Gospel Story Finder

“Did you notice the Jacksons are driving another new car?” Jim asked his wife. “That’s their second new car in less than three years. I don’t know how that man does it, but he sure knows how to make money. He makes me feel like a failure. We haven’t had a new car for eight years.”

“Yes, but you spend much more time in church service,” Jim’s wife says “You just don’t have time to concentrate on making money.”

My love for our Heavenly Father began when we lived on the ranch at Kolob. I remember kneeling at Mama’s knee as she helped me with my prayers. I felt warm and secure, knowing that even in the dark Heavenly Father watched over me. This good feeling helped me to not be afraid of the shadows that moved outside the tent and to understand the noises of the night. Pine needles falling on our canvas roof had the same lightness as the scampering of squirrel feet. Even the occasional thump of a falling cone sounded friendly as it rolled off the tent to the ground.
With a goodnight kiss, Mama would leave me snug in my bed and go back into the one-room ranch house. There my sisters would be washing up the milk buckets, and Papa would be reading under the yellow lamplight.
Kolob was a land of enchantment, with meadows where we played hide-and-seek and hills that wanted to be climbed. Sometimes Mama packed a lunch and hiked with us. When she felt we knew our way, she let my sisters and me hike down the sawmill canyon alone. This was high adventure.
A blue jay went ahead, flying from one scrub oak bush to another, cocking its saucy head to chatter at us. A woodchuck, watching with curiosity, darted into its hole as we came near. Bluebells, purple daisies, and fireballs bloomed in profusion. Every turn of the trail brought new delights. We became engrossed gathering fancy-shaped rocks and wild flowers.
Time slipped away. The sun was settling into the grove to the west as we trudged through sand and sage on the last stretch home.
With our arms full of treasures, we raced to the house to show Mama. The tantalizing smell of hot cornbread greeted us, for it was suppertime. But the room was strangely empty. Mama was not there. I shot out the back door. Running to the big tent where our bunk beds were, I lifted the flap. The setting sun, filtering through canvas, filled the tent with a golden glow. There, kneeling beside her bed, was Mama. In astonished reverence, I waited.
“What were you doing?” I asked timidly as she arose.
Tenderly she kissed my cheek. “I was asking Heavenly Father to bring my little girls safely home.”
“I didn’t know you could ask Him for things in the daytime,” I marveled. I had supposed that aside from our regular family prayers, we prayed only before tumbling into our bunks.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Mama held me close and said, “You see, Patsy, we are all our Heavenly Father’s children. Because He loves us, He will always listen to us.”
There in the mellow sunset glow, a new understanding came to me. Father in heaven really meant our Father. It was not just a name. I was really and truly His little girl! And I could talk to Him anytime.
My heart was jubilant, and so was the breeze. I heard it singing in the pine trees.

When my friend Fernanda (not her real name) didn’t show up to class one Friday, I wondered what was wrong. “Is Fer feeling sick? Is she OK?” I asked as I ran over to some friends at the end of the day. “She isn’t sick,” another friend answered, “she just had to go to a psychologist.” When I asked why, she told me that Fernanda was suffering from depression and had been hurting herself. Shortly after I found out, Fernanda was admitted to the hospital for treatment, and we didn’t see her for a few weeks.
Even though we were friends, she hadn’t shared that part of her life with me. She had been hiding it from everyone because she was ashamed. She later told me that she didn’t want others to pity her or her situation. But I didn’t pity her—I just felt compassion.
That first day, I lay on my bed after school, my face buried in a pillow. I was emotionally exhausted but too anxious to sleep. My world was in chaos. I felt like I was in the middle of a storm, and so many thoughts and feelings whirled in the wind. I felt confused, lonely, and, most of all, so powerless to help.
What could I do or say to help her? How could we as friends pull together and lend our support? I couldn’t find any sort of solution to comfort my friends or myself. I prayed for inspiration but felt like my prayers just weren’t getting answered.
But the next week I had an epiphany. I was sitting in my early-morning seminary class when my teacher reminded us of the First Vision and how Joseph Smith asked Heavenly Father directly for help with his difficulties and concerns. My teacher then said, “If we seek out the Father and ask Him, He will answer us. We will never be alone.”
I realized that in my sadness, I had closed my heart off to my Heavenly Father. Even though I was trying to pray often, it wasn’t enough—I still had too much fear to find peace. I knew that He understood exactly how I felt and that He could help me. But I needed to open myself up to Him and truly trust that He could do it—I needed to exercise faith.
So I did. Over time, as I continued to pray and read my scriptures, striving to let the Savior take my burdens, I came to understand that eventually my friend’s depression would end. Despite the fact that the external chaos continued, I felt calm, balanced, in harmony. My mother kept encouraging me to seek out peace, saying, “Your friend will be OK and so will you. Stay strong in the gospel, and it will all work out.”
When Fernanda finally came back to school, I was able to provide strong support for her, but only because I had sought out and found peace through Jesus Christ myself. I tried my best to be a good listener, to be positive, and to share the gospel. I felt confident when I explained the plan of happiness and when I told her that our Father wants us to find joy, despite our challenges. It may take time, but it is possible for every one of His children.
There have been many situations in my life in which I have felt anguish and sadness, but because of the gospel I always remember where I come from. I know that I am a daughter of God and that He has a plan for me—and for Fernanda. We all walk distinct paths, but each is for our good because He loves us. Each path, each trial, has a purpose. And if we can find peace in those trials, we can share the peace we gain with others.

