Gospel Story Finder

In my own case, I also discovered that some challenges in my learning required more than simply doing my homework and then asking the Lord’s help. This was brought into sharp focus as I struggled to master statistics and probability. During my final year of college, I made plans to go to graduate school, and though I was majoring in mathematics, I had never taken a course in statistics and probabilities. But I knew that as a PhD student I would be expected to become accomplished at using the tools of statistics and probabilities as part of my training as a researcher. Thus, during my final semester as an undergraduate, I took a course on statistics and probabilities. I did well in the course because I knew math and knew how to memorize, but frankly, I didn’t understand it.

In my first two years of graduate school I took three more-advanced courses in statistics and probabilities. By that third course I knew I was in trouble—I still didn’t fully understand the concepts and principles, although I knew the formulas and the definitions. It was at that point I decided that I really needed extra help and that I needed to make my learning in that area a matter of fasting and prayer, not just prayer. I’m happy to report that within a couple of weeks, the fog lifted, and with the Lord’s help, I did gain a deep understanding of statistics and probability.

As a boy, David O. McKay wanted to know for himself that Joseph Smith was a prophet. One day while looking for cattle, he got off his horse and knelt under a serviceberry bush.
He asked Heavenly Father for a spiritual witness, then waited for something wonderful to happen. Nothing did.
David: If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same “old boy” that I was before I prayed.
Disappointed, he got back on his horse and rode away.

“Wider, please.”
Lane was reluctant to show the tartar on his teeth to the cute, new dental assistant, but he had no choice. She pulled the overhead light closer. He admired her green eyes, all he could see of her face. The rest was hidden behind the surgical mask. He watched her gloved fingers juggle the little dental pick and mirror as she scraped at his teeth.
Lane was relieved to see that Rhonda, the regular assistant who had worked there for years, was not there. She was an older woman who had always been very nice to him, but she had a horrible case of dandruff and he could see the flakes all too clearly whenever she bent her head over his open mouth.
“You must be new,” he managed to say to the assistant. It was obvious, but it was all he could think of to say. “I’ve been coming to Dr. Hodges since I was a little boy, and I’ve never seen you here.”
“Mmmm,” she said, concentrating. “Just moved here. How often do you floss?”
“Uh, well, maybe a few times a month. I kind of forget to do it every day,” he admitted. Now he regretted being so lax with his flossing. He was probably not making a very good impression. He would have to hurry to change that. Once Dr. Hodges injected the anesthetic, his mouth would go numb. It would be impossible to impress her with a lopsided smile and garbled speech. He wondered how he could let her know that he had made the winning basket last year in the high school playoffs without seeming arrogant.
He missed his chance. The assistant squirted his mouth and suctioned the water out, dabbed his face with the paper bib pinned around his neck, then left. He heard his little brother Evan talking to her from the cubicle next to his. Evan would talk her leg off. Dad had predicted that Evan would grow up to be either a police negotiator or an auctioneer.
“Hey, my brother has to get his teeth fixed, and he already had a whole bunch of shots. I don’t think he cried. He’s getting a short haircut, and my mom and dad bought him a bunch of suits and ties.”
“Wow,” was all the assistant said, in a dull-sounding tone. She told Evan, “I’m putting some of this cleaning stuff on your teeth. It’s a little gritty, like sand, but it tastes like cherries. I’ll use this little tool and scrub your teeth with it, okay?”
“Oh, that’s like the cleanser I use on the bathtub on Saturday when I do my Saturday jobs. Except it tastes better.” There was a pause, and then Evan said, “Not that I ever ate cleanser. Yuck!”
It was quiet while the assistant scrubbed his teeth, but as soon as Evan’s mouth was free, Lane could hear him talking again.
Dr. Hodges came in. For a moment, Lane was distracted while the dentist examined his teeth and got ready to give him the anesthetic.
Lane could hear Evan as he continued to talk. “I’m getting baptized next Saturday. I’m eight, so I’m old enough because I mostly know how to tell right from wrong. Baptisms are in a big font like a warm swimming pool. I guess it’s like a bath for my spirit. Hey, you can come if you want. It’s at seven on Saturday night at Westbrook chapel, just a couple blocks from my house.”
Lane was thinking, Come up for air, buddy, even as his eyes squinted in pain as Dr. Hodges nestled the needle into the back of his mouth.
