Gospel Story Finder

Refer to any atlas and it will tell you that the high point in Idaho is Borah Peak at 12,662 feet. But you might have a difficult time convincing 47 youth and 23 adults from the American Fork (Utah) 19th Ward of that. For them, the high point is known simply as “The Ranch” on the Idaho border just outside the small town of Freedom, Wyoming.
During summer vacation, this group participated in a not-so-typical youth conference: five days of hard work. And many of them even knew in advance that it would be hard work, because they had done the same thing last year.
“Sure it’s lots of work,” said 16-year-old Shirley Frazier. “But it’s also lots of fun. We play when we work. It’s not every day you get to work side by side with members of your ward. A bond is established, and I feel closer to the members of my ward and to the Lord.”
How much work can 47 youth do on a ranch in five days? Plenty. For example, they built fences with wooden posts and barbed wire, and they built a small bridge across a creek. They tilled and weeded a garden. They even finished constructing a barn (where they would perform plays and skits). As if that weren’t enough, they also cleaned up an old farmhouse once inhabited by barn swallows and mice, built a retaining wall with rocks they had gathered in a field nearby, and planted flowers.
You’d think that would be enough to tire them out. But there was also time for the fun usually associated with youth conferences. They boated, they fished, they swam. They played baseball in a pasture, organized and participated in a lip-synch contest where they imitated singers from the ’50s to the ’80s, and enjoyed a hayride on a wagon pulled by a team of Clydesdale horses.
“I think this is great,” said Elizabeth Toomalatai, 18, who, although not LDS, participated in the youth conference. “People get together and work—and have fun—at the same time!” Elizabeth, whose brother served a mission and is currently attending BYU, says she came to The Ranch with some friends “to see how members of the Church get together.” She added, “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
Obviously, The Ranch isn’t your typical ranch. Sister Lou Cille Hamnett, who runs the place with her husband Von and her son Scott, tells about the dream she and her first husband, the late Neil Carlisle, shared when they purchased the property. Over the years, ward groups from the surrounding states clamored for the opportunity to have activities at the site.
“When you walk around here and the sandhill cranes are flying overhead and the Canadian geese are flying and the ducks are out there on the lake and it’s quiet, well, there’s no place like it,” Sister Hamnett said. “People are living such a rat race that they don’t stop to smell the roses, they don’t stop to feel, really, the reverence of the soil and the clean air. I think that’s what you get up here. There is a special spirit here.”
Because of that special spirit, even after Brother Carlisle passed away in 1985, Sister Hamnett wanted to keep The Ranch going. But she had her doubts about whether it could be maintained.
Then Bishop Blake Wride and the youth of the 19th Ward came to the rescue.
“They knew what a large responsibility the upkeep and improvement of The Ranch would be for me. So he got all of his kids together and suggested coming up for a service project. I thought, ‘Well, why not?’ But I thought I would probably be baby-sitting them. Instead, this group has just been marvelous. Neil always said that giving to others was the most important thing. I knew we were giving by having these church groups come up here, but now someone’s giving in return.”
Like the unique focus of the conference, The Ranch is also unique in its character. The young men and women are quick to point out some reasons why. For example, there is an outdoor eating place known as the “Chuckwagon,” located where cattle used to roam the fields. The building that is now the kitchen was a place of shelter where the cattle sought refuge from the hot, blistering sun, or the hard, cold Idaho winters. Sister Hamnett still laughs as she explains how they had to borrow a tractor and clean two feet of manure off the ground when the transformation from cattle lounge to Chuckwagon began. But the youth don’t mind the Chuckwagon’s past. In fact, as soon as they arrived Monday afternoon, they were scrubbing down tables, and sweeping and mopping the floor in preparation for some “good fixin’s.”
And if you take a walk up the hill above the lake to look at The Ranch, you’ll get a bird’s-eye view of the six sheep wagons. Built by Carlisle himself, they provide cozy sleeping quarters for some of the guests. The six wagons are arranged in a tight circle in a small meadow, as if part of an old western movie set. You’d almost expect a few cowboys in chaps to come walking out of one of them.
