Gospel Story Finder

Dark clouds covered the Iowa sky. Loud claps of thunder echoed over the Des Moines River valley. Lightning flashed. Rain began to fall in torrents, slashing against the Shelley cottage.
That evening the five Shelley children clung to their mother as the storm continued. The wind bent the trees, pulled fence posts out of the ground, and tore gates from their hinges. From their cottage window, the family saw the waters of Honey Creek overflow and flood the barnyard.
“Mamma, I’m going to set the animals free,” said Kate. “They’ll drown if I don’t.” Throwing a shawl over her head, she waded through the farmyard to the barn and freed the horses, cows, and pigs. When Kate returned to the cottage, she was drenched.
Despite the raging storm, one by one the children fell asleep. Only Kate and her mother remained awake. Kate’s father had been a section foreman on the railroad before he died three years ago and so Kate knew the schedules, the locomotives, and the crewmen of the railway using the tracks that passed only a few feet from their house.
As the night wore on, the wind and rain continued to thrash against the cottage. Kate thought of the overflowing Honey Creek nearby and of the swollen Des Moines River that ran only a short distance from their cottage.
“Mamma, do you think the water will take down the bridge over Honey Creek?” Kate asked.
“I’m afraid it will, Kate,” her mother replied, her face etched with worry.
“Then it will wash away the railroad trestle too,” Kate said. She thought of the weak old wooden trestle over the Des Moines River as she strained to hear the sound of a locomotive slowly battling its way against the storm.
“Mamma, listen! It’s the pusher,” Kate whispered. “They’re checking to see if the tracks are safe.”
As Kate and her mother listened, they heard the bridge collapse, dropping the locomotive and the crew into the swiftly flowing swollen waters.
“The crew will drown,” Kate cried. Her face showed the horror of what could happen if the Midnight Express with all its passengers were to come later. “I’ve got to warn the Express,” she said.
Pulling on a coat and hat and grabbing an old lantern, Kate ran out into the storm. The water was deep and every step was a struggle.
When Kate reached Honey Creek, she saw two of the crewmen of the locomotive hanging onto a fallen tree while the river swirled around them. “Hold on,” she called. “I’m going for help.” But her words were lost in the sound of rushing waters.
Kate made her way along the tracks until she reached the trestle. The lightning flashes outlined the catwalk beside the tracks, revealing that the planks had been torn away and the bridge was left swaying in the raging wind.
Kate began to cross the catwalk. The wind blew out her lantern, leaving her in total darkness. She thought of the crewmen clinging to the tree in Honey Creek and the people on the Midnight Express. Falling to her knees, she began to creep from tie to tie across the 500-foot bridge. As the bridge swayed beneath her, she prayed for strength and guidance.
Lightning flashed, and a tremendous tree was uprooted by the wind and water, and came hurling through the air, headed for the exact section of bridge where Kate knelt. She waited for the crash to sweep her into the river. But it did not come. The tree swerved in the air and hit two piers.
Kate continued crawling from tie to tie until she reached the other side of the bridge. She ran the rest of the way to the railway station. Her clothing was torn and dripping with water. Gasping for breath, the words choking in her throat, she called out, “Stop the Express. The bridge is down!” Then she fell to the floor.
The agent grabbed a lantern and ran. He reached the tracks just in time to flag down the Midnight Express. A rescue train was quickly sent to help the men who still hung onto the fallen tree in Honey Creek.
The strain and terror of the night caused Kate to become ill. When she recovered, she found that stories and poems had been written about her. And when the new iron railroad bridge was built over the Des Moines River, it was named in honor of her.
When Kate Shelley grew up, she became the station agent at Moingona—the same station she rushed into that night in July 1881 to stop the Midnight Express.

We had some additional motivation not to cancel FSY. The year before at almost the same time, the conference had been planned for this same group, everything organized and ready to go. On the morning FSY was to begin it had to be cancelled because the Omicron variant of COVID-19 that originated in South Africa was spreading quickly. The youth had been unable to participate in any activities the years before due to the coronavirus, and now at the last minute in 2021 the light at the end of the tunnel had been ripped away from them. Would we have to repeat this again in 2022? We hoped not.