A friend of mine helped his son set goals in this manner. Don asked his son what he wanted to be, whom he would want to be like. His son named a member of the ward who lived nearby, a man he had admired for some time. Don drove his son to where the man lived.
As they sat in their automobile in front of his home, they observed the man’s possessions and his way of life. They also discussed his kindness and generosity, his good name and integrity. They discussed the price their neighbor had paid to become what he was: the years of hard work, the schooling and training required, the sacrifices made, the challenges encountered. The affluence and seeming ease with which he now lived had come about as the result of diligent toil toward his righteous goals and the blessings of the Lord.
The son selected other men whom he deemed models of successful and righteous living and learned from a wise father the stories of their lives. Thereupon at an early age he set his own goal of what he wanted to become. And with his goal before him as a guide by which to make other decisions along the way, he was prepared to stay on his chosen course.

Britta Rasmussen, baptized with her husband in 1975, says she gained her testimony of the gospel by living it. When she first began attending Relief Society, she thought, “These ladies are doing what they believe.” She has always tried to follow that example.
For 45 years, she has been socializing with a group of friends she first met as a schoolgirl. She invited them to attend the open house at the temple while she and her husband were serving as guides, and she had the opportunity to bear her testimony to them. “All those people felt something,” Sister Rasmussen recalls, expressing the hope that what she said may someday touch their lives.

My family had an amazing mystery adventure in a cemetery. We felt like explorers—or detectives! We followed a map, looked for clues, and made it through lots of obstacles.
The mystery started when Grandma found a list of family members who were buried in a family cemetery. She wondered why her own grandpa wasn’t on the list.
Grandma knew he was buried there, but she had never visited the cemetery before because she lived far away.
“I wish we could help Grandma,” I said during dinner. I felt sad that Grandma couldn’t find out about her grandpa.
“I do too,” Dad said. “Maybe we can take a trip to the cemetery and find her grandpa’s headstone.”
I was excited to solve the mystery. My little brothers, Joseph, Hyrum, and Daniel were excited too!
First we had to drive a long way and do some detective work before we even found the cemetery. We stopped to ask a man if he knew where it was. Guess what! It was hidden down a road on his farm!
The cemetery was in the middle of a muddy field. It was surrounded by a cinder-block wall and covered with overgrown plants. We had to cut through vines just to open the gate.
It was like a jungle inside! Big trees filled the cemetery, and thorny vines wrapped around the headstones. We had to clear them off to read the names.
“Who is Marenda Ann Thomas Humphrey?” I asked, pulling plants off a headstone.
Dad ran over. “She’s your great-great-great grandmother!” he said. “Hopefully your great-great grandpa’s headstone is nearby.”
We looked and looked for his headstone but couldn’t find it anywhere. Mom and Dad cut and cleared vines. My brothers and I cleaned off dirt, bugs, and spider webs. It was gross! Some headstones had tipped over because tree roots grew under them. They were heavy, but we worked together to lift them up again.
We worked hard all day. When the sun was going down, Dad said it was time to go.
“I don’t think we’re going to find it today,” he said. He sounded pretty disappointed.
I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to find the headstone for Grandma.
“Let’s say a prayer,” I said.
“That’s a great idea. Heavenly Father can help us find it,” said Mom.
We said a prayer and looked one last time. Dad found a long wire and used it to poke the ground. Suddenly the wire hit something solid. Maybe a headstone?
“I think Dad found something!” I said.
We knelt down and cleared away vines and weeds. Under a thin layer of dirt, we found a headstone. The name on it was Rodolph Jackson Humphrey.
“Dad, do you know who this is?” I asked.
When I looked at Dad, he had tears in his eyes. “This is exactly what we were searching for! It’s your great-great grandpa’s headstone,” he said.
“Yay!” we all shouted.
I gave my brothers high fives. “I knew we’d find it! We just needed a little help,” I said.
Mom smiled. “That’s what prayer is for.”
It was tricky and fun searching through the cemetery. We had to overcome walls, mud, thorns, and vines. But it was all worth it to get to know more about my great-great grandpa.
I know that the Holy Ghost helped us and that Heavenly Father answered our prayer. And the best feeling of all was hearing Grandma cheer when we told her all about it.