Evan kept talking. “My brother’s going on a mission. It’s for our church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Some people call us Mormons because we have the Book of Mormon. It’s kind of like the Bible, but we read the Bible, too. Anyway, my brother will go to Argentina and baptize people there after he teaches them about the gospel. They put on white clothes and go under the water too. Nobody drowns,” he added.
Then Evan said, “He’ll be gone a long time. Two whole years. And nobody pays him. He usually doesn’t do things for free.” Lane could hear a smile in Evan’s voice when he said, “And I get his room.”
Dr. Hodges chuckled and said, “Your little brother’s quite a talker.” All Lane could say, with his mouth full of anesthetic, was, “Tell me about it.”
In the next cubicle, the assistant said, “Evan, we’re all done. If you want, you can wait for your brother here.”
“Okay,” Evan answered cheerfully. “I brought my Friend with me. Do you get the Friend?” Without waiting for her to answer, he continued, “I don’t think the dentist gets it because I didn’t see it with the magazines in the waiting room.”
Lane didn’t think the assistant understood Evan because she said, “Your friend, huh? What’s his name?”
Evan patiently explained, “No, the Friend isn’t a person; it’s a magazine for kids about my church. There are magazines for big people, too. You can look at mine and see what’s in it. There are stories and games. I was trying to find all the stuff hidden in this picture.”
Lane could hear the assistant putting instruments away and moving around in the cubicle. Lane’s attention quickly became focused on his own mouth as Dr. Hodges carefully drilled out his cavities and applied the fillings.
Evan was still talking. “My brother is going to explain about the Church on his mission to people like you who don’t know about it. You’d really like it. We learn about Jesus and how to be like him. I have my own Book of Mormon, but my grandma will give me a brand-new one with gold on the edges and my name on it when I get baptized. I think the dentist needs one in his waiting room. He can have my old one. I brought it to read the part about Jesus coming to America. My dad marked the place for me.”
Finally, the appointment was over. Lane tried one last time to talk to the assistant. “Sorry about my little brother,” he said, flashing his clean teeth in what he hoped was a brilliant smile, though he could feel only half his mouth curve upward. “He’s really a chatterbox.”
“No problem,” the girl said. “I think he’s cute.”
Lane refrained from asking what she thought of Evan’s older brother, though he was tempted. He hoped she thought he was cute, too.
She said, “Going to Argentina, huh?”
“Yes,” Lane said, quickly adding, “I’ll only be gone for two years. Do you plan to work here for a while?” She smiled and left to clean more teeth.
Evan picked out a toy dinosaur from the dentist’s treasure chest, then told Dr. Hodges, “I’m leaving you this book for your waiting room.” He held out his Book of Mormon to show him. “It doesn’t cost you anything.”
Dr. Hodges looked puzzled but nodded his consent and then went to attend to a patient.
On the way home, Evan suggested they stop at the store for some candy, but Lane said no. “You want to undo all the work we just had done? That’s how you get cavities! You keep it up and the only thing you’ll be able to eat will be soup.”
They rode in silence for a split second. “Is that how you got all your cavities?” Evan asked.
After the baptism, Evan changed into dry clothes and was talking to his grandpa when he looked to the back of the room and started waving furiously. “Hey! You came!”
Lane was startled to see Dr. Hodges standing near the back. Evan called out, “Hey, he’s my dentist!”
The boys and their parents made their way to Dr. Hodges and told him they were glad to see him. Dr. Hodges smiled at Evan and said, “You were right, Evan. You didn’t drown.”
To Evan’s parents, he said, “I hope you don’t mind my coming. My sister has been writing to me about the Book of Mormon, and she has been talking about getting baptized. Evan invited us to come to his baptism when he was at the office last week, and I wanted to see what your church was about. I’ve known your family for years, and I know you’re good people, but I didn’t realize you were Mormon until Evan brought in his Book of Mormon and told us about your church.”
He spoke to Evan again. “I hope you don’t mind that I took your Book of Mormon home with me. I’ve really enjoyed reading it.”
After they got home, Evan came into Lane’s room, where Lane was packing his suitcase. Lane had been quietly getting ready to go to the Missionary Training Center, thinking about Evan’s baptism. He was feeling ashamed. He had had plenty of opportunities to talk about the Church at the dentist’s office and didn’t. He was too busy hanging onto the last shred of his social life before leaving. He had thought it would be hard to be a missionary because he didn’t know what to say to people. But wasn’t missionary work just getting the word out and being happy about having the gospel, like Evan? It was that simple.
“Hey, buddy,” Lane said, hugging his little brother, “you are one terrific missionary. Think you might fit into my suitcase? I could be your junior companion.”