We inspected the bridge to see if it would be possible for the youth to cross it by foot. We observed that most of the bridge was out of the river, but if we were to use it, the youth would still have to cross a portion of the river in at least knee-deep water that was running swiftly for the last 30 meters. We asked the Konka staff to begin setting up ropes across the bridge, emphasizing that we would not take any risks with the youth, many of whom do not swim at all. If it was clear we could cross the river safely, we would go forward with this plan.
A few hours before the youth began to arrive, we held a meeting and a quick spiritual thought with the young single adults. As a Church, our pioneers have crossed rivers in times of extreme difficulty before. “Let me tell you about the Sweetwater River in Wyoming and the story of the Martin and Willie handcart companies,” I said.
I recounted the events of Nov. 4, 1856, when the members of the Martin handcart company could go no further and wept at the thought of crossing that river in the frigid cold to find shelter from the storm at Martin’s Cove.
I told them of three members of the rescue party from Salt Lake City, all young adults, who stepped forward and volunteered to carry the entire company across the frigid river at great personal cost. I then asked, “who is willing to carry on this tradition and carry our 530 youth across the river this morning so a different kind of rescue can continue today, right here?”
The young single adults leapt to their feet volunteering in excitement to be a rescuer for the 2022 FSY and carry our youth across the river. They ran to their dorm rooms and changed into suitable clothing, knowing they were about to get very wet and dirty in the river and mud.
At 10:45 am we walked down to the water. The youth had already begun to arrive. The Konka staff had fixed the ropes to hold while crossing the water and were ready for the assistance of the young single adults. Several leaders grabbed onto the ropes and walked across the river and foot bridge to greet the youth and their parents and leaders as they arrived, to give them confidence and assurance that everything was safe, and we were moving forward.
There was shock on the faces of the youth and leaders as we explained the situation and instructed the youth to remove their shoes and socks and pull up their pant legs as far as they could. An umbrella to protect them from the rain was all most had planned on. Now they were about to cross a river on foot. As they walked down to the footbridge, several slipped, a few even falling in the deep and slippery mud. “Hang on to the rope!” was the yell that echoed for the next three hours as group after group arrived.
The young adult leaders took every suitcase and all the bedding and carried it across the footbridge. Over 500 youth made it across the river, either on the backs of the young single adults or picking their own cautious paths across the river whilst holding onto the safety ropes. A few hours later, the rain began to lessen. We had made it, and the FSY experience could go forward.
Uniformly, the youth expressed thanks that FSY had not been cancelled and we had found a way forward. Several analogies to our river crossing followed during the week, all relating back to the theme trust in the Lord. The young single adults acting as counselors not only carried and guided the youth across a literal river, but then spent the week teaching and strengthening the youth in a way that has had a deep and meaningful impact—teaching them and sharing tools for navigating an increasingly difficult world. Lives have been forever changed.

