Gospel Story Finder

Salmon, Idaho, may have the friendliest fireplugs of any town in the U.S. As a community service project the Aaronic Priesthood youths and Young Women of the Salmon Idaho Stake volunteered to paint city fireplugs a shiny yellow with red caps. Once they got started the young people decided to add a little zest to the project, and several fireplugs wound up with “Have a Happy Day,” “Smile,” or “Howdy Do” painted on them.
Wayne Van Hoose, president of the Salmon First Ward youth committee, said the young volunteers, ages 12 to 17, divided into groups for the project, with the city furnishing the paint and the young people the brushes and the elbow grease.

Members of the Arusha Branch in Tanzania decided to volunteer at Shanga House, a facility that gives vocational training to people with disabilities and teaches them to provide a living for themselves and their families.
On August 20, 2011, 35 participants—adults, youth, and children; Church members, investigators, and missionaries—worked alongside people with disabilities in making craft items and jewelry that would later be sold. The volunteers also helped with household chores like cleaning and sweeping.
Just before the group departed, Shanga House coordinators asked them to come to a central area so that the people they had served could shake their hands and thank them. “It was quite an emotional experience,” said Sister Sandra Rydalch, who is serving a mission in the area with her husband, Elder Rich Rydalch. Since that time, when people from Shanga House see members of the branch downtown, “they readily recognize us, wave, and stop to visit,” Sister Rydalch said.
Patience Rwiza, who organized the branch’s project under the direction of priesthood leadership, points out that the activity was beneficial not just for those at Shanga House but also for those who offered the service. “People developed a sense of love by helping others, and along the process, people learned things from the community that they didn’t know before,” he said. “My testimony has been strengthened with what I did and saw—from the members’ participation and the community as a whole.”

Brother Dadson began spending more time with his family, including getting them up at 5 A.M. for prayer and scripture study. The effect on the family was impressive.
“People would tell me what a remarkable change for good they had noticed in my children,” he recalls. His brother and sister also noticed and soon joined the Church. Kwamena Dadson is now president of the Cape Coast Branch, and his sister Elizabeth Kwaw is a Relief Society president.

Perhaps a personal experience will help to illustrate the point. When I was a young resident physician at Boston Children’s Hospital, I worked long hours and traveled between the hospital and our home in Watertown, Massachusetts, mostly by bicycle since my wife and young family needed our car. One evening I was riding home after a long period in the hospital, feeling tired and hungry and at least a bit discouraged. I knew I needed to give my wife and four small children not only my time and energy when I got home but also a cheery attitude. I was, frankly, finding it hard to just keep pedaling.
My route would take me past a fried chicken shop, and I felt like I would be a lot less hungry and tired if I could pause for a piece of chicken on my way home. I knew they were running a sale on thighs or drumsticks for 29 cents each, but when I checked my wallet, all I had was one nickel. As I rode along, I told the Lord my situation and asked if, in His mercy, He could let me find a quarter on the side of the road. I told Him that I didn’t need this as a sign but that I would be really grateful if He felt to grant me this kind blessing.
I began watching the ground more intently but saw nothing. Trying to maintain a faith-filled but submissive attitude as I rode, I approached the store. Then, almost exactly across the street from the chicken place, I saw a quarter on the ground. With gratitude and relief, I picked it up, bought the chicken, savored every morsel, and rode happily home.
In His mercy, the God of heaven, the Creator and Ruler of all things everywhere, had heard a prayer about a very minor thing. One might well ask why He would concern Himself with something so small. I am led to believe that our Heavenly Father loves us so much that the things that are important to us become important to Him, just because He loves us. How much more would He want to help us with the big things that we ask which are right? (see 3 Nephi 18:20).

“The greatest hardship I passed through on our journey was the day before we got to Laramie, Wyoming. The cattle were tired and footsore and the traveling was very hard so Father told us that morning we must all walk. No riding that day. I shall never forget that memorable walk, the sand was ankle deep to men and women and much deeper to the cattle and wagons. When we camped that night, we had traveled 16 kilometers I thought it was a thousand and wished many times that day that I was someplace where the people didn’t get tired.”

