Gospel Story Finder

Sonia Patrick describes herself as a mouse with a tail on fire running through a dry field. On the streets of Barbados—where the culture swings to a Caribbean beat—she makes sure everyone at the bus stop hears her testimony.
“God comes first,” she said. “I carry Him with me everywhere I go.”
Sister Patrick is among a growing number of members in the Christ Church Branch who have felt the fire of temple and family history work. They have learned firsthand what Elder Richard G. Scott (1928–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “Anywhere you are in the world, with prayer, faith, determination, diligence, and some sacrifice, you can make a powerful contribution.”1
Sister Patrick joined the Church in 2008 after meeting the missionaries, who offered to wash her car for free. She is now known as the “bold one” in her branch on this sunny island in the West Indies.
“I grew up Christian,” she said. “I felt a spiritual pull to accept the missionaries’ offer to attend church.”
Tragedy struck three years after her baptism when her only son was killed. Suddenly, she said, “family history became very important to me.”
Opportunities for family history research and temple work were limited at the time on the island. Computers were scarce, and travel to the nearest temple was expensive and difficult.
Sister Patrick arranged for the proxy baptism of her son but remained patient over the next years. She stayed busy “doing what she was supposed to do” until a series of events came together to provide more help for her family history work.
Wheels were set in motion when Sister Jennilyn Stoffers arrived in 2022 to serve in the Barbados Bridgetown Mission office. Her call to Barbados came as a last-minute surprise. For months, she had made preparations with Church leaders to serve in Ireland, where the wet and cold of northern Europe were more conducive to her health. She had her bags packed for Ireland until she read her mission call, sending her the other direction—to the heat and humidity of Barbados.
Sister Stoffers replaced her warm wools with breezy cottons and soon arrived in Barbados. “There was a lot of adapting,” she said of the weather, the Bajan dialect,2 the culture, the food—just about everything.
“It was easy to fall in love with the members and their pure faith in God,” she said. “Everyone should experience a fast and testimony meeting in Barbados. Members know the scriptures. They are strong in their faith. They face persecution from family and society. Many are the only members of the Church in their families.”
Before long, the branch president asked Sister Stoffers to teach a class on temple preparation and family history work, a subject that fires her imagination and devotion.
A spark was struck among several members. They lingered after meetings, huddling around the branch computer, where Sister Stoffers helped them discover the richness of family history work.
Margaret Haynes was among the first to taste the spirit of the work.
“Imagine how my ancestors are reacting,” she said in reflection. “One day I will meet them. I have always felt a special feeling of being watched over by them. It brings me joy to unite my family. I feel their yearning to make covenants.”
Enthusiasm spread, and more members joined in the weekly gatherings.
“They get after it,” Sister Stoffers said. “If they need permission to perform an ordinance or need data like a birth date, they call a relative right then. There’s no waiting for a more convenient time.”
The laws and culture in the Caribbean make researching family records a challenge. “Yet,” said Sister Stoffers, “members of the branch deal with the frustrations and have now submitted more than 500 ordinances to the temple.” And more are coming.
As Church members unearthed their ancestral past, Sister Stoffers began wondering how they might experience the joy of serving in the temple on their ancestors’ behalf, given the expense of traveling to the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple.
Considering her resources, she remembered the youth and adults in her home ward near Ogden, Utah, USA. With their enthusiasm to serve, could they fill the gap and help their brothers and sisters in Barbados?
Photograph of Ogden Utah Temple by David Bowen Newton
Sister Stoffers’s home-ward bishop liked the plan and rallied the support of youth and adults. Soon, names from Barbados were being shared instantly on FamilySearch.
Now, as often as their schedule permits, a battalion of youth converge on the Ogden Utah Temple, where Bishop Rob Smout pulls from a stack of ordinance-ready printouts to divvy among the youth. The talkative youth grow whisper quiet as they contemplate the unusually spelled names of people with whom they have no connection but feel a spiritual kinship.
Participation has been widespread across the ward. On certain Saturdays, a family of five boys arrives early at the temple to enjoy the sunrise over the Wasatch mountains before performing baptisms.
“It’s become a ward quest,” said Bishop Smout. “It has united the ward. Many have become involved and take names routinely, including those who haven’t attended the temple in years. Others have come back into activity to participate.”
Many members in Barbados, meanwhile, have had unique experiences that motivate them to gather their families.
“As we work together, we feel a family connection,” Sister Stoffers said. “We feel a saintly joy. It is hard to describe, except that it seems to resonate in others beyond.”
“As we work together, we feel a family connection. We feel a saintly joy.”
This enthusiasm to discover ancestors has now spread beyond the branch and across the Caribbean to members on neighboring islands. Proselyting missionaries assist by meeting with members in their homes. To guide those in the far reaches of the mission, Sister Stoffers conducts virtual training sessions.
This effort on a small island in the Caribbean began with love and a desire to bless ancestors. Then came the means to learn how. The branch discovered that the work is spiritual, requiring what Elder Scott called “a monumental effort of cooperation on both sides of the veil, where help is given in both directions.”3 They proved that even in remote Barbados, a small number of devoted members can make a great contribution.
A Work Made Possible through Jesus Christ
“Many of your ancestors did not receive [saving] ordinances. But in the providence of God, you did. And God knew that you would feel drawn to your ancestors in love and that you would have the technology necessary to identify them. He also knew that you would live in a time when access to holy temples … would be greater than ever in history. And He knew that He could trust you to accomplish this work in behalf of your ancestors.”
President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “Gathering the Family of God,” Liahona, May 2017, 21.