I saw his wagon coming across the flats, wheels churning up the dust, wagon top flapping in the wind. I slid off Red’s back and broke into a run for the cabin.
“Look, Ma!” I hollered. “The Bible man is coming!”
Ma came to the door. Shading her eyes against the sun with a flour-covered hand, she watched the dust cloud slowly moving our way. “If he stops here, help unhitch and feed his horses,” she said. “I’ll get the biscuits into the oven.”
I tied Red to the corral poles and sat on the fence to wait. I knew he’d stop. Anybody who knew about Ma’s biscuits wouldn’t pass on by. And the Bible peddler knew about them, sure enough. He’d stuffed down plenty of them every time he’d stopped by our cabin.
The peddler would likely be hauling the same wooden box filled with hymnbooks and Bibles. And he’d talk about how he was saving “lost sheep” by selling his books to folks.
He usually teased me about my red hair matching perfectly with my horse, Red. I didn’t much look forward to his teasing.
When the peddler drove into the yard, I hopped off the fence to help him unhitch.
“See you still got that red colt,” he said, first thing.
I nodded. “I ride him now.”
“Want to sell him?” he asked, all the while rubbing his thick mustache.
My head jerked up. “I won’t sell him for any price! He’s the best thing I ever had!”
He chuckled and slapped the flank of the nearest unhitched horse. I led his team to the corral and tossed them some loose hay. I gave Red some too. Then I sprinted for the cabin. Even though I dreaded the peddler’s teasing, I didn’t want to miss out on anything.
He was eating Ma’s biscuits like he’d never get another chance. Ma had set out fresh buttermilk for him too. I slid onto a stool, hoping she’d set some out for me. But she paid me no mind at all, and I saw why. She was holding one of his books and sliding her fingers over its pages edged with gold. “How much?” she asked.
I missed what he told her, his mouth being so full of biscuit. But Ma heard. She just sort of smiled, put the book down ever so gently on the table, and shook her head.
The Bible man glanced at me. “I’d take that red colt out yonder for it,” he told Ma. “This here is the finest Bible made. I’d throw in the latest hymnbook to boot.” He might have winked at Ma, but I didn’t see it.
I came off the stool, my eyes wide. “You can’t do that, Ma! Red’s my own!” I gave the peddler a dirty look. “Red’s worth more’n any old book; you know he is.”
The peddler gulped down the last of the buttermilk and rose from the table. “I’ll come by next year,” he said. He looked at me. “Maybe by then Ben can figure out a way for you to have that Bible, him being the man here now.”
I looked at Ma. What looked to be a tear slid down her cheek. I’d not seen Ma shed tears since Pa died, and it choked me. I knew she really wanted that Bible, and I wished that I could figure out a way. But I sure couldn’t part with Red to get it for her.
I was still choked some when I went to lead the peddler’s team outside and hitched them up again to the wagon. I held the team while the Bible man put an armload of books back into the wooden box at the end of the wagon bed and climbed up onto the wagon seat. I wasn’t sorry to see him go.
I watched him going toward the knoll that marked one edge of our homestead, his wagon wheels making dust again. He hadn’t teased me at all about my red hair, and I puzzled over it.
Right in the middle of my puzzling, Ma came running out of the cabin, hollering, “He forgot the Bible!” Her face was full of worry. “He’ll think I kept it on purpose!”
My mouth dropped open. Nobody could think that about Ma. “I’ll catch up to him,” I promised her.
I ran to untie Red, and sidled him over to the fence so that I could climb onto his back. Then I took off after the Bible man. Halfway to the knoll I slowed, thinking. What if I don’t catch up? Will he remember leaving the Bible behind? Ma would have plenty of pleasure from that book by the time he comes again.
I let Red plod slowly along in the dusty road, and the peddler’s wagon went out of sight behind the knoll. I reined Red in and sat awhile. Then I started feeling uncomfortable.
I had never done anything deceitful like I was doing now. It bothered me some that I had told Ma that I’d catch up to the peddler, and I wasn’t even trying. I kicked Red and sent him toward the knoll at a good lope.
At the top of the knoll I stopped and stared. The wagon was bouncing and rattling off through the sagebrush, the team looked to be on a dead run, and the peddler was pulling hard on the reins.
Runaway!
The clatter of the bouncing wagon was something fierce. It swerved through a boulder patch, hit a big rock, and bounced high in the air. The wooden box came flying out, sending books sailing. I closed my eyes for an instant and prayed that the Bible man wouldn’t go sailing off too. When I looked again, I saw that the wagon had slowed some and the peddler had the team circling.
I rode Red down through the brush to help look for the scattered books. Nobody will miss a gold-leaf Bible in all this mess, I decided. And with such excitement, even Ma wouldn’t hold me to remembering why I’d set out after the Bible man.
I slid off Red’s back, righted the wooden box, and gathered the books and loose pages the best that I could. It was a while before the peddler had the horses calmed enough to drive them to where I was. Then he just looked at the jumbled books and rubbed his mustache.
After a while he said, “An old sage hen and her young’uns flew up right under the horses’ noses. Scared them clean out of their wits for a spell.”
He picked up one of the books. “Not worth much now,” he said.
“There’s one book not hurt at all,” I heard myself say. “You left the gold-edged Bible back at the cabin. Ma sent me to tell you.”
I could have kicked myself for saying it. I looked away, chewing my lip, knowing that Ma’s only chance to read that Bible was gone.
“A good, biscuit-bakin’ woman like your Ma should have a Bible,” he said. “Now, I could be takin’ Red there as payment for it.”
My chin dropped, and my heart plumb sank inside me. I figured I’d best get Red out of the Bible man’s sight. When the peddler stooped to load the wooden box, I started scrambling onto Red’s back.
Then I heard him laugh.
“I meant her to have that Bible—to even up some for all those good biscuits that she’s fed me. You tell her so, Ben.”
He climbed up onto the wagon, grinning at me, and I knew then that he’d been teasing me all along. That was why he hadn’t mentioned my red hair. He had sparked more fire out of me over Red than he ever could have about my hair.
As the Bible man turned his team toward the road, I waved. “I’ll tell her!” I yelled.
And I was kind of sorry to see him go.

The next thing that needed washing was a large pot. “Ah, yes,” Jenny thought, “Mother cooked macaroni and cheese in this pot.” She lived close enough to her school to walk home for lunch. When she had come home today she had brought her friend Melinda. Jenny’s mother had made them macaroni and cheese with cut-up hot dogs. While they ate, the girls told Jenny’s mother all about the art project they had worked on at school that morning. After they finished lunch, they hurried back to school.
Jenny was glad that she was able to come home during the day, and she was also glad her friends felt welcome in her home. Jenny scrubbed out the macaroni-and-cheese pot carefully. She wanted to make sure it was clean and ready for future lunches with her friends.

Our children will be more able to survive the challenges that will come to them when they know and understand that keeping God’s commandments can bring them peace and joy in their lives and enable them to walk uprightly. While traveling in the car with her mother and younger sister, five-year-old Clara sensed that her mother was deeply troubled about something. “Mommy, what’s the matter? You seem so sad.”
Not wanting to go into detail about her concerns, but feeling that she needed to acknowledge to her daughter that she was worried, Clara’s mother asked, “Clara, what would you do if you felt sad and frustrated?”
“Well,” responded Clara, and there was a long pause, “you need to take time out and think. Then you need to pray all the time and read the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon. You need to bless other people. Just think about the good things people do for you and the good things in your life, not the bad.” Young Clara is beginning to understand how to walk uprightly before the Lord.

