Gospel Story Finder

A letter which I received from a proud father tells of an experience with his then five-year-old son and the boy’s love for the President of the Church and desire to emulate the President’s example. The father wrote:
“When Christopher was five years old, he would get ready for church on Sundays mostly by himself. On one particular Sunday, he decided that he wanted to wear a suit and tie, which to that point he had never done. He scoured the closet on his own for a hand-me-down tie and produced a rather used clip-on one that he didn’t need to create a knot for. He attached the tie to his white shirt, then capped it off with the small navy jacket that had hung for years in the boys’ closet.
“On his own, he went into the bathroom and painstakingly combed his blonde hair to perfection. About that time, I came into the bathroom to finish getting ready myself. I found Christopher beaming at himself in the mirror. Without taking his eyes off his reflection, he proclaimed proudly, ‘Look, Papa—Christopher B. Hinckley!’” And Father realized that a boy had been watching the prophet of the Lord.

As a young BYU student I learned a little something about staying on course when heading home. One Christmas Eve my brother and I left to drive home to Kansas. But early in our journey we learned that a huge snowstorm was heading our way, so we pulled out a map, identified a detour that would skirt the edge of the storm, and headed into parts unknown. Our creative navigating proved dangerous. Our new route was unfamiliar, and we still ran right into the blizzard. To make matters worse, late that night as we were creeping along in blinding snow on an obscure highway, our old Ford quit. We were stranded. And we had absolutely no idea where we were.

Eventually we caught a ride to the nearest town, where we found that we were still hours from home and marooned in Last Chance, Colorado. At that point there was only one thing to do. We called home for help. In the middle of the night our father left to come and rescue us. By the next afternoon we were all safely home.

I’ll never forget Christmas Eve in Last Chance, where we were immobilized by a problem largely of our own making and one we were unequipped to solve. That day our father did for us what we could not do for ourselves.

Once, when my mom was tucking me into bed, I told her I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go on a mission. I said that I would miss her, Daddy, and my sisters too much. My mom said that we should pray about it and see what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. We knelt by the side of my bed, and I asked Heavenly Father if He wanted me to serve a mission. As soon as I asked the question, a really warm feeling filled my whole heart, and a really big smile came to my face. After the prayer, Mom asked me how I felt. I told her I knew that Heavenly Father wanted me to serve a mission and that I was excited to go and serve. I know that Heavenly Father hears our prayers and answers them. I am excited to share this with everybody when I go on my mission.

My mother’s name is Tatiafogaega Tausagafou Brown-Fuimaono.
When she was young, Tatia lived in a small faleo’o (house) with her family in Matautu Lefaga, Samoa. Her father, Palauni Brown, was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but he had not been active in the Church for a while. Tatia remembers that her dad would still encourage his wife and five children (at the time) to attend his church, even though he didn’t.
Tatia’s mother was a devout member of the Congregational Christian Church of Samoa. When missionaries from her husband’s church would visit their home, she never wanted to have a proper conversation with them, but she did accept their challenge to read the Book of Mormon. This book intrigued her, and before long—even though she still refused to take the missionary lessons—Tatia’s mother was reading from the Book of Mormon daily.
One day, her mother instructed Tatia to collect large, flat stones to hold down the edges of their mosquito nets. Tatia obediently headed out the front of their house, but before she could pick up one stone, she mysteriously collapsed.
Her mother rushed out to her, and then screamed. Tatia was already cold and pale and wasn’t breathing. The very next thought that came to her mother’s mind was to call for the elders, the missionaries from her husband’s church.
By the time the elders arrived, Tatia has been unresponsive for several minutes. The missionaries immediately gave her a blessing of healing, and as she began to wake up, Tatia remembers hearing one elder’s voice saying, “Mother, do not worry. She will be well. Heavenly Father has work for her to do. You and your children will also be blessed because of your faith.”
From that day forward, Tatia’s mother would testify that this event—the miraculous healing of her child—confirmed to her the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and indeed, the priesthood of God. She was baptised in 1959 and spent the rest of her life dedicated to the Lord’s work, especially the gathering of Israel on both sides of the veil.
Before she passed away in 2019—at the age of 90—Tatia’s mother was blessed to witness the elder’s prophecy come true. She would eventually have nine children and they all became strong, active members of the Church, with six of them serving missions of their own. They in turn are raising their own children in the gospel of Jesus Christ, and another generation of Latter-day Saints can thank a faithful grandmother for giving the Book of Mormon a chance.

