Gospel Story Finder

Photographs by Christina Smith
For violinist Claire Z. of Idaho, USA, music has always been important. “It just makes everything better,” she says. “It gives you something to focus on and enjoy and share with others.” Music also gives Claire a way to share her beliefs. “I’m not very outgoing. Music is a way to bear my testimony.”
Growing up, Claire loved playing the violin and thought about studying it in college. But a four-wheeling accident almost changed her path forever.
When Claire was 13, she and her friend were riding a four-wheeler together near Claire’s house. At a curve in the road, Claire lost control of the vehicle and it flipped. Claire’s friend was unharmed, but Claire’s left hand—the hand she most needed to play the violin—was crushed underneath a metal bar. Claire and her friend crawled out from under the vehicle and walked home, singing hymns and Primary songs to keep up their spirits.
It took several surgeries and a year of physical therapy before Claire could even think about playing the violin again. At first it seemed impossible because the fingers of her left hand were weak and most of her ring finger had been amputated. Between surgeries, Claire found comfort playing the piano with her right hand.
Claire struggled with feeling angry and sad at the beginning of her trial. She remembers one night when she was having a hard time. “I felt like I was suffocating,” Claire says, “like something really heavy was lying on my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. Finally, I just knelt down and prayed, ‘Heavenly Father, please help me to get through this and be OK.’ And immediately that weight, that pressure just lifted, and I felt like I could do it. That was a really amazing experience. You can get through hard things with Heavenly Father.”
Before the accident, Claire had been the youngest member of her city’s symphony. After the accident, she was worried she would never play the violin again.
Claire’s violin teacher started to research how to build a backward violin that could be held with the right hand instead of the left. Everything on and inside the violin had to be moved around. Other music teachers and professional musicians said it was impossible, but Claire, her mother, and her violin teacher knew it could be done and eventually found someone who would make the violin.
Once the new violin was ready, it was very frustrating for Claire to learn to play with her right hand. She’d spent years training her left hand and fingers to move quickly across violin strings. Now she had to start over and teach her right hand to do it all. She felt discouraged by her memories of playing, because she was now unable to play as well as she had before. But with time, practice, and prayer, she did improve.
After six months of daily practice, Claire eventually earned a spot back in the symphony with her friends. She also put on a piano and violin recital with her friends at the hospital where she’d been treated. Those who know her think of her as an inspiration and have learned from her example of hard work, determination, and faith in the Lord.
Claire has learned a lot from her trial, but she thinks the most important lesson is to stay positive. “Don’t let your anger control you,” she says. “You have to get negative feelings out because they’re all in there, but make sure you’re focusing on the good in your situation and finding the positive after you have those moments. You have to make yourself think positively and find the good things, however few or little you think they may be.”
Claire says that good support also helped her stay positive. “I have great family, friends, and neighbors who were just happy, visited me, and brought me lots of treats.”
Claire’s life is very different from the life she may have imagined a few years ago, but she says, “I don’t think I’d ever want it to change. I’ve met so many amazing people.” With the Lord’s help, hard work, determination, and a positive attitude, Claire can once again follow her dream and continue playing the violin.

Alisa helped her younger sister, Mikki, comb her long black hair. Then they hurried downstairs and ate breakfast. Tomorrow was Father’s Day, and the two girls were going shopping today for the ingredients to make a cake for their father. It was not going to be an ordinary cake—it would be filled with surprises!
As soon as they came home from the store, they took their aprons from the closet and helped each other tie them. Next they got all the ingredients out for the surprise cake and put them on the table. While Mikki greased and floured the cake pans, Alisa turned on the oven. Then, carefully measuring and stirring, the girls soon had the batter ready. Alisa spooned it into the cake pans while Mikki watched to see that both pans had the same amount.
At last the pans were in the oven, and the best part of making the cake batter had arrived. Alisa and Mikki each got a spoon and sat at the table and scraped the bowl.
Soon the cake layers were cooling on racks and the dishes were done. The girls ran up to their room to make the “surprise” part of the cake.
First they cut a piece of paper into several narrow strips. Then on each strip they wrote one thing that was special about their dad. Next they folded the strips and went back downstairs and wrapped each one in aluminum foil. With a knife Alisa carefully made little slits in the cake, and Mikki poked a wrapped strip into each slit.
Mother frosted the cake for them. She made pretty swirls around the edges and wrote “Happy Father’s Day” in the middle.
The next day after church they had a Father’s Day party. They sang Father’s favorite songs and played some games. When Mother cut the cake, she gave everyone a big piece. Father, of course, got the biggest one.
"What’s shining in my piece of cake?" he asked.
Alisa and Mikki looked at each other and grinned.
"That’s our surprise for you!" Alisa said.
"Yes," Mikki told him. "You’re supposed to unwrap the foil and read the note out loud. Then we’ll take turns reading ours."
Each person found and excitedly unwrapped the foil-covered surprises that had been hidden in the cake. Father’s face beamed as he read the first strip. It said, "We love you because you read stories to us."
Mikki opened the next one and read, "We love you because you take care of us."
Mother’s strip said, "We love you because you do things with us."
Alisa had two surprise strips in her piece of cake. "We love you because you laugh a lot" was on the first one.
Alisa, Mikki, and Mother read the last one together: "We love you because you love us."
"I really do," Father said. "Thank you for a wonderful Father’s Day."
(If you would like to make a surprise cake for someone, just follow the directions for "Chocolate Surprise Cake" in Kitchen Krafts.)