Because of that example from my father, years later I was able to make a similar decision. I had just been hired by a consulting company, and they flew six of us employees from the Philippines to Sydney, Australia, to join with 400 managers from all over the world for training. We flew first class. A limousine picked us up at the airport and whisked us away to a five-star hotel, where each room had a big basket of goodies. The company wanted to show us that this was a good company to work for, and it wanted its new hires to stay.
After the first day of meetings, we had a gala dinner, a formal affair. We sat about 12 to a table, each with 10 managers and 2 managing partners who were to be our role models in the company. They told us stories about how they started in the company and grew in their careers with it. They told us of multimillion dollar deals they had closed, important businesspeople they had worked with, and major projects they had directed. I heard the names of Fortune 500 CEOs mentioned frequently and was in awe of these men because of the work they did.
We were all feeling great about our opportunities until one of the people at the table asked, “How does your wife handle all of your traveling? You’re constantly gone.” And one of the partners answered, “I was just divorced two years ago.” And the other partner at our table said, “I’ve been divorced for five years.”
I remember my thoughts: “These are not the men I want to be. I don’t think I want to work for this company because I don’t care much about worldly accomplishments if my family is in disarray.” The example of my father made it easy for me to decide to put my family first, and I found another job that allowed me to do so.

Upon his arrival in the mission field, a new missionary sat with me as we discussed his duties and responsibilities and the discipline they would require of him. As I outlined what was expected of him, he stopped me: “Just a minute, President Backman. There’s something you ought to know. I’m stupid.”
Being determined to demonstrate to him the great capacity for service he possessed as a son of God, and to awaken in him a realization of his unique mission on earth, I assigned him to a senior companion who worked him to the bone, pressing him to learn, grow, and serve, despite his professed weakness. In addition, I kept after him to the point that his district leader wrote me in a report that the new missionary intended to punch me in the nose the next time I toured the mission.
Within weeks my wife and I made a final tour of the mission before we were released. I took the opportunity to sit down privately with each missionary so I could express my love and confidence in him. The new missionary’s turn came. I closed the door of the room behind him, removed the glasses I was wearing, and said, “If it will make you feel any better, elder, go right ahead.” For a moment, I thought he was going to follow through with his threat. Instead, he fell into my arms crying. I then had one of those precious moments when I shared with him my knowledge and understanding of his divine potential and his capacity to love and serve his fellow beings. As we concluded our discussion, I remarked that if he wanted to make me happy, he would come to my office in Salt Lake City in about two years and tell me he had finished his mission.
We had been home from our mission about two years when I looked up from my office desk one morning to see a grinning face peering through the door. It was my missionary. Without any word of greeting, he declared, “President, I finished my mission!”
I was so proud of him!

Ninety-nine-year-old Louise Allred has spent most of her life serving others, and recently she learned a new way to serve from her daughter, Mary Helen.
Three years ago, Mary Helen was not looking for anything specific when she signed on to JustServe.org. Browsing around, she saw a need for a nonprofit group of volunteers who turn donated wedding gowns into bereavement clothing for newborns who never leave the hospital.
Photograph courtesy of the author
With a conviction in her heart that she had found something she wanted to do, Mary Helen and her local Relief Society contacted the organization director. An activity was planned for the sisters of the ward, and 10–12 wedding gowns were taken apart at the service project. Mary Helen took the pieces home and created baby gowns from them.
As Mary Helen made each gown, she prayed for each parent and family who would use the gown she was making. It felt deeply satisfying to her spiritually, drawing her closer to the Savior by following His admonition to love one another (see John 13:34–35; see also 1 John 4:11). Very quickly, Mary Helen realized a one-time activity was not going to be enough for her. She found that JustServe.org would be a partner for many projects for her.
Photograph courtesy of the author
Mary Helen’s mother, Louise, also began helping. She takes apart the wedding gowns stitch by stitch. Everything is then washed, cut, pieced, and sewn to create the baby gowns, and then embellishments are sewn on by hand. Each baby gown takes about two hours to create.
Together, this mother and daughter produce over 100 gowns for deceased babies each year. Hospitals all over Alabama, USA, welcome these donations.
Mary Helen says she and her mother enjoy this time they spend together serving Heavenly Father’s little ones and their families as time permits. As President Russell M. Nelson taught: “Our greatest joy comes as we help our brothers and sisters, no matter where we live in this wonderful world. Giving help to others—making a conscientious effort to care about others as much as or more than we care about ourselves—is our joy. Especially, I might add, when it is not convenient and when it takes us out of our comfort zone. Living that second great commandment is the key to becoming a true disciple of Jesus Christ.”2
In addition to the joy this service brings, Louise loves the challenge and the feeling of accomplishment she experiences. Mary Helen says this bond between her and her mother has also become a most cherished shared experience.
“Anyone can serve,” Mary Helen says—you just have to find what works for you!