There are lots of ways the Thordersons learned this truth, but one of the most important ways they learned to serve was through Grandma Julie. Grandma Julie was really Eva Julie VanGard. Sister Thorderson was her visiting teacher for ten years. For the last six years of her life (she was 102 when she died in the spring of 1989), Grandma Julie lived with the Thordersons.
“Having Grandma Julie move in with us was the greatest thing that ever happened,” says Sister Thorderson. “A lot of kids do not know how to relate to older people, and these kids are so good with older people; it’s wonderful.”
They all remember Grandma Julie fondly and love to tell funny stories about her. Kurt, who is the second oldest, remembers Grandma Julie as a natural part of their lives. “She would be here when we would have friends from church and school over. The room would be packed with people, and she’d be right in the middle of everything.”
Jim, the third oldest, said Grandma Julie loved to tell them stories about her life—usually more than once. But that didn’t matter to the Thordersons, because they loved this little, fragile lady as if she were their own grandmother. They learned to give unselfish service in their family because of the care she needed and the love she gave. Grandma Julie prompted them all to be more considerate and loving toward each other, which is a big part of being friends with your brothers and sisters.

From the very first day Ellen had seen the cameo ring in the display case at Mr. Henry’s general store, she could think of little else. Even while at the Oklahoma homestead, where she lived with her grandparents, she could close her eyes and picture every detail: Tendrils of hair curled down its neck, a half-smile graced its lips, and a bead necklace was carved around the dainty throat. It was mounted on a coral base and enclosed by an oval of gold; its fancy ring box was lined with crimson velvet. The ten-dollar price, however, was more than Ellen thought that she would ever have.
Still, she mused, like Gram always says, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Dreams cost nothing.”
Ellen’s daydreaming was interrupted as Gramp reined in the plow horses in front of the livery stable. As soon as the wagon stopped, the gangling girl was off and running, her flaxen braids streaming out from under her white sunbonnet, and her calico skirt whipping around her long legs. She skittered to a stop at the general store.
The ring box was still there! She knew that the day might come when the ring would be gone. I just have to find a way to buy it, she thought. She straightened her shoulders determinedly, then turned reluctantly from her heart’s desire to the shopping list that Gram had given her. As Mr. Henry filled the order, Ellen wandered around the store. It was a fascinating place. Blue-speckled enamel pots and pans hung from wires attached to large hooks in the wooden ceiling. Kerosene lamps of different sizes and jars of lemon drops and licorice sticks took up much of the counter space. A pickle barrel stood under a black-and-white cardboard sign announcing the events for the town’s annual picnic.
As Ellen slowly read what it said, she realized that it could be the answer to her prayers! A footrace for ten-to-twelve-year-olds had been added this year, and first prize was a ten-dollar gold piece! She turned to Mr. Henry and said, “Please enter me in the race.”
Figuring that it would be hard beating boys, especially the older ones, Ellen knew that she would have to train hard. The one-room school that she attended was about a mile down the hardpan path from home, so she decided to use it as her training track. And she’d run it barefoot so that she could run the race that way and not be slowed down by heavy shoes.
“Gram,” she said one afternoon while catching her breath on the wooden steps to the cabin, “sometimes I wish that I were a boy!”
“What on earth for? Gramps and I are glad that you’re a girl. Just you wait and see, someday you will be too.”
“Oh, I’m glad to be a girl most times. It’s just that boys get to wear trousers. They aren’t bothered with skirts when they run. I could run a lot faster if I didn’t have to wear an old skirt!”
As her speed increased over the next three weeks, so did Ellen’s determination. When the prairie wind whipped the bonnet from her head the day before the race, she yelled defiantly, “These dumb skirts won’t stop me from doing mybest!”
That evening she sat on the step by Gramp’s rocker. In the distance they heard a coyote’s mournful howl. The moon was huge and golden, bathing the dirt yard with soft light.
“That’s a beautiful harvest moon,” remarked Gramps. He cleared his throat and tweaked Ellen’s braids. “Lass, I know that you’re all het up about tomorrow. Gram and I want you to know that even if you don’t win, we’re mighty proud of you for trying. Being the only girl in the race is a courageous thing to do.”
Ellen was about to answer, when she heard Gram calling her from inside the cabin. Gram was in her bedroom, putting the finishing stitches in a piece of denim. When she held it up, Ellen could only stare.
It was a skirt, her size, but it had legs!
“Oh, Gram!”
“It’s the kind of divided skirt that they make for riding horses these days,” Gram said with a big smile. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
The day of the race dawned bright and crisp. As Ellen joined the boys at the starting line, she bowed her head in a silent prayer. “Thank you, Heavenly Father, for all Thy blessings. And especially for Gram and Gramps.”
“On your mark!” the starter shouted. “Get set!”
The pistol shot cracked.
Ellen scarcely noticed the cheers as the onlookers chose their favorites. Her long gangly legs soon left most of the runners behind. Only three were ahead of her. You can do it! she told herself as she approached the halfway mark. She passed one of the runners—then the second. Only one to go! Every breath hurt now, and her arms and legs felt like lead weights. Just as she passed the last boy, she felt the finish-line ribbon snap across her body.
Ellen collapsed in a heap, tears of joy and exertion running down her face. Mr. Henry brought the prize ribbon and the ten-dollar gold piece to her. She whispered something in his ear, and he straightened, smiling broadly, and rushed off.
Her grandparents hurried over to help her up. They were still excitedly congratulating her when the store-keeper returned and pressed something into her hand. She gazed up at him with thankful blue eyes, then turned to her grandmother and said simply, “Gram, this is for you.”
As the surprised woman opened the velvet-lined box, her brown eyes shimmered with tears. She lifted the cameo ring and eased it gently onto her finger.