Amanda Rawlins, a 13-year-old Beehive from the Burton Second Ward in Rexburg, Idaho, just finished holding a weeklong Locks of Love event. She decided to organize the event for her Good Works project after seeing a TV interview about girls going through chemotherapy. Amanda learned that it takes 6 to 10 ponytails to make a wig for one patient who has lost her hair. She realized that simply donating her own hair would not be enough. She wanted to do more.
She made arrangements for a beauty college to give free haircuts to those willing to donate their hair for the event. With her mother’s help, Amanda put up posters and handed out flyers at local schools. At the end of the project, they had collected 30 ponytails. That’s enough hair for three or four full wigs. “I am so happy with how many ponytails we received,” Amanda says. “I am so thankful to all those willing to cut off the 10 inches needed for the donation.”

Around thirty-five years ago while serving as a branch president in Fiji. I often went home teaching with my favorite companion, Sister Bauer, in searching out particularly the less active members of the branch--male and female. We came across Inoke and Ateca’s home in our looking for the home of Inoke’s less-active cousin. Inoke was not home at the time so we visited with Ateca. A very strong impression came to me to ask Ateca to receive the missionaries and to be taught the gospel. At first, I put the impression aside with the reasoning that we had just met this young lady, Ateca. However, the impression came back even stronger and I could literally feel my heart beat within my chest. I invited Ateca to receive the missionaries and she accepted the invitation. Both Ateca and Inoke were taught by the missionaries. The rest is, as they say, history. Three generations of the family are now in the gospel. The Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ can indeed bring great happiness and success.

The clock struck nine. Flora watched her father thumb through the Bible’s pages to find his place. Elder Roberts, who had been teaching them about the Church, laid down the saddlebag he was mending. Flora’s sister, Matilda, set aside her needlework to listen to Father read: “‘Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee’” (Isa. 41:10).
“Amen,” Elder Roberts said as Father finished reading.
“Now, Elder Roberts, would you read from the Book of Mormon?” Father asked.
Elder Roberts opened the well-worn Book of Mormon. He cleared his throat and began, “‘Now this is the commandment: Repent … and come unto me and be baptized in my name’” (3 Ne. 27:20).
Flora leaned closer to Matilda and whispered, “You can be baptized if you like, but I never will.”
“Why not, Flora?”
“Just look what has happened to us for even listening to the missionaries. Mr. Cardston, who has always treated us like his own daughters, will not speak to us. He won’t let Amy and Gertrude associate with us.”
“It is hard.”
“But that isn’t the worst of it. Think of Isaac, driven from the street with stones. He was almost killed just for passing out pamphlets about the gospel.”
“But do you know what he whispered to me as I fed him his supper? ‘Matilda,’ he said, ‘I am so happy that I am baptized and that I am counted worthy to hold the office of a deacon in the Church and kingdom of God.’”
“Well, you can be baptized like Isaac and Father, but I shall not,” Flora declared firmly.
“Daughters,” Father said, “please say good night to Isaac before going to bed.”
“Yes, Father,” the girls chimed.
Isaac’s arms and face were black and blue with bruises. He moaned a little as he attempted to roll onto his side, but he forced a partial smile when he saw his sisters in the doorway.
“Oh, Isaac!” Flora exclaimed. “How can you stand what they have done to you?”
“There, there, Flora. I’ll mend in no time. You’ll see.”
“Weren’t you frightened when they began stoning you?”
“Yes, little one, my knees trembled, yet I did my best to magnify my office and calling.”
“You are so brave, Isaac.”
“It isn’t bravery—just love, Flora. My whole being is filled with the love of Christ. I even love those who threw the stones today.”
“How can you love people who were trying to hurt you?”
Matilda said, “I think I understand what you mean, Isaac.” She kissed his forehead on a spot that wasn’t bruised.
“Are you girls going to be baptized?” he asked.
“Yes, I am—this Sunday, in the Matlock Baths.” Matilda’s face was radiant.
“No, Isaac.” Flora sighed. “I just can’t.”
“Is it because you don’t know if the Church is true?”
“I know it’s true. When I read the Book of Mormon, my whole mind seemed filled with light. But I just can’t be baptized.”
“Why not, little one?”
“All my friends will turn away from me. And Father said that if we all join, we will sell everything and go to America. How can I part with everything and everyone that I love and hold dear? I’m afraid, Isaac.”
“That is to be expected. You pray and let God guide you.”
On Sunday, Flora was happy that Isaac, although still weak, joined her and Matilda as they made their way to where Matilda would be baptized. At first, the neighbors silently watched them. Then some began to shout horrible lies about the Church.
Flora’s stomach churned with fear. If only Father were with them! He had gone earlier with Elder Roberts to prepare for the baptism. She glanced at Isaac’s blanched face, perspiring from the effort of walking. He looked close to collapsing.
“This is as far as you go,” spoke a harsh voice. “There will not be any of this Mormon baptizing done today.”
Flora eyed the crowd that was closing in around them. She shuddered as she looked into their faces. Former friends now seemed like strangers, their faces dark with anger. Flora winced as a stone hit her ankle. “Let’s stone them!” someone shouted.
“Heavenly Father, I am so afraid. Please guide and strengthen me,” Flora prayed. Peace and love filled her heart, and she felt stronger. Was the Holy Ghost with her? She felt that He was.
“Do not be afraid,” Flora said. Her voice, clear and steady, easily reached the back of the crowd. “We are your neighbors, and we love you. We wish to show our love for Heavenly Father this day by being baptized in the name of His Son, Jesus Christ.”
An old woman shook her cane at the crowd. “They’re just children,” she said. “Let them alone. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”
Flora held her breath as she listened to the angry crowd murmur. “Come now,” a man growled. “Beatrice is right. These children haven’t done us any harm.” The crowd slowly scattered.
“Who is the brave one now?” Isaac whispered. He smiled, and Flora knew he was pleased with her.
“Flora, did I hear you say ‘we’ are to be baptized?” Matilda asked.
“Yes, I said ‘we.’ You and I are going to be baptized today.” Flora linked her arm with Matilda’s.
So Matilda and Flora were baptized at the Matlock Baths. Afterward, they sang:
“‘O Jesus, I have promised To serve Thee to the end;
Be Thou forever near me, my Master and my friend;
I shall not fear the battle If Thou art by my side,
Nor wander from the pathway If Thou wilt be my guide.’”