I have been a member of the Church for about a year and a half, and I just want to say thanks very much for the New Era. I am the only member of my family in the Church. My parents and eight brothers and sisters are Catholic. One day I left a copy of the New Era on the living room table, and my dad picked it up and started to read it. He said it was a very good magazine. Then he started to ask me questions about the Church. Well, I’ve been trying to get my parents interested in the Church for quite some time now, and your magazine, the New Era, kind of unlocked the door so I can talk to them about the gospel.
I feel that the magazine is a great missionary tool, and I am thankful that my girl friend gave me a year’s subscription for Christmas.
Keep up the good work. I sustain you one hundred percent.
Elder Jim TilleyPennsylvania Mission

A passage from the novel Les misérables illustrates how priesthood holders can treat those individuals viewed as strangers. Jean Valjean had just been released as a prisoner. Exhausted by a long voyage and dying of hunger and thirst, he arrives in a small town seeking a place to find food and shelter for the night. When the news of his arrival spreads, one by one all the inhabitants close their doors to him. Not the hotel, not the inn, not even the prison would invite him in. He is rejected, driven away, banished. Finally, with no strength left, he collapses at the front door of the town’s bishop.
The good clergyman is entirely aware of Valjean’s background, but he invites the vagabond into his home with these compassionate words:
“‘This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry and thirsty; you are welcome. … What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me [your name], you had one which I knew.’
“[Valjean] opened his eyes in astonishment.
“‘Really? You knew what I was called?’
“‘Yes,’ replied the Bishop, ‘you are called my brother.’”7

One of our fine young men, living in the eastern part of this country where he was one of few Latter-day Saints in his high school, received his mission call. As he prepared for his mission he asked his parents’ permission to invite twenty-five of his nonmember friends to come to the home for a farewell party. During that party the young missionary showed his friends Man’s Search for Happiness, explained why he was going on a mission for his church, and bore his testimony to them. They all in turn hugged him and let him know they loved him and sustained him.

Not far from the Salt Lake Tabernacle lived two sisters. Each had two handsome sons. Each had a loving husband. Each lived in comfort, prosperity, and good health. Then the grim reaper visited their homes. First, each lost a son; then a husband. Friends visited, words brought a measure of comfort, but grief continued unrelieved.
The years passed. Hearts remained broken. The two sisters sought and achieved seclusion. They shut themselves off from the world that surrounded them. Alone they remained with their remorse. Then there came to a latter-day prophet of God, who knew well these two sisters, the voice of the Lord, which directed him to their plight. Elder Harold B. Lee left his busy office and visited the penthouse home of the lonely widows. He listened to their pleadings. He felt the sorrow of their hearts. Then he called them to the service of God and to mankind. Each commenced a ministry in the holy temple. Each looked outward into the lives of others and upward into the face of God. Peace replaced turmoil. Confidence dispelled despair. God had once again remembered the widow and, through a prophet, brought divine comfort.

An interesting blessing and challenge about a lay church is that we have to be patient with each other and ourselves as we learn and grow in our callings. When a difficult and sensitive situation—one that involved several ward members—came up in my calling, I handled it the best I knew how and moved on, believing the difficult experience was behind me.
I was wrong. Not everyone in our ward agreed about how the incident should have been handled, and it became a point of great discussion. Some agreed with what I had done. Others thought I’d made a significant blunder. I felt bad, but since I had done my best, I tried not to worry too much about it.
When I was released a short time later, however, it came as a tremendous blow. I knew that callings in the Church are only temporary, of course, but because of the timing, I felt as though my leaders were blaming or punishing me for what had happened.
The scrutiny seemed more intense than ever, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to face anyone in the ward right away. So the week following my release, I stayed home from church. I did so again the next week—and the next. The longer I stayed away, the more difficult it seemed to return.
After some time, I started thinking about what had happened. I realized that even though this was a painful situation, it wasn’t worth putting my covenants on the line. Was the Church true or wasn’t it?
Maybe I had handled the situation in my calling appropriately; maybe I hadn’t. The truth is all of us are learning, and all of us make mistakes.
As painful as it was to admit, maybe who was right or wrong didn’t really matter in the grand scheme. What would matter, though, was whether I kept my covenants. It would matter—both to my family and me—if I was attending church, renewing my covenants in sacrament meeting, and continuing to serve. And it would matter how I responded to priesthood authority.
I returned to church. A short time later I received another calling. That calling—and callings since—required that I serve with some of the people who had criticized my actions. That has been difficult. But I am glad I haven’t let their comments stop me from enjoying the blessings of Church activity.

In my hand I am holding a pair of pioneer shoes. They were made by a modern-day pioneer, Brother Robert King, while he was serving as a missionary in Nauvoo. He was the first member of his family to join the Church, or so he thought. Brother King and his wife are currently serving as family history missionaries, and in the course of his research, he discovered that his great-grandfather Reed and his great-uncle Abraham joined the Church in 1835. But Reed was lost. He wandered down unknown paths, and the tender seedling of faith within him died.

