didn’t like waiting, but she didn’t know if she could deliver them all by herself. “Where would I go?” she asked.
“Oh, to our friends in the neighborhood: Madame (Mrs.) LaCroix, Aunt Marie-Claire, the Armands. Do you think you can do it?”
Nicole knew all those houses well. And Maman had not mentioned grouchy Madame Victor, their next-door neighbor. Nicole didn’t want to take flowers to her. When Nicole’s ball went over the garden wall, Madame Victor complained that it hurt her roses. And if Nicole made a lot of noise playing, Madame Victor always told Nicole’s mother.
Nicole took her basket and went to the Armands’ house first. Monsieur and Madame (Mr. and Mrs.) Armand were glad to see her. They gave her an apple and told her that she was growing up. At Aunt Marie-Claire’s house, Nicole’s cousin, Jules, was out in his baby stroller. Aunt Marie let Nicole push him around the yard. Then she went to see Madame LaCroix. Madame LaCroix thanked her and gave her a kiss on both cheeks.
Nicole was having such a good time that she decided to deliver flowers to some of her school friends. Her basket was almost empty when she started back home. As she reached her own gate, she could see Madame Victor reading her newspaper. She looked lonely.
If I give her the muguets,she will only yell at me, thought Nicole. Besides, Maman didn’t say that I had to give her any.
Nicole opened the heavy iron gate into her own yard. Maman was pulling weeds out of the leek bed. “Nicole, you must have made a lot of deliveries. Your basket is almost empty.”
“I visited all the people you told me to, and I went to a lot of my friends’ houses too.”
“And did you deliver flowers to everyone?”
As Nicole looked at her maman, she thought about Madame Victor. She didn’t feel as happy as she had felt when she was delivering the flowers. “I missed one person. I’ll be right back.”
Nicole grabbed one small bunch of muguets and ran to Madame Victor’s. Madame Victor had gone inside, and Nicole had to pull the rope to ring her bell. Nicole’s heart pounded as she waited. She was about to go back home, when Madame Victor came out of her house. “Oh, it’s you! I don’t need any muguets today. Go sell them somewhere else. And don’t bother me again.”
“But, Madame Victor, they are not for sale. They’re for you, for the first of May.”
Nicole pushed the flowers through the bars of the gate and turned and ran. She was crying by the time she got home. Nicole told her mother what had happened. “I tried to do the right thing, Maman.”
“Sometimes even the right thing doesn’t work,” said Maman. “Now let’s go inside and make a special dinner for your papa. He will be proud that you have done such a good job today.”
Nicole was making a vegetable salad when she heard the bell ring. Madame Victor stood at the gate with a great armful of roses.
“Go open the gate, Nicole,” said Maman. “She is here to see you.”
Nicole ran to the gate.
“For the first of May, Nicole,” said Madame Victor. She had Nicole’s flowers pinned to her dress. “May I be your friend?”
“Of course,” said Nicole. “Of course you may!”