Competing in fiddling competitions has been good for the girls. (Jesse is only four and does not yet compete.) They have made some good friends at the competitions. When Vanessa and Joanna competed in the same age group, occasionally Joanna would beat out her sister. Linda comments about Vanessa’s reaction, “I think Vanessa would rather that Joanna didn’t beat her, but when it happens she’s good about it. She says, ‘I’d rather have my sister win than someone else.’ “

Often their best friend beats them both. They honestly say, “Who could you want to win it more than your best friend?”

The competition, instead of creating a “killer” instinct in the girls, has taught them to value a person for what he is, not for how he does in a contest. They have learned to take the ups and downs of competing in stride. They know that when they come off the stage, all their friends will be talking and having fun no matter how they did in the competition. They get to know and like people as individuals, not whether they come in first or last.

The train threaded its way through the mountains that walled Feather River Canyon, carrying its load of passengers eastward from San Francisco, California. Although snow lay deep in some of the higher places, a bright March sun had caused streams to cascade over the rocks and soft green to begin to color the oak brush and grass.
Some of those on the train pressed their faces against the windows to see the beauty of the canyon; others slept. A man in one of the cars did neither. His thoughts were of a talk he had been asked to give the following week at Primary General Conference. He wondered what he might say to express his love for children.
This man was Marion G. Romney. He picked up his Bible and turned to the New Testament, to the tenth chapter of Mark [Mark 10], which tells how the Savior took the children in his arms and blessed them. As Elder Romney read, he leaned forward in front of the window of the train, the New Testament in his hands, his elbows on his knees. He read and reread the words until it almost seemed as if he could see the Savior with the children in his arms. The picture was so beautiful that Elder Romney closed the book, leaned back as far as he could, and pressed his body hard against the seat as he shut his eyes in prayerful thought.
Just then a great boulder, crashing down the mountainside burst through the window of the train where he sat. It grazed his face and bruised his right side, but did not seriously hurt him.
A week later as Elder Romney stood in the Salt Lake Tabernacle, he said, “Had I been leaning forward, I am sure I would not be here today.”