Allow me to tell you the rest of Brother King’s story. Remember that the seed of faith was planted in the lives of both his great-grandfather Reed and his great-uncle Abraham. What became of Abraham? He kept the faith. Feeling fulfilled in the cause, Abraham endured the persecutions and trials of the pioneer migration west. Due to Abraham’s commitment to the cause of Zion, his posterity includes more than 2,000 members of the Church today.

Just as Abraham is loved and revered for being a courageous pioneer in his family, so will be my friend Robert King. He pioneered his way through a lost line of family history and caught up with his great-grandfather Reed. Because Brother King chose to seek for “the things of a better” and don his pioneer shoes, he is a conduit through which generations, both past and future, will receive the blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The street was dark when he rounded the bend, except for the Tobins’ porch light shining yellow across the front lawn. He slowed down, peering carefully, uncertain at first of what he saw.

Sure enough, it was a person sitting on the porch, just like Tessie used to sit. It had to be her. He slowed to a crawl and turned into his driveway. She had only been a silhouette before, but now his headlights caught her and she blinked in surprise.

Tessie! So different, and yet, so much the same. Long brown hair, big eyes, and she was small, so much smaller than he’d pictured the grown-up Tessie to be.

He climbed out slowly, wondering if she was as glad to see him as he was to see her. She was a silhouette again, watching him. He waited under the birch tree.

“Hi.”

Her voice sounded unsteady, and for the first time he thought of how she must feel, seeing her childhood buddy all grown up.

He cleared his throat. “Is that you, Tessie? I hardly recognize you.”

“It’s me, only they call me Tess now.” There was an older tone in her voice now, maybe a touch of rebellion. He stepped closer and could see her more plainly, dressed in jeans and a simple red sweater, looking just like the little girl who’d gone to her first football game with him.

“I kept hearing how grown-up you’d become. I was almost afraid to see you.”

“Well, I am 13.”

“But you’re still Tessie.” He said it forcefully, almost as if his saying so would make it true.

She watched him, her head tilted. “You’ve been on a mission or something, haven’t you? For your church.”

“Yes, in Colombia.”

“Well, I have new friends now.” She looked away.

Could she really be like this, so cold and calculating? Could she have changed so much?

“I was hoping that you’d help me get the car back in shape.”

“It runs fine. You just drove up in it.”

“The clutch doesn’t feel right, and the brakes need adjusting.”

“Go to a mechanic.”

He stared. “This isn’t much of a welcome. I know that I’ve been gone a long time, but I thought that at least you’d be here, excited to see me. I guess I was wrong.”

He turned to go.

“Easy for you to say!”

He stopped.

“Where were you when I needed a friend? You just left, and I had nobody. You said that you’d be back after college, but you never came back, not that summer, not ever, and I had to find new friends.”

She was crying now, her shoulders shaking.

“Every time I get a friend, they always leave. My dad didn’t want me. When I wrote to him and said that I’d run away and live with him if he sent me the plane fare, he never even wrote back. You were a pretty good substitute, but you didn’t really care about me either, because you had college and a mission to think about, much more important than me. Well, I don’t need you either, because I have new friends now, and they’re a lot more fun than you ever were.”

“Tessie, I never knew any of that.” He sat beside her, put his hand on her shoulder. She pulled away and buried her face in her hands.

“Honestly, Tess, I never knew that you were lonely. I wanted to write, but I’m not very good at it. I have your picture, right in the front of my wallet. You’re my best friend. I need you.”

And she needed him. He’d been wrong, thinking that he didn’t have anything to offer a 13-year-old girl. He had a lot to offer, the same thing he’d always had to offer. He’d gone to South America for two years to teach the gospel of Christ, yet he’d neglected to share it with one of the most important people in his life, his next-door neighbor.

“Listen, you cry all you want to, but when you’re done, we’re going to the Ice Cream Hut for hot fudge sundaes.”

“I can’t let anybody see me like this.” She sat straighter, wiping her eyes.

“Then you can stay in the car. Hey, I’ll bet the car would love to have both of us riding around in it again. I suppose it’s been pretty lonely, parked in the driveway all these years.”

“I see it every day on my way to the bus stop.” She looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “Sometimes I talk to it, but not out loud. Sometimes I pretend that you’re home again and we’re working on it, like we used to.”

“But I am home.” He grinned. “And this time I’m not leaving until I give you a special present.”

“Present? What kind of present?”

“It’s another friend, a friend of mine who never leaves, even when everybody else turns away.”

She squinted in the porch light. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you about it some other time. Right now I need an ice cream sundae covered with hot fudge.”

She giggled, the same old giggle, and they walked toward the car.