And the garden. Well, that’s where an 80-year-old barn stood, until the weight of winter snow on the roof caused the structure to buckle. Youth from the ward helped weed and till the ground where the barn used to be in preparation for planting flowers and vegetables.
“Here, weeding is fun,” said 17-year-old Lisa Patterson. “I think working together seems to make it more fun, especially because we’re giving service.”
Corey Wride, 17, agreed, and added, “I was surprised at how the adults passed responsibilities on to us.” Even with all that good food at the Chuckwagon ready to be eaten by hungry, hardworking teenagers, Corey’s favorite expression seemed to be, “Well, I’m ready to get back to work.”
One girl is proud of the fact that she helped build a fence in one day. She is thrilled by the fact that she was part of an almost all-girl work crew that built the fence. One of the boys overheard her comments, then said with curiosity, “What I don’t understand is why girls get so excited about hammering nails into wood.” His statement was quickly answered, “Because this is a time when girls get to do many things they normally don’t get to do. The leaders are really understanding and they let us try new things.”
Girls hammering nails to help build a fence isn’t the only unusual activity going on at The Ranch. Boys are also participating in tasks they normally don’t do at home. Says Sister Cheryl Edmund, one of the ward’s youth conference specialists: “Where else can you see boys sweeping the kitchen (the Chuckwagon) and doing dishes?” And she adds with a laugh, “In broad daylight!”
On one particular day at The Ranch a visitor might see girls gathering up scraps of discarded wood from the barn project and piling it in wheelbarrows. As they push them along to be dumped into a hole in the ground for the night’s anticipated dutch oven feast, they laugh, talk about the upcoming play in the recently completed barn, and generally just seem to enjoy the natural beauty of their surroundings and the work they are doing. Having dumped the wood, some of them jump into the wheelbarrows for unorganized races back to the scrap pile.
What’s the secret to enjoying hard work and service? Bishop Wride says, “It goes back to what Elder Victor L. Brown said about service and youth: ‘May we remember that they would rather serve than be served. Self-sacrifice brings out their finest characteristics.’
Not only have the youth learned to appreciate service at The Ranch; they have had fun at the same time. For example, Jeff Eastwood, 18, earned the distinction of being the first one thrown in the lake. With a smile on his face, he’ll tell you that he really jumped in. On the serious side, he said he’s learned an important lesson by participating in youth conference. Jeff said he is grateful that his parents attended, too. “I’ve learned to live with adults in a different environment. My parents are interacting with my friends, and I’ve learned to act the same way in front of my family as I do in front of my friends. I’m being myself.”
With so much to see and do at The Ranch, it’s hard to say what was the most memorable part of this youth conference. Perhaps it was Thursday evening’s spiritual activity. It began with an invitation after dinner to take a hayride to a meadow for homemade peach cobbler and whipped cream. It was a perfect day: billowy clouds in a beautiful blue sky. When the young men and women arrived at the meadow, they enjoyed running around in the knee-high grass. And the tall pine trees on the hills that circled the meadow were surpassed only by the spirit of togetherness shared by the youth and adult leaders. When they finished eating, everyone sang songs. Suddenly, three men dressed in white came walking down the hill. As previously planned by the adults, but unknown to the youth, these three men represented the Three Nephites (see 3 Ne. 28).
“It was breathtaking, watching those white figures walk down from the hill,” said Sharon Frazier. “At first, we were all quiet, not knowing what to think. And then we started to sing, ‘I am a Child of God’ as they came closer. They told us that we are a choice generation, and very special spirits reserved especially for this time period.”
The youth were split up in groups, each accompanied by one of the three guests. Each group discussed a beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount (see Matt. 5), then discussed a particular question. One of the questions was, “If you could change something, what would it be?” Norma Nerdin, 15, said, “I’m going to make my Church habits more steady. You know, things like prayer and scripture study. And I need to talk about my problems more. Everybody has difficulties. It’s important that we let others know when we are having a hard time.” Norma said that it was a moment she would remember forever.
Heather Baxter, 16, was in another group. Her question was, “What would make you happy?” “I would want to have a pure testimony,” she said. “If someone asked me if I knew the Church was true, I would be able to know for sure and answer them without having any doubts.