On one occasion as I stood to address a conference congregation, I observed in the north balcony a beautiful girl of perhaps 10 years. I felt impressed to speak directly to her. I began:
Sweet little one, I do not know your name or whence you have come. This, however, I do know: the innocence of your smile and the tender expression of your eyes have persuaded me to place aside for a future time the message I had prepared for this occasion. Today I shall speak especially to you.
When I was a boy your age, I too had a teacher in Sunday School. From the Bible she would read to us of Jesus, the Redeemer and the Savior of the world. One day she taught us how the little children were brought to Him, that He should put His hands on them and pray. His disciples rebuked those who brought the children. “But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”1
That lesson has never left me. Indeed, years ago I relearned its meaning and partook of its power. My teacher was the Lord. May I share with you this experience.
Far away from Salt Lake City, and some 130 kilometers from Shreveport, Louisiana, lived the Jack Methvin family. Mother, Dad, and the children are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. There was a lovely daughter who, by her presence, graced that home. Her name was Christal. She was but 10 years old when death ended her earthly sojourn.
Christal liked to run and play on the spacious ranch where her family lived. She could ride horses skillfully and excelled in 4-H work, winning awards in the local and state fairs. Her future was bright, and life was wonderful. Then there was discovered on her leg an unusual lump. The specialists in New Orleans completed their diagnosis and rendered their verdict: carcinoma. The leg must be removed.
Christal recovered well from the surgery, lived as buoyantly as ever, and never complained. Then the doctors discovered that the cancer had spread to her tiny lungs.
Christal’s condition deteriorated. The end drew nigh. But her faith did not waver. She knew that stake conference was approaching. To her parents she said, “Do you think whoever is assigned to our stake conference could give me a blessing?”
Meanwhile in Salt Lake City, with no knowledge of the events transpiring in Shreveport, an unusual situation developed. For the weekend of the Shreveport Louisiana Stake conference, I had been assigned to El Paso, Texas. President Ezra Taft Benson, who was then President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, called me to his office and explained that one of the other Brethren had done some preparatory work regarding the stake division in El Paso. He asked if I would mind were another to be assigned to El Paso and I assigned elsewhere. Of course there was no problem; anywhere would be fine with me. Then President Benson said, “Brother Monson, I feel impressed to have you visit the Shreveport Louisiana Stake.”
The assignment was accepted. The day came. I arrived in Shreveport.
That Saturday afternoon was filled with meetings: one with the stake presidency, one with priesthood leaders, one with the patriarch, then yet another with the general leadership of the stake. Rather apologetically, stake president Charles F. Cagle asked if my schedule would permit me time to provide a blessing to a 10-year-old girl afflicted with cancer. Her name: Christal Methvin. I responded that, if possible, I would do so, and then inquired if she would be at the conference, or was she in a Shreveport hospital. Knowing the time was tightly scheduled, President Cagle almost whispered that Christal was confined to her home many kilometers from Shreveport.
I examined the schedule of meetings for that evening and the next morning, even my return flight. There simply was no available time. An alternative suggestion came to mind. Could we not remember the little one in our prayers at conference? Surely the Lord would understand. On this basis we proceeded with the scheduled meetings.
When the word was communicated to the Methvin family, there was understanding but disappointment as well. They prayed fervently, asking for a final favor—that their precious Christal would realize her desire.
At the very moment the Methvin family knelt in prayer, the clock in the stake center showed the time to be 7:45 P.M. The Saturday leadership meeting had been inspirational. I was sorting my notes, preparing to step to the pulpit, when I heard a voice speak to my spirit. The message was brief, the words familiar: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” My notes became a blur. My thoughts turned to a tiny girl who desired a blessing. The decision was made, the meeting schedule altered. After all, people are more important than meetings. I turned to Bishop James Serra and asked that he leave the meeting and advise the Methvins.
The Methvin family had just arisen from their knees when the telephone rang and the message was relayed. They were informed that early on Sunday morning—the Lord’s day—in a spirit of fasting and prayer, we would journey to Christal’s bedside.
I shall ever remember and never forget that early-morning journey to a heaven the Methvin family called home. I have been in hallowed places—even holy houses—but never have I felt more strongly the presence of the Lord than in the Methvin home. Christal looked so tiny, lying peacefully on such a large bed. The room was bright and cheerful. The sunshine from the east window filled the bedroom with light as the Lord filled our hearts with love.
The family surrounded Christal’s bedside. I gazed down at a child who was too ill to rise—almost too weak to speak. Her illness had now rendered her sightless. So strong was the Spirit that I fell to my knees, took her frail hand in mine, and said simply, “Christal, I am here.” She parted her lips and whispered, “Brother Monson, I just knew you would come.” I looked around the room. No one was standing. Each was on bended knee. A blessing was given. A faint smile crossed Christal’s face. Her whispered “thank you” provided an appropriate benediction. Quietly, each filed from the room.
Four days later, on Thursday, as Church members in Shreveport joined their faith with the Methvin family and Christal’s name was remembered in a special prayer to a kind and loving Heavenly Father, the pure spirit of Christal Methvin left its disease-ravaged body and entered the paradise of God.
For those of us who knelt that Sabbath day in a sun-filled bedroom, and particularly for Christal’s mother and father as they entered daily that same room and remembered how she left it, the immortal words of Eugene Field bring back precious memories:
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle-bed
He dreamt of the pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.2
For us there is no need to wonder or to wait. Said the Master, “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”3 To you, Jack and Nancy Methvin, He speaks: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”4 And from your sweet Christal could well come the comforting expression: “I go to prepare a place for you … that where I am, there ye may be also.”5
To my little friend in the upper balcony, and to believers everywhere, I bear witness that Jesus of Nazareth does love little children, that He listens to your prayers and responds to them. The Master did indeed utter those words: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” I know these are the words He spoke to the throng gathered on the coast of Judea by the waters of Jordan—for I have read them.
I know these are the words He spoke to an Apostle on assignment in Shreveport, Louisiana—for I heard them.
To these truths I bear record.
“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:14) was the instruction of the Lord to His Apostles regarding little children.
Our Father in Heaven and our Savior love little children, hear their prayers, and respond to those prayers.
We are to nurture and sustain little children and learn from their faith and trust.