Every Friday my class has “Food Fun Friday” when someone brings in a special snack that goes with our reading story. One Friday I was offered tea to drink. I asked, “Do I have to drink this?” My teacher said, “You can at least try it.” But I didn’t drink it.
A few days later my dad e-mailed my teacher explaining that we are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we don’t drink tea or coffee. My teacher e-mailed my dad saying she was glad I stood up for myself. I am glad I am striving to follow God’s plan.

When I was 14 years old, on a beautiful August morning, Elder Prina and Elder Perkins knocked at our door. They began teaching our family about the true nature of God. In the visits that followed, they taught us how to pray. They also taught us about the Restoration and the plan of salvation. After the third or fourth visit, most of my family stopped listening to the missionaries, except for my 17-year-old sister, Dina, and me. We both felt the witness of the Holy Ghost in our hearts and received the spiritual confirmation that the message was true.
We bought a copy of the Book of Mormon and began reading it. Every day after school, we would race home to get to the book first. While the first one home was reading, the other one impatiently waited until mealtime, ate in a hurry, and then took her turn reading until bedtime. Such was the excitement we felt. We started attending church, and soon we asked to be baptized. Our father readily gave his permission, but our mother was hesitant, and it took one more month to persuade her to sign the permission slip. On the day of our baptism, she and the rest of our siblings went to church for the first time. She felt the Spirit. After hearing our testimonies, she went to the missionaries and asked them to start teaching her again. A few weeks later, Mother and our younger sister and brothers were baptized. My life changed forever, and the gospel of Jesus Christ became the compelling force in my life.

For many years I’ve known a girl who has become a very good friend of mine. She isn’t a member of the Church, but she respects it and what it stands for. We had never talked much about religion. I assumed that she believed what she wanted to believe and wouldn’t change. However, I had prayed for a long time that the opportunity to teach her would come.
My prayer was answered at a sleepover for my 16th birthday. When most of the other girls had fallen asleep, my friend and I moved to an adjacent room so we wouldn’t wake them, since we planned on staying up a little longer talking. Eventually our discussion turned to who we are, what we are doing here on earth, and where we are going after this life. My friend was curious to know what our religion says about these questions. I was a little apprehensive, so I started out slowly telling her a basic version of the plan of salvation.
As I talked, I started shaking. I couldn’t help it. I felt the Spirit so strongly that I paused often to catch my breath. She seemed to sense something different and asked me what was wrong. I told her that this plan made me feel so happy inside. I then bore my testimony to her, and we were silent. All I could think about was how it felt to truly know for myself the truthfulness of the gospel. I had never borne my testimony like that before, and I will never forget the experience.

Susa Young Gates, one of Brigham Young’s daughters, also understood that family history was important. She had been about to die, but a priesthood blessing had miraculously cured her, and she was given this promise: “There has been a council in heaven, and it has been decided you shall live to perform temple work, and you shall do a greater work than you have ever done before.”* Once she recovered, she devoted much of her time to helping people find their ancestors. She started genealogy classes, encouraged Saints throughout Utah and Canada to do research, and compiled a book on genealogy.

Abu sat outside watching people walk by on the street in front of his house. Abu was very hungry. Marian, a woman who was selling sweet biscuits, was near him, walking back and forth in the street. The biscuits looked delicious in their brightly colored wrappers. Marian carried them in a pan on her head. Abu really wanted a package of those biscuits. He knew they would be very good.
Marian stopped and set the biscuits down right in front of Abu.
“She knows I am hungry and has put the biscuits here for me!” he thought. He quickly picked up a package of biscuits.
Just then, his father saw him. “Abu, what do you have?” he asked.
“Papa, I’m so hungry! I need some biscuits,” Abu said.
Papa gently took Abu into his arms. “Abu, I want you to have some biscuits,” he said. “But you cannot take things from other people without asking or paying for them. Did you ask Marian if you could have some of her biscuits?”
“No,” Abu said, looking at the ground.
“Let’s give Marian back this large package of biscuits, and I will buy you a small package. I want you to learn to be honest. Do you know what that means?”
“Tell me, Papa,” Abu said.
“It means to do the right thing,” Papa said. “It means to pay for things instead of stealing. It means to tell the truth instead of lying. It means to do what you say you will do. So we will pay Marian for a package of her biscuits. Marian needs the money to buy food for her children. I love you, Abu, and Heavenly Father loves you too. And He is happy when you do the right thing.”
“I love you too, Papa,” Abu said. “I want to be honest always.”