About a year ago, our youngest daughter and her husband were preparing to welcome their very first child, a sweet baby girl. They were excited beyond belief. Just a few days before the delivery date, the baby stopped moving, and the doctors couldn’t detect a heartbeat. A day later, little Charlotte Faith was delivered stillborn. Never before had we experienced that kind of grief. Every part of our soul wanted to scream in anguish. Lucia and I hurt deeply for our daughter and her husband. All we could think of was all the whys and what-might-have-beens— all the joy we would have experienced with this little one. Why did this happen? Why didn’t we see it coming? Why? Why? Why? Well, I still don’t have answers to those questions. They’re currently in the box, and I think the answers will take some time— maybe a long time. But our faith and trust is in the Lord. We will wait on Him. We miss little Charlotte! The faith of our daughter and her husband has never wavered. Their hearts are healing. And they recently welcomed a little boy, Peter Abram, into their family. That’s what it looks like to move forward with faith.

When I was getting married, I felt anxious. My family still chuckles at how I tapped my fingers on my knee (a nervous tick of mine) as the temple sealer spoke to us. I wasn’t afraid to marry my husband—I loved him! But I was worried about the future because I was making such an important covenant. I silently prayed when I entered the temple to know what I could do to keep our marriage strong in a world that was growing increasingly turbulent.
A few moments later, the temple sealer told my husband and me to remember that every ordinance in the temple points us to Jesus Christ. The Spirit helped me recognize this message as an answer from Heavenly Father, and the temple sealer’s words deepened my testimony that as my husband and I consistently turned to the Savior, especially through temple work, we could strengthen our marriage through eternity.
This experience reminded me that Heavenly Father cares about the questions in our hearts and can provide comforting wisdom to us in the temple in personal ways. As President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) taught: “When I have been weighed down by a problem or a difficulty, I have gone to the House of the Lord with a prayer in my heart for answers. These answers have come in clear and unmistakable ways.”3

—Lisa, a high school sophomore, tells about the time the quarterback of the football team asked her to the homecoming dance.
“I couldn’t believe my luck,” she said. “One of the most high-profile guys in the school had asked me to the most prestigious dance of the year.”
Her enthusiasm dampened, though, when after the dance her date started driving down a lonely road she realized led to Lover’s Lane. Quarterback or no quarterback, she had decided long ago that “parking” was something she would not do.
To avoid embarrassment, she began talking about how this particular road reminded her of a friend’s experience. The police had caught her friend and a date parking up there, and had taken them to the police station.
“Of course, anyone who is silly enough to park deserves what they get,” she laughed. Without speaking, her date turned the car around, and a few minutes later they were sitting in her living room eating pie with her parents.

When Brother Maeser was going to Zion, he stopped in London, where he was called on a mission and told he wouldn’t be going on to Zion for a long period of time. That was a great disappointment to him. And there was a great test connected with it. He had been the headmaster of a school, a professor of great dignity. When he walked into a class, all of the students stood up out of respect to this distinguished scholar.
He felt because of his social position there were some things he couldn’t do. He wouldn’t carry packages in the street, for instance; that was below his station in life. He wouldn’t carry a suitcase; that was below his station in life. Wasn’t he Herr Dr. Professor, the headmaster, a man of great dignity? And his test came from two humble missionaries. They were going to leave London and go up north to do their missionary work.
The young elder said, “Brother Maeser, you take your suitcase and meet us at the station, and we will meet you there and go on the train.” Brother Maeser paced his room all day to think that they had told him to carry a suitcase through the streets. He worried about it, he talked to his wife about it, and she counseled him, and finally he said to himself and his wife, “The elders have told me to do it, and they are presiding over me, and I will do it.” And he took his suitcase and walked to the station.
Now that is just a little thing, but it was almost like Gethsemane for Dr. Maeser, to submit himself to the leadership of these young elders.