Teddy tried blowing on his shiny new whistle all the way home and all the way up the three flights of stairs to their apartment. But the only sound he heard was the barking of Winkles, Mr. Collier’s huge German shepherd.
“Hello,” Teddy’s mother greeted him at the door. “Winkles is certainly upset about something. Did you see a stranger in the hall?”
Teddy shrugged. “No, Mom. I didn’t see anyone.” Then he added in disgust, “Boy, is this ever a dumb whistle.”
“What’s wrong with it?” his mother asked.
“I spent all of my money at the school fair for this whistle, and all I got was a dud. It won’t even blow.”
Teddy went to his room and tossed his schoolbooks onto the bed. Holding the whistle up to the light, he tried to see if something was blocking the holes where the sound should come out. “It looks OK and just like an ordinary whistle, only it doesn’t work,” he said, shaking his head in puzzlement.
Teddy ran his fingers through his hair then tried the whistle again. Nothing! He stuffed the whistle into his pocket and went into the living room.
“Hear that barking?” Mom asked, shaking her head. “I wonder what’s gotten into Winkles?”
Teddy’s eyes brightened a little. Maybe he could play detective and find out why Winkles was barking! That sounded like a lot more fun than trying to blow on a whistle that wouldn’t work. “OK if I go over and see what’s going on?” he asked his mother.
“It’s fine with me. Just don’t stay too long.”
Teddy dashed out the door. He liked to visit Mr. Collier and Winkles anyway. Mr. Collier was a retired fireman who often wore faded blue overalls. Teddy wanted a pair just like them.
As soon as Teddy neared the door, Winkles gave a familiar woof. He’s the best watchdog in the whole building, Teddy thought.
“Who’s there?” came a deep voice from the other side of apartment 3C.
“Me, Teddy. I mean, Theodore,” Teddy said wrinkling his nose. Only Mr. Collier called him by his full name.
The door swung open and the huge dog bounded out, still barking and with his tail wagging wildly. Teddy knew that he had to let Winkles calm down before stepping into Mr. Collier’s apartment. Suddenly, the dog stopped and trotted back into the apartment. “He thinks it’s OK for me to come in now,” said Teddy.
Mr. Collier nodded his head in agreement and smiled. “Hello, Theodore. Nice to see you again.”
“Hi. Mom and I heard Winkles barking. I came to find out what’s wrong.”
Mr. Collier scratched his pointy chin. “Mmm, I can’t figure it out, Theodore. He starts barking all of a sudden and then quits.”
Teddy glanced at the huge dog that was now stretched out on the floor, panting and looking content.
“Doesn’t seem to be bothered by anything now,” Mr. Collier said. “But you don’t look happy, Theodore. Didn’t you have a good time at your school fair today?”
“The fair was fun, but I sure got cheated! I spent my money on a whistle that doesn’t even work!” Teddy told him.
“Doesn’t work?”
“That’s right. I blow it and nothing comes out but air.”
“Maybe I could fix that whistle for you. Why don’t you go back home and get it,” Mr. Collier suggested.
Teddy beamed. Mr. Collier could fix anything. “I’ve got it right here,” Teddy said as he pulled the shiny whistle from his pocket.
The old gentleman examined the whistle carefully and then asked, “Theodore, have you tried that whistle since you’ve been home?”
“A lot of times, and it just doesn’t work. Listen.” And Teddy blew it again as hard as he could.
Winkles suddenly pricked up his ears. His bright golden eyes were alert. Suddenly, he leaped up and began barking again. Teddy quickly took the whistle from his lips and gulped.
“All right, Winkles. Quiet, boy,” said Mr. Collier.
The barks became woofs and finally Winkles flopped to the floor again. Mr. Collier turned to Teddy. “Remember once when I told you that a dog’s hearing is more sensitive than a human’s?” he asked. “That’s why Winkles is such a terrific watchdog. He hears people and noises before we ever hear them. And it’s the same with your whistle. Winkles can hear it even if we don’t.”
“But it doesn’t work at all!” exclaimed Teddy.
“It works fine, Theodore. Only the pitch, the sound it makes, is higher than a human ear can pick up,” Mr. Collier explained.
“You mean Winkles has been barking because he hears the whistle?” Teddy asked, plopping down next to Winkles and stroking the dog’s head.
“That’s exactly right,” said Mr. Collier, chuckling.

Sister Johnson wasn’t the only one who used birds as a teaching tool. My mother was an outstanding woman, diligent in many ways. In particular, I remember her helping me earn my bird-watching merit badge.
I come from a family of eleven children. My mother must have gone to bed very tired each night. Nevertheless, she still got up early, woke me up, and drove me out into the countryside and pointed out the different birds to me. I will never forget that lesson of love.