Ring! Ring! sang my cell phone.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“You want to hit the library?” my friend Andrea asked.
I glanced up at the clock and then at the pile of homework on my desk. With finals lurking around the corner, I desperately needed a chance to study, and I couldn’t focus in my college apartment.
“Yeah, let’s go,” I said, gathering my books. I bundled myself in several layers before braving the frigid air and wading through four inches of fresh snow to Andrea’s car.
We set off for the library, grumbling about our mountains of homework. Just thinking about the next week made me nervous.
As we passed an intersection, I noticed an elderly woman shoveling snow from her sidewalks.
“Look at that!” I exclaimed. “Why is that little old lady shoveling snow all by herself?”
“We should turn around and help her,” Andrea suggested. Moments later, we pulled into her driveway.
“Can we help you with that?” Andrea asked, reaching for the shovel.
“Oh, no, I’m all right, but thank you,” she said in surprise.
“No, really,” I insisted. “At least let us finish for you. You must be freezing.”
She hesitated, but then gratefully consented to let us salt down the sidewalks.
We collected the salt and chatted with her as we sprinkled the sidewalks. The salt melted away the ice almost as quickly as our disgruntled moods.
After we finished, we went inside to meet her husband, who was unable to shovel the snow because he was recovering from surgery. We enjoyed some eggnog, admired family photos, and told her about our families. Then out of the blue she stopped and smiled at us.
“I’m so glad you stopped by,” she confided. “It’s just so good to visit.”
We stayed with her for about an hour, then hugged her good-bye and continued our trek to the library.
“I don’t think she really needed someone to salt her sidewalks,” Andrea said as we drove away.
“No,” I said. “She needed a friend.”
As I glanced at my pile of books, I realized I had needed her, too. The stress I’d felt just an hour before was nearly gone, replaced by blissful relief. I had been so focused on my tests that I couldn’t see how others struggled with bigger problems like loneliness, growing older, and even shoveling snow. I will always be grateful for that reminder to watch for opportunities to serve.