When I served as a bishop, I noted one Sunday morning that one of our priests was missing from priesthood meeting. I left the quorum in the care of the adviser and visited Richard’s home. His mother said he was working at the West Temple Garage.
I drove to the garage in search of Richard and looked everywhere, but I could not find him. Suddenly I had the inspiration to gaze down into the old-fashioned grease pit situated at the side of the station. From the darkness I could see two shining eyes. Then I heard Richard say, “You found me, Bishop! I’ll come up.” After that he rarely missed a priesthood meeting.
The family moved to a nearby stake. Time passed, and I received a phone call informing me that Richard had been called to serve a mission in Mexico, and I was invited by the family to speak at his farewell testimonial. At the meeting, when Richard responded, he mentioned that the turning point in his determination to fill a mission came one Sunday morning—not in the chapel, but as he gazed up from the depths of a dark grease pit and found his quorum president’s outstretched hand.
Through the years, Richard has stayed in touch with me, telling of his testimony, his family, and his faithful service in the Church, including his calling as a bishop.

She knew that she had a testimony. Just last fast Sunday she had followed Sister Hawkins to the stand. As she waited her turn, she looked over the congregation. I hope Marianne or Jill comes up and sits with me, she thought.
Sister Hawkins’s voice broke as she spoke of the Atonement. Why does she always cry when she bears her testimony? Susan wondered.
“I know Jesus Christ is the Savior of us all,” Sister Hawkins testified. “When I miss my husband and others who have passed on, I pray to Heavenly Father for comfort, and through the Holy Ghost my heart is filled with the Savior’s love. Then I don’t feel lonely anymore.”
Susan felt peace filling her heart as she listened. Tears moistened her eyes. The words to a Primary song came into her mind. “I feel my Savior’s love In all the world around me.”*
She closed her eyes and thought of the mountains. Red and yellow patches covered their sides. She loved autumn. She especially liked the smell of the air. She often saddled Lightning and galloped up the mountain road, breathing deeply.
She imagined the Savior creating the mountains, filling the streams with crystal water, and planting the trees for her. The feeling inside her kept growing until a tear trickled down her right cheek. She wiped it away with her index finger as the chorus came to her: “He knows I will follow him, Give all my life to him. I feel my Savior’s love, The love he freely gives me.”
When she walked to the pulpit, for the first time she didn’t think about her friends or about how proud her parents would be. She offered a silent prayer before she spoke. Please, Heavenly Father, help me to feel my Savior’s love like Sister Hawkins does. She felt a sweet peace flow over her. Her prayer had been answered. Tears streamed down her face. All she could say was “I feel my Savior’s love too. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

The desire to support the priesthood in this great latter-day work, first seen in the Nauvoo sisters, has led Relief Society women over many years to establish health facilities, store grain, serve adoptive parents, and meet other critical needs. This same desire motivates the Relief Society today. Teaching is one means of helping the sisters and their families realize the great promise declared by President Kimball:

“As givers gain control of their desires and properly see other needs in light of their own wants, then the powers of the gospel are released in their lives. They learn that by living the great law of consecration they insure not only temporal salvation but also spiritual sanctification” (Ensign, Nov. 1977, p. 77).

That we may each fulfill our stewardship and earn this great reward I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Recently, we met a young woman who had learned to make these principles operative in her life. Bringing Sister Smith a beautiful rose, she came to express her love and her gratitude for the blessings of the gospel. She is handicapped, and so is the more grateful for blessings because she knows so well pain and difficulty. When telling of how she is able to keep a house and care for a husband, she said it does take her longer, but a friend goes to the store to get what she needs, and she has learned to do almost everything else for herself. Cutting carrot strips for a ward dinner is a challenge, but she does it and in accepting such opportunities enjoys the fulfillment of service.