We were nearly halfway through the journey from Utah to our homestead in New Mexico. For several days we had found no water, and our barrels were low. The men were becoming anxious. We knew from the map that we were coming into Indian territory.
When we reached the edge of the reservation the wagons stopped for our leaders to consult. Because of his experience with Indians, Papa was chosen to go ahead and see what arrangements he could make. As we slowly drove on, we had a feeling that we were being watched.
“I hope the village ahead has plenty of water,” Papa said.
“I hope they are friendly,” Mama replied.
“I’m prepared to take care of that even if they’re not,” Papa assured her.
“How?” Mama asked.
“I have a trick up my sleeve,” he answered, but he would tell her no more.
In a few moments we saw a cluster of huts up ahead. And about the same time two little girls with black braids ran from the shadows toward the village.
“Messengers,” Papa observed.
“What do we do now?” Ed asked.
“Wait,” Papa said and pulled the horses to a stop. He jumped down, climbed in the back of the wagon, and came out carrying his unfinished basket and a hank of straw.
“You children stay in the wagon,” he instructed firmly. And we settled in a spot where we could watch what was going on.
Papa sat down on the ground and began weaving. It seemed to me like a silly time and place to finish his basket, but I had learned that patience answers many questions, so I watched and waited.
Before long five or six braves came riding up on their ponies and formed a circle around Papa.
“You cannot cross Indian land,” one insisted.
Papa said nothing but kept on with his work.
“Go back,” another brave said, pointing in the direction we’d come from. “Do not cross Indian land.”
Papa nodded to acknowledge he had heard but he stayed where he was. Nothing moved but his hands. I had watched him make many baskets, and I knew that his fingers could fly as fast as frightened quail. Now he was weaving slowly, exaggerating the in and out movements as he laced the wide strips between the twisted upright ribs.
The belligerent expression on the Indians’ faces changed to curiosity. One by one they slid off their ponies and came closer. After they had watched awhile, Papa handed the basket to one of the braves, who copied the motions he had been watching. The Indian smiled at his handiwork. Then the basket was passed around the circle, with each brave taking a turn at the weaving and all of them becoming excited and pleased.
Papa began a new basket and handed some straw to one of the Indians to start one too. Before long each brave was sitting cross-legged on the ground, busy on a basket. Papa had motioned to Ed and me to climb down from the wagon, and we slipped out quietly and stood by his side. Other Indians came one by one and soon quite a crowd was watching the activity.
I turned to look toward the village and saw a large squaw coming toward me with a loop stretched open between her hands. Smiling, she came closer and closer, holding the noose high as if to place it over my head and around my neck. To choke me, I thought, and began to shake with fear. Please, Heavenly Father, save me, I silently prayed. My hands tightened on Papa’s arm, and he sensed my fright.
“It’s all right, Dora,” he assured me. “She won’t hurt you.”
By now the squaw was close enough so that I could see she was holding a beautiful necklace of dried berries and seeds. She placed it over my head saying, “Pretty, pretty.” I guess she had never seen yellow hair before.
All of a sudden I felt that she was a special person, and I wanted to do something for her. I climbed into the wagon and found the mirror I had brought rolled up in my sweater so it wouldn’t break. It was a round one with a handle. I handed it to the squaw and when she looked at it and saw her face reflected back, she was delighted. She showed it around with great pride, pointing to her image and laughing.
While the braves worked and the others watched, Papa spoke to them in gentle tones. “We want to be friends and will do you no harm. We are moving to New Mexico and would like to cross your land. We have our food and supplies with us. We need to stop tonight to rest our horses and fill our water barrels. We will leave tomorrow. Other wagons are behind waiting to hear your answer.”
At this point, five more braves and the chief rode up at a gallop. They began to talk rapidly in their own language with the weavers, who jumped up, showing off their baskets. After some discussion the chief turned to Papa and asked, “What are you teaching?”
“Basketmaking,” Papa said. “How to make baskets.”
“Basket,” one brave repeated, pointing to what he had done.
“You are good,” the chief said. “You can camp here tonight. There is plenty of water.” Then he motioned for Papa to mount one of the ponies, and they rode back together to get the rest of the camp to join us.
Soon after we left the Indian reservation, Sister Owens in the next wagon became ill, and we camped for several days.