Meet Emmanuel Amore from the Bo Sierra Leone East Stake—a young man whose journey of transformation began with a simple invitation to church. In 2018 a friend welcomed him to a Sunday meeting, and Emmanuel’s heart was touched. Not long after, he chose to be baptized—a decision that placed the first stone in what would become a deeply personal path of spiritual and personal growth.
Since then, Emmanuel has made the Gathering Place his second home. Whether it’s playing on the sports teams, learning new skills, or diving into institute classes, he shows up with purpose. “I want to succeed both spiritually and temporally,” he says—and he’s putting in the work to make that happen.
A turning point came when Emmanuel noticed his brother learning masonry. Seeing the demand for skilled labor in his community, Emmanuel realized this could be his opportunity to make a difference. He began training, determined to develop a craft that could support his future. Today, he’s applying his growing masonry skills to find work and build something lasting—not just with bricks but with faith.
Emmanuel is still just getting started. His ultimate goal? To grow in personal righteousness and stay anchored in Christ as he builds a meaningful life, one stone—and one choice—at a time.

It sometimes seemed to Adam that not learning the piano was harder than learning it would be. But any struggle, no matter how difficult, would be worth the effort if it proved to his parents that piano lessons were a waste of time.
Now, martial arts lessons—those would be worthwhile. What if he was waylaid on the way home from school by bullies? What if he woke up one day to find himself trapped in some foul dungeon? How would he escape if he hadn’t learned tae kwon do*?
Or, if he had to learn an instrument, drums might possibly be cool enough. Instead he was subjected to Mrs. Turner’s endless urging to “make your fingers like tiny hammers.” Ugh!
So he purposely stumbled over the keys and acted as if he didn’t hear the jangling chords. He had to say one thing for Mrs. Turner—she was patient. She would pat her big white hair and attempt to smile. “That was a good try, dear.”
As for Mom and Dad, they were more determined than he had expected. He’d been taking unwanted lessons for two years. Weren’t they tired of hearing him pound away for half an hour every day but Sunday?
Tick-tick-tick sounded the clock. Three more minutes and practice time would be over.
His little sister, Sarah Kate, clumped her skates down on the bench next to him. “Will you roller-blade with me? Mom says I can’t go down the street by myself.”
“Nope,” Adam said. “I gotta finish practicing.” He brought his hands down with a crash.
“That sounds horrible!” Sarah Kate yelped.
Adam grinned. “Yeah.”
With a sigh, Sarah Kate left him.
Adam’s hands were in midair when the timer buzzed. He slammed down the lid of the piano and raced to the computer to play a game.
When he heard the missionaries’ voices, Adam deserted his game. He liked the elders. Sometimes they threw his football to him, or they played games with him and Sarah Kate. They were fun to tease too. Today, they were sitting at the table with Mom, helping her work on a Primary Sharing Time activity.
“Want to play ball?” Adam asked.
“Not now,” Elder Gilmore said. “Your mom needs us to cut out these circles.”
Adam tried to snatch Elder Presley’s name tag, but Elder Presley wasn’t in a teasing mood. He covered the tag with his hand, so Adam messed up his hair, instead. When that didn’t work, Adam plopped down into a chair. “I could cut some out too.”
Mom smiled. “Good! If you all do that, I can plan the music.” Mom was the Primary president, which in their tiny branch meant she was also the chorister, the secretary, and any teacher who didn’t show up.
Adam wrinkled his nose. “Primary music’s boring ’cause we always have to sing what’s on those tapes.”
Mom shook her head. “We’re lucky to have the tapes. Every day I pray that the elders will baptize someone who can play the piano.”
“We’ll work on it,” Elder Presley said. “You be on the lookout too.”
“I am,” Mom said. “I gave Adam’s piano teacher a Book of Mormon. She’s a wonderful woman, besides being musical. I invited her to church last week, but she didn’t come.”
Adam was unusually quiet as he cut out circles. When he finished, he agreed to skate with Sarah Kate. They skated a long way, but he hardly spoke a word. The rhythmic glide was good for thinking.
At his piano lesson the next week, he pulled out the Children’s Songbook. “Could you help me learn some of these?” he asked Mrs. Turner.
She flipped through the pages. “This is a wonderful book. Where did you get it?”
“It’s our church’s children’s songbook.”
“I don’t know about your learning these songs, though. I’m afraid they’re harder than the ones you’re already having trouble with.”
“I’ll learn them,” Adam said confidently. “I want to work on this one first.” He pointed to “Called to Serve.” It was one of his favorites.
Mrs. Turner shrugged. “All right. But you’ll really have to practice hard.”
“I will,” Adam said. “And can I do it here? Right after school? I kind of want to surprise my mom on Sunday.”
Mrs. Turner agreed, and all that week Adam practiced at her house. He worked on “Called to Serve” for an hour every day. Each night he prayed for help, and by Saturday the notes came fairly readily to his fingers.
On Sunday morning in Primary, Mom started to turn on the tape recorder. Adam stopped her. “I can play ‘Called to Serve’ on page 174.”
He sat down at the piano. There was a shivery feeling in his stomach. How had he thought he could play in front of everybody?
His eyes wandered over the children’s and teachers’ faces—and saw Mrs. Turner! She sat on the last row, a smile on her face!
He gave her a flickery grin and sent up a swift, silent prayer. He felt calmer as his fingers began to play the familiar notes.