Tears fell as I prayed for peace when my youngest son filled out his missionary application. I really wanted him to go on a mission. I did. I kept trying to convince myself of this.
I love my Savior and was genuinely thrilled for my son’s opportunity to share the joy we can find through Jesus Christ. Yet deep down I was afraid of him leaving. I knew that he would never truly come home again after his mission. Even if he lived at home, it wouldn’t be the same.
My friends told me the empty-nester stage was wonderful. My husband and I were excited and looking forward to the freedom and opportunities we hadn’t had while we were raising our children.
With this newfound freedom, I threw myself into a myriad of activities. I traveled with my husband, learned to play the organ for my calling, played with my grandchildren, and did temple and family history work.
I found excitement and adventure. I found self-improvement. I found wonderful things.
Yet there was always something missing. Something still wasn’t there. When my son left, he took a big chunk of my heart that I couldn’t seem to fill.
About a year after my son left, I had a temper tantrum to compete with all the temper tantrums my children threw when they were young. My husband looked at me and said, “Michelle, you need to serve.” I signed up for a service opportunity.
Still, my heart ached. I had a hard time throwing myself into service or any of the other ventures that beckoned. With all my children gone, I felt like my life would never be quite whole again.
One night when I prayed for help, the Spirit informed me that I was experiencing the void that comes from loss—loss of purpose. I thought I had dealt with that particular sadness by filling my life with all those wonderful activities.
As I sought for answers, I found this statement from the Prophet Joseph Smith’s history: “When we lose [something or someone] upon whom we have set our hearts it should be a caution unto us. … Our affections should be placed upon God and his work more intensely than upon our fellow beings.”1
A jolt of light pierced the dark cloud over my heart. I had tried to fill my deep cavity of sorrow with things, activities, and experiences—serving, loving, pursuing talents. All good things, but they didn’t fill my gaping hole. They didn’t heal the way I needed healing.
I realized that type of peace and fulfillment can only come through our Savior, Jesus Christ. Jesus taught, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). It is only through Him that we find joy and wholeness and peace and contentment. Psalm 16:11 says, “Thou wilt shew me the path of life: in thy presence is fulness of joy.”
Life didn’t instantly change. My heart didn’t instantly heal. But I knew where my focus had to be for it to happen.
My prayers shifted. I started asking Heavenly Father to help me build a stronger relationship with my Savior. When I would get discouraged, I would consciously remind myself that Jesus Christ was there for me, and through the grace of His atoning power, He would help me. My scripture study became more focused on building a relationship with Him. It took time, but I persisted in directing my emotions, my energy, and my thoughts toward Jesus Christ.
As I did, the heavy darkness began to lift. I found greater enjoyment in the little acts of service and love each day. Light and hope brightened my path and filled the void in my heart. Putting the Savior first gave deeper meaning and enjoyment to every aspect of my life, from serving to spending time with family, from traveling to developing my talents. Everything became richer with Christ at the center.
Everyone’s journey through the changing times in life is unique. However, the solution to our sorrows is to respond to Christ’s call when He says, “Come unto me with full purpose of heart, and I shall heal [you]” (3 Nephi 18:32). It is only through Him that we will find true healing, peace, love, and joy.

Later when I had graduated from high school, served a mission, and completed my courses in college, I went on to earn a Ph.D. from a school in New England. (Ph.D. just means you are a doctor that doesn’t give shots or fix broken legs. In fact, I’m not sure Ph.Ds can fix much of anything.)

When I received my diploma I wanted my father to have it. He had never received a graduation diploma from any school and I thought he deserved this one. I told him that although my name was on it, the diploma should really be awarded to him. I told him they probably just made a mistake in the printing. That made him laugh and then it made him cry. I wasn’t sure then why it made him cry—but I know now.

Even though I had been to church only a few times, my home teacher faithfully visited me. One night he called and asked if I would share some thoughts about eternal families in the next Gospel Principles class.
“Yes, I’d love to,” I said.
I didn’t think much of it until the next morning. That’s when I realized I had agreed to talk about eternal families to a group of people who probably already knew all about it. I didn’t have a clue what I could say to them.
Over the years, I had made choices that separated me from the gospel. How was I supposed to share my thoughts about something I wasn’t sure I even believed? I felt confused. Then the words to the hymn “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301) came to my mind. I had not heard those words in years, but I knew them by heart. Then it struck me: I needed to ask God if I actually was His child.
At that time, I was rearranging the furniture in my bedroom, so with my bed askew in the middle of the room, I kneeled next to it and waited for the words to come. What could I possibly say to God? I wasn’t sure He even existed. In that moment, my heart’s deepest desire brought these simple words to my lips: “God, are You really there? And if You are there, am I Your child?”
The answer came immediately. It was as if He had been waiting for me to ask. I felt God say, “Yes, Camille, I am here, and you are my child.”
When I opened my eyes, I was still in my disheveled bedroom. Everything around me was in disarray, but I felt like my life had been put in perfect order. I knew that I was a child of God, and that was all that mattered.
In class on Sunday, I simply told my story of how I came to know that I am a child of God. “If I am His child,” I said, “then so is everyone else.”
It took another three and a half years for me to make all the positive changes I needed to make, but my life has never been the same. Since that day, I have never doubted who I am. I know that Heavenly Father is always there. He loves me because I am His child.

I knelt with my own family, at the conclusion of a great family home evening, the night before our lovely daughter was to be married in the temple. I think she wouldn’t mind my telling you that after we had laughed and wept and remembered, she was asked to pray. I don’t recall much of her prayer, the tears and the joy and the sweetness, but I remember one thought: she thanked God for the unconditional love she had received. This life doesn’t give one very many chances to feel exultant and a little successful, but I felt wonderful that night, and thank God that she really believes and understands what she said. We cannot, my dear brethren, condition our love by a beard or beads or habits or strange viewpoints. There have to be standards and they must be enforced, but our love must be unconditional.

Dillon has a terrible problem: his greatest talent is also his greatest fear. “I love to sing,” the 16-year-old Tongan says, “but not in front of people. I get too scared.”
Imagine his mixed feelings when the Church in Tonga announced auditions for vocalists to record a Tongan version of the Old Testament seminary soundtrack. He was both excited and scared to death.
Three songs on the soundtrack require a male vocalist. After Dillon had sung the song for which he was auditioning, the producer surprised him by asking him to sing another of the songs on the soundtrack. As nervous as he was, he did it, and the producer said, “We found our boy.”
Much to his excitement—and dismay—Dillon was offered the opportunity to record all three songs.
As Dillon worked with the sound crew to record the songs, he struggled with one note. “I couldn’t hit it,” he says. “We rehearsed for hours.”
Finally, exhausted and discouraged, he went home that night, knowing that the next morning he’d have to record the song.
“I went straight to my room and prayed to my Heavenly Father to help me,” he says.
All he could think about was how important the soundtrack would be to the 50,000 members of the Church in Tonga, as well as thousands of others who speak Tongan around the world.
“It was one of the longest nights of my life,” he says.
After a long night of prayer and a little bit of sleep, Dillon walked into the recording studio and hit the note.
“Hallelujah,” he remembers saying. “I was happy.”
One of Dillon’s favorite scriptures is Joshua 1:9: “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”
Dillon put that promise to the test, and he learned it was true. “I tried my best. I put my best effort and heart into the songs so the listeners will be able to feel the Spirit.”
As Dillon grows out of his fear and into his talents, he recognizes he has received a lot of help—not only from his family but from his Heavenly Father.
“I know,” he says, “that God answered my prayers.”