At a distant stake conference one Sunday I was approached after the meeting by a young man whose face was familiar. He identified himself as a returned missionary whom I had met out in the world a few years ago. He said he had not attended the conference but had come at its conclusion, wanting to say hello. Our greetings were pleasant and revived some choice memories. I asked him about himself. He was in college, still single, and fairly miserable.
I asked him about his service in the Church, and the light in his eyes went out and a dull, disappointed face fashioned itself as he said, “I am not very active in the Church now. I don’t feel the same as I used to feel in the mission field. What I used to think was a testimony has become something of a disillusionment. If there is a God, I am not sure any more. I must have been mistaken in my zeal and joy.”
I looked him through and through and asked him some questions: “What do you do in your leisure? What do you read? How much do you pray? What activity do you have? What are your associations?”
The answers were what I expected. He had turned loose his hold on the iron rod. He associated largely with unbelievers. He read, in addition to his college texts, works by atheists, apostates, and Bible critics. He had ceased to pray to his Heavenly Father. His communication poles were burned, and his lines were sagging terribly.
I asked him now, “How many times since your mission have you read the New Testament?”
“Not any time,” was the answer.
“How many times have you read the Book of Mormon through?”
The answer was, “None.”
“How many chapters of scripture have you read? How many verses?”
Not one single time had he opened the sacred books. He had been reading negative and critical and faith-destroying things and wondered why he could not smile.
He never prayed any more, yet wondered why he felt so abandoned and so alone in a tough world. For a long time he had not partaken of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, and he wondered why his spirit was dead.
Not a penny of tithing had he paid, and he wondered why the windows of heaven seemed closed and locked and barred to him. He was not receiving all the things he could have had. And as he was thinking of his woes and his worn-down faith, his loneliness, and his failures, I was thinking of a burned-out pasture in northern Argentina and burned-off telephone posts and sagging wires and dragging posts.
Deeply disturbing are the numerous signs of dwindling faith in our world. Matches are dropped. The grass is burned.
The sagging in spiritual conviction is frightening. Morale is often low even among employees in their jobs—selfish “gimme” tactics. “How much can I get?” “How about a raise?” More holidays. Fewer hours. Poor morale among the employers.
We are too affluent. We have too much money and other things. We have so many things. Even many poorer people have many things, and “things” become our life, and our vocabulary has been invaded with, “Let me do my thing.”
Yet the Lord has said, “… seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. 6:33.) Too often, though, we want the “things” first.
We have a great generation of youth, but as I talk to many, I am amazed and surprised at the laxity of prayers among them, especially those who are in sin. Many have nearly ceased to pray. Their communication wires are down. Also numerous young people in their early married days cease to pray with regularity; their lines are sagging.
My first question to people in trouble is, “What about your prayers? How often? How deeply involved are you when you pray? And when you pray, are you humbly thanking or are you asking?”
Israel was in deep trouble—a sustained drought.
Israel’s King Ahab demanded of the prophet Elijah:
“Art thou he that troubleth Israel?
“And he answered, I have not troubled Israel; but thou, and thy father’s house, in that ye have forsaken the commandments of the Lord, and thou hast followed Baalim.” (1 Kgs. 18:17–18.)
The spectacular drama portrayed on Mt. Carmel between Elijah the prophet and the ineffectual false priests of Baal is the story of sagging lines of communication. Great wickedness—and the Lord had sealed the heavens from rain. Elijah had said: “… if the Lord be God, follow him: but if Baal, then follow him. …” (1 Kgs. 18:21.)
The contest brought about by Elijah was to prove to Israel that the gods of stone and wood and metal were powerless. When the 450 priests of Baal could not influence their gods to burn the offering, and the Lord, through Elijah, brought down fire from heaven and consumed the bullock, then with a revival of faith on the part of Israel, the clouds came and a torrential rain fell. Weak Israel had now set up new poles; they had restrung their wires, and communication was reestablished.
Two young couples from the Northwest came, bowed in sorrow. The husband of one and the wife of the other had lost themselves in frustration arising out of disloyally finding comfort where no association should have been tolerated. Their problems reached the maximum, and sorrow resulted.
It is generally the same. The two young people, unfaithful to their spouses, had conversed and confided too much; then secret meetings followed, then disloyal disclosures concerning the spouse of each. And finally, that which surely could not have been dreamed of—the transgression.
Both couples had reduced their activity, become casual in their church-going. They had joined a social group who were also turning to spiritual casualness like themselves. Their new way of living was beyond their means, and debts crowded out tithing.
Too busy they were for home evenings and too rushed for family prayer, and when the great temptations came, they were not prepared. Their grass had been consumed, and with it the poles had been burned off and the dangling charred stubs were hanging to the sagging wires.
Sin comes when communication lines are down—it always does, sooner or later.
We are living in a sagging world. There has been sin since Cain yielded to Satan, but perhaps never before has the world accepted sin so completely as a way of life. We shall continue to cry repentance from this and thousands of other pulpits. We shall continue to warn the people all too ready to accept the world as it pushes in upon them.
May we always repair our sagging lines and fulfill our total obligations and thus keep close to our Lord and Savior, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

I also often spent time in the homes of my two uncles as I played with my cousins. I especially liked being there when it was time for family prayer. Uncle Carl was a farmer. When he prayed, he concentrated on really talking to Heavenly Father, thanking Him for his many blessings and humbly pleading for moisture for the crops. Uncle Angus was the father of six lively boys, and he prayed for the guidance and protection of his sons. When these two men prayed, I knew that Heavenly Father was listening. I got the same warm feeling while kneeling in family prayer with them that I did while on my grandpa’s lap listening to scripture stories.

Many people were angry with Joseph Smith and the Church. They didn’t like what Joseph was teaching. Some even wanted to kill him.
Joseph had to go to the city of Carthage so a judge could decide if he had broken the law. Joseph blessed Emma and his children, kissed them goodbye, and left for Carthage
Joseph’s brother Hyrum and other friends went with him. As they left, Joseph looked back at Nauvoo. “This is the loveliest place and the best people under the heavens,” he said.
In Carthage the men were put in jail. Hyrum read to them from the Book of Mormon. Joseph told the guards that the Book of Mormon is true.
Later that day, angry men with guns rushed into the jail. They started shooting into the room where Joseph and his friends were. Hyrum and Joseph were killed.
The Saints were very sad when they found out that Joseph and Hyrum had died. But they knew that the Church would keep growing and blessing God’s children all over the world.