Bishop Prince Mensah graciously shared his remarkable journey with the young single adults in a Sunday meeting. He began by telling the classroom about his experiences as the first young high councilor in the Ashaiman Ghana Stake. This period, though undoubtedly challenging, became a transformative chapter in his life.
Reflecting on the early days of his marriage, he recounted the financial constraints they faced as a young couple. “I remember when my wife was pregnant with our first child; sometimes, she had to make do with banku paired with ground pepper, a few tomatoes, and occasionally, small fishes we affectionately called Keta school boys. Despite these hardships, she selflessly sacrificed to support me in fulfilling my calling.” Bishop Mensah recalled.
Eight months into their marriage, Bishop Mensah received the call to serve as a high councilor, which made it necessary to travel frequently from Adjei Kojo Kanewu to Kpone, (23 kilometers) for his assignments. With a monthly salary of GH390, he juggled the responsibilities of overseeing the young single adults, committee meetings, stake ushers, and various other duties. Traveling to Kpone and chartering a taxi to reach the meeting house added to the financial strain.
In recounting his service, he emphasized the invaluable lessons learned during this time. He proudly shared how he assisted President Alexandar Boateng in tasks such as packing seminary and institute books and marking attendance. Little did he know that these seemingly mundane responsibilities were preparing him for future opportunities.
As the interview for his current job position unfolded, Bishop Mensah found unexpected ease. Three out of the four panelists knew him personally. Despite lacking a formal degree, the panelists, having witnessed his unwavering dedication and hard work, recognized his potential. He secured the position, and this turning point marked a significant change in his and his family’s life.
What initially appeared as a sacrifice revealed itself as divine preparation for more promising opportunities. Through the assignments entrusted to him by his stake president, Isaac Morrison, (then stake president of the Ashaiman stake and currently a General Authority Seventy) and President Alexander Boateng (then first councilor and program administrator for Accra coordinating area seminary and institute, recently called as a mission leader to the Ghana Kumasi Mission), his service not only impacted his personal growth but also became a steppingstone to a brighter future. Bishop Mensah’s story serves as a testament to the transformative power of dedication, service, and divine guidance. It is good for the young single adults and for all of us to remember this.

“Fam’lies can be together forever through Heav’nly Father’s plan” (“Families Can Be Together Forever,” Hymns, no. 300). I love this Primary song, which teaches that families can be sealed for eternity. I prayed that this could be true for my family, especially after my father passed away.
Recently the Lord answered my prayer. My mother, my two brothers, and I were able to travel to the Manila Philippines Temple to be sealed together and to my father. It was our first time in the temple together, and I can still remember the happiness I saw in my mother’s and brothers’ eyes. There was a great feeling of joy there.
I know the temple is the house of the Lord and that those in the temple have the proper authority to perform sacred ordinances. I’m so grateful that through these ordinances my family can be with my father again. Since going to the temple, we try to be a stronger family and do all we can to keep our covenants so that we can be together forever.

What does my church believe?” Andrea stammered.
“Yeah.” Jane urged. “You have to believe something—maybe something different.”
“Well, um … we believe in God and … and …”
“I guessed that much. Most churches believe in God,” said Jane. “But what does your church believe that makes you different from other churches?”
Andrea could feel a hot blush rise in her face. What can I say? she wondered.
Just then Jane’s mother called, “Andrea, your mother just telephoned. She would like you to come home right away.”
“Oh, I forgot! I promised to take care of my brother! Sorry, Jane—I have to run. See you tomorrow.”
As she thanked Jane’s mother and hurried toward home, Jane’s questions kept popping into her mind, and she felt ashamed that she didn’t know what to say. I’ve been a member all my life. I should know what the Church believes.
After school the next day, Andrea slipped out of her chair and through the door. If I hurry, Jane won’t catch up to me and ask me again, she thought. But she wasn’t fast enough.
“Andrea, wait for me,” Jane yelled down the hall to her. “I just need to get my library book.”
As they started toward home, Andrea kept her head down and stared at the sidewalk as if expecting it to jump up at her. She could only manage to nod or shake her head whenever Jane said something. Finally Jane bent down and looked up at her friend’s face. “Are you OK?”
“Yes. I’m fine. I just don’t feel like talking. Anyway, here’s your house. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. You’re still planning to come over to make cookies, aren’t you?”
“Of course, I can hardly wait to try your recipe!”
Andrea hardly heard Jane’s reply. What do Latter-day Saints believe? she asked herself, continuing down the street. From her parents and in Primary, she had learned about temples, prophets, the Book of Mormon, the celestial kingdom, Jesus, Heavenly Father, and lots more. But how could she explain all that to Jane? It had taken her her whole life to learn these things.
That night, as she and her father did dishes, she asked, “Dad, what does our Church believe?”
“Well, Andrea, we believe a lot of things. For starters, we believe in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. We believe that families can be together forever. We believe in Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon.”
“But that’s not all, is it?”
“No, of course not. I guess that if we went into detail, we could write several books about what we believe. Why do you ask?”
“Yesterday Jane asked me what our church believes, and I didn’t know what to say. I’m 10 years old. I’ve been baptized, and I still don’t know what to say.” Andrea’s voice choked up, and tears started to pool in the corners of her eyes.
Dad put down the dishcloth, sat at the kitchen table, and gestured for her to sit next to him. “Andrea, you know what we believe. You’ve just forgotten that you do. Remember when you were preparing to be baptized? What did you do?”
“Well, I read the Book of Mormon, and I tried to repent of my sins, and I memorized the Articles of Faith.”
“Right. And what do the Articles of Faith tell us?”
A smile spread slowly across Andrea’s face. “They tell us what we believe! I do know!”
“Sure you do. The Articles of Faith can be really valuable tools in helping us and other people understand what we believe.”
When Andrea and Dad had finished the dishes, they sat and opened their scriptures to the Pearl of Great Price. On the last two pages, they found the Articles of Faith and read them one by one. Or rather, Dad read while Andrea recited them from memory. She was happy that she had been reviewing them for her Gospel in Action award and could remember them all.
Below the 13th article, Andrea saw the name Joseph Smith. “When did Joseph Smith write these?” she asked.
“Well, a man named John Wentworth, who was the editor of an Illinois newspaper, wanted to know how the Church was started and what members believed. Joseph Smith told him in a letter, which became known as the “Wentworth Letter.” The principles mentioned in that letter later became the Articles of Faith. They don’t go into a lot of detail about all the things that we believe, but they list many basic truths of the gospel.”
“I’m glad that we have the Articles of Faith! Now I know what I can say to Jane. I’ll tell her tomorrow. Thanks, Dad.”
The next day, Andrea was eager for Jane to arrive. Before her friend had even hung up her coat, the words were tumbling from Andrea’s mouth. “Remember what you asked me the other day—about what my Church believes?”
“Oh, yeah. I remember. We didn’t get very far, did we?”
“I can tell you now.” Andrea began reciting the Articles of Faith.
“Wow! You really know a lot about what you believe. I think that’s great. How did you know all that?”
“I’ve been learning at home and at church all my life, but”—she grinned at her friend—“I had a little help from a newspaper man.” Then she told Jane about the Wentworth Letter and about how Joseph Smith’s reply had become the Articles of Faith.
“I can’t believe you memorized them all,” Jane said. “That’s a lot to remember!”
“It’s not that hard when it’s what you believe.”
Jane sat quietly for a minute. “Andrea, could you tell me more about what you believe? I don’t really understand everything you said, but I’d like to.”
“Sure. Let’s get started with cookies, and I’ll tell you about the first article of faith.” Andrea spent most of the cookie-making time explaining some of the Articles of Faith. Then, while they munched on the hot, chocolate cookies, she explained more. When Jane left for home, Andrea offered, “If you want to know more, you can come to church with me sometime.”
“Oh, I’d like that. I’ll ask my mom and let you know.”
That night, Andrea told her father all about her experience with Jane.
“Andrea, the Prophet Joseph Smith would be happy that what he wrote to John Wentworth helped you to share the gospel. Remember to thank the Lord tonight for him and the great work he did.”
And Andrea did just that.