Like many of you, I was baptized by water when I was eight years old, over a half a century ago. I remember a lot of the details about my baptism by water, in part because when I arrived at the chapel we discovered that they didn’t have any baptismal pants small enough to fit me. They brought me the same type of baptismal clothing that the two or three other girls were going to wear for their baptism on that day. They told me it was a tunic, but I knew it was a dress. I refused to put it on notwithstanding the efforts of my father and the priesthood leader who was conducting the baptismal service to persuade me otherwise. At some point an older man walked into the changing room, sensed my determination not to be baptized in what I knew was not a tunic, and then left only to return with two things in his hands. In one hand was a picture from the meetinghouse library of John the Baptist baptizing Jesus Christ. In his other hand was a rope. He told me that if I put on what they were calling a tunic, and tied the rope around my waist, I would look like John the Baptist and Jesus Christ in the picture. That made sense to me, so I was baptized in a tunic, not a dress, with a rope tied around my waist. I remember all of that. Here’s the part that troubles me. I don’t remember anything about hands being placed on my head and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost.

I’m 12 now! My birthday was pretty crazy because it was also the last performance for the play. I only forgot one line! So today was Sunday, and I had my first meeting as part of the Beehive presidency. We talked about what we can do to help Sara feel comfortable at church. I had no idea. Then I remembered what the bishop said when he set me apart for my new calling. He said that God would help me know the needs of the girls in my class. When I remembered that, I had an idea of an activity that Sara might like.
Sara loved our activity on Wednesday and even came to church today! Travis and Luke are both passing the sacrament now. I think I understand what Dad meant about all of us having different jobs. We use priesthood power in different ways, but we all serve each other.

Tamma Miner’s first husband, Albert, died in January of 1848 when their youngest child was not yet two years old and their oldest only fifteen years of age. Tamma’s father, Edmond, was murdered by a mob at Nauvoo, Illinois, when Tamma was 32 and expecting her ninth child. Their daughter Melissa died during the persecution era at seven months; their son Orson died of a fever at seventeen; and another daughter, Sylvia, died at age two. Tamma, with her five remaining boys and two girls, started the journey to Salt Lake City across the plains on June 10, 1850. Tamma’s writings include this wonderful declaration:
“I have passed through all the hardships and drivings and burnings and mobbings and threatenings and have been with the Saints in all their persecutions from Huron county to Kirtland and from Kirtland to Missouri back to Illinois and then across the desert. I write this that my children may have a little idea of what their parents passed through. I hope my children will appreciate these lines for I do feel highly honored to be numbered with the Latter-day Saints” (in Our Pioneer Heritage, 2:323).