Some of the braves rode over from the reservation to get help with their baskets. Papa didn’t have much straw left to give them, but they had already decided that bear grass would do just as well. Papa showed them how to do a braided edge around the top of their baskets. He took out a pocketknife to trim the ends, and a little Indian boy who had come with his father looked so pleased with the knife that Papa let him keep it. Later that day the boy’s father returned with a strange-looking three-pronged stick that he gave to Papa, explaining how he could use it to find water for digging a well.
“I can probably use this later,” Papa said as he fastened it securely to the wagon.
After we left this place the weather became hotter and the land drier. We had one more stop for supplies before we came to a stretch of desert, and Papa was able to replenish our ice supply. We had left Salt Lake City with a hundred-pound block of ice in a tub to keep our meat cool. Since it was wrapped in newspapers and burlap bags, it melted slowly and lasted quite a while. Ice was harvested from frozen streams and lakes just before the spring thaw and packed in sawdust in dirt-covered sheds. Most towns had a supply that lasted until the next winter, so we were able to buy it as we needed it along the way. That day we were very glad we had some.
The desert sun was hot. Heat waves curled up in ghostly spirals. We choked on the dust stirred up by the wagons and animals. Papa chipped off pieces of ice for us to suck on. They tasted so good that soon all the other children were coming to our wagon for ice chips.
“You’ll give it all away and then we won’t have any,” Caroline complained to Papa.
“Now, now,” he replied. “They don’t have any, and we can share.”
Our trip was nearly over when the wagons drew up in a long line by the homestead office in Harmony, New Mexico. After the families finished their business inside, they drove away to locate their new home. As our friends left one by one, they called to the rest of us, “See you in church.” We had passed the meetinghouse so we all knew where to go on Sunday.
Our wagon was the last to leave. Mr. Talbot, the officer in charge, went with us to show us our land and then take us to our temporary living quarters. The family in our house had not moved out yet, but an arrangement had been made for us to live in a dugout on a neighbor’s property. With great eagerness we set out on the last dozen miles of our trip to find our new place.
When we first saw the piece of land, I must say it didn’t look like the Garden of Eden I was expecting. Mr. Talbot pointed to a stick with a red rag tied to it. “Your property begins right there at that stake,” he told us, “and extends half a mile east, north, west, then south to make a square.”
“Half a mile, hon,” Papa said to Mama. “That’s four Salt Lake City blocks. Sixteen square blocks in all!”
Papa slowed the horses to a walk as he looked over the piece of land. “Seems pretty level,” he said. “Won’t take any clearing either. Not much here but weeds and cactus.”
“It’s a good piece,” Mr. Talbot said. “Needs a little work is all.”
Papa stopped the wagon and jumped down. He kicked the dirt with his boot, picked up a handful and let it trickle through his fingers. “Good sandy loam for growing things,” he said.
“Here’s the gate and back there’s the house,” Mr. Talbot explained. “It’s not very big. You’ll have to add on. The Evans should be out in a month or so.”
We could see the lone building surrounded by a tangle of weeds. It was just the right size for a playhouse.
“Papa’ll build a new one and let us have that one to play in,” Caroline said to Ed and me.
“Goody!” I squealed and jumped up and down at the thought.
Papa climbed into the wagon and we started off to find the dugout we were going to live in. When we saw it, it looked like a playhouse too. A steep roof sloped down to the ground on two sides. At one end was a door and dirt steps that led down to a room that had been dug out of the ground. A window in the opposite end gave the only light.
“Who are our neighbors?” Papa asked.
“Neighbors?” Mr. Talbot seemed puzzled.
“Up there where the smoke’s coming out of the chimneys,” Papa explained.
I looked in the direction he pointed and saw some more slanty roofs with gray wisps puffing up into the sky.
“Oh,” he laughed. “That’s just some of the old Indians who stayed here when the others moved onto the reservation.”
“How come?” Papa asked.
“They’re pretty old and didn’t want to go, so the new owners let them stay. They won’t bother you any—can hardly move around even.”
“How many are there?”
“Just five. All squaws. Each one has a brave assigned to her, who comes down once a week with supplies.”
“Do they live together?”
“No, each one has a separate house. Just leave them alone. They’re perfectly harmless.”
Ed was looking at me in a way that meant here was a new adventure that needed to be explored, and I was looking back at him as though to say I’d have to think about it first.
We soon unpacked our wagon and Papa hooked up the smokestack of the stove to the chimney, ready for Mama to start cooking. It was hard to believe we were here at last.
Before dinner we knelt down to thank the Lord for our safe arrival at our new home.