How teenager Barnard White dressed mattered a great deal to his mother. Widow Mary Ann White felt that her boy should wear clothes that told the world he was a gentleman of breeding. So when Barnard tried to enlist in the British navy, to trade his tailored clothes for a sailor’s uniform and his genteel life for common labor with ruffians, she agonized. Luckily Barnard proved to be a lump-on-the-head too short for military size and was rejected. He would try again, Mother White knew, when he grew another half inch. She pondered what to do to change his mind.
The Whites, new converts to Mormonism in 1854, hoped to emigrate some day from London to America. But problems with the estate after Mr. White’s death slowed them down. The family could not all emigrate, Mother White decided, but Barnard could. One way to keep him out of the navy but to still give him sea adventure was to put him on a Mormon emigrant ship to New York City. So in July 1855 Barnard, dressed in a broadcloth suit and silk hat, boarded the Cynosure and “went to sea.” He traveled alone, but Mormon missionaries became his shipboard companions.
One day Barnard stood on deck in his gentleman’s attire when a sudden gust of wind blew loose his silk hat and spun it down into the sea. With this symbol of his breeding gone, he now looked like so many other bareheaded immigrant boys when he stepped ashore in bustling New York City.

On May 12, 1846, soon after the first group of Latter-day Saints left Nauvoo, the United States declared war against Mexico. President James K. Polk sent Captain James Allen to recruit five hundred Mormon men to serve in the U.S. Army and march to California to conquer the territory for the United States.
Brigham Young recognized that fulfilling this request would provide some opportunities for the Saints’ trek west. He said that by serving, Mormons could show their loyalty to their country, earn money for their families, and receive free transportation to the West. He also hoped that approval would be given for the Saints to camp on Indian lands. “Let the Mormons be the first [United States soldiers] to set their feet on the soil of California,” President Young said.
After Brigham Young’s reassurance, the men volunteered to serve. They were promised by Church leaders that their families would be cared for, and Brigham Young told them that if they were faithful and kept the commandments, they would not be in any battles.
On July 21, 1846, the 541 men of the Mormon Battalion began their march under the command of newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel James Allen. Thirty-five women and forty-two children, most of whom were families of the soldiers, accompanied the battalion on their journey.
They first marched to Fort Leavenworth (in present-day Kansas), where they were given supplies, guns, and forty-two dollars each for clothing. Every soldier was able to sign his own name on the payroll, which impressed the paymaster—only a third of the previous recruits had been able to do so. Parley P. Pratt collected part of the Mormon soldiers’ pay to help support their families and the poor still in Nauvoo. The money was also used to help Parley P. Pratt, John Taylor, and Orson Hyde on their mission to England.
The Mormon Battalion stayed at Fort Leavenworth for two weeks. The days were extremely hot, and many of the men were ill with fevers. Colonel Allen was gravely ill and did not go with them when they left for Santa Fe. Later, they learned that he had died.
After crossing the Arkansas River on September 16, the new battalion commander, Lieutenant A. J. Smith, sent most of the women and children to the Mexican village of Pueblo (in present-day Colorado) for the winter. The soldiers were upset because they had been promised that their families could travel with them to California. But it was a wise decision because the battalion marched at a rapid pace with little time to rest. Just a month later, a group of sick men and women were also sent to Pueblo.
The weary soldiers trudged into Santa Fe, New Mexico, on October 9, 1846. Colonel Philip St. George Cooke became their new commander, with orders to blaze a wagon trail from Santa Fe to California. The work wore heavily on the battalion, and in November 1846, a third group of fifty-five weakened and tired soldiers turned back for Pueblo.
When the remaining soldiers marched toward Tucson, they were stampeded by a herd of wild bulls. The bulls charged toward them, and the men ran for cover. The stampede was brief, but three soldiers were wounded and several animals were killed, including two battalion mules. The event became known as the Battle of the Bulls—the Mormon Battalion’s only battle!
The soldiers marched peacefully through Tucson, even though a small group of Mexican soldiers was stationed there, then beyond the Colorado River into a hot desert where water could be found only by digging deep wells. They suffered through scorching days and freezing nights. Many had worn out the bottoms of their boots and were walking practically barefoot. Some wrapped rawhide and rags around their feet to protect them from the hot sands.
The end of their 2,030-mile (3266-k) march came on January 29, 1847, when they reached Mission San Diego. Fortunately the Mexicans had already surrendered and the United States had control of California, so the Mormon Battalion helped protect and build up the areas where they served. On July 16, 1847, the men were discharged; eighty-one chose to re-enlist for another six months.
Most of the discharged men planned to join their families in the Salt Lake Valley. But President Brigham Young sent a messenger to them, requesting that the men without families remain in California for the winter. Many of those who stayed behind worked at Sutter’s Fort on the Sacramento River. They were involved in the beginning of the California gold rush. The next summer, however, they left the gold fields to rejoin the Saints.

A few years ago, my family didn’t go to church. Then one day, my friend Cory asked me if I wanted to go to church with him.
I went for a couple of weeks and then asked my mom to go, too. Pretty soon, Mom was called to work in the Primary.
After church, we told my dad about what we learned. My little brother, Kasey, reminded my dad of the Word of Wisdom.
I kept asking my dad to go to church with us. Then one day, he surprised me by saying, “I’m going to go to church.”
Now we are sealed in the temple.

As I walked up the dusty, junk-covered path to an old, decaying shack, I was literally overcome with the hopeless poverty that met my eyes. The roof of the little house was caved in on one side. The broken windows had been flimsily covered with old newspapers. Broken glass, nails, old cans, and other debris made a drab yard covering. Torn lace curtains hung loosely at the windows, and my eyes caught the sight of soot-covered walls and floors inside. About 15 to 20 cats scampered before me as I walked up the path. As I began knocking on the weather-beaten door, I thought fleetingly of the comfortable life I had grown accustomed to at Brigham Young University, longing momentarily for the security of the campus. But now here I was, a student nurse many miles from Provo, not quite sure if I was ready for the challenge that had been given me.

It had all begun several weeks earlier in my public health study class. As part of the course, we were all required to gain practical experience as student nurses. I had planned on working in Salt Lake City, but on our first day, my instructor stated that student nurses were needed to help staff a public health office in a small town. I felt a sudden prodding within myself to volunteer. I tried to stifle it but couldn’t, and before long found myself on my way to a new home and new responsibilities.

The day after I arrived, I reported to two registered nurses in the public health office, the only two public health nurses in the entire county. To say that they were busy was an understatement. My eyes fell on the files that represented hundreds of cases, all active and in need of some kind of medical help. With my heart in my throat, I began to realize that there would be no time for detailed observation and learning. This was clearly going to be a case of jump in and hope for the best.

My supervisor assigned me three cases and then, looking at me thoughtfully, said, “I have one more case for you, but I am a little hesitant about it.” She held a thick, yellowed file in her hand.

“This old woman has a severe medical problem, and she refuses all help. She has done so for the past two years, and I am weary of trying to help her. If you feel you would like to try, and promise not to be disappointed if you fail, I will give you this case.” My heart went out to this old woman I had never seen, and I knew I had to try.

Reading her file, I discovered that she was in her late 70s and had injured her right leg in a crushing accident some years before. No bones had been broken, but vital vessels and muscles had been damaged and mangled. Although treatment had been obtained, circulation to her lower leg was left impaired. Periodically the blood would stagnate, collect waste products, put pressure on surrounding tissue, and thus suffocate or eat away the healthy tissue in the area, causing leg ulcers to form.