“You can work in here,” said Brian Kelly, managing editor of the New Era magazine, as he pointed through an open door into a small cubicle that was once a storage closet. “There is a stack of old magazines in the corner. Spend the first couple of weeks reading through them and jotting down ideas. Get the feel of the magazine; then we’ll see if you can write something.”
So saying, he turned and left. My first-day-on-the-job smile was wearing thin around the edges as I slammed myself into a creaky swivel chair, trying not to glare after Brian as he retreated down the hall. “Me, see if I can write? After a couple of weeks?” I muttered to myself. “After all, I was selected for this internship over many other applicants. My English professors have all said I have natural ability. I can slam out a news story before deadline better than anyone at the student newspaper. See if I can write? I’ll show him.”

Finishing this monologue, I positioned a typewriter directly in front of me and pulled out some clean paper. Just one problem. Nothing to write about. After a few false starts at heart-rending fiction and preachy tomes, I finally took a handful of magazines from the old issues stack and started reading.

The next two days convinced me that writing for the New Era was going to be a snap. The fiction was positive in tone, evoked a happy ending, and was populated by the sort of adolescents teenagers wish they were, i.e., clever, witty, involved, and never boring. The articles were glib, fast, and seldom complicated. And it took me only two days to complete that in-depth analysis of New Era style, not two weeks.

Wednesday morning I reported to Brian that I was ready for my first assignment.

“Uh, how about an article on scripture marking?” he said, after I had blurted out how prepared I was to take the New Era by storm. “Seminary students are studying the Old Testament this year, and an interesting piece on scripture marking would really help them out.”

Simple. I spent the afternoon in the church office library researching scripture marking and the next day wrote up a concise, seven-page article outlining different methods of scripture marking, their advantages and drawbacks. Early Friday morning I presented it to Brian.

“Nice information,” he said, as he handed it back to me. “Now try writing it so the youth out there will read it. Inject some of yourself into it, get some anecdotes in somewhere, liven it up, pull the readers through. I almost went to sleep reading it myself.”