I still remember a handsome young man with his lovely bride and their two beautiful little girls sitting with me and my missionary companion one day. The Holy Ghost came and testified to them that the gospel of Jesus Christ had been restored. They believed enough that they even asked if we could give their two little girls a blessing, as they had seen done in one of our sacrament meetings. They already had a desire for their children to be blessed, but they did not yet understand that the higher blessings would be possible only in the temples of God after they had made covenants.
I still feel pain to think of that couple and those little girls, probably now grown old, without the promise of an eternal family. Their parents had at least an inkling of the blessings that could be made available to them. My hope is that they somehow, somewhere may yet have the opportunity to qualify to be an eternal family.

Some time ago I found a large white envelope in my mailbox. Inside was a story written by a boy I had taught years before when he was in sixth grade. I remembered the student and the assignment his class had worked on for months. I also remembered that he loved to write and would sit and think and think. Sometimes only a word or two found their way to the page. At times he worked during recess, but when the due date arrived, his story still had a chapter to go. I told him just to turn it in as it was, but Jimmy had a different vision and wanted to turn in a finished story. The last day of class he asked if he could finish during the summer break. Again I told him just to turn it in. He pleaded for more time, and finally I sent him on his way with a stack of wrinkled and smudged papers, complimenting him on his determination and assuring him of my confidence in his ability to complete a great story.
I thought about him that summer, but the assignment left my mind until years later when I found his completed project in the mailbox. I was amazed and wondered what made Jimmy finish his story. What kind of vision, determination, and effort had been required in this task? Why do any of us finish a hard task, especially if no one demands its completion?
My husband’s great-grandfather Henry Clegg Jr. was a finisher. He joined the Church with his family when the first LDS missionaries went to Preston, England. Henry had a view of his destination in his mind as he and his wife, Hannah, and their two young boys immigrated to Utah. Henry left his older parents, who were too feeble to make such a long and arduous journey, knowing he would never see them again.
While crossing the plains, Hannah contracted cholera and died. She was laid to rest in an unmarked grave. The company then moved on, and at 6:00 in the evening, Henry’s youngest son also died. Henry retraced his steps to Hannah’s grave, placed his young son in his wife’s arms, and reburied the two of them together. Henry then had to return to the wagon train, now five miles away. Suffering from cholera himself, Henry described his condition as being at death’s door while realizing he still had 1,000 miles to walk. Amazingly he continued forward, putting one foot in front of the other. He stopped writing in his journal for several weeks after losing his dear Hannah and little son. I was struck with the words he used when he did start writing again: “Still moving.”
When he finally reached the gathering place of the Saints, he began a new family. He kept the faith. He continued his story. Most remarkably, his heartache over the burial of his sweetheart and son gave birth to our family’s legacy of moving forward, of finishing.
I have often wondered as I have heard pioneer stories like the one of Henry Clegg, “Could I ever do that?” Sometimes I fear this question, knowing our pioneer legacy lives on today. I recently visited West Africa and witnessed everyday pioneers walking forward, joining a new church, leaving behind centuries of traditions, even leaving behind family and friends, as did Henry. My admiration and love for them is as great as for my own forebears.
Do the challenges of others appear more difficult than our own? We often look at someone with tremendous responsibilities and think, “I could never do that.” Yet others might look at us and feel exactly the same way. It is not the magnitude of the responsibility but rather how it feels to be the one in the middle of the unfinished task. For a young mother with many children at home, caring for them through the day and then through the night could feel like 1,000 miles yet to walk. Giving a lesson in Relief Society to women who are older or younger, more experienced or more educated could feel difficult, especially when the topic is one you are struggling to understand and live yourself. Teaching a class of 10 active six-year-olds can be daunting, especially when your own six-year-old is in the class and you haven’t quite figured out how to teach him one-on-one.
What do we learn from young Jimmy, from early pioneers, and from modern pioneers around the world that will help us in our specific challenges? Jimmy spent years writing on his own for no deadline, Henry Clegg marched on alone and without heart even to write in a journal, and African Saints lived worthy of a temple they could not have imagined would one day rise in their own nation. To keep going, to stay faithful, and to finish had to be its own reward.
Years ago one of our daughters asked me to come outside and play tetherball with her. She told me to sit down and watch as she hit over and over again a ball on a rope that wound itself around a pole. After watching several windings, I asked what my part was in the game, and she said, “Oh, Mom, you say, ‘Good job, good job,’ every time the ball goes around the pole.”
“Good job!” helps the journey seem possible. It might sound like a phone call from a mother of one of the six-year-olds in that Primary class, calling to let the teacher know that her son carefully helped his little sister into the car seat without being asked, acknowledging the Primary teacher’s lesson as the impetus for this new behavior. It might look like a husband getting the children off to nursery and Primary as his wife sets up her lesson for Young Women. It might be as simple as a smile, a hug, or a long walk to sort things out with a friend, a husband, or a child.
We each must find and finish our own story, but how much sweeter the telling when encouragement is called out, when arriving at our destination is valued and celebrated, however long ago the journey commenced.
The greatest mentor and advocate we have said: “I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up” (D&C 84:88). Can any of us afford to leave this piece out of our individual journey?
Henry Clegg was still moving forward to live among the faithful Saints, to take his place, to raise a righteous family, to serve his neighbor. He had that picture in his mind even when his heart was breaking. I heard a Primary child from Ghana answer the question “What does it mean to choose the right every day?” with, “It means to follow the Lord and Savior every day and do your best even when it is hard.” This modern pioneer boy knew President Hinckley’s admonition. He knew about keeping commandments every day. He understood that his own story would unfold simply by putting one foot in front of the other, one day at a time.
Last fall I found myself with a wonderful but challenging opportunity to develop and teach Primary training through a video made entirely in Spanish. At one time in my life I was a Spanish speaker, but recently I had been speaking Portuguese and knew what it would take to relearn Spanish. I did all the things each of you do to complete a task that feels extremely difficult. I found help from capable and dedicated Hispanic sisters. Together we studied, prayed, fasted, and worked long hours. The day arrived to go and do the thing the Lord had asked, and we not only were fearful but felt our work was inadequate. We had worked up to the moment of delivery, and nothing more could be done. I wanted to start over.
Each of our husbands gave us priesthood blessings, and peace and calm started to come. Like angels, help came in the form of a sweet husband who set the alarm on his watch so he could pray for me every half hour during the recording, a cameraman whose eyes radiated “Good job,” and Primary leaders who had confidence in the workings of the Spirit and were able to communicate that with power. We ended up with a finished film that was helpful for our Spanish-speaking leaders. All who participated in it were partly surprised and entirely grateful for its success. We walked as far as we could go, and when we thought we might abandon our carts and drop by the wayside, angels somehow pushed from behind.
What did we learn from this task? The same lesson Henry Clegg Jr. and Jimmy learned and the same thing all faithful modern-day pioneers are learning. With the Lord, nothing is impossible (see Luke 1:37), but we each have to finish our own story. He sends His Spirit, we call out encouragement to each other, but we have to keep writing, keep walking, keep serving and accepting new challenges to the end of our own story. “Still walking” is the fundamental requirement in the journey of life. He wants us to finish well. He wants us to come back to Him. I pray that each of our stories will end in the presence of our Heavenly Father and His Son, our Savior Jesus Christ, the authors and finishers of our faith. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