This condition had plagued her until she had finally gone to see a doctor. He was a good doctor but had been insensitive and rough. Because of this one unfortunate incident, she became very frightened and resolved never to see another doctor. The physician had not had a chance to complete his treatments, and as a result, her leg had become very painful, infected, and useless. It was covered with large, purulent ulcers. It drained bright red blood and dead, yellow-black tissue, and the flesh was rotting in places.

The old woman was a recluse, and her only real contact with the rest of the world was through a neighbor child who was paid to run errands and do shopping. Other people had tried to help, but the old woman was afraid and would not see anyone.

Still, when I went to meet her that first day, I was not really prepared for the ill, bent old woman with long, gray, disheveled hair who hobbled to the door. She barely gave me time to tell her who I was before she ordered me out, declaring that she wanted all the nurses to leave her alone. But I knew that I couldn’t. While at her home I had detected an odor that I had known only once before, but it is something I never forgot. She was developing gangrene.

The supervisor confirmed my diagnosis and wanted me off the case. She told me that the old woman might only live a few weeks, and if she died while a student was on the case, the county attorney might interrogate me, questioning my competency as a nurse. She said she would take over the responsibility now. Somehow I couldn’t accept that the old woman was going to have her life end in such a painful and lonely way. I pleaded with my supervisor for one more week to try, and miraculously she agreed.

The second day the old woman let me in, and we talked about everything but her problem. I went home and cried. I felt sure I would never be able to convince her of her need to seek help.

The third day I visited her again and confronted her with the fact that she was going to die if she did not receive treatment. She didn’t even seem to care, certain that she had nothing to live for.

I returned to my apartment, feeling very discouraged. What could I do when she refused to be helped? I had nowhere to turn except to prayer. I had prayed for her before, but this day my roommate knelt beside me in sincere concern, and together we poured out our souls to the Lord, pleading for wisdom and guidance.

The next few days passed uneventfully. I tried to have faith, and I prayed continually. On the fifth day the answer came. I suddenly knew what to do. No voices, no visions, no suggestions from within or without came to me. I just knew what to do.

I put my plan together and rushed over to the old woman’s home. Her eyes sparkled as I showed her the foaming hydrogen peroxide I had brought with me. She was completely impressed and asked if they would use painless medications and treatments like this one at the hospital. I assured her they would be very careful to make her stay as pleasant as possible. I made a quick trip over to the hospital to tell them that this old woman, who had such a great fear of doctors, might soon be coming.

The next day I had to return to Provo for the weekend. I didn’t want to leave her, but it was made easier by a loving and concerned neighbor, the mother of the little girl who bought groceries for the old woman. She was delighted with the change that was beginning in the woman. She promised she would do all she could to help.

When I returned, I found that my elderly friend had had the courage to enter the hospital. The whole county health office was in a state of celebration. I ran to the old woman’s hospital room. Her clean, shining face greeted me with a warm smile. “I came to the hospital. You convinced me,” she said. Then she asked me what church I belonged to. When I replied that I was a Latter-day Saint, she said, “I knew it. I knew you were sent to me from the first day that I saw you. There was a light in your face that I had noticed in others of your faith. I had to put my trust in you.”

Just try to imagine the joy that enveloped my soul! God had accomplished in one week what others had been trying to do for two years. I had never known such feelings of relief. Her leg was completely healed in three months’ time. The LDS ward in her area remodeled her house and fixed up her yard as a service project. The missionaries came to visit her, and she was baptized soon after.

She now attends Sunday meetings, including Relief Society, regularly, and her joy in living has returned. How grateful I am to have come to know and love this daughter of our Father in Heaven. Through my experiences with her, I have learned that with continued faith and effort, you can find the gold at the end of the rainbow. And when you do, you will never be the same again.

While I was serving my mission in Mexico, my companion and I met a man from Obregón, a city in northwestern Mexico near the Gulf of California. He was interested in our message about the Restoration of the gospel, but he had only 10 minutes to talk because he had to catch a train. We taught him all we could in that short time and gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon and all of the tracts we had. At the time, our mission had no missionaries in Obregón.
Several months later I received a Christmas card from someone in Obregón. I looked at the card and wondered who could have sent it. Then I realized it had been sent by the man we had talked to for 10 minutes. I hung up the card in our apartment with the rest of the Christmas cards the other elders and I had received.
After Christmas I was about to throw the card away when I felt an impression to keep it. The impression was not an audible voice but a feeling in my heart. Instead of throwing the card away, I put it in my suitcase.
A few months later as I was reading the monthly letter from the mission home, I noticed an announcement that missionary work would be opened in Obregón. Once again I thought, “What does that city have to do with me?” Then I again remembered the man we had met from there. I dug through my suitcase and found the Christmas card. I wrote on the card, “These elders are friends of mine, and I am sending them to teach you more about the gospel.” Then I sent the card to the elders assigned to serve in Obregón and told them to take it with them and visit the man.
Soon I received a letter from the elders in Obregón. It read: “Dear Elder Ramos, the work here has been so difficult that the mission president was planning to pull us out until we received your card. We went to see this brother, and he was so excited about our message that he took us to meet all of his family and friends. Because of this brother, we have started a branch.”
Years have passed, and now three stakes have been organized in Obregón. I am humbled to know that because I had listened to the promptings of the Spirit, I was blessed to play a small part in helping my brothers and sisters in Obregón receive the gospel of Jesus Christ.