The next two weeks were among the most trying of my life. Livening up a subject with the inherent deadness of scripture marking seemed a task suitable for Dr. Frankenstein, not me. Injecting myself into the controversy of shading versus underlining was something I didn’t quite know how to do. And anecdotes! Ever heard a good story about cross-referencing?

I had come up short against “New Era style,” and although I thought I understood it, I didn’t know how to produce it. The magazine’s style was different from other writing I had done. The New Yorker has its style, so does Time, McCalls, Good Housekeeping, and True Confessions. Each magazine requires a different type of writing. What worked at the student newspaper was definitely not going to work at the New Era.

Fortunately for me, I managed to master “New Era style” (or at least begin to master it) during a two-week struggle with endless drafts of the scripture-marking article. Unfortunately, some people who want to publish in Church magazines don’t have two weeks as a magazine staff member in order to get the hang of it. What follows might be called a short course in New Era style, or “How to get something published in the New Era without developing ulcers.”

4. Now you’re ready to start writing. This article itself is a pretty fair example of how to get into subject matter for the New Era. Don’t attack something head-on. Get into the subject matter by means of an anecdote or story. Set a scene. Paint word pictures. Avoid straight declarations—lure the reader on.

The first draft of the scripture-marking article began with a paragraph detailing the virtues of a well-marked set of scriptures. The final, published version began with a true short story from my own experience about how a set of marked scriptures would have saved me from embarrassment. Both served the same purpose, but the anecdotal beginning was more interesting and readable.

But be cautious. Don’t just throw in stories. Be sure they have a place. The anecdote I used at the beginning of the scripture-marking article commented on most of the benefits of scripture marking that were outlined later in the piece. In fact what you have just read has already outlined how to write for the New Era. I’m just going into it in more detail now.

Two weeks and eight drafts after that Friday morning in Brian’s office, an article titled “But It Was in Amos Last Time I Looked” was sent off for final approval before publication. Finally.

During almost thirty years as a member of the Church, I always read the Liahona (Spanish) as I ride to and from work. As I read the January 1991 issue, I strongly felt the Spirit tell me that the conference messages from the General Authorities are modern revelations and that we should use them in sacrament meeting.

As president of the General San Martín Branch in Mar del Plata, Argentina, I will use these conference messages as the Spirit indicated to me. Now I see a similarity between the Liahona—the compass the Prophet Lehi found outside his tent—and this magazine.

Richard Rancie, 14, Melbourne. Richard runs. Right now it’s competitive running (track), and his own neighborhood car wash business. Later, it may be in a political race. He wants to be Australia’s prime minister.
Richard doesn’t train or compete on Sunday. He gave up a place in the national cross-country championships because they were held on the Sabbath. He also took himself out of competition in the Victoria state championships in his best event, the 1,500 meter. Instead, he settled for competing in the 800 meter. “I didn’t expect to make the final,” he says, “but I won a bronze medal.” The great thing is, he doesn’t sound disappointed about missing out on the 1,500. He just feels blessed and compensated.

To illustrate this I should like to repeat a story related by Henry D. Taylor a few years ago in a talk which he gave at conference and which he entitled “Man Does Not Stand Alone.”
“A boy was extended an invitation to visit his uncle who was a lumberjack up in the Northwest. … [As he arrived] his uncle met him at the depot, and as the two pursued their way to the lumber camp, the boy was impressed by the enormous size of the trees on every hand. There was a gigantic tree which he observed standing all alone on the top of a small hill. The boy, full of awe, called out excitedly, ‘Uncle George, look at that big tree! It will make a lot of good lumber, won’t it?’
“Uncle George slowly shook his head, then replied, ‘No, son, that tree will not make a lot of good lumber. It might make a lot of lumber but not a lot of good lumber. When a tree grows off by itself, too many branches grow on it. Those branches produce knots when the tree is cut into lumber. The best lumber comes from trees that grow together in groves. The trees also grow taller and straighter when they grow together.’”
Then Brother Taylor made this observation: “It is so with people. We become better individuals, more useful timber when we grow together rather than alone.” (Conference Report, April 1965, pp. 54–55.)