May I tell you another goal that I set when I was still a youngster.
I had heard all of my life about the Word of Wisdom and the blessings that could come into my life through living it. I had seen people chewing tobacco, and it was repulsive to me. I had seen men waste much time in “rolling their own” cigarettes. They would buy a sack of “Bull Durham” tobacco or some other brand and then some papers, and then they would stop numerous times in a day to fill the paper with tobacco and then roll it and then bend over the little end of it and then smoke it. It seemed foolish to me and seemed such a waste of time and energy. Later when the practice became more sophisticated, they bought their cigarettes readymade. I remember how repulsive it was to me when women began to smoke.
I remember as a boy going to the Fourth of July celebration on the streets of my little town and seeing some of the men as they took part in the horse racing as participator or as gambler, betting on the horses, and I noted that many of them had cigarettes in their lips and bottles in their pockets and some were ugly drunk and with their bleary eyes and coarse talk and cursing.
It took a little time to match the ponies and arrange the races, and almost invariably during this time there would be someone call out, “Fight! Fight!” and all the men and boys would gravitate to the fight area which was attended with blows and blood and curses and hatreds.
Again I was nauseated to think that men would so disgrace themselves, and again I made up my mind that while I would drink the pink lemonade on the Fourth of July and watch the horses run, that I never would drink liquor or swear or curse as did many of these fellows of this little town.
And I remember that without being pressured by anyone, I made up my mind while still a little boy that I would never break the Word of Wisdom. I knew where it was written and I knew in a general way what the Lord had said, and I knew that when the Lord said it, it was pleasing unto him for men to abstain from all these destructive elements and that the thing I wanted to do was to please my Heavenly Father. And so I made up my mind firmly and solidly that I would never touch those harmful things. Having made up my mind fully and unequivocably, I found it not too difficult to keep the promise to myself and to my Heavenly Father.
I remember once in later years when I was district governor of the Rotary Clubs of Arizona that I went to Nice, France, to the international convention. As a part of that celebration there was a sumptuous banquet for the district governors, and the large building was set for an elegant meal. When we came to our places, I noted that at every place there were seven goblets, along with numerous items of silverware and dishes; and everything was the best that Europe could furnish.
As the meal got underway, an army of waiters came to wait on us, seven waiters at each place, and they poured wine and liquor. Seven glass goblets were filled at every plate. The drinks were colorful. I was a long way from home; I knew many of the district governors; they knew me. But they probably did not know my religion nor of my stand on the Word of Wisdom. At any rate, the evil one seemed to whisper to me, “This is your chance. You are thousands of miles from home. There is no one here to watch you. No one will ever know if you drink the contents of those goblets. This is your chance!” And then a sweeter spirit seemed to whisper, “You have a covenant with yourself; you promised yourself you would never do it; and with your Heavenly Father you made a covenant, and you have gone these years without breaking it, and you would be stupid to break this covenant after all these years.” Suffice it to say that when I got up from the table an hour later, the seven goblets were still full of colorful material that had been poured into them but never touched an hour earlier.

I love him for other things; I love him for a phone call from Idaho. A little couple had just had twins prematurely. One of them was doing fairly well, but the other, weighing just a little over a pound and a quarter, was brought into the University of Utah Medical Center. Think of five cubes of butter, if you would—that was the size of this little soul. I received a call: “He has been administered to, but would you mind dropping by the hospital and giving him a blessing? We’d like to have that done, and we’re up here in Idaho. Would you please do it?”
I found that about the only hour I had available that particular day was 5:00 a.m. I dropped by the University of Utah Medical Center, went into the room, and found the oxygen canopy. I put my fingers—all that would fit—on the forehead of this little soul, gave a blessing, and had the impression from God that one day this boy—six feet tall and weighing two hundred pounds—would be a young ambassador for the Lord. This kind of experience has built my understanding and love for the Savior.