With the theme “a love of God and of all men” (2 Ne. 31:20) for their values night, the young women of the Glasgow Scotland Stake were asked to bring at least one toiletry item to help with a service project. The results far outstripped the expectations of their leaders. With 28 girls in attendance, they filled 29 small boxes to overflowing. The young women decorated boxes with wrapping paper and stuffed them full of toiletry items. Then they donated the filled boxes to several charities.

“Dad was the bishop during the war years. He was very involved in community affairs, being a member of several community boards, and even running for mayor. I can remember Dad coming home one time during the war and saying, ‘Guess what I have? Some real butter!’ That was a big thing for us. Getting a new pair of shoes or a new pair of pants was a big thing too. We never felt that we were poor, though. We always seemed to have enough.

It was almost Halloween. Each day on their way to school, Toby, Janie, Beth, Davy, and Ben passed Mr. Greevey’s farm. Just beyond the cabbages and the rows of tall corn they would stop. Here big green pumpkin leaves covered the ground like a rumpled blanket. Nestled among them—some still streaked with green—were dozens and dozens of pumpkins. There were big ones and small ones, fat ones and tall ones. Each one was just right for a jack-o’-lantern.
Every morning Toby looked to see if frost had touched the pumpkin leaves. When it did, Mr. Greevey would let each child choose a pumpkin for his very own. Then Mr. Greevey would haul the rest of the colorful vegetables to market.
“I’m going to pick a tall one this year,” Toby said.
“I want a little fat one,” said Janie.
“I want one this big,” Beth said, making a circle with her arms. “After Halloween, Mother will make it into pumpkin pies.”
“Mmmmm, pies!” Davy sighed.
Ben didn’t say anything. He just stood there looking at the pumpkins.
One morning when their breath hung like little puffs of chimney smoke on the chilly air, the children stopped again at the pumpkin patch. It had happened! The pumpkin leaves were shriveled and black on the ropy vines. They ran all the way to school to tell the other children.
When school let out that afternoon, Toby, Beth, Janie, Davy, and Ben hurried back to the pumpkin patch. Mr. Greevey would be waiting there to call out, “Tell all the children to come and choose their pumpkins tomorrow!”
But when they reached the patch, not one of the pumpkins had been picked, and Mr. Greevey was nowhere in sight.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Toby said.
“Yes, maybe tomorrow,” the others agreed hopefully.
However, Mr. Greevey wasn’t there the next day or the next or the one after that.
“Halloween’s almost here,” said Davy.
“Do you think Mr. Greevey’s forgotten?” asked Janie with a worried frown.
“Mr. Greevey grows the pumpkins especially for Halloween,” said Beth. “Why would he forget?”
“Let’s go find out,” said Toby.
“Who’s going to knock on the door?” Davy whispered when they reached the house.
“I will,” Toby said, marching up onto the porch. He knew it wasn’t polite to ask for things, but Halloween was getting awfully close.
Mrs. Greevey opened the door. “Why, children, how nice to see you,” she said.
“We came—” Toby began.
“The pumpkins are ripe!” Davy blurted out.
“It’s almost Halloween,” Janie said shyly.
“My goodness!” Mrs. Greevey exclaimed. “So it is. I’ve been so busy taking care of Mr. Greevey that I hadn’t noticed.” She smiled. “And of course all of you want to choose your jack-o’-lanterns.”
They nodded silently.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do it by yourselves this year. Mr. Greevey is much too sick to come to the patch.”
“Will he be better soon?” Toby asked.
Mrs. Greevey nodded. “In a week or two he’ll be just fine. Tell the other children to come and choose their jack-o’-lanterns too.”
“We will. Thank you,” said Toby.
The five children raced each other to the pumpkin patch.
“Choosing a pumpkin isn’t much fun without Mr. Greevey,” Janie said. She stepped carefully over the stiff, prickly vines. “He always helps me find just the right one.”
“Who will take the rest of the pumpkins to the market?” Davy asked, stopping to examine a fat round one.
They all stopped and looked at each other.
“Could we take them to the market for Mr. Greevey?” Toby asked.
“That’s a wonderful idea!” cried Janie. “Mr. Greevey has always been so nice to us. It’ll be fun to do something nice for him.”
“How can we get the pumpkins there?” asked Beth. “None of us is old enough to drive Mr. Greevey’s truck.”
“I know how we can do it,” Ben said.
They all turned to look at him. Ben never spoke unless he had something important to say. “We can haul them in my dad’s hay wagon. I know how to drive the horses. I’m sure Dad will let us use it.”
“Hurray!” Toby exclaimed. “Tomorrow is Saturday. We can get some of the kids at school to help.”
Early the next morning the children were at the pumpkin patch. “Do you think we should choose our pumpkins now?” Janie asked.
“Mr. Greevey will be disappointed if we don’t,” said Toby.
Everyone picked the pumpkin he liked best and set it in a row along the fence. Then they started to work.
“The big ones are too heavy to carry,” Beth said.
“You have to roll them,” Toby explained, turning a big pumpkin on its side. He carefully rolled it to where Ben and a bigger boy were loading the wagon.
The load of pumpkins grew higher. At last only the biggest pumpkin was left in the patch.
“We’ll never get that one on the wagon,” said Davy.
“Mr. Greevey usually saves the very biggest pumpkin for its seeds anyway,” Toby said. “Let’s leave it here until we come back.”
Everyone climbed aboard the wagon. Some sat on top of the pumpkins. Others wiggled down between them.
“Giddap!” Ben called. The big draft horses strained against the harness as the wagon turned out onto the highway. Soon horns began to blow. Toby looked back at the long line of cars.
A patrol car passed the wagon and stopped. “You’ll have to get this wagon off the highway,” the officer told them. “You’re blocking traffic.”
“But we’re taking these pumpkins to the market,” explained Davy.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find another way,” said the officer. “Now let these cars pass.”
Ben turned the horses off the highway and stopped.
“Now what’ll we do?” Beth wailed.
Toby thought for a minute. “I know! Across this meadow is a dirt road that goes along the river to the other side of town. We can use that.”
“Giddap!” Ben shouted.
It was more fun riding on the river road than the highway. The trees along the dirt road were splashed with reds and golds and yellows. At last Ben stopped the wagon behind Mr. Colby’s market.
“I’m mighty glad to see you,” Mr. Colby said. “Everyone has been asking for Mr. Greevey’s pumpkins.”
The wagon was soon unloaded, and the children rode back to the farm.
“Now for the biggest pumpkin,” said Toby. “Listen.” He explained his plan.
“That’s a great idea!” the others all shouted. Everyone took turns helping to roll the huge pumpkin.
“It must weigh more than a hundred pounds,” said Davy.
Quietly they rolled the pumpkin up onto Mr. Greevey’s front porch. Toby slipped the check from Mr. Colby under the door, and they hurried away.
When Halloween came, there were jack-o’-lanterns everywhere. There were fierce ones and silly ones, funny ones and sad ones. But the biggest, happiest jack-o’-lantern was the one on Mr. Greevey’s front porch, smiling at everyone who passed by.