I visited my grandpa and grandma who are not members of the LDS Church. On Sunday we went to the church where my grandpa preaches. A girl invited me to go to Sunday School with her. The teacher was teaching about “Mormonism.” I knew that what she was teaching was not the truth, and I felt angry. I excused myself from class. Once I was alone I said a prayer to ask Heavenly Father for courage to bear my testimony. When I got back to class, I raised my hand and said, “I am a Mormon.” Suddenly I felt the Spirit really strong and my fear went away completely.
The teacher asked me if I could tell the class why we are called Mormons. I said, “We are called Mormons because we believe in the Book of Mormon.” A girl said that she had started to read the Book of the Mormon but she laughed at it. She asked me how I could believe such a story. Her question hurt my feelings, but I said what was in my heart: “I know it is true because I prayed to Heavenly Father and He told me it was so.” Before this happened I did not think I could share my testimony with so many people who didn’t believe in our Church, but now I know that the Spirit will always give me courage.

One inactive member was jolted into the realization that she was not converted to the Church when her son went on a mission. Comparing herself to others whose impressive conversion stories she had heard, she asked herself, “Why are these people converted so powerfully, and I, with my pioneer heritage, remain unconverted?” She began to read the Book of Mormon even though she doubted its worth and found it boring. Then a friend challenged her. She said, “You say you believe in prayer. Well, why don’t you pray about it?”

This she did, and after she prayed, she began to read the Book of Mormon again. It was no longer boring. The more she read, the more fascinated she became with it and thought, “Joseph Smith couldn’t have written that—these words were from God!” She finished reading it and wondered how God would tell her that it was true. She said: “A power strong, beautiful, and joyful moved completely through my body. … I knew that Jesus Christ was resurrected, … that Joseph Smith was a prophet who saw God and Jesus Christ. I knew that he miraculously translated ancient records with God’s guidance. I knew that Joseph Smith received revelations from God.” It changed her life because now she too was a convert!

On May 30 of last year, my friend Troy Russell pulled his pickup truck slowly out of his garage on his way to donate goods to the local Deseret Industries. He felt his back tire roll over a bump. Thinking some item had fallen off the truck, he got out only to find his precious nine-year-old son, Austen, lying face down on the pavement. The screams, the priesthood blessing, the paramedic crew, the hospital staff—they were, in this case, to no avail. Austen was gone.
Unable to sleep, unable to find peace, Troy was inconsolable. He said it was more than he could bear and that he simply could not go on. But into that agonizing breach came three redeeming forces.
First was the love and reassuring spirit of our Father in Heaven, a presence communicated through the Holy Ghost that comforted Troy, taught him, loved him, and whispered that God knows everything about losing a beautiful and perfect Son. Second was his wife, Deedra, who held Troy in her arms and loved him and reminded him that she too had lost that son and was determined not to lose a husband also. Third in this story is John Manning, home teacher extraordinaire.
I frankly don’t know on what schedule John and his junior companion made visits to the Russell home, or what message was given when they got there, or how they reported the experience. What I do know is that last spring Brother Manning reached down and picked Troy Russell up off the tragedy of that driveway just as if he were picking up little Austen himself. Like the home teacher or watchman or brother in the gospel he was supposed to be, John simply took over the priesthood care and keeping of Troy Russell. He started by saying, “Troy, Austen wants you back on your feet—including on the basketball court—so I will be here every morning at 5:15 a.m. Be ready because I don’t want to have to come in to get you up—and I know Deedra doesn’t want me to do that either.”
“I didn’t want to go,” Troy told me later, “because I had always taken Austen with me on those mornings and I knew the memories would be too painful. But John insisted, so I went. From that first day back, we talked—or rather I talked and John listened. I talked the entire drive to the church and then the entire drive home. Sometimes I talked while we parked in the driveway and watched the sun rising over Las Vegas. At first it was difficult, but over time I realized I had found my strength in the form of a very slow 6-foot-2-inch (1.88 m) Church ball player, with an absolutely pathetic jump shot, who loved me and listened to me until the sun finally rose again on my life.”8

Ten-year-old Alexandra and her family are grateful that the missionaries were able to come to their country. Several years ago, the missionaries knocked on their door, and her grandmother invited them in. Because of that contact, Alexandra, her parents (Rosa and Arnaldo), and her brother (Victor), as well as her grandmother joined the Church. When Alexandra attended a Latter-day Saint meeting for the first time, she felt more comfortable there than she had at any other church. Later, when she was baptized, she knew that it was the right thing to do. Alexandra knew that she could gain exaltation and return someday to Heavenly Father and Jesus.