An example of the light of the Lord touching someone who needed it desperately came when I called upon a very close friend shortly after the death of his eternal companion. I asked him, “What can I now do to help?” He answered, “Help my son to understand.” You see, this son loved his mother very much. When he saw her suffer month after month, he began to feel that the prayers and the priesthood blessings went unanswered. This caused his faith in our Heavenly Father to waver, and he lost the light of the Lord in his life.
The words rang in my ears: “Help my son to understand.” I asked myself, “How? What can I do?” Finally, I invited him to come to Church headquarters to talk with me. When he arrived and we went to the lunchroom, a most unusual circumstance unfolded while we were eating. During our visit, many General Authorities came by our table and greeted us. He shook hands with eight of the Twelve Apostles. Never before or since have I seen that many members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in the lunchroom at one time.
As we were leaving the Church offices, another unusual thing happened. We caught a glimpse of President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985), and my young friend asked, “Does President Kimball ever talk to someone like me?” Circumstances that would rarely happen again placed us with President Kimball for a few minutes. The short time with him was unforgettably impressive. His instructions were eternal, and his love for this young man was unquestionable. My friend’s heart and mine were touched deeply during those few minutes.
President Kimball’s final statement to this young man, after he gave him a loving embrace, impressed my friend very much. He said, “My boy, when you come home from your mission, you will understand more fully the things we have been talking about.” That day a prophet of God reached out as I suppose only a prophet can. Through him, the Savior touched the life of my friend and turned him toward the light of the Lord.
As we returned to the parking area, I put my arm around him and said, “I know that your mother knows you are here today. Because of her love and devotion to the Lord and her great love for you, I am sure our Heavenly Father has allowed her influence to be felt here today.” Tears flowed, attitudes changed, directions became clear, and commitments were made.
What a thrill it was to report a few months later to President Kimball that this fine young man was serving faithfully and diligently as a full-time missionary!

I have had the opportunity to speak with a woman who heard the call of the Savior when she was 18. Her father, who was a high official in another church, became angry with her and forbade her from being baptized. He let her know that if she became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, she would be ostracized from the family.

Even though the sacrifice was great, this young woman heeded the call of the Savior and entered the waters of baptism.

Her father could not accept her decision, however, and tried to force her into abandoning her new faith. He and his wife reviled her for her decision to become a member of the Church and demanded that she recant and forsake her new religion.

Even through the rage, the bitterness, and the indignity, her faith remained strong. She endured the verbal and emotional abuse, knowing she had heard the call of the Savior and she would follow Him, whatever the consequence.

Eventually this young woman managed to find a safe haven, a place of refuge with a kind member family far away from the threats and unkindness of her father.

She met a faithful young man, and the two of them were married in the temple, receiving the choice blessings that accompany a temple marriage.

Today she stands among the multitude of those who have sacrificed so much to follow the call of the Savior.

At a home evening recently, Richard brought out a scrapbook he keeps; it’s full of his souvenirs. He passed it around the family circle, describing photos he took himself and clippings from newspapers. The rest of the family joined in with other stories, laughter, and warmth. It was clear that they were all involved in learning lessons through their Church activity and through sports. They were learning about brotherhood by working together; they were learning to plan their time to be able to do things they enjoy and still meet school, Church, and household responsibilities; they were learning about family love, caring, and sharing; and they were learning about fixing goals for themselves. It was clear that they’re involved with soccer—and with each other—for more than just the kicks.

Our second daughter, Kelli shared: “When I was endowed in the temple a day or two before being sealed to my husband, Connor, there were so many things on my mind that I paid more attention with my mind than the Spirit. It was challenging to feel completely comfortable, and I felt a little lost. I tried to keep acting in faith by attending the temple more.

“When I was helping my younger brother prepare to make covenants in the temple, I shared with him that all we do in the temple is about Jesus Christ, so focus on Him when you go. Helping my brother, I realized it’s less about the actual ceremony and more about what the Savior is teaching us.

“When I started focusing on Jesus Christ with all my heart during my temple worship, I became confident, and now, I can say that the temple is the best thing I have in the world to get close to Jesus Christ.”

She also shared with me how the most recent adjustments to the endowment ceremony have impacted her. She said, “Papá, the Lord is speaking to our generation.”

Most boys go through their whole lives being called by one name, or at most by two. A boy born in Warrington, Lancashire, England, on March 15, 1857, was called Henry as a child. He was called Brigham after settling in Utah, and he is now known throughout the Church as B. H., one of the great writers of Mormon history. The personal life history of B. H. Roberts is almost as interesting to read as the many exciting events about which he wrote.
When his mother joined the Church and decided to immigrate to America, she was able to take only two of her four children. She left twelve-year-old Mary and five-year-old Henry in England. Mary was apprenticed to distant relatives who owned a kiln.
A couple who had just joined the Church agreed to take the boy. They wandered about England with him, working when they could and begging when no work was available. When they found that Henry had an appealing voice, they took him each night into the taverns to entertain the crowd by singing English ballads.
Henry was often lonely and always felt unloved. By the time he was seven the couple were constantly quarreling, neither wanting the boy. They decided to enlist him in the army as a drummer boy. He was measured for a uniform, a ribbon was fastened to his coat, and he was told to report for duty the next morning.
That night Henry dreamed of his mother. He knew the army enlistment would be binding until he was twenty-one, and he wanted to be free when his mother sent for him as she had promised to do when she left. Quietly slipping on his clothes and tucking his wooden clogs under his arms so he wouldn’t make any noise, the boy crept out into the cold dark street.
Two years later Henry’s mother finally secured enough money to pay for the children to join her in Utah. It was months before the elders found the boy at Wolverhampton and arranged for him to sail to America.
After a long and hard journey west, the children finally reached the Salt Lake Valley. Henry was described by his sister as “a thing of shreds and patches.” She tried to hide him in one of the wagons when the party reached the mouth of Emigration Canyon and started toward the city. But the desperately lonely little boy crept out of the wagon and ran through the streets to find his mother. She was waiting at the Tithing Yard. He flew into her welcoming arms. Henry had found a home at last!
With new clothes and a new name (since the family decided he was to be called Brigham now), the nine-year-old boy began a new life. When the blacksmith to whom he was apprenticed gave him time off to go to school and learn to read, Brigham found a new and exciting world. He became a missionary, a mission president, an editor, a writer, a historian, and a General Authority of the Church.