At work, Francisco Lopes (who has since married) was subjected to frequent spiritual tremors. “Some of the people I worked with were skeptical of my beliefs and criticized me for what I believed in,” he says. “They often questioned me, using science that seemed to conflict with our faith.”

Brother Lopes recalls discussions about evolution, DNA, and more. “They did their best to convince me the Church is false,” he says of the questions for which he had few answers. “I had to rely upon my testimony of God and His gospel. I am grateful for that foundation.”

Sometimes, as with Brother Lopes, members are faced with questions to which they don’t have answers. But he didn’t let something he didn’t know shake his faith in something he did know.
“There are things that I don’t know yet. But I don’t question those things because I know that in time God will reveal what I need to know,” Brother Lopes says, “not in my time or when I want it, but when He thinks that it needs to be revealed.”

What does one do when faced with tough questions that don’t seem to have answers?
“Most of our answers are in the scriptures,” says Brother Lopes, who has faced questions not only from friends and co-workers but from his parents, who questioned his decision to join the Church at age 14. “But finding and understanding those answers depends on personal revelation. I can also go to my Church leaders or ask God directly. I’m grateful for the Holy Ghost and a caring Father in Heaven.”

In another ward, the Relief Society sisters organized to help an ill woman while her husband was out of the home. She was a native of Thailand whose English language skills were limited. She had a disease that attacked every organ of her body. The sisters learned to operate the respirator. They bathed her, combed her hair, brushed her teeth, cleaned her house, and prepared meals as well. I heard this woman cry words of gratitude for the love and patience of those who served her.

Coralie “Coco” Gamiette, 12, has a lot of favorite places to visit, and one of them is a waterfall. It’s called la Cascade aux Écrevisses. It’s the place where many of the early members of the Church on the West Indies island of Guadeloupe were baptized.
Coco says the waterfall reminds her of a place in the Book of Mormon, the Waters of Mormon, described as “a fountain of pure water” with “a thicket of small trees” nearby. That’s where 450 of those who believed Alma’s teachings were baptized. (See Mosiah 18:39.)
Of course, in Guadeloupe today, as in most places in the Church, baptisms are performed in a font at the chapel. But for Coco, la Cascade is still a pleasant place for picnicking, wading in the creek, and sitting in the cool shade to think about the heritage of the Church in her own family.
That heritage lies in a somewhat complex story that stretches back about 20 years, to the city of Angoulême, France. There, full-time missionaries were guided to a man named Michel Menardin, who had come from Guadeloupe, an overseas department of France, to perform his military service. Michel accepted the gospel and was baptized and confirmed.
That same year in the same town, missionaries left a pamphlet in a mailbox. It triggered interest from a single mother, Claudine, who was raising a 19-year-old daughter, Delphine. They both gained testimonies and were also baptized and confirmed.
Michel and Claudine met at church, decided they were meant for each other, and married. (They are Coco’s grandparents.) When Michel’s mother, Marthé, came for the wedding, she stayed in Angoulême, became acquainted with the Church, and joined.
Later, Delphine was called on a mission to Seattle, Washington. While she was serving, her parents and grandmother moved back to Guadeloupe. After her mission, Delphine came to visit them, and while in Guadeloupe she met Claude Gamiette, who had recently returned from the Florida Jacksonville Mission. He was serving as a counselor to Delphine’s stepfather in the branch presidency. The two returned missionaries dated and were married a short time later. Claude and Delphine are Coco’s parents. Now, 14 years and five children later, Claude, whose own family goes back years in the Church, is president of the Basse-Terre Guadeloupe District.
So with all of that, Coco is a fourth-generation Latter-day Saint. “I’ve grown up in the Church,” she says. “I’ve heard about it my whole life, gone to Primary and now to Young Women, and heard my parents and their parents and their parents bear their testimonies. I’ve always known the gospel is true. When I read in Mosiah about the promises the believers made when Alma baptized them, that’s what I’ve seen and felt my whole life.”
Coco remembers her great-grandmother saying that a family extends beyond a mother and father and their children. “She says family stretches across generations, from eternity to eternity,” Coco says. “That’s what I see in my family.”

