Gospel Story Finder

SISTER RENLUND: You mean how she submitted Lena Sofia’s name for temple work?
ASHLEY: I love that story. Shortly after Lena Sofia died in 1966, Grandma Mariana took her name in person to the Genealogy Department.3 The man behind the counter told her that Church policy stated that someone had to have been dead for at least a year before temple work could be done for that person. Grandma Mariana replied, “I don’t like that answer. Let me talk to someone who can give a different one. She’s waited long enough.”
Grandpa Åke said that he tried to reason with her, but she gave him a look he knew very well—that another word on the subject would be pointless. Grandpa wrote in his journal: “I probably should feel sorry for the man downtown who said that nothing could be done for at least a year. That man just didn’t know what he was up against. I could have told him, but he didn’t ask.”4
ELDER RENLUND: Less than two months later, with the authorization of the President of the Church, Lena Sofia’s and Leander’s temple work was completed. Grandma Mariana and Grandpa Åke acted as proxies for Lena Sofia and Leander, who were sealed for time and all eternity in the Salt Lake Temple. And did you know that now it is Church policy that a person who has not been able to enjoy the blessings of the temple because of distance doesn’t have to wait a whole year? That way, others like Lena Sofia can receive those blessings as quickly as possible. As Grandma Mariana told the man in the Genealogy Department, “They have waited long enough.”

I recall an experience with a zone leader in England who came to me during the lunch break at zone conference. He said, “We are teaching a lady who is blind and nearly deaf. She wants to know if the Book of Mormon is true. What shall we do?” I did not have an answer at that moment, but I said, “I will let you know after our conference.” During the afternoon session I had the distinct impression come as to how to help her. After the meeting I said to the zone leader, “Have this sister hold her copy of the Book of Mormon and turn its pages very slowly. When she has done this, have her ask if it is true.” Though she could not read nor hear the words, she felt the spirit and power of the Book of Mormon, and it changed her life.

I know from experience the troubled mind of such a young person. When I was preparing to go on my mission, some surprising forces tried to discourage me. One was my dentist. When he realized my appointment was so I could be a missionary, he tried to dissuade me from serving. I had not had the least notion that my dentist was against the Church.

The interruption of my education was also complicated. When I asked for a two-year leave of absence from my university program, I was informed that it was not possible. I would lose my place at the university if I did not return after one year. In Brazil, this was serious since the only criterion for admittance in a university program was a very difficult and competitive examination.

After repeatedly insisting, I was reluctantly informed that after being absent for one year, I could apply for an exception on extraordinary grounds. It might be approved or not. I was terrified at the idea of retaking that difficult admissions test after two years away from my studies.

I also was especially interested in a young woman. Several of my friends shared that same interest. I thought to myself, “If I go on a mission, I’m running a risk.”

But the Lord Jesus Christ was my great inspiration not to be afraid of the future as I strove to serve Him with all my heart.

Remember the challenges that I thought I faced prior to my mission? My dentist? I found another. My university? They made an exception for me. Remember that young woman? She married one of my good friends.

But God truly blessed me richly. And I learned that the blessings of the Lord can come in ways different from how we expect. After all, His thoughts are not our thoughts (see Isaiah 55:8–9).

One elderly person had no knowledge of the county she was born in. She mistakenly said, “I don’t think we lived in a county because we lived in the country—way out there. My ancestors lived on the Muskrat Branch, and to the west of their place there was a big swamp that they called Blackwater Swamp. It was someplace in Virginia I think.”
With this information a county was identified, and the records of the family were found in the courthouse.

But I now move you to a later period in his life. He had served; he had become one of our great and dedicated missionaries. He was sitting discussing the scriptures with a brother in Nauvoo. At that moment something happened to him which in later life he called an impression; sometimes he spoke of it as a vision, sometimes as an overwhelming revelation. He came to glimpse the meaning of what had been said to him. And he formed it in a couplet which we hesitate, all of us, and I think wisely, to cite in discussion or conversation but which is a sacred, glorious insight. It’s a couplet; he put it in faultless rhythm: “As man now is God once was. As God now is man may become.” He says he saw a conduit, as it were, down through which, in fact, by our very nature, by our being begotten of our eternal parents, we descend and up through which we may ascend. It struck him with power that if a prince born to a king will one day inherit his throne, so a son of an eternal father will one day inherit the fullness of his father’s kingdom.
Suddenly he recovered the verses, repeated but without depth, of the New Testament that we are commanded to become perfect; then, lest we should relativize that, the Master had added, “even as your Father.”

My thoughts went back to the time when my twin and I were teenagers and our father challenged us to develop testimonies of our own rather than relying on the faith of our parents. I had decided to follow his counsel. I made an effort to carefully read and ponder the Book of Mormon, and then I asked Heavenly Father in prayer if what I read was true. I asked if Joseph Smith really had heard and seen the holy and wondrous manifestations he described.
In answer to my prayer, the Spirit of the Lord was poured out upon me. My heart burned within me in confirmation of the truth of what I had read and asked Heavenly Father about. At last I could testify that I had a testimony of the Book of Mormon and of the Restoration of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith.