At church on Sunday everyone was talking about the call to go to New Mexico. Brother Golden took me on his lap as usual, and while I brushed and braided his long red beard, he talked to Mama and Papa about the best place to buy a good cover for the wagon. I remembered the first time that he’d picked me up several years before, and I’d reached up to feel his stiff, prickly beard.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Can’t you get rid of it?” I tried to say. He must have thought my mumble meant yes because he just laughed, patted my head, and said, “You’re an angel.”
I wasn’t much of an angel, but maybe I looked a little like one because I had a headful of yellow curls, blue eyes, and a smile that made a dimple hole in my cheek.
When I went to Sunday School class that day my teacher was giving out red leather Bibles to some of the children who had 100 percent attendance for a year. I wanted one of those Bibles so bad I could hardly stand it, but there was no way I could get one now. I’d be gone in less than a month.
After class I went up to the front of the room just to look at the one beautiful book that was left. As I reached up to touch it, the teacher turned around from cleaning the blackboard and looked at me.
“You’re moving away, aren’t you, Dora?” she said.
I nodded my head.
“I’ll miss you in my class. I can tell when I see you listening that you are very close to our Heavenly Father.”
I nodded. She was right. I was close to Him. I knew He understood me even when no one else did.
“Would you like to have that Bible to take with you?” she asked kindly.
I bobbed my head up and down so fast I could feel my curls bouncing. She handed me the book, and I hugged it to me.
I reached up and kissed her cheek and skipped from the room, so happy I wanted to sing.
“Thank You, oh, thank You,” I murmured, glancing heavenward.
Papa made me a little wooden box with a hinged lid for my birthday that October when I was seven. It was to hold my precious things to take with me, he said. I packed it and repacked it many times, trying to find the best way to get the most in; but I never could get it to hold everything I wanted to take.
Papa and Mama were busy getting the wagon ready to go, and my friend Eileen was watching me pack the box for the last time.
“Where do you think the best place is for the chickens?” Mama asked.
“Chickens?” Papa said. “We’re not taking any chickens.”
“Of course we are. Three or four of the best layers and Caroline’s rooster, so we can raise some chicks in the spring and maybe a couple of hens to eat along the way.”
Papa sighed. When Mama had that sound in her voice, he knew it was no use to argue.
“I guess we can put them in a crate and tie it to the side behind the washtubs. You’d better put chicken feed on your list.”
“I already did.”
“I think I’ve figured out how to load the stove so we can cook on it while we’re traveling,” Papa told her.
“That’ll come in handy. Will we have plenty of water?”
“Four barrels: two in front and two behind. That should be enough to get us through the driest places.”
I carefully placed the soft leather Bible in one end of my box. Pressed between its pages were beautiful red leaves I had gathered from the autumn trees. I’d tied a string round and round both ways so they wouldn’t fall out. I dropped the seeds in next, in the little crack that was left behind the book: two red beans and four watermelon seeds and then the long strand of tiny glass beads I had strung myself. Sister Johnson had given them to me in a slim bottle with a cork one day when Mama was visiting her. While they talked, I had picked up the beads one at a time with the thin needle and slipped them along the thread, choosing the colors to suit me as I went.
I tried to fold the doll quilt small enough to fit into the box, but it was no use. I handed it to Eileen instead and indicated it was to be hers.
“For keeps?” she asked, and I nodded my head.
She rubbed it against her cheek. I’d made it by sewing together scraps from the new baby clothes, and I knew I could stitch another after we’d moved.
“Will the doll fit?” she wanted to know, and I answered by placing Henrietta on the soft bed I’d made with her folded flannel nightie. Henrietta was a beautiful painted-eye doll with china head, hands, and feet, and a stuffed cloth body. Some girls had shut-eye dolls, but I wouldn’t have traded because I loved Henrietta.
“What about those?” Eileen asked, pointing to the rest of my treasures beside her on the step.
I shook my head and handed them to her one by one—an old hat and pair of shoes I used to play dress-up, some more doll clothes, a worn-out Mother Goose book. When I came to the bag of marbles, I dumped them out, selected five or six of my favorites, and pushed them into the folds of the doll dresses in the box. The rest I returned to the bag and gave to Eileen.
After she ran off home with her hands full, I noticed again the pain in my head. It had started two or three days before as a tender spot behind my right ear and now was a sore and throbbing lump. I went inside to talk to Heavenly Father and ask Him to make it better.
By morning I was burning up with fever and crying with pain. Mama took one look at the spot I pointed to and said, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We’ll have to get you to a doctor fast!”
The doctor decided just as quickly that he should lance the boil, and before long he had drained it.
“There, doesn’t that feel better?” the doctor asked.
I tried to say it sure did, but he couldn’t understand my mumble.
“Can’t this child talk?” he asked Mama.
“Not too good,” she said.
He took a look in my mouth and said, “Why, she’s tongue-tied! This should have been taken care of a long time ago. It’s a very simple procedure.”
He explained to me that my tongue was fastened down on the bottom where it should not be. All he had to do was cut it loose a little, and then I’d be able to talk like everyone else. I couldn’t believe it.
For a few minutes life was wonderful. The pain was gone in my head and the doctor could help me talk. When we get to our home in New Mexico, I’ll be talking like everyone else, I dreamed. I can go to school with Ed and, best of all, no one will tease me.
I did not know yet that it would take lots of pain and effort before I could talk and years of hard work before we had a place of our own.
The doctor asked Mama when would be a good time for the operation, and she said, “You’d better do it now; we’re leaving tomorrow.”