I knew before the race started that it would be tough—a four-mile cross-country trek through the sandhills. There were plenty of ups and downs, and several places where your feet sank into the sandy soil and slowed you to a walk.
I knew it would be hard, because I’d helped my dad mark out the trail two days before. He’s the gym teacher at my school. It’s his job each fall to choose and mark out the route for the divisional cross-country races.
“I want it tough, David, but fair,” he said to me as we tied up small blue ribbons to mark the route. “There’ll be good runners as well as some who race just to get an afternoon off school. I want the course tough enough to challenge the serious runners.” He grinned at me and said, “You wouldn’t want it too easy, would you?”
I grinned back and shook my head. This was the first year I could be in the race. Each year I’d heard Dad talk about it, and I’d heard the older kids at school say it was really tough. I was eager to compete in it.
I’m in fine form, I thought. I’d been practicing for six weeks, and my legs and lungs felt ready. In gym class I easily beat the other boys at two miles, but we’d never run the whole four miles. That, plus all the hills, might make a difference. And, of course, kids from five other schools would be in the race too. I’d heard rumors that one of the other schools had a really good runner in my division.
When we lined up for the first race of the meet, I knew who it was. His classmates called him Mike, and urged him on. I was determined to beat him, even though he was a good six inches taller than me. That meant his legs were a lot longer—I’d probably have to take four strides to cover the same distance he did in three!
The route began with a really steep hill with stunted oak trees scattered over it. “Why did you put the start here?” I’d asked Dad when we set it up. “Do you want to scare everybody at the start?”
“That’s the idea!” He grinned, then explained that the actual reason was to make the runners spread out instead of bunching together. “They’re less likely to bump into each other that way.”
Now, racing up Heartbreak Hill, I saw what he meant. Everyone was soon walking, including me! At the top I resumed running. Only one runner—Mike—was ahead of me as I followed the course-marking ribbons down the other side. I didn’t try to catch him. This side was much shorter, but steeper, so I was careful to keep my legs under control.
At the bottom, the trail flattened out and wound through poplar trees. Then it took a sharp right turn through an open wire gate before twisting alongside a creek for half a mile or so. By the time we turned away from the creek, Mike was about a hundred yards ahead, going at a steady lope. The rest of the runners were so far behind that I couldn’t see anyone else.
We were more than halfway there, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d be able to catch Mike. My legs were straining on “automatic,” but his long legs seemed to carry him effortlessly up the hills. Even the sandy places didn’t slow him down much.
My breath was getting ragged. I thought about walking for a while, but I didn’t want to let Mike increase the distance between us. My classmates were counting on my winning, and even Dad had hinted that it would be nice to see my name on the trophy. I forced myself to keep running.
Then Mike suddenly slowed and turned his head from side to side as if he were lost. He’s right where the trail branches, I thought. He can’t tell which way to go.
The trail was marked to turn right, but he turned left and picked up speed again.
I’ll catch him! was my first thought. Then, Why didn’t he follow the ribbon?
In a moment I was up to where he’d turned off. There was no ribbon visible, though I’d seen Dad put one there. I took a few strides in the right direction, and there it was, fallen to the ground, and half hidden by grass.
He’ll soon figure out that he’s wrong, I thought and took a couple more strides. But it was almost as if I could hear Dad’s voice: “Winning is important, but it’s not the most important.”
I stopped running. “Mike!” I called loudly. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“Is this a trick?” he shouted, turning back.
“No trick,” I called. “See? Here’s the ribbon.” I held it up and tied it to a branch for the later runners to see.
I waited for Mike to pass me, and when he was a hundred yards ahead again, I started running. Even so, I figured I’d gained a small advantage, since I’d had a short rest and hadn’t gone quite as far. My breathing was easier, and slowly I managed to lessen the distance between us.
Mike went up and over the last hill. In the distance I heard a cheer as the crowd sighted him. I topped the hill and saw that he wasn’t more than fifty feet ahead.
I’m going to catch him, I thought. He was almost staggering, and I urged my legs to move faster.
The gap closed. Mike glanced back, saw me coming, and made one last effort. With two feet to spare, he crossed the finish line ahead of me.
I walked around slowly to catch my breath. Dad was standing near the finish line, recording names as later runners crossed, and he gave me a thumbs-up signal. I knew that he didn’t mind that my name wouldn’t be on the trophy—but it sure would have been nice.
When I saw Mike recovering, I went over to congratulate him. “Good race,” I said, “but just wait till next year!”
He gave me a funny look. “Why’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Call me back to the trail. And then give me a head start.”
I shrugged. “It was only fair,” I said. “You were ahead, and the ribbon had fallen, but I knew where to go.”
“But you’d have beaten me.”
“It wouldn’t have been right,” I said. “Not that way. You’d have done the same thing.”
“I don’t know, really,” Mike said, his smile uncertain. “What I know for sure is that I hope I would have.”
“What I know,” Dad said, coming up to us, “is that you’re both winners in my book!”

A while back, my good friend G. Marion Hinckley from Utah County, my fellow trail rider, came to the office with two grandsons who were brothers, one having served an honorable mission in Japan and the other in Scotland. Brother Hinckley said, “Let me share with you a wonderful experience which came to these grandsons of mine.” His buttons were almost bursting with pride.

In faraway Japan, a commercial street photographer stopped one of the brothers, having taken a picture of him holding a small child. He offered the print for sale to the missionary and his companion. They explained that they were on a tight budget, that they were missionaries, and they directed the photographer’s attention to their nameplates. They didn’t purchase the picture.

Some months later, the brother serving in Scotland was asking two missionaries why they had arrived late for a zone meeting, when they told this story: A most persistent street photographer had attempted to sell them a picture of a missionary in Japan holding a small child. They had no interest in the picture, but to avoid arriving even later at their zone meeting, they purchased it.

“A likely story,” responded Elder Lamb, whereupon they handed him the picture. He could not believe his eyes. It was a photograph of his own brother in faraway Japan.

That day in my office they presented to my view the two pictures, and with their grandfather beaming his approval they declared, “The Lord surely is mindful of his servants the missionaries.”

As they departed my office, I thought, Yes, the Lord is mindful of his missionaries—and their fathers, their mothers, their grandparents, and all who sacrifice for their support, that precious souls may be taught and provided His gospel.