Karine Dauriat, 12, of Poitiers, talks about life before and after November 1987. “That’s when our family was baptized,” she explains. “There’s a big difference in our home since we joined the Church.”
“That’s true,” says her sister Christelle, 15. “We’re nicer to each other. I think it’s because from the first time the missionaries came, we felt a feeling of joy. We started to understand why we’re here on earth and what we should be doing.”
“We have a common goal now,” says another sister, Sandrine, who is 17. “We want to keep the commandments so we can be an eternal family.”

W hen I was 12 years old, my father was in the bishopric. There were benefits, such as being able to give my tithing to my father, but there were also some unexpected downsides. For example, people expected more of me. And there was another downside that was much more treacherous.
One day, as I sat at the computer, typing up an assignment, my father sat down beside me and started asking about my day. Not seeing a trap, I answered his questions. Then, he asked a question no one had ever asked me before.
“Zachary, will you give a talk next Sunday?”
I felt the color drain from my face. I frantically searched for a reason to not be there, but my father knew that I would be. He rambled something about it being a short talk and that I needn’t worry, but my mind was moving too quickly to actually comprehend what he was saying.
I had stage fright. How could I give a talk? I had never given a public speech outside of the Primary room! Tears welled up as I felt the weight of a seemingly impossible task. My father wrapped his arms around me and told me that if I was too scared, I didn’t have to do it.
However, just then, I began to feel something that I had never felt, or maybe never noticed, before. All of a sudden, I had a small glimpse of myself, slightly older, giving a powerful speech in front of a large crowd. I felt the Spirit whisper that one day, I would have no stage fright and could become a public speaker.
Three years later, I was at my first speech and debate meet. I confidently gave a persuasive and powerful speech convincing people to vote for me.
God knows us. He knows our weaknesses and he knows our strengths. I know that the promise in Ether is true: If we simply believe, and act on that belief, God will turn our weakness into strength (see Ether 12:27).

Michael Duffy related: “I didn’t catch their names or pay much attention to what they were saying, except they were from the Mormon Church. Somehow they had found out I was a Mormon and asked if I wanted home teachers. I hadn’t been to Church for sixteen years!
“I don’t know exactly why I said yes. It seemed that many events had fallen into place to convince me that there was a missing link in my life. Previously, we had lived next door to a Mormon family. We did not go to Church, but I was reminded that our two sons had never been blessed and had never attended Church.
“My wife was not a Mormon, not even a Christian. Yet she agreed that something was missing.
“Home teachers soon contacted us and began regular visits. This started a process that would take many months, and change my family forever.
“I began attending priesthood meeting—infrequently at first, then regularly. I was finally able to overcome my Word of Wisdom problem. Our oldest son, now five, started attending Sunday School. We even began paying a little tithing. My wife supported me, but was not interested in the Church.
“Then one day two missionaries knocked at our door. After many months, having just been ordained an elder, I baptized and confirmed my wife a member of the Church. We were later sealed as a family in the Washington Temple.”
He continued, “As I look back on the many circumstances that took place, I fondly remember the love, prayers, and fellowship of the bishopric, elders quorum presidency, and others.
“We were truly blessed to be living in a ward that actively worked with less active members, that the elders quorum president (the position I now hold),” he said, “placed special emphasis on reactivation, and even a member of the stake presidency took a personal interest in us.”

I remember as a young missionary in New Zealand seeing men who stood way above the other people in that country because they had testimonies of the gospel and lived the way they should. One of them was a rugby player for the All Blacks (the equivalent of being an all-American football player in the U.S.). He had played rugby all over the world and told me that he always knelt down and prayed in the locker room before going out to play in any game. When I met him, his rugby career was over, but he was strong in the faith and a good, hard worker who could shear sheep with the best of the Maori men. He has always been one of my heroes.