At the funeral service for the mother of Elder Marion G. Romney, held in Provo, Utah, her son-in-law, Brother John K. Edmunds, gave the following account: “In their early married life, Brother and Sister Romney lived in Mexico. Brother Romney [like the father of President Benson] was called on a mission. There was no feasible means of support, yet he went and his wife sustained him. One day she grieved because she wanted to write her husband a letter but did not have sufficient money to buy a postage stamp. She prayed and then took a walk through the orchard that autumn day, kicking the leaves as she walked along and thinking of her husband. She noticed a shiny object on the ground and discovered it to be a coin—just the right amount for several postage stamps.”
Her letter had been written. Now, through the intervention of God, it could be mailed.

Illustrated by Mike Eagle
When Heber J. Grant was a new Apostle, he traveled with a group of brethren to Arizona to visit the Native Americans there.
Heber: Look, the path splits in two. Is the other one safe?
Companion: A rider can travel it, but it’s too muddy for wagons.
Heber: Why don’t the rest of you drive on while I take this path? I’ll meet up with you soon.
Heber wanted to be alone. He felt discouraged and unworthy.
Heber: I shouldn’t testify of the Savior. I’m not fit to be an Apostle.
As he pondered, a vision of heaven appeared in his mind. The Savior, the Prophet Joseph Smith, his own father, and other men he knew were deciding who the new Apostles should be. Heber was one of those decided on.
After that, he could bear testimony with confidence.
Heber: I know that Jesus lives.
President Grant spoke of this experience years later.
Heber: I have never doubted my testimony since. I have had only joy in bearing it. I know that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that Joseph Smith is a prophet of the living God.

The Young Women in the Roy First Ward, Roy Utah West Stake, wanted to do a special service project for their ward. They had an opportunity to clean an apartment complex for a local builder and spent four full Saturdays working on the project. They also made and sold homemade lollipops to earn money.

On completion of their projects, they presented a check to the bishop to be used for the ward budget. It was a surprise to both the bishop and the ward members because the girls had kept their plans a secret.

The sisters’ strong faith induced in them a willingness to sacrifice for worthy goals. After two of her children had been born, Barbara Ann Phelps Allen’s husband was called on a preaching mission to the Southern States. He left in June, and Barbara Ann milked from eight to ten cows while he was gone. Nine years later, by which time she had six children, he was called on another mission to the Eastern States, and she performed the same task. To cap it off, after their children were reared, she and her husband filled a mission together.21

Darkness had already fallen for several hours when I pulled into the town where missionary Sisters Hucks and Matson were serving. It was late in the day, but I thought I should stop to say hello since I had to leave early the next morning. The lights in their apartment were on so I guessed correctly that they were there. I was greeted with enthusiasm, and they started our conversation with, “Guess what happened with us tonight, president.”
“Tell me, what happened?”
“Well, the ward mission leader has been behaving mysteriously all week. He never asked us—he told us to be at a meeting at the church tonight. We were almost angry at him, and we wondered what was happening. When we got to the church there were a few cars parked outside but no one was in sight.
“We went into the church and could see lights on and hear voices in one of the rooms down the hall. We walked down there and knocked on the door.
“Everything went quiet, and then the door opened wide.
“To our surprise the room was filled with people, and on the front row looking right at us with radiant smiles was the family we had been teaching. They were all dressed in white baptismal clothes.” Unable to speak further, the sisters smiled at me through their tears.