Now, the story I promised to tell you began before the October 1856 general conference, but that is where we will begin. President Brigham Young stood at the Old Tabernacle pulpit on this square and issued a call to go rescue the Willie and Martin Handcart Companies. Two days later, about 30 faithful brethren with good mule teams were dispatched to go bring in the handcarters stranded several hundred miles east. Dan W. Jones, a convert of about five years, volunteered.
After arduous effort, the Willie Company finally was found. Caught in the storms of early winter, the Saints were freezing and starving to death. The relief party did all they could to improve conditions, but for some it was simply too late. The morning after the rescuers’ arrival, nine of the company were buried in a common grave.
Some of the rescuers were assigned to escort the handcarters to the Salt Lake Valley, but others pushed further eastward in an effort to find the Martin Company. Finally they were found, along with the Hodgett and Hunt Wagon Companies, bogged down and helpless in the snow east of Devil’s Gate, Wyoming.
Members of the Martin Company were in dire straits. Their food rations had been cut to a few ounces of flour per day. Only a third of them could walk, and deaths were recorded daily.
The leaders of the rescue party wisely decided to spare no effort in getting the suffering survivors to safety in the Salt Lake Valley. Because of the shortage of space in the wagons, it was necessary to leave most of the handcarters’ possessions in storage at Devil’s Gate till spring.
Brother Dan W. Jones and two others from the relief party, along with 17 young men from the wagon companies, were called to stay behind to guard the property. They were left to face five winter months in Wyoming, hundreds of miles from help, with scarcely anything to eat, and under conditions of extreme privation. Imagine the sacrifice! Offers were made to each man to join the wagons bound for the valley, but every one of them chose to stay behind, obedient to the call to serve.
That winter was recorded as one of the most severe ever. The intrepid watchmen struggled to repair the cabins at Devil’s Gate; killed the remaining cattle; stored the tough, stringy beef for food; and reconditioned and stacked the goods they were left to protect.
They killed a few buffalo, but the hunting became bad. Soon they were reduced to living on animal hides, from which they scraped off the hair, then boiled the leather. They ate the leather wrappings off the wagon tongues, old moccasin soles, and a well-worn buffalo hide that had been used as a foot mat for two months. At one point Dan Jones was literally preparing to eat his own saddle!
In February of that extreme winter, a member of the Snake Indian tribe visited and helped them. That first night he and two scouts came to camp loaded with good buffalo meat.
The winter passed, and finally, early in May, the relief wagons began to roll in. Of the various communications Brother Jones had received, one critical letter from Brigham Young had not arrived. Loading and shipping of the stored goods could not commence without it.
For days they waited, becoming increasingly anxious. Finally Brother Jones sought the Lord in prayer to know how to proceed. He recorded the following testimony: “Next morning without saying anything about the lack of instructions we commenced business. Soon some one asked whose teams were to be loaded first, [and] I dictated to my clerk. Thus we continued. As fast as the clerk put them down, orders would be given, and we passed on to the next. We continued this [way] for four days. … All the teams were loaded up, companies organized and started back [to the valley]” (Daniel W. Jones, Forty Years among the Indians [1960], 107).
The 17 young men were loaded on the last wagons departing to the Salt Lake Valley, where they would be reunited with their families and loved ones.
Brother Jones arrived later to report to President Young, feeling not a little uncertain how he would be received. Should he have waited for the President’s written orders? As everything unfolded, it was learned that President Young had indeed dictated a letter of instructions, which was never received. Dan carefully presented his detailed report. It was a testimony to him to find that the inspiration he’d received in Wyoming was exactly the same as in the prophet’s letter.
Dan Jones’s young men had done more than they ever would have imagined they could:
They had crossed the plains in wagons and by handcart, mostly on foot.
They had seen many of their friends and relatives die along the way.
They had volunteered to spend the winter 300 miles from their destination.
They had survived a harsh winter with little food and few, if any, comforts.
They had heeded the call of the prophet to serve their fellow Saints.
They had endured to the end nobly and were blessed for their efforts.
I repeat, brethren: Ordinary men, blessed with the privilege of holding the priesthood of God, may be called upon to do extraordinary tasks and accomplish mighty feats through faith in that sacred power!
One of my Book of Mormon heroes, Ammon, the great son of Mosiah, explains how much two people can accomplish when one of them is the Lord: “Yea, I know that I am nothing; as to my strength I am weak; therefore I will not boast of myself, but I will boast of my God, for in his strength I can do all things; yea, behold, many mighty miracles we have wrought in this land, for which we will praise his name forever” (Alma 26:12).
To you young men of the Aaronic Priesthood and to you brethren of the Melchizedek Priesthood, I witness that we can perform “many mighty miracles,” as testified by Ammon and by Dan Jones! They took the Lord as their guide, listened to and obeyed the Holy Spirit, and learned that they could indeed perform mighty miracles, which thing they never had supposed.
Our own challenges in this day will be great. Our needs will be significant. Our loyalty to great gospel truths must be no less valiant than that of those young men over 140 years ago.
It is my prayer, brethren, that each of us will make the Lord—and His revealed word through His servants, the prophets—the guiding influence in our lives. Each of us has a miracle to perform, a journey to complete, and a marvelous mission to fulfill.
May Heavenly Father bless you to know that you are one of His chosen sons in a blessed and royal generation, and that He has mighty miracles for you to perform. With His strength and the guidance of the Spirit, you too can do all things! To which I testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Develop the habit of singing, or if this is not pleasant, of whistling. Singing to one’s self brings less comment and question than talking to one’s self! My father once came home from a deer hunt empty-handed, but his heart was renewed and his spirit lifted because, as he recounted with great appreciation, one of his companions had frightened the deer away by always singing trumpet-voiced as he walked through pines and quaking aspen. Father was more enriched by the mirth of the song than he would have been by the meat of the venison.