From the time I was old enough to grip the handle of a broom, my dad gave me the weekend chore of sweeping the driveway in front of our house. Though it was a fair-sized driveway, the sweeping only took a half hour, and it wasn’t difficult. But once the driveway was cleaned, well, like any other kid who is anxious to complete a chore, I hoped it would stay that way. Forever.
Only one thing could ruin my handiwork with the broom: squirrels. With a beautiful eucalyptus tree hanging over most of the driveway, squirrels were often a problem.
A eucalyptus tree bears much fruit: woody, cup-shaped receptacles filled with hundreds of small seeds. For lack of a better name, we used to call them acorns. As a kid who was trying to sweep the driveway once and for all, it seemed as if there were millions of those acorns. And the squirrels loved to eat them. Now squirrels eating acorns aren’t, in and of themselves, a problem. It’s the way they eat them that’s the problem. You see, squirrels are real connoisseurs. They don’t eat the entire acorn, just a bite here and a bite there of the insides. The outside shavings and the rest of the insides that the squirrel doesn’t eat simply fall to the ground.
I could do a wonderful job sweeping up every acorn, leaf, and twig, and the driveway would look great. Then, after a squirrel munch-out, the driveway would look terrible.
The squirrels were having a field day at my expense.
I can remember looking up into the branches at what seemed like the entire family tree of the two original squirrels that accompanied Noah. I also remember giving them dirty looks, but they only looked down at me, unconcerned and very content with the distance between us.
This is where the bright green tennis balls enter into the story. Dad always had a large bucket of tennis balls that had seen better days on the courts months before.
How could I remedy the dirty driveway dilemma? Right, throw bright green tennis balls at the little rascals in hopes of scaring them away to another tree. I just thought that if I could scare them away I might never have to sweep the driveway again. I confess, I used to worry about what our neighbor next door, Mrs. McDonald, might think. She loved animals. In fact, every year for four years I would go around the neighborhood selling Little League Baseball raffle tickets. Mrs. McDonald would always buy one, but she would always sign the name of one of her cats or dogs on the tickets. Last year it was “Elsa” the German shepherd.
Swoosh!
I easily followed the path of the bright green tennis ball. It missed its mark but came close enough to scare the squirrel away.
“Check, check, check, check, check, check,” it cried.
If you wanted to look on the bright side, you could say that throughout my teenage years, my baseball throwing arm became stronger and more accurate.
On the not so bright side, the squirrels quickly became accustomed to watching those mysterious green projectiles fly past them. I never did succeed in scaring the squirrels away on a permanent basis. Every Saturday morning, the driveway had to be swept. Every Saturday morning I would be out there with the squirrels. And no amount of tennis balls would make it easier, regardless of how accurately I threw. I always ended up sweeping.
Eventually I learned an important lesson, one I have reflected on again and again. For many kinds of work, there aren’t any shortcuts. Even when a job is done right the first time, sometimes it needs to be done right again and again. That’s why it’s called a chore—not because it’s burdensome, but because it’s a duty.
Today, when I visit my parents, the eucalyptus tree still towers over the driveway. The squirrels are still there, and they’re still dropping the acorns. Sometimes, just for fun, I’ll hurl a green tennis ball in their direction.
Then I’ll go get the broom.

When I was a young girl, my mother, Lovina Anderson Low, told me, “You can be anything in life you want to be, Elaine, if you work for it.” She was right. Because of a heart ailment, she wasn’t well for a good deal of my growing-up years. By the time I was twelve or thirteen, I was taking care of the home—doing the washing, baking bread, and doing quite a bit of the cooking. Mother taught me the pattern for managing seasonal things: I canned fruits and vegetables in the summer, and I helped my father put carrots and potatoes in the storage pit in the fall. Sometimes I felt like I was asked to do too much, but I learned to do what had to be done.

Reading scriptures. Although I had read the Book of Mormon throughout my life, since the divorce I have been reading it daily. The scriptures have taken on new meaning for me. They comfort and guide me. They bring me closer to Heavenly Father. They give me answers.
One night, after attending a fireside on relationships, I came home feeling very awkward. I hated thinking of myself as a divorced woman. After saying my prayers, I picked up the Book of Mormon, and the first scripture I read said: “And now … , seeing that our merciful God has given us so great knowledge concerning these things, let us remember him … and not hang down our heads, for we are not cast off” (2 Ne. 10:20). As I read on, the Holy Ghost was able to give me some personal instruction. I felt the message to me was that things were different now but that I would be led and that the Lord remembered me.
I felt again God’s awareness of me and my situation, and I felt of His love. I do not need to hang my head down in shame because I am divorced. Yes, some things have changed in my life, but eternal principles are the same. If I stay close to Heavenly Father, all promised blessings can still be mine. I am thankful I opened my scriptures that evening.

In the marvelous experience of Brigham Young in February of 1847, when the Prophet Joseph appeared to him in a dream or vision, Brigham pleaded to be reunited with the Prophet. Brigham Young asked the Prophet if he had a message for the Brethren. The Prophet said:
“Tell the people to be humble and faithful, and to be sure to keep the spirit of the Lord and it will lead them right. Be careful and not turn away the still small voice; it will teach them what to do and where to go; it will yield the fruits of the kingdom. Tell the Brethren to keep their hearts open to conviction, so that when the Holy Ghost comes to them, their hearts will be ready to receive it.”
The Prophet further directed Brigham Young as follows: “They can tell the Spirit of the Lord from all other spirits; it will whisper peace and joy to their souls; it will take malice, hatred, strife and all evil from their hearts; and their whole desire will be to do good, bring forth righteousness and build up the kingdom of God.” (Manuscript History of Brigham Young: 1846–47, Historical Dept., The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, pp. 528–31.)