Thirteen-year-old Henry Sanderson, on his way from Connecticut to Nauvoo, Illinois, was not sure if he was riding a railroad train or a boat on wheels.
This was September 1842, and Pennsylvania’s forests were becoming dotted with the reds and golds of autumn. To cross the Allegheny Mountains, Henry boarded a train with his parents and two younger sisters. It had a steam engine like a normal train, but the passenger cars were actually boats on train wheels. Near the mountain summit, trainmen unhooked the engine and snapped a cable to the cars. A motor at the top wound the cable and pulled the train cars up. At the summit, men released the cars and let them coast down the other side of the mountains without any engine at all. Then, for Henry’s final train-boat adventure, trainmen removed the wheels and put the boat-cars into a canal. Horses on a towpath beside the canal pulled Henry’s boat-car to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Henry knew his stay in Pittsburgh would be short, lasting only one winter. His parents, James and Mary Jane Sanderson, had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints a few months earlier and had decided to move to Nauvoo. Henry felt glad to move because boys in his neighborhood in Norwalk, Connecticut, had made fun of him after his parents were baptized. At Pittsburgh, Henry helped his father do shoemaker’s work, a skill Henry had learned from him.
Late the next spring, the Sandersons boarded a steamboat and churned down the Ohio River and up the Mississippi River. They reached Nauvoo in the summer of 1843 when Henry was 14 and Nauvoo was barely four years old. Henry found young Nauvoo filled with new buildings, most of them small and made of wood, with taller brick houses here and there. Embracing the city on the west was a broad, crescent-shaped bend of the Mississippi River.
Soon after Henry’s family arrived, he hiked up the bluffs to visit the temple construction project. He walked around the 60-centimeter-high walls that workers were building skyward. He inspected the red brick store whose upper floor was the headquarters for the Church. On Main Street he found a brick post office and the Merryweather store.
The Sandersons became neighbors of Joseph Smith on Main Street, two blocks from the river. Henry’s parents moved into a log cabin next to Sidney Rigdon’s home, which stood between them and the Smiths’ new residence, the Mansion House. Henry saw workers put the final touches on the Mansion House, which the Smiths opened that September as a hotel.
Henry played with the Prophet’s sons. The oldest was Joseph Smith III, three years younger than Henry. Henry became best friends with Sidney Rigdon’s sons, Algernon and John W., who were near his age.
In Nauvoo, men and boys paid their tithing by working every 10th day on building projects. “My father and myself went regularly every 10th day to labor on the temple,” Henry said, “sometimes at the quarry and other times on the temple grounds.”
Henry, who knew and liked the Prophet, “had been to his house frequently and played with his boys and he would occasionally join us. I had been in games of ball where the Prophet was one of the players.”
Henry, 15, was outside his house when Joseph Smith left for Carthage. Henry saw Joseph shake hands and exchange canes with a stranger. Then Joseph rode away. That was the last time he saw the Prophet alive. Henry first heard the tragic news from Carthage Jail “when a runner went past our house shouting that the Prophet was killed.”
A day or two later Henry and crowds of others visited the Mansion House, where “I saw their murdered bodies after they were brought from Carthage.” The murders were “a sad blow to my father,” Henry said, “and for a time he was at a loss to know what the results would be, but [he] finally settled to the conviction that the Church would continue its progress and that the Twelve Apostles were the proper leaders.”
Needing income, Henry and his father went downriver to St. Louis, Missouri, to find jobs. His father joined George Betts’s shoe shop, which employed 25 men. Henry took a job at a small shop belonging to three LDS shoemakers. His mother and sisters joined them in St. Louis in the spring.
Henry’s good friends from Nauvoo, Algernon and John Rigdon, visited him in his new home. Their father, who had been Joseph Smith’s counselor, had decided to leave the Church and was moving to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In “the last conversation that I had with them as we were saying good-bye,” Henry said, “the boys declared that they would return to the Church. … Knowing they were … sincere, I expected for some years to hear from them but was disappointed.” (John Rigdon rejoined the Church in 1904 just before he died.)
Mr. Betts sent Henry’s father to work on a farm that the Mississippi River had flooded the year before. The Sandersons moved there and lived in a “very good log house.” They plowed and planted, and the farm prospered. But with the summer heat, river sickness (probably malaria) struck the family. Henry’s father suffered the most and died on 16 September 1845, at age 41.
Henry, now 16, returned with his mother and younger sister, Mary Jane, 4, to Nauvoo. An older sister, Maria, stayed behind to work for the Betts family.
Henry, weak himself from the summer sickness, returned to St. Louis for his sister. He earned his passage downriver and back by working on the riverboats. On the trip down he was an assistant fireman, carrying firewood and loading and unloading freight.
On the boat trip back to Nauvoo, Henry was third cook and “had the cabin dishes to wash, they being brought down to me by the cabin boys.” He liked the job because he could eat the leftover food, which was better than what he usually ate. Some plates of food came to him “untouched,” so instead of dumping the food overboard as ordered, he let other cabin boys eat it.
Henry, who was big for his age, joined the Nauvoo Legion. He “enrolled in a Captain Black’s company” when unfriendly neighbors began harassing the Mormons in and around Nauvoo. Officers gave this teenager “something of a gun,” and he “sometimes was scouting all night and took delight therein, even at times when the mob was expected every hour.”
Early in 1846, when Henry was 17, the Saints had to leave Nauvoo. For the wagon trek across Iowa, Jonathan C. Wright hired Henry to be a chore boy and drive an ox team. Henry liked this job, except for Brother Wright’s restriction that Henry walk his horses but never run or race them.
While Henry was camped with the Wrights at Council Bluffs, Iowa, a United States army recruiter arrived. “I had told my comrades that he would not get a man,” Henry said. But President Brigham Young called a meeting in a brush-covered bowery and asked that 500 men enlist in the Mormon Battalion for the Mexican War. Henry felt impressed to answer the call, so he joined the army. Mr. Wright, upset at losing his hired hand, “was wrathy and said that I could not go.” But Henry went. He was not yet 18, as required by the government, “but as I had nearly got my growth in height I passed without difficulty.”
The next summer, when he was 18, he left California, where the Mormon Battalion had completed its march, and entered the Great Salt Lake Valley just after the 1847 pioneers arrived. Wanting to rejoin his family, he returned east with Brigham Young’s company late that same year to the Winter Quarters area.
Henry and his family came west three years later, in 1850. He married and lived at Union Fort, Fillmore, and Fairview, Utah. During his adult years he was a farmer, teacher, and shoemaker.