When I was a young father, our little son, who was five, came home from school one day and asked his mother, “What kind of work does Daddy do?” He then explained that his new classmates started debating about their fathers’ jobs. One said that his father was the chief of the city police, while another proudly declared that his father was the chief of a big company.

So when asked about his father, my son simply said, “My father works in an office on a computer.” Then, noticing that his answer did not impress his new little friends much, he added, “And by the way, my father is the chief of the universe.”

I guess that was the end of the conversation.

I told my wife, “It’s time to teach him some more details of the plan of salvation and who is really in charge.”

But as we taught our children the plan of salvation, their love for Heavenly Father and for the Savior grew as they learned that it is a plan of love. The gospel of Jesus Christ is centered on the love of the Father and the Savior for us and our love for Them and for one another.

The Young Women of the Price Ninth Ward, Price Utah Stake, prepared and hosted a valentine dance for the adults of their ward. They decorated the cultural hall and set tables with fine china borrowed from their mothers. Each couple was greeted at the door and escorted to a table. The dinner was prepared and served by the Young Women.
Following the dinner a short program and dance were held. The girls worked hard and were rewarded by many thank-yous from the ward members.

From his childhood, Bishop Gérald Jean Caussé, recently called as the First Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric, always found happiness in Church service. That was a good thing, he said, because in his small branch in Bordeaux, France, everyone was needed to keep the unit running. In addition to serving in Aaronic Priesthood quorums throughout his youth, he served as the Primary pianist at age 12, as a counselor in the Sunday School presidency at age 14, and as the Sunday School president at age 16.
“Serving in the Church helped me get my testimony,” he said. His father, who served several times as branch president and bishop, was particularly instrumental in Bishop Caussé having a positive experience.
“When I was a teenager, he would involve me in doing home teaching or visiting families in need,” Bishop Caussé said. “Watching him was probably the best learning experience in preparing for priesthood leadership.”

I am honored to speak to you today. However, I am somewhat humbled by this opportunity. This reminds me of an instance about 20 years ago, when I responded to an editorial that I heard on WGN-Radio in Chicago. Shortly after sending a written response to the station, I received a call indicating that they would like me to come in and tape my response for broadcast. Luckily I wore a suit to the station, because when I arrived, I was informed that the taping would take place on the set for the evening news program, with a teleprompter. It hadn’t crossed my mind that WGN was both a radio and a TV station and that my editorial response was to be televised. Needless to say, I was a little nervous.

Newell B. Stevenson, a lifelong friend of Elder Faust, recalls that Butler Hill was also the local ski resort. “We used to go skiing there,” he relates. “That was back in the days when we didn’t know what ski boots and ski bindings and all those sorts of things were. We built ourselves a jump, and if you had a little good luck, you made it all the way down to the bottom. Of course, once you got to the bottom of the hill, you had to walk back up. Once Jim (Elder Faust) lost a ski and fell and broke his collarbone.
“We used to swim together a lot during the summer at a cold-water, spring-fed lake near our home. If we could have spent our lives there, we would have. A couple of times we went there in the early spring and dared each other to get into the water. We were so cold we got out in a hurry!”
Other sports also attracted Elder Faust’s interest, especially football and track. His father was his most ardent supporter. In recalling those days, Brother Stevenson said, “I don’t think I ever went to an athletic event that one of those Faust kids was in when their father wasn’t there to support them.
“Even as a boy—but particularly when we got into our teens—Jim was the spiritual leader of our group. We did everything together, and I have to give him a lot of credit for keeping us out of trouble. He wasn’t overbearing, domineering, or falsely pious—he just always did what was right.”

My father did not come from a traditional family and was raised by his aunt. He had nothing more than a third grade education. However, once he married and had children, he wanted more for his family. He envisioned a better future for his children than what he had. While he had little secular education, he had great hope that his children could have a better future in America. With this hope for a better future, he left Samoa for America. Although he was a skilled businessman, he did not speak English, which made finding comparable work in America quite challenging. Rather than securing a similar job as a businessman, as his first job, he was a dishwasher. He eventually found a career as a machine operator for a mattress company. Throughout the years he often worked more than one job at a time. All was accomplished because he protected the vision or hope of providing a better life for his family.

I had an appointment scheduled a few days later with a neurologist, but that January morning, my older sister, Kylie, felt prompted that my family should take me to the emergency room at a nearby hospital. Doctors quickly ordered a computed tomography (CT) scan and the first of several spinal taps to reduce cerebrospinal fluid pressure. The next day, I had two MRIs (magnetic resonance imaging). Then an ophthalmologist examined me.

“How many fingers can you see?” he asked, holding up several fingers right in from of my face. I couldn’t see anything.

After his examination, he concluded that I had symptoms of both pseudotumor cerebri and optic neuritis. Neither condition on its own seemed fully responsible. He explained that with the severity of my vision loss, recovery could take over a year and that my vision might not fully return. He recommended a high dose of intravenous steroids and other medication.

After he left, I started crying. My mother reassured me, “If you can’t hold on to your faith right now, you can rely on ours.”

In the early days of our marriage, our children came at close intervals. As parents of little children will know, in those years it is quite a novelty for them to get an uninterrupted night of sleep.
If you have a new baby, and another youngster cutting teeth, or one with a fever, you can be up and down a hundred times a night. (That, of course, is an exaggeration. It’s probably only twenty or thirty times.)
We finally divided our children into “his” and “hers” for night tending. She would get up for the new baby, and I would tend the one cutting teeth.
One day we came to realize that each would hear only the one to which we were assigned, and would sleep very soundly through the cries of the other.
We have commented on this over the years, convinced that you can train yourself to hear what you want to hear, to see and feel what you desire, but it takes some conditioning.

So, let’s say that you’ve studied things out! You have dated various people, and you’ve found someone who seems to have many of the qualities you are looking for.

That’s an important one, for real! You both need to genuinely like each other!

It’s great! You have identified someone who “could” work. But you understand the eternal nature of the commitment. It can all feel a little bit overwhelming.