As an Aaronic Priesthood young man, I can remember the excitement I felt as a newly ordained deacon. I looked forward to being able to fulfill my priesthood assignments. As a young Primary boy, I watched the deacons in my ward very closely in anticipation of the day I would be 12 years old, receive the priesthood, and be able to pass the sacrament. That day finally arrived, and soon after being ordained by my father, who was the bishop of the ward, I felt ready, but nervous, to begin my duties as a new deacon.
I now belonged to a quorum of the Aaronic Priesthood. The members of my quorum became very best friends. That friendship and quorum brotherhood continued to grow through my youth as we learned and served together in our priesthood duties. We were all good friends and experienced a fun and enjoyable time being together in our quorum activities.
One Sunday following one of those warm and long sacrament meetings, the first counselor in our bishopric called me aside to talk to me. This unscheduled priesthood interview became a blessing in my life as I have pondered the question he asked during our brief but significant visit. Brother Bateman looked me in the eye and asked, “Dean, do you know who you are?” There was complete silence, and then he gave me a quick and powerful reminder, “You are the son of Reid Burgess.”
The meaning and significance of that question has burned in my heart for a long time, and I often reflected on it throughout my teenage years. This good brother’s question—“Do you know who you are?”—has given me inspired direction throughout my life and a commitment to bring respect and honor to my family and to the priesthood.

The story of the doughnut and how it got its hole is legendary. One version suggests that it was Hanson Gregory, a well-known sea captain, who suggested the idea to his mother one day in 1847 when she was frying dough cakes in a small New England town.
Hanson noticed that the centers of her cakes always seemed doughy and undercooked, so he suggested that she cut out their middles before she started to fry them. She laughed at the childlike suggestion but tried it out anyway. The very first result was so excellent—the whole doughnut ring being uniformly cooked and of a light, spongy texture—that she never went back to the old way. Her method soon became famous and was copied widely until it spread throughout the United States and, eventually, to other lands.

Great Britain has the world’s most regal (elegant) letter boxes. The tall cylinders stand like palace guards, their scarlet tunics emblazoned with a golden crown and the insignia of the queen. One such letter box stands sentry on Cottam Lane in Preston, in front of Ingol County Primary School. From time to time a pretty eight-year-old girl approaches and reaches high to drop in a letter addressed to Masha Melnikova in Mogilev, Belarus. The sender is Lorna Wilson, a Latter-day Saint, and Masha’s true friend.
Lorna’s father, Christopher, is a software designer who spends much of his spare time working for a charity called Medicine and Chernobyl. This organization provides medical aid for the Belarusian victims of a nuclear disaster in the nearby Ukrainian city of Chernobyl. Each year the charity brings a group of Belarusian children for a month-long visit to England. These children live downwind from Chernobyl, and their resistance to disease has been impaired. A month in a healthy environment helps them rebuild their physical and emotional reserves. Masha was one of these children.
Masha arrived at the Wilson home speaking almost no English. Lorna spoke even less Russian. Still, they managed to communicate with gestures and occasional help from a Russian phrase book. Within a day, somehow, they were best friends. Although Masha had her own room the first night, the two girls’ friendship blossomed so quickly that from the second night on, they chose to share a room. Lorna’s parents had to go in each night and persuade them to turn out the lights. They’d be talking away, drawing, and dressing dolls. Neither learned much of the other’s language, but they understood each other very well. On the morning Masha left to return home, Lorna was so upset that she couldn’t go to school.
That was unusual, because Lorna likes school. A very good student, her favorite subjects are art and math. When her school formed a group called the Troubleshooters from among the most able students, Lorna was the youngest person chosen. The Troubleshooters go to local businesses and help them solve problems. Lorna’s group first went to the Preston office of the Royal Mail. They were given two problems to solve. One was that the staff wasn’t looking at the notice boards. The other was that a stray letter was occasionally left in the bottom of a supposedly empty mail sack. The Troubleshooters went to work and produced many good suggestions, several of which were adopted. In a small way, Lorna was helping to speed her letters from the letter box on Cottam Lane to her friend in Belarus!
“Lorna’s an inspiration to me,” her mother, Helen, says. “I really do try to follow her example. When I go to a parents’ evening at school, her teachers tell me, ‘What can I say? She’s just wonderful!’”
Lorna wants to be either a zookeeper or an artist when she grows up. Whatever she chooses, she will do it well. She likes to do art and sewing, especially cross-stitch, and she always tries to do them perfectly. She has been taking ballet for three years. She also is a Brownie and a skilled Maypole dancer.
The oldest of six children, Lorna sometimes feels frustrated when a little sister wrecks a project or pinches (takes) her crayons. Even so, she loves her little brothers and sisters and takes good care of them. Her mother says, “We’re lucky Lorna is the oldest, because she’s a good example to the others. She isn’t perfect, but she’s very trustworthy, and she helps the others with reading and things like that.” In return, the younger children look up to her. Adam (6) is a football player and a dreamer. He has adopted all the older ladies in the ward. Hannah (5) is a gifted artist with a keen eye for beauty. Abigail (4) has her daddy’s sense of humor and likes to tease people. Sara (2) is sunny and outgoing. Everybody at church wants to take her home with them. Joshua (1) just started walking. He is a charming, happy boy.
The Wilsons are a close-knit family who take drives in the countryside when their busy schedules allow. They also like to play games together. Sometimes for family home evening they play a Book of Mormon game Sister Wilson made. It stretches clear across the floor. For many years they invited an elderly neighbor to each of their family home evenings and adopted him as their granddad. After his death, they began to invite a handicapped man from their ward. “He’s a lovely man with a beautiful spirit,” Sister Wilson says, “but he can’t speak. He has to use a machine to communicate.” The children welcome guests with open arms. At Christmas they invite in anyone they know is going to be alone. The family also goes caroling to some of the elderly people who live nearby.
Seeing firsthand the sorrows of others has helped the Wilson children appreciate their own blessings. When the Belarusian children came, they had very little in the way of clothing, and what they had was threadbare. Their diet in Belarus had been poor too. “We learned not to waste food,” Lorna says, “because some people have hardly anything.”
The family tries to read the Book of Mormon at breakfast each day, although sometimes it’s a struggle. Lorna’s favorite person in the Book of Mormon is Jesus Christ.
Preston and the surrounding areas were the sites of some of the greatest missionary efforts in the history of the Church. In 1837 Elder Heber C. Kimball led a group of missionaries there to begin the work in Great Britain. The Wilsons have stood by the River Ribble, where the first baptisms in Britain took place. They have walked through Market Square, where the missionaries preached. They have visited many places where the Spirit was poured out upon their land. It’s no wonder that they do missionary work whenever they can. They once had the favor returned when a nonmember referred them to the missionaries! One day the sister missionaries knocked on a door around the corner from the Wilsons where some older ladies lived. The missionaries asked them if they were interested in learning about the Church, and they said no.
“Well, do you know anybody who might be?”
“There’s a lovely family around the corner,” one of the ladies answered. “They have lots of children. They’d be good Mormons.”
She was right, of course.