When was the last time an adult looked at you, smiled, and wistfully said something like, “Oh, I’d love to be young again, like you. Your life is so carefree.”
How long did it take for you to stop laughing?
Most youth in the Church are busy with seminary, school, Church callings, family activities, homework, recreation, employment, and volunteer work. With all the running around you do, wouldn’t it be nice to get away from it all? Picture a tropical island with warm white sand, gentle surf, and palm trees swaying gently in the background. Can’t you almost feel the sunshine on your face? As you drift off to sleep under the tropical sun, you might think something like, I could live in a place like this.
Well, some people do. Nassau, Bahamas, is a paradise that some people call home. It never gets cold there. Seafood is fresh and abundant. Dolphins frolic in crystal blue water. Plants that would wither and die most places burst into huge blooms in hues of pink, purple, and orange, gently perfuming the air with their scent. Music can almost always be heard playing somewhere in the distance.
The youth in the Bahamas do enjoy their beautiful climate and surroundings, but they’re not immune to the pressures of everyday life. They know that true peace doesn’t come from music or food or even sunshine. It comes from living a good life by being true to the gospel. Because the gospel has only been on their island for about 20 years, they are true pioneers. Many are the first and only members in their families. They not only love the gospel but are eager to share it too.
Angela Vildor, a Laurel, moved to the Bahamas from Haiti a few years ago with her family. With the move came many changes, including learning English—a real challenge since she had spent her entire life speaking Haitian Creole. One afternoon a friend of hers invited her to a free English class sponsored by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Angela readily accepted the invitation.
“I met the missionaries in English class,” she says. “They gave me a Book of Mormon and later they talked to me about it. I told them that when I read the Book of Mormon, I felt very strong; it was a very different feeling. They explained that what I was feeling was the Spirit.”
Soon after Angela told the missionaries about her feelings, she was taught the missionary discussions and was baptized. A few weeks later, Angela’s younger sister, Annette, was also baptized. Together, the two of them help each other learn more about the gospel and share it with the rest of their family and their friends.
“Some of my friends are confused,” says Annette. “When they look at the Book of Mormon and see First Nephi, they say, ‘Oh, so this is Genesis for you?’ And I explain that Genesis is Genesis and Nephi is Nephi, and that I believe in both.”
Misunderstandings about the Book of Mormon aren’t the only challenges that Angela and Annette face. Unfortunately, since the Church is still so small in the Bahamas, there are many unfounded rumors about the Church’s beliefs and religious practices. In fact, Annette wasn’t so sure that it was a good idea for her sister to join the Church, but then Angela persuaded her to read the Book of Mormon and find out for herself.
“In the book of Mosiah, it talks about being a witness of God in all times and in all places. I like that,” says Annette. “Then it goes on to talk about desire, and I knew deep down inside that joining the Church was the desire of my heart. It was then that I knew I had to join the Church.”
Much like Angela and Annette, Marco Dauphin is eager to spread the gospel by sharing it with anyone who will listen. Marco is pretty much like any young man his age, with a passion for basketball and a quick, easy smile. But there is something a little different about him, too. He is a leader, introducing his friends and family to things he thinks are good and uplifting. He knows how to include everyone and make them feel at home. When he first met the missionaries a few years ago, he immediately knew they had something special—something he wanted to have, too.
“I remember learning from the missionaries about the Second Coming,” he says. “I loved it.”
Soon he was ready for baptism, and so was his younger brother, Derek. Younger sister Sandra soon followed, and baby sister, Tina, was still too young (she has since been baptized). But Marco’s older sister, Rosenelle, wasn’t so sure that joining the Church was a good idea.
“I was strong in my belief that the Church was not true,” says Rosenelle.
But at Marco’s urging, Rosenelle continued to meet with the missionaries, never committing to baptism, but never completely rejecting the idea either.
“I never gave up,” says Marco. “I knew it would happen.”
And it did. While reading the Book of Mormon one afternoon, Rosenelle read about Alma the Younger. Soon she was thinking about her own life and the direction it was taking. She prayed for a long time that day and started to have some feelings that she couldn’t quite describe.
“Marco told me it was the Spirit,” says Rosenelle. “I knew he was right. I became converted and was baptized. I haven’t ever regretted it.”
The Dauphins’ mother, who is single, isn’t a member of the Church, and she often has to be at work on Monday evenings. So Marco and Rosenelle hold family night, complete with a game, songs, prayers, and a lesson. Sometimes the full-time missionaries are invited. It’s a challenge to coordinate their efforts, but all the Dauphins say it’s worth it.
“Joining the Church was a real relief for us,” says Marco. “When we have the Spirit in our home, we feel closer together. We just feel better.”
When the Rabasto family joined the Church a little over three years ago, they jumped into the gospel with both feet. After moving to the Bahamas from the Philippines, their dad, Adolfo, was called to the branch presidency. They hold regular family home evening. Archie and Roselle, the two high schoolers in the family, both attend seminary every day. They read the scriptures daily as a family. Rinna, the oldest sister in the family, is a student at BYU.
But what the family loves about the gospel most is the Christmas present they received last year. During the holiday break, the family took a trip to the temple in Orlando, Florida, to be sealed.
“I felt really excited to be in the temple,” says Archie. “I remember my sisters crying, and I felt happy, and peaceful.”
From Orlando, the family said good-bye to Rinna, since she was leaving for college. They miss her terribly, of course, but they say they feel calm about her being so far away in Utah, since they feel a lasting peace from knowing they’ll always be sealed as a family, no matter where they go.
“Everyone in the temple kept telling us how great we looked with our white clothes and jet-black hair,” says Roselle. “We felt great too. You could feel the air-conditioning in the temple, but I felt a warmth from inside. The feelings that I had there were indescribable.”
The youth in the Bahamas are few in numbers, but great in strength and dedication. They all have stories to tell about how the gospel has changed their lives. There’s Nancy Bowe, a soft-spoken Mia Maid who serves as the seminary president. There’s Kelford Gean, who helps his mom remember to study scriptures with him every night. There’s D. D. Wilson, who took her scriptures and her journal on a school trip to Florida because she didn’t want to miss a day of either habit.
Living the gospel in the Bahamas can be difficult, since members are so few and far between, but the youth seem to rise to the occasion with the help of their leaders and their friends. Someday they hope that instead of a small branch or two, the island will be filled with large and active wards. Very likely, when a history of the Church in the Bahamas is written, all of their names will be mentioned as pioneers who laid the foundation for others to build on. But for now, they are happy where they are, with a great love for each other and for the gospel.
And while they love their beautiful country, they know that it’s not where you live, but how you live, that brings peace and happiness. They know that with the gospel in their lives anywhere can be a paradise.