I can remember these feelings like it was yesterday. Kels and I had been dating for a few months. I knew she was special. But I felt overwhelmed. I felt like I had too many decisions to make at once. I was planning on transferring schools and moving. We had talked about breaking things off soon. Then, Kels wrote me this note. It’s become my most prized possession. It was written with the context that our relationship was probably coming to an end. She said a lot of nice things. The thing that stood out was that she said she could see how the gospel brought joy into my life, and she wanted a life built on that. She didn’t ask me to marry her, but I knew how she felt.

It was a wake-up call for me. This letter gave me enough information to take this decision to the Lord for an answer.

Let me now briefly share with you two memorable experiences from my service as a stake president that highlight the relationship between our actions and a Christlike character.

Early one summer morning I was showering. My wife called to me in the middle of my shower and indicated that I was needed immediately on the telephone. (This was before the day of cell and cordless phones). I quickly put on my robe and hurried to the phone. I next heard the voice of a dear sister and friend informing me of a tragic automobile accident that had just occurred in a remote area involving three teenage young women from our stake. Our friend indicated one of the young women had already been pronounced dead at the scene of the accident and that the two other young women were badly injured and presently were being transported to the regional medical center in Fayetteville. She further reported that the identity of the deceased young woman was not yet known. There was urgency in her voice, but there was no panic or excessive alarm. She then asked if I could go to the hospital, meet the ambulance when it arrived, and assist in identifying the young women. I answered that I would leave immediately.

During the course of our telephone conversation and as I listened to both the information being conveyed and the voice of our friend, I gradually became aware of two important things. First, this friend's daughter was one of the young women involved in the accident. Our friend lived approximately 35 miles from the hospital and therefore needed the assistance of someone who lived closer to the city. Second, I detected that the mother simultaneously was using two telephone handsets with one in each hand pressed to each of her ears. I became aware that as she was talking with me, she was also talking with a nurse at a small rural hospital who had initially attended to the three accident victims. Our friend was receiving updated information about the condition of the young women in the very moment she was informing me about the accident and requesting my help. I then heard one of the most remarkable things I have ever heard in my life.

I faintly heard the nurse telling this faithful mother and friend that the young woman pronounced dead at the scene of the accident had been positively identified as her daughter. I could not believe what I was hearing. I was listening to this good woman in the very moment that she learned of the death of her precious daughter. Without hesitation, and with a calm and most deliberate voice, our friend next said, President Bednar, we must get in contact with the two other mothers. We must let them know as much as we can about the condition of their daughters and that they will soon be in the hospital in Fayetteville. There was no self-pity; there was no self-absorption; there was no turning inward. The Christlike character of this devoted woman was manifested in her immediate and almost instinctive turning outward to attend to the needs of other suffering mothers. It was a moment and a lesson that I have never forgotten. In a moment of ultimate grief, this dear friend reached outward when I likely would have turned inward.

When my sister was nearly 22 years old she was pregnant with her second child. During late stages of the third trimester she sank into a diabetic coma. This was the first indication that she had this disease. Her life was saved, but she lost the child just two weeks before its due date. When she came out of the coma, to avoid a too hasty surgery to her vulnerable body, she lay days recovering with the lifeless child in her womb. Her sorrows were deep and almost too much to bear. She mourned for her son that she would never hold in her arms, never experience the joy of his breath, his voice, his appearance. She sifted through the shock and making sense of God’s will. The doctrines of the resurrection distilled upon her soul in new ways. And she began to hope.

Now my sister’s greatness does not lie in her enduring this one palpable moment of disappointment. She is great because she, through a lifetime, cultivated the capacity to accept, reach out, and become a balm to the wounded and the weary. She was a gentle calming force to her family, to friends, to strangers. Her ability to notice, accept, and love others made her great. Her dear husband has a way of drawing attention to himself, not just because he truly is a most clever man, but because he is a dwarf. Together, my sister and he had four children, two are dwarfs and two are not. To know this family and my sister is to witness how “… God [truly] is no respecter of persons” (Acts 10:34). I always found an acceptance and geniality from my sister’s family unmatched by others. And it was just not me; a concourse of struggling individuals passed through their humble and simple home -- the lonely, the forsaken, the despondent and the troubled. On my many visits to their home I hardly ever had their full attention due the additional guests they had taken in. Their doors were open for a meal, a friendly conversation, or a place to retreat until one was able to meet the disappointments that lay outside. They fostered many children, and welcomed wayward teens and forlorn adults as well. One child they took in was a severely abused six year old boy. After months of care, and waiting for the state to locate him a permanent home, my sister could not let him go, so they officially adopted him, and helped carry the burdens of his trauma, loving him as their own, offering him the only stability he would ever know, until, his mental ghosts could not be appeased, and he took his own life in his twenties.