After graduating from law school, I was fortunate to get a position as a clerk at the Utah Supreme Court. I learned how the court works and I came to know the judges personally. I clearly remember listening to the persuasive arguments of lawyers for opposing parties and being influenced first by one side and then by the other. Some years later, after leaving the court, I happened to meet the chief justice, whom I knew well. Our conversation turned to the administrative challenges of running a court. My friend, the chief justice, was weary. In a few months he would be old enough to retire and leave all the court contention and controversy to others. He indicated that he had given serious thought to doing just that.
“What would you think if I retired?” he asked.
Although I could understand why he might want to escape from the heavy responsibilities of the court, I said, “Oh, Judge, please don’t do that. You will never know how comforting it is to have someone on the court who always tries to do what’s right.”
To my surprise, he became angry. He raised his voice and said, “Burt. Any fool can do what’s right. It’s knowing what’s right that’s hard.”
My friend had just shared his greatest concern as a judge. He was saying that while not everyone applied the law to his own conduct, it was not hard to do so, once the law had been determined. What was much more difficult was to determine what the law should be, and to decide between competing, attractive, and well-reasoned alternatives presented by intelligent lawyers. The more difficult thing for him was to determine which of two sides represented was correct.

One of the choicest experiences this man related to me was about a horse. Because he was a commanding officer in the Canadian Cavalry, a horse was very important to him:
“I looked around for the best horse in the area to buy. I loved horses—I always had. I finally found just the right one. I paid seventy-five dollars for this horse, which was a lot of money in those days. I quickly picked an excellent horseman who was an expert in horse training. He worked and worked with Steamboat, as I called him, and before long, he was not only the best-looking horse in the Canadian Cavalry, but also the best trained. I could tell him to lie down, to roll over, or to come to me, and this horse immediately obeyed. I was so very pleased.
“We were in Cardston at the time and I had enjoyed riding Steamboat for a couple of years when one day a Colonel Walker from Winnipeg visited our headquarters there. His main mission was to buy a fine horse for the general. He didn’t tell me this at first, but just said:
“‘I hear you have a fine horse.’
“‘He’s a dandy!’ I answered.
“Then he asked to take a ride on Steamboat and I said, ‘All right.’
“When he returned from a short ride, he dismounted and asked, ‘How much would you take for this horse?’
“I was sure he was joking with me, so I quickly replied, in jest, ‘Oh, five hundred dollars.’ This was an outrageous sum.
“‘Sold,’ he said.
“I was stunned! ‘But I was just joking, this horse is my pride and joy,’ I stammered.
“Colonel Walker stood straight and tall and said, ‘You told me the price, I will pay it, so we have just made a deal.’
“I was brokenhearted for a long time at the loss of my joy, Steamboat, my friend.
“About a year later,” he concluded, “while I was in England visiting our headquarters there, I was invited to inspect their horse stables. As I was walking down a row of stalls, I saw my great friend in one of them. ‘Steamer,’ I shouted.
“The horse jumped like he’d been shot. I climbed into the stall, threw my arms around that horse and cried and cried. An old friend is hard to forget.”

Jed, who is 13, hasn’t started seminary yet, but the example of his older brothers and sister has inspired him to read the Book of Mormon each morning before school with his mother. They read one chapter a day, and they have already read through the book three times. Because of this experience, Jed is sure he’ll have no trouble getting up for seminary when the time comes. As the youngest of this clan he has probably benefited the most from the 3F formula because it was well established by the time he came along. “I think all of these big brothers are great—I get to wear all of their old clothes!” he laughs. You don’t have to ask Jed twice if he thinks the 3F formula works. He has learned its power through example, and it’s not a lesson he’s likely to forget.

Frequently the profound influence one life has on the lives of others is never spoken and occasionally little known. Such was the experience of a teacher of girls, even 12-year-olds in the Beehive class of Mutual. She had no children of her own, though she and her husband dearly longed for children. Her love was expressed through the devotion to her special girls as she taught them eternal truths and lessons of life. Then came illness, followed by death. She was but 27.
Each year on Memorial Day, her girls made a pilgrimage of prayer to the graveside of their teacher. First there were seven, then four, then two, and eventually just one, who continued the annual visit, always placing on the grave a bouquet of irises—a symbol of heartfelt gratitude. That last girl later became a teacher of girls. Little wonder she is so successful. She mirrors the reflection of the teacher from whom came her inspiration. The life that teacher lived, the lessons that teacher taught, are not buried beneath the headstone which marks her grave but live on in the personalities she helped to shape and the lives she so selflessly enriched. One is reminded of another master teacher, even the Lord. Once, with His finger, He wrote in the sand a message. The winds of time erased forever the words He wrote but not the life He lived.