Elder Michael Mátyás of Redmond, Washington, who was serving in Veszprém, remembers the first copy he gave out. It was to Sister Petö Éva, a member of about six months. Sister Petö had to leave the meeting before the announcement was made. “I stopped her and said, ‘I know you have to go, but before you go, there’s something I want to give you.’ And I gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon. She started crying then. Since that was the first one I had given out, it was fairly emotional for me, too,” he says.

Soon the corn was growing in straight green rows. We’d weeded out the suckers and weaker plants, leaving only the sturdiest stalks. Papa pulled three white crayons from his pocket and handed one each to Caroline, Ed, and me.

“I want you to draw a line around the bottom of each cornstalk, so the ants don’t crawl up. They won’t cross that line,” he said and showed us what he meant.

“Will the ants hurt the corn?” I wanted to know.

“No, but the aphids will, and where there are ants there are aphids.”

“Why?”

“The ants milk the aphids like we do cows. They need each other.”

“Do we have to do all the corn?” Ed asked.

“Every plant,” Papa said. “If you each do ten rows a day, it will soon be done. That will help keep the worms out too.”

“Ten rows?” Ed complained. “That’s impossible.”

“OK, eight then,” Papa compromised. “Now get to work.”

Every minute Papa could spare from working in the fields he spent fixing up the house. He added on until we had a front room, kitchen, bedroom, and back porch. He dug out underneath the house to make a cellar to store our food and coal for winter.

Occasionally Papa got a job laying brick for a fireplace chimney, and once he received a horse in trade for his work. It was a gentle, broad-backed creature named Bessie, who would carry as many children as could climb on. When she got tired she would walk under the low limbs of the Early Harvest apple tree and sweep the laughing riders off onto the ground. Ed could leap onto her back with a quick, smooth movement that I envied. I always seemed to get stuck lying across her back on my stomach, unable to wiggle around to swing one leg over and sit upright. Ed usually had to give me a shove that threatened to push me off.

One day I had an idea as I sat on the barn roof watching Ed ride Bessie around the yard. “Bring her over here,” I called. “I want to try something.”

Ed rode over. “OK, here we are,” he said. “Come on down.”

“Back her up under the sliding board,” I said.