Through all these years of suffering long with others, showing gentleness, meekness, and love unfeigned, my sister’s health continued to deteriorate. Her diabetes was severe and she carried an insulin pump attached to her hip. Her eye sight declined appreciably and required laser surgery. Determined to bring other lives into this world she gave birth to two more children after losing her second. Literally on the edge of death each time, she carried on with these little ones and rejoiced with their cries for breath. She raised them with increasing discomfort and a failing kidney. The twice weekly complete blood dialysis grew wearisome. Her living body seemed to decay before us, instead of the spritely, happy and vibrant girl we knew, the lines of deep pain carved out in her face, and even lying down was not a respite from discomfort. The opportunity for a kidney transplant became evermore dim due to her rare blood type. Not even her four brothers, who loved and idealized her deeply, could provide a match. These four over-achieving brothers knew that the true greatness belonged to our sister. She was the pure one, sanctified by her suffering and sacrifice. We all learned something about the potency of family, how we are called upon to persevere and endure with each other. It is my sister, more than any other that has led to my own personal reflection on the meaning, the depth, and the significance of family, even when things go wrong.

My sister taught me about caring for others even in the most difficult and inconvenient circumstances. She motivated me to think globally and eternally, while serving locally and personally. Finally, after years of waiting, on one Christmas Eve she was notified that a kidney that matched with her was available. She was rushed to Salt Lake City five hours away through the night so that on Christmas morning she would receive the immediate transplant. All went well with the surgery and she began to recover. Unfortunately, she contracted a staph infection in the hospital. And while the kidney was functioning well, all the other bodily systems seem to be shutting down. She spent endless months in the hospital, only going home on rare occasions. Then her lung collapsed and part of it was removed in an emergency surgery. As she was recovering from this additional bodily trauma a hospital attendant dropped her while lifting her to a gurney. Her whole side with the wound from the lung surgery was ripped open. Her deterioration accelerated. In her suffering, as some sought retribution, she calmly uttered to me, “He didn’t mean to.” In her agony she had sympathy for the one who had injured her. “Father...they know not what they do.” The wound festered and her body continued to decline, and then, nearly four years after the transplant, just a week before Christmas, she quietly slipped through the veil and entered another glorious family reunion. If there was ever a countenance of the Savior written in a face it was in my sister. Through her I came closer to understanding the suffering of the Christ, of the dignity and love expressed through suffering, of how his sacrifice makes Him the father of our souls, and how our own suffering sanctifies and purifies us.

There is one sport that everyone in Brazil loves—soccer. And there is no bigger soccer event than the World Cup. So when Fabiana Silva, a member of the Brasil Ward, Vitória da Conquista Brazil Stake, won a contest and got to attend the 1998 World Cup in France, she was thrilled! But she had no idea it would become a missionary opportunity.
The other contest winners couldn’t help noticing Fabiana’s standards as they attended soccer game after soccer game, and Brazil headed to the final game against France. They respected her modest dress, her positive attitude, and her clean language. That respect turned to disbelief, though, when she told them she would not be attending the championship because it was going to be held on Sunday.
Despite pressure and even ridicule from the group, Fabiana stood firm. Sunday found her reading scriptures in her hotel room because she didn’t know where to find a local chapel. Brazil lost; the group went home.
A few weeks later Fabiana was surprised to receive a letter from Fábio Fan, another contest winner from across the country. He told her he was impressed by her standards and that he was investigating the Church. Later he sent another letter—he had been baptized. Fábio then helped bring members of his family into the Church and served a mission.
Fabiana also served a mission, to Campinas, Brazil, where she was well prepared because she had already learned that “the most effective tract we will carry will be the goodness of our own lives and example.”1

Illustrations by Jennifer Tolman
Dear Journal, Jarom wrote as he sat at the kitchen table, I’m getting really excited about going on a mission. Did you know I can now go when I turn 18? That’s only eight years away! I can’t wait!
Jarom kept writing about how much he looked forward to his mission. His younger sister Taran was also writing in her journal. Kelcey, Ben, and Alyssa drew pictures in their journals instead. They were still too young to write.
I used to be kind of nervous about the idea of leaving home to go on a mission, Jarom wrote. But now I know better. A mission is going to be great. I wonder where I’ll go.
He kept writing about his future mission. Every Sunday his whole family wrote in their journals for 15 minutes as part of Family MTC—their family’s own “missionary training center.”
They’d already done their 15 minutes of personal scripture study. Jarom knew that was important too, even if it wasn’t always easy. Sometimes the scriptures confused him. But he kept doing his very best. And Mom and Dad could always answer questions when he got really stuck.
Journal time, though, was always one of his favorite activities. He especially liked when they shared journal entries with each other.
“OK,” Dad said. “Time’s up. Ready for class time?”
Everybody cheered. Class time was fun. They each picked favorite articles from the Friend to teach the rest of the family. Jarom chose a baseball story he found—he loved baseball, after all. And his younger brother, Ben, couldn’t wait to tell about a boy who tried building the biggest block tower in the universe. Everybody had something to share.
The 15 minutes zoomed by with favorite stories. That meant only one thing was left.
“It’s time for family devotional,” Mom said.
Jarom grinned. Family devotional usually meant watching Church videos on the computer. The whole family loved those videos. They sometimes couldn’t decide which videos to watch for the 15 minutes. There were so many to choose from.
“Can we watch the one about the scorpion again?” Jarom asked before they even made it to the computer. “Please?” The video about the scorpion showed how Elder Patrick Kearon of the Seventy learned to obey his parents and avoid dangerous things.
“We just watched that last week,” Dad said with a laugh.
“I know, but it’s awesome!”
“I want to watch ‘The Coat,’” Kelcey said.
In no time at all, it seemed, Family MTC was over for another week. And yes, they’d gotten to watch Jarom’s favorite video again. Sooo awesome, Jarom wrote really fast in his journal.
Then it was time to get ready for church. Jarom grabbed his scriptures and headed for the door.
He remembered a couple months ago when they started Family MTC. At the time he didn’t really know what to think of it. Would it feel like one more hour of church? Sometimes three hours felt like a long time already.
But he was surprised by how much he loved Family MTC. Going on a mission was one of his big goals in life. He knew what he had to do to be ready. Learning as a family made it that much more fun.
Besides, if it meant he got to watch the scorpion video a few more times along the way, well that was just fine by Jarom.