I remember so well how my father would talk to the Lord when he used to call us together for family prayer. He didn’t just say a few words and then send us off to the fields. Instead he knelt with us and told the Lord about some of our weaknesses and some of our problems where we had failed.
“Eldon didn’t do exactly what he should have done today. We are sorry that he made this mistake. Kindly forgive him, and we feel sure, Heavenly Father, that he will try to do what is right. Let thy Spirit be with him and bless him so that he can be a good boy.”
In the mornings Father used to pray, “Let thy blessings attend us as we go about our duties so that we may do what is right and return tonight to make a report.” This always gave us greater strength to meet and overcome temptations for we knew that we would be reporting to the Lord at night.
I am going to report to the Lord tonight, I used to think. And this thought helped me to live a better life during the day.

Except for the time his family lived in Hawaii, Elder Bradford spent most of his childhood in Mapleton, Utah. It was there that he learned about animal husbandry and agriculture, interests he pursued as an adult. “When I was a boy, I milked cows, helped raise horses, and did other kinds of farm chores. When I was very small, I would put a bucket of grain down on the ground, and when the horse lowered its head to eat out of the bucket, I would climb onto its neck and scoot onto its back. Later I learned how to break and train horses properly and how to groom and put shoes on them. I also participated in rodeos as I was growing up, and I won quite a few awards.

“My father and I trained ponies (mostly Shetlands) to ride; to work in harness, pulling stagecoaches and surreys; and to work as live merry-go-round horses. We took the first Shetland ponies to Hawaii. I bred and trained horses until I was called as a General Authority.

“Dad was a hard worker in his business and in the Church. He tried to make his time at home with the children quality time, and he was a very good teacher. His method of teaching was to thoroughly explain something to us and then to have us do it, sink or swim. He used to say that he didn’t want to put an old head on young shoulders but that he wanted us to learn as quickly as we could.

“I remember once when Dad had my brother and me help him build a corral. After we had measured where the postholes would be, Dad suggested that we have a posthole-digging contest the next morning and that he would challenge us both. He would start digging in one direction, and we would start digging in the opposite direction. Whoever dug the most postholes would win.

“Unbeknownst to us, Dad slipped out that night, and at each place where he was going to dig the next day, he soaked the ground with water. The next morning Dad easily shoveled the dirt and rocks out of his holes while we struggled with digging bar, pick, and shovels. The lesson we learned was that there is often a better way to accomplish a task if you think about it carefully.

“Childhood is a wonderful time in a person’s life. I would counsel children to remember to do three important things: (1) Listen to what your parents have to say and obey them. Our Father in Heaven has given you parents to look after you until you are able to provide for your own physical needs and until you are mature enough to make correct decisions. (2) Pray often. Prayer is communication with your Heavenly Father. (3) Develop faith. Develop faith by studying the teachings of Jesus Christ and by praying that you will be able to understand the meaning of the scriptures.

“Remember that the Lord told His disciples, ‘Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven’ [Matt. 18:3].”

Corrie ten Boom, a devout Dutch Christian woman, found such healing despite having been interned in concentration camps during World War II. She suffered greatly, but unlike her beloved sister Betsie, who perished in one of the camps, Corrie survived.

After the war she often spoke publicly of her experiences and of healing and forgiveness. On one occasion a former Nazi guard who had been part of Corrie’s own grievous confinement in Ravensbrück, Germany, approached her, rejoicing at her message of Christ’s forgiveness and love.

“‘How grateful I am for your message, Fraulein,’ he said. ‘To think that, as you say, He has washed my sins away!’

“His hand was thrust out to shake mine,” Corrie recalled. “And I, who had preached so often … the need to forgive, kept my hand at my side.