Ed could see my idea at once and did as I asked. It was not more than two inches from the end of the board to the horse’s back, and I slid easily from one to the other. After that I always mounted Bessie the same way, and before long she backed herself close to the board as soon as anyone was on the barn roof. She learned to lower her head so we could slide down the board onto her back, over her head, and onto the ground in one quick swoop. We called that game the Bessie Bounce, and it was one of our favorites.

One time Bessie got tangled up in some barbwire and had deep, bleeding cuts on both hind legs when we found her.

Papa came out of the house with a curved needle and some black silk thread.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“To sew her up—like you do a tear in your dress,” he explained and showed me how to take a stitch, tie a knot, cut the thread, and take another stitch.

Quickly the wound was pulled together and Papa washed off the blood.

“It’ll soon be good as new,” he assured us.

After that, whenever an animal had a bad cut, I ran to get the curved needle and thread for Papa and watched while he sewed it up.

Mama, Caroline, and I were busy bottling the produce from the garden. Papa had wrapped the stems of the chard in gunnysacks to keep them white, and we bottled the leaves in one half-gallon jar and the stems in another. It was like having two different vegetables.

We were washing the boiler in the yard after finishing the chard when Papa came in from the garden with a bushel basket full of cucumbers for pickles.

“I picked them just the right size for dills,” he said.

We ran clean water into the boiler and he dumped them in for me to wash, while Caroline went after the crock and some salt to make the brine.

“Be sure you rub them all over until you get all those little black prickles off,” Mama told me.

When Caroline came back she filled the crock half full of water. “How much salt do you want put in?” she asked.

“Enough to float an egg.”

As soon as the egg was floating, I slipped the smooth green “torpedoes” into their briny bath until the crock was full. Mama put a dinner plate upside down on the top and weighted it with a brick to keep the pickles submerged. “They have to soak a week in the brine, then in clear water to soak the salt out,” she explained.

“Why put them in salt in the first place if you only have to get it out later?” I wanted to know.

“It makes them keep better,” she said.

“What do you do next?”

“Soak them in alum water so they’ll be crisp. Then we put them down in the pickle barrel in alternating layers of cukes, dill heads, and grape leaves. Then cover it all with a vinegar brine.”

“Are they ready to eat then?”

“No, they have to cure for about a month first.”

After the big barrel was full of dill pickles we made some sweet ones from tiny cukes and a sugar syrup and kept them in the crock. We bottled bread and butter pickles, mustard pickles, piccalilli, and relish.

When the cucumbers were big and fat and yellow we cut them open, hollowed them out, and made boats to float down the irrigation ditches. I thought pickle season was over, but Mama knew one more kind—ripe cucumber pickles.

The corn was ready next. No vegetable was so deliciously sweet as corn on the cob popped into boiling water as soon as it was picked and husked. The eight-row variety we grew had the kernels spaced just right to bite off easily—four sections with two rows in each.

I loved to walk down the whispering rows with Papa to pick the corn. If the ear felt full and hard and the silk was frizzled brown on the top, it was ready. Papa would grab it firmly and crack it off with a quick, downward jerk.

Sometimes there was a little baby corn with long pink or green hair as smooth as silk growing next to its mama. Once in a great while there were twin corn babies. I always saved these little dolls and made cradles for them to hang in the tree where they rocked in the breeze.

When the corn patch was at its peak of production, Papa carried basket after basket into the shade by the house. There the boys pulled off the husks and put the cobs in a pan for Mama, who was waiting on the back porch with a sharp knife to slice off the kernels.

The chickens always came running and flipped up their feather duster behinds as their heads went down to peck up the corn worms or any discarded kernels they could find. Later they would have a feast cleaning off the cobs when Mama had finished with them.

Caroline put the sliced-off corn into dripper pans, heated it for a while in the oven, and then spread the steaming kernels on flour sacks to finish drying in the sun. Flies swarmed around the fragrant sheets but couldn’t get through the layer of gauze that had been put on top for protection. After several hot days, with an occasional stirring, the hard, dry corn was hung in cloth bags from nails in the rafters so the mice couldn’t get at it.

The husks were dried and saved to be used later for filling mattresses and quilts.

At last the watermelons were ripe. I’ll never forget the crisp, cracking sound when the knife bit into the green shell and spread open the luscious fruit, colored like a rosebud and speckled with flat and shiny black seeds, just right for spitting target practice. Watermelon was the best thing of all at the farm. My face was always sticky from being buried in a piece. We didn’t have to bottle, dry, or preserve watermelons. They were just for enjoying while they were fresh—and they were certainly that!