“Come on, Fynn. It’s time to go!” Johan said.
Fynn’s brother, Johan, was waiting impatiently at the front door. He didn’t want to be late for school.
Fynn frowned. He didn’t want to go to school. His family had just moved to a new house. It was his first year at school, and he hadn’t made any friends at school yet. He missed his old friends.
“I’m scared!” Fynn said, running to his mother. “Why do I have to go to school?”
Fynn’s mother gave him a hug. “It’s going to be OK. Let’s say a prayer,” she said. “There’s always time to pray.”
They knelt down and asked Heavenly Father to help Fynn. Then Fynn and his brother went to school. The day went a little better.
Every morning after that, Fynn knelt down and said a prayer asking Heavenly Father for help.
Slowly, things got better. Fynn made a friend, and he wasn’t scared anymore. After a while, Fynn started liking school.
One day Fynn and his brother were walking to school, and Fynn felt happy. He noticed the sun shining. He thought about all the fun things he was learning. Suddenly, he stopped walking.
“I forgot something!” he said to Johan. Fynn ran back to their house.
His mother looked worried when he ran inside.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I forgot to pray!” Fynn said. He knelt down. He wanted to thank Heavenly Father for helping him.
After ending his prayer, he gave his mom a hug. “There’s always time to pray!” he said.
Fynn smiled. His mom smiled. And as Fynn ran to catch up with his brother, he thought maybe Heavenly Father was smiling too.