Shortly after I was baptized at the age of 10 in Lappeenranta, Finland, I received my first Church calling. It was 1960, and our small branch desperately needed someone to accompany the hymns for sacrament meetings. I was asked to fulfill this assignment.
While my mother had always encouraged my brother and me to pursue artistic talents, I did not know how to play the piano, and we did not own a piano. But I wanted to fulfill my calling, so we made a plan.
In family home evening, we talked about what this calling meant to all of us. However, because my mother was a widow with two young children, we knew it would be a great challenge for us to purchase a piano and pay for lessons. We decided that we were all willing to make the needed sacrifices.
The first sacrifice my family made was financial. We decided that from spring to autumn we would ride our bicycles rather than the bus. My brother, Martti, was courageous and became especially good at biking—even on snow and ice. I gave up most of my clothing purchases and learned to sew. We also learned to live providently. We started a garden in the countryside near my grandparents’ house and preserved food for the winter. Our “vacations” became our mother’s trips to the temple in Switzerland or picnics and camps close to home.
The second sacrifice my family made was with time. We divided the chores and rescheduled our other activities and homework so I had enough time to practice the piano. Because of our sacrifices and hard work, Mother often remarked that we had no free time to get into trouble like others our age. In reality, my calling became a family calling long before I ever played a note.
I began taking lessons with a music teacher at the local school. I practiced using a paper keyboard and on a piano at the church. When my piano teacher moved away, we purchased his piano, and I was accepted to study with a renowned piano teacher in the area.
I learned the hymns on my own and practiced a lot with the branch music director. Everyone encouraged me—even if a “sour” note slipped in. My teacher was horrified after she found out that I played in front of people before I had thoroughly learned and memorized the pieces. But playing with one hand was better than having no music at all.
I rode my bike to my lessons, and when winter came, I tried to walk or ski if possible. On Sundays I walked alone to Church meetings so I could arrive an hour early and have time to practice. I resolved to ride the bus only when temperatures reached below -15ºC (5ºF). Rain and snow didn’t really bother me; time went by quickly as I walked because I had so many beautiful hymns to keep me company. As I walked, I was crossing the plains with the pioneers (see “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” Hymns, no. 30), walking high on the mountain top in Zion (see “High on the Mountain Top,” Hymns, no. 5), and standing with youth who would never falter (see “True to the Faith,” Hymns, no. 254). I could never falter with that support—even though my family and I were the only Latter-day Saints in our community in eastern Finland, in the shadows of the Russian border.
Over the years I became better at playing and could make music rather than just play the right notes. I learned to be prayerful in selecting the music so the Spirit would be in the meeting. And most important, my testimony of the gospel came to me through music. I could easily recall the feelings, words, and messages of the hymns if I ever questioned something. I knew that the gospel principles and ordinances were true, having learned them line upon line and note after note.

I share with you an incident or two from the early life of President Marion G. Romney, best told in his own words:
“I’m a Mexican by birth. I was born in Colonia Juárez, Chihuahua, Mexico. My parents happened to be down there at the time. I was raised there until I was about fifteen years old. During the last two or three of those years, the Madero Revolution was in progress. The rebels and the federalists were chasing each other through the country; each taking everything we colonists had, by way of arms and ammunition and by way of supplies. Finally we were forced to leave. I came out of Mexico with the Mormon refugees in 1912.
“I remember I had a very thrilling experience on the way from where we lived to the railroad station about [13 kilometers] south of Colonia Juárez. We went in a wagon. … I was riding with my mother and her seven children and my uncle (her brother) and his family of about five or six children. … We had one trunk—that was all we were able to bring. I was seated on the trunk in the back of the wagon. … The Mexican rebel army was coming up the valley from the railroad station towards our town. They were not in formation. They were riding their saddle horses. Their guns were in the scabbards. Two of them stopped us and searched us. They said they were looking for guns. We didn’t have any guns or ammunition. They did find [20 pesos] on my uncle. … They took that and then waved us on. They went up the road about as far as from here to the back of this room, stopped, turned around, drew their guns from their scabbards, and pointed them down the road at me. As I looked up the barrels of those guns, they looked like cannons to me. They didn’t pull their triggers, however, as evidenced by the fact that I am here to tell the story. That was a very thrilling experience! One of my maturing experiences.
“The rebels blew up the railroad track after the train we were on passed over it. Later, Father and the rest of the men came out to El Paso, Texas, on horseback. We never returned nor did we recover any of our property while my father lived.
“Father and I went to work to earn a living for his large family. There were no welfare programs then. We had a difficult time making a living” (To Him That Asketh in the Spirit, Salt Lake Institute of Religion Devotional [18 October 1974] 2–3).
After he was married and his family was started, President Romney worked full time at the post office in order to provide for his family while he went through law school. In those difficult conditions his marks were high and his scholarship excellent; he was later admitted to the Order of the Coif, which admits only the most distinguished scholars. He practiced law and became a bishop, a stake president, one of the first Assistants to the Twelve, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, and a member of the First Presidency. He demonstrated his great love and compassion for people through his many years of guidance in the welfare program of the Church.

Juliana was a little bit scared to give a talk in Primary.
Grandma gave Juliana a hug. “Heavenly Father will help you,” she whispered.
When it was her turn, Juliana saw her friends, her teacher, and Grandma and Grandpa all smiling at her. Then she gave her talk.
“I am a child of God. I show that I love Heavenly Father by learning about Jesus, saying my prayers, and helping my family. I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me too. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
After Primary, Juliana gave Grandma a big hug. “I wasn’t scared,” she said. “I knew that Heavenly Father was helping me.”

One day my friend gave me a lollipop. It was my favorite flavor, and I really wanted to eat it. I was starting to unwrap it when my little brother, Steven, saw me and asked me for it. I thought about it for a minute, and then I gave it to him.
Although I wanted the lollipop, I felt very happy when my brother said, “Thanks, Leaney,” and gave me a big hug. When I do something good, I feel very happy. I know that Jesus Christ wants me to be like Him.