When Scott woke up in his grandfather’s den, he recognized the creaking noise even before he opened his eyes: Grandpa Max was hoisting his flag up the wooden flagpole in the front yard.
Today was the Fourth of July, but that wasn’t the reason that Grandpa Max was putting up the flag. He had hoisted “the old Stars and Stripes,” as he called it, to the top of that pole 365 days a year for as long as Scott could remember.
Two minutes later Grandpa was standing at the bottom of the stairs, hollering the familiar words, “Hey, buddy boy, get yourself down here. You’re on spud-peeling detail in five minutes.”
Scott groaned and rolled over. In a few hours about thirty-five relatives would spill onto the front yard for the big picnic that Grandpa Max hosted every year. This was Scott’s year to be cohost. His older cousin Jeff, who had held that title the year before, had told Scott that “cohost” translated into “free help,” and Scott believed it. His body ached from hours of washing windows, mowing the lawn, and carrying tables yesterday. And Grandpa evidently had much more in store for this morning.
“Well, it’s about time!” Grandpa Max grinned at Scott while sliding three slices of golden french toast onto a plate and passing the maple syrup to his grandson.
“I heard you out there with the flag, Grandpa,” Scott said between bites. “I guess it’s just another day for you.”
“Ooooh no, no, buddy boy. I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t ever say that.”
“Well, you do put the flag up every day. Why is that, Grandpa?”
Grandpa Max didn’t answer immediately. Instead he stood up and grabbed a ten-pound bag of potatoes off the counter. “Tell you what, Scott. You peel these; I’ll quarter ’em. You listen; I’ll explain.”
Scott shoveled in the rest of his breakfast and silently picked up the vegetable peeler. He knew that tone of voice, and it meant “Listen up.”
“First,” Grandpa began, “you have to imagine the place that I call ‘the old country,’ the place where I was born. My village wasn’t a town as you know it, but a small cluster of cottages and shops built along seldom-traveled dirt roads. Everywhere there were poor, shabbily dressed people. Why, they would’ve thought that I was a king if they could have seen me dressed like this.” And he snapped the strap of his bib overalls for emphasis.
“And speaking of kings, the leader of the old country taxed and imprisoned the people unfairly, sometimes forcing them to join his private army. Because of this, many people began to talk against him. They gathered at secret meetings where they talked of ways to overthrow him. The ruler knew that they hated him, so periodically he sent his soldiers throughout the country to show his strength and to question the people, hoping to discover his enemies.
“In my village every family, no matter how poor, had a flag because a flag was considered protection against the soldiers. If a house had a flag hanging from it, it was not as likely to be searched.
“I have a picture in my mind,” Grandpa Max continued, “of my last day in the old country. I was only four years old, but it was a day that I will never forget. My parents had been packing all night, loading our wagon with all our possessions. We were going to make our escape early in the morning.
“The next morning, of all days, the king’s soldiers rode into town to make one of their searches. Our closest neighbor came to warn us.
“Mother had us take off our traveling clothes and put on our everyday work clothes so that we wouldn’t look suspicious. Father pulled the wagon around to the back of the house and hid it in the trees. “Suddenly Mother remembered the flag. Nearly everything inside our small home had been packed into the wagon, and though we searched frantically, we couldn’t find the flag.
“I remember that that’s when I began to cry. Far down the road I could see all our neighbors’ houses draped with the hated flags. Hurriedly my father dumped a bundle of linens on the ground. Rummaging through it, he found the flag. He raced around to the front of the house and hung it up. That picture of my father hanging the flag is my last memory of the old country.”
Grandpa Max smiled at Scott. “A few months later I was living a very different life. My family had come to America, to New York City. We lived in an apartment building with more apartment buildings on both sides of us. On the bottom floor of most of the buildings were shops of all kinds. The street outside was always a busy place, filled with peddlers selling their wares, children playing noisily, and people doing their marketing. Women leaned out their windows and carried on loud conversations with each other.
“One hot, sticky morning I woke up to an unusual quiet. I knew that it was not the weekend, but the street was nearly empty. I heard no peddlers’ cries, no shouting or bargaining as on every other morning. The only sounds were those of a few children playing.
“As usual, I hurried through breakfast, anxious to go downstairs and join my friends. But when I bolted out the front door of our apartment building, I immediately stiffened, and my heart started to pound violently. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t open my mouth. I wanted to run back inside, but my feet wouldn’t move.
“Attached to every shop front, hanging from dozens of windows, stuck into window boxes, and tacked onto mailboxes were hundreds of flags. I stood trembling with fear, waiting for the soldiers to appear and search our homes.
“Laughing and chattering, several children asked me to join in a game, and I numbly followed along. Soon men and women joined the children outside. They sat on the steps of their apartment buildings, talking and joking. Aren’t any of the men going to work? I kept asking myself. Why is everyone so happy? I thought that perhaps they were all just pretending, trying to keep each other cheerful.
“All day long I felt as if I were in a nightmare. By afternoon I was too miserable to even join my friends in their games. I just sat on the curb and watched and waited. At suppertime the men set up long tables on the sidewalk, and the women covered them with tablecloths and began bringing platters and bowls of food to be shared by everyone. I couldn’t eat anything at all.
“Just before dark, Mother took me up to bed. While she was tucking me in, she told me that she was going back outside and that I could call her if I needed anything. I started to cry.
“‘No,’ I yelled, ‘you can’t leave me here alone!’ All day I had tried to be brave, but finally I just broke down and sobbed.
“My father raced up the stairs. ‘I heard you crying clear downstairs. Why are you sad after this wonderful day?’ he asked.
“‘How can you say it’s a wonderful day,’ I cried. ‘How can you pretend, when the soldiers will be here any minute?’
“‘Soldiers?’ he asked. ‘What soldiers?’
“‘The soldiers everybody put their flags up for,’ I sobbed. ‘They’ll be here soon, and we don’t even have a flag!’
“‘Oh, my poor frightened boy,’ my father said softly. He sat me on his lap. ‘First of all,’ he explained, ‘there are no soldiers coming to search our home today or any other day.’
“I stopped crying and looked up at him. Then he told me the story of America’s birthday and explained that all the flags were for the celebration.
“I went back outside with my parents and watched the fireworks to end the big birthday party and thought and thought about what my father had told me, trying to understand it all.
“I did understand one thing, though. My father said, ‘Someday we will be able to buy a flag, and I will be very proud to fly that flag. In fact, I will be so proud that when I am an American citizen, I will want to fly it every single day. And I hope you will, too, Max.’”
The potatoes were all peeled, quartered, and ready to boil, and Scott was still listening intently to his grandfather. “How come you never told me that story before, Grandpa?”
“Well, buddy boy, you never asked me before.”
“I think you should tell everyone today at the picnic, Grandpa,” I told him.
“Maybe I will, buddy boy. Maybe I will.”