After the operation to fix my tongue so I’d be able to talk, Mama and I went across the street to buy some candy. The doctor had given me a nickel for being so brave. Imagine a whole nickel’s worth of candy! I could get the biggest stick of peppermint in the store. I wouldn’t even have to suck it to make it last a long time. There would be enough for me to chew.
I should have sucked it. That newly loosened tongue got between my teeth like it never had been free to do before, and I chewed it along with the peppermint until it was bleeding and sore. Oh, how it hurt! I learned to close my mouth very carefully after that.
Gradually the soreness healed enough so I could start eating again. But it was many months before I learned how to make my tongue behave. As for talking, that was going to require a great deal of practice. The words still did not come out crisp and clear. My mumbled efforts were laughed at and I decided I would rather practice in private. But there is no place for privacy in a covered wagon, especially our wagon, for it was the social center for all the children of the camp.
Our twelve-wagon train set out from Salt Lake City for Harmony, New Mexico, the day after I had my tongue cut. All the families gathered together in a big circle for prayer before we left. Then we sang as we loaded up: “Come, come ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear; But with joy wend your way …”
With joy we wended our way, south and east to a land that held the promise of a good new life for us. The Indian summer days were beautiful and crisp enough in the morning to make us anxious to start moving—golden and warm during the day, but not too hot.
Most of all, I remember the singing in the daytime and the dancing at night. From the place where we slept under the wagon, we could watch the grown-ups whirl in a fast polka or line up for the Virginia reel while Brother Lenstrom played his fiddle.
At the last minute before we left Salt Lake City I had grabbed my jump rope from the nail behind the door. Caroline forgot hers so I shared mine with her, and before long most of the other children wanted a turn too. As soon as the wagon stopped for evening, the girls came running to our place shouting, “My turn with the jump rope, Dora!” If the girl jumped past 21 without missing, we began to call out: “Mabel, Mabel set the table, And don’t forget the red-hot-pepper.”
At this signal the rope started whirring at double time. No one could last forever on red hot pepper. Should the lineup for the jump rope seem too long, those at the end would scratch a hopscotch in the dirt, number the squares, select their markers, and begin to play.
By this time the boys would be starting their third or fourth game of marbles. Each one carried his favorite taw for shooting in one pocket and in the other a handful of aggies that he didn’t mind losing in a game of keeps.
I played with the boys more than the girls because I didn’t need to talk with Ed around.
“Let’s break the record,” he’d shout, and they’d race off to the tailgate of our wagon to begin jumping. A line was marked where the jumper’s feet landed, and each succeeding boy tried to go past the farthest mark.
They couldn’t play break the record if Mama were baking though. She threatened to skin them alive if they caused her cake to fall or disturbed the light bread she made every few days. She had to be careful to keep the yeast going by saving enough of the start in a jar each time she baked and adding potato water and a little sugar. She covered the bottle with a cloth and wedged it in a tight spot by her seat so she could watch it as we rode along.
Mama mixed and kneaded the dough early in the morning before we started our day’s travel, punched it down two or three times along the way, and at night baked a big dripper pan full of biscuits and six loaves of bread. The smell of light bread cooking beats any smell in the world, and a thick slice or a biscuit became both plate and meal when served with a fried egg, a slice of meat, or a chunk of cheese. Our two cows walked along behind the wagon and provided us with milk.
When we could find one, we set up camp next to a stream. One time when we did, Ed and I took off with the fishing pole to look for a deep hole in the nearly dry creek. We found a beautiful spot out of sight of camp but close enough that we could still hear the cries of Annie-I-over. There was a strict rule that no one got so far away that he couldn’t see or hear the camp.
When we got off alone together like this Ed tried to show me how to talk, and I learned to say a few new words. “Look at that frog,” he shouted and bounded across the mossy stones to grab it.
“Frog,” I said. “Frog.”
“What a beauty! Look how big he is. I wonder how far he can jump.”
We stayed until nearly dark testing his ability. By the time we heard Papa coming to get us, the frog’s record was six feet, measured with Ed’s feet.
“Papa, look at my pet,” Ed called as he came closer. “Can I keep him? Can I?”
“That’s a fine frog all right,” Papa said. “But you’d better leave him here. He’d only die if we took him with us.”
“I can take him in a bucket of water. He won’t die.”
“A bucket of water is not the same as a stream. This is his home.”
“Please, Papa.”
“No, Ed. Now put him down, and I’ll tell you a story on the way back.”
“What about?” Ed asked.
“About a frog.”
“A true story?”
“Absolutely.”
Papa’s stories were always worth whatever we had to give up to hear them. Ed put his pet down carefully in a sheltered spot by the stream and took hold of Papa’s other hand. Then the three of us began to walk toward camp.
“What’s the story?” Ed asked.
“How butter was discovered.”
“You said it was about a frog.”
“So it is. You see, a long time ago, a frog jumped into a bowl of cream that was left by a dairymaid to keep cool at the edge of a stream. All night long he paddled around trying to get out, and when the girl came the next morning to get the cream, it had turned to butter.”
“Was the frog still alive?”
“I don’t remember that, but since there was no cream to spread on the bread, the dairymaid used the butter. She was afraid she’d be scolded for being careless enough to leave the lid off the cream, but everyone said the new spread was better. ‘Betty’s better spread’ they called it and wanted her to make more.”
When we got back to the wagon Mama had a good hot supper ready. Afterward we had a campfire program and evening prayer. Then the children were put to bed, and soon the fiddle began its tune and the grown-ups were moving their feet in time to the music. We happily watched them from the place where we slept beneath the wagon.
The next morning was washday, which meant the clothes were put into a half-full water barrel with a bar of homemade lye soap and jostled clean as we rode along. When we stopped, they’d be rinsed, wrung out, and hung on ropes stretched between trees. It wouldn’t take long to dry them if there were a little breeze.
Washdays were always planned between two stops where there was plenty of water so we wouldn’t run short. And since it was an extra busy day for Mama we had to help more than usual. Before camp broke up she assigned the chores.
“Caroline, you take care of the chickens,” she said. “Make sure they get fed and watered and don’t let any of them get lost when you turn them out to run.
“Dora, I’ll need you to watch Frank and Georgie while I do the washing. And Ed, you can churn the butter.”
Just then I saw the look come into Ed’s eyes that meant he had an idea, and I knew what it was because I had it too. Although he didn’t need to, he jerked his head at me in a way that said come on. Grabbing a bar of soap and a towel, we ran off in the direction of the stream.
“Where are you two going?” Mama called, and Ed shouted, “To wash our hands.”
“You told a lie,” I accused.
“No, I didn’t. We’ll wash our hands.”
The frog hadn’t got warmed up enough to move around yet so he was still where we had left him.
Ed started to lather him with the soap, and he slipped away. He picked up the slick frog again and said, “Have to get him clean enough.”
After he’d washed and dried the frog, he put him inside his shirt. We stayed by the stream cutting willows until the camp was ready to leave and then ran and jumped in the back of the wagon.
Mama was riding up front with Papa, holding Frank on her lap, and Georgie was asleep in his wash-basket bed. Caroline was walking with her friends.
Ed plopped the frog into the butter churn, and we settled into the back of the wagon for a leisurely ride. We reached over the tailgate, dragging our willows in the dust to make patterned trails behind us.
Several times we peeked into the churn where the frog was still swimming around, but there was no sign of butter. Ed started to work on teaching me some new words, and we forgot about everything else.
At lunchtime Mama asked, “Did the butter come yet?”
“Not yet,” Ed said.
“Well, it will pretty soon,” she encouraged. “Even the bouncing wagon helps it along.”
Then Papa told her the frog story. “Now don’t go giving these children any crazy ideas. It would be just like Ed and Dora to try that out.” She looked at us. “AND DON’T YOU DARE!” she warned.
We were glad she didn’t check out the butter churn before the wagons started up again. We decided that as soon as it was safe, we’d get the frog out of the cream and churn the way we were supposed to. When we lifted the lid, there sat the frog on an island of butter it had made. We laughed and laughed, and Ed put the frog inside his shirt to keep him safe until later. He wasn’t going to turn him loose here where there was no water.
As soon as we stopped, we took off for the stream to release the frog, and no one but us ever did know how the butter was churned that day.