“Even as the angry, vengeful thoughts boiled through me, I saw the sin of them. … Lord Jesus, I prayed, forgive me and help me to forgive him.

“I tried to smile, [and] I struggled to raise my hand. I could not. I felt nothing, not the slightest spark of warmth or charity. And so again I breathed a silent prayer. Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give me Your forgiveness.

“As I took his hand the most incredible thing happened. From my shoulder along my arm and through my hand a current seemed to pass from me to him, while into my heart sprang a love for this stranger that almost overwhelmed me.

“And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world’s healing hinges, but on His. When He tells us to love our enemies, He gives, along with the command, the love itself.”1

Corrie ten Boom was made whole.

On Tuesday, April 26, members of the Coalinga Ward welfare committee met with other welfare leaders of the Hanford Stake in an emergency preparedness training seminar. Each ward was given a hypothetical disaster and assigned to come up with a plan of action for dealing with that situation. The scenario for the Coalinga Ward read: “A severe earthquake has caused major damage to the city of Coalinga and surrounding area. Power and communication by telephone are out. Fires are burning in some areas of the city. Many homes and public buildings are partially or totally destroyed.”
As Coalinga Ward leaders discussed their plan of action that Tuesday night, no one suspected that in less than a week they would actually be putting it into effect. Bishop Fowkes, a geology professor, conducted the session. “It’s not very likely that we’ll see a major earthquake in Coalinga,” he began. (Coalinga’s location in relation to the San Andreas fault made a large earthquake seem unlikely.) “But we’ll go ahead with this exercise and come up with a plan anyway,” the bishop continued.
The following Monday, May 2, at 4:43 P.M., an earthquake measuring 6.5 on the Richter scale hit just outside of Coalinga on an unknown fault. The downtown area was devastated, buildings caught fire, power was disrupted, and several homes were knocked off their foundations. Nearly every home sustained damage of some kind. It was time to implement the plan.

“One day I sat guarding our lemonade stand while Marilyn went for more ice chips. The streetcar would be along soon, and we almost always got some customers at this stop if there were ice chips in clean tin cups for the drinks. I passed the time watching the gardener. He looked so hot, even from where I sat, and he moved like he hurt more than usual. Oh, I felt so sorry for him! Then I had a great idea. I’d treat him to some of our lemonade—free. It wasn’t very cold but it was wet, and he’d know somebody cared about him. For safekeeping, I pocketed the pennies we’d taken in. Then I crossed the street with the cup of lemonade.
“‘Well, thank you,’ he said, sipping it carefully. ‘You’ve added just enough sugar.’
“Some people downed their drinks in one gulp, so of course they couldn’t tell if our mix was good or not. The gardener tasted it. He knew. Just as he knew which plants had the softest leaves and that my eyes were brown and not blue. He finished drinking and said that since I had done him such a favor, he was going to do one for me; he was going to show me a kind of miracle. We walked over to the colorful bed of coleus plants, all dark red and green trimmed and velvety. He troweled one up and put it into my hands after interlocking my fingers so the soil wouldn’t spill off the roots. I was to pot it, water it just so, and place it in a sunny window where I could watch ‘the miracle.’
“He took one ruffled leaf gently and, lifting it with his knobby fingers, said, ‘The coleus plant will lean to the light. Turn your plant every two or three days and the leaves will turn right around again and lean to the light. Try it, Elaine. You’ll see the miracle. And maybe it’s something you’d like to do with your life.’
“No wonder we held him and his handiwork in a kind of reverence!”

I have been the recipient of his bearing up others’ burdens. There came a time when he could see the weight of the responsibility of his biography weighing me down. He invited me into his office and with the gentlest and kindest voice said, “How can I help?”
My heart could not resist his overture, and I poured out my feelings of inadequacy, the intimidating nature of the task, and the volume of material to capture, organize, and synthesize. I wanted so desperately to get it right—for him. Our exchange was one of my most precious mortal experiences. I felt like I was at the Pool of Bethesda and the Savior had lifted the drape and reached down to bear me up. President Monson understands the saving power of the Atonement and counts it a privilege to be sent by the Lord to bear up another.