A true story from the USA.
I lean back on my heels and look at the yard. There is a line of dark soil against the side of the Johnsons’ house where Mom and I just planted flower bulbs. I pat the soil and sigh.
“Thanks for helping plant those,” Mom says.
I look at my hands, covered in dirt, and don’t say anything. I’m thinking about Celeste Johnson. Celeste, who used to live in this house. Celeste, who was almost exactly the same age as me. Celeste, who came with me to Primary. We played together and went to each other’s birthday parties. Sometimes we’d set up a tent in her backyard and pretend we were camping. She was my best friend.
Celeste’s gone now. She died in a car accident a few months ago. My family and I cried a lot. Celeste was our friend, and we knew we would miss her. We cried because Celeste’s dad had gotten hurt in the car accident. We cried because Celeste’s family was sad.
I really wanted to help Celeste’s family. I gave a stuffed animal to Celeste’s younger sister, Ella. I also helped some people from the ward make gifts for Celeste’s family. I wanted them to know they were loved.
When I went to Celeste’s funeral, I sat close to friends from church. We sang Celeste’s favorite Primary song, “Faith,” about how we can live with God again. It reminded me I’ll see Celeste again. At the cemetery, I placed a flower on top of the casket. Everyone who knew Celeste was still sad. We missed her. But when I prayed and fasted, I felt less sad. Reading scriptures and talking with friends from church helped too.
Today, we came to visit the Johnsons to help them plant flower bulbs in their yard. The bulbs are small and brown right now. I don’t know exactly what they’ll look like in the spring, but they’re supposed to be pretty.
Mom has been watching me and says, “Do you know what I like about bulbs?”
I shake my head. The sun is bright, and I have to squint to look at her. “What?”
“The flowers from these bulbs die in the winter, but they always come back in the spring,” she says. “They remind me of the resurrection. You can’t see the flowers after they’ve died, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone. Just like Celeste and all of us when we die. Because of Jesus Christ, we will all be resurrected and live again.”
I look at the mounds of dirt. The bulbs will grow, and grow, and push away the dirt. I know that by spring they will be beautiful flowers, and I know that I will see Celeste again.
I lean over the dirt where the bulbs are planted and blow a kiss. “See you in the spring!” I whisper.

Click! Thud! Thud! Thud! Wham! Squeak! That was my nightly routine for getting into bed. First I clicked off the light, then took three giant steps, and whammed into bed with such force that it caused my bedsprings to squeak. As soon as I hit the bed, I pulled the covers over my head so that I’d feel as safe as an eight-year-old can.
At night a snake I called Slither lived under my bed. His head was as big as an elephant’s ear, and his body was as round as a telephone pole. Sometimes Slither was visited by Crocky Crocodile. He was all mouth and teeth, with a short, squatty body. They didn’t make much noise, and my mom said that they weren’t really real, but I just knew that they were lying under my bed, waiting to snap at me the minute I put my foot or hand over the edge of the bed. That’s why I always slept in the middle of the bed and pulled the covers over my head.
I used to say my prayers kneeling beside my bed, but that was before Slither moved in. I was sure that he’d gobble me up if I knelt beside my bed, so I started to say them while lying under my blankets.
One Sunday morning my Primary teacher gave the best lesson on prayer. She said, “Always remember to pray to your Father in Heaven and talk to Him as if He were your best friend. Tell Him about all the good things that you are grateful for, and ask Him to help you when you need help. Don’t forget to pray each morning and night. It’s best to kneel by your bed and say your prayer out loud.”
I raised my hand and asked, “Is it OK to say our prayers while lying in bed?”
“It’s better to kneel,” she explained, “because it shows that we’re humble. That’s the way Jesus did it.”
That night as I lay curled up in the middle of my bed and began saying my prayer, I didn’t feel good about it. It was as though my prayer was being smothered by my blankets.
Then the image of my Primary teacher came into mind, and I remembered what she had taught us. I knew that I had to kneel, so I knelt in bed, pulled the covers over my head, and began to pray. But I didn’t feel any better. I let the covers slip from my head as I peeked at the floor, watching for Slither and Crocky.
I knew that no matter how frightened I was, I had to kneel by my bed. Slowly I slipped over the side of the bed and knelt beside it. I closed my eyes tightly so that I couldn’t see Slither and Crocky if they came out to bite me. Then I remembered my teacher telling us to pray for the Lord’s help, so I prayed that Slither and Crocky would go away and never return.
I finished my prayer and jumped back into bed and pulled the covers over my head. Then a peaceful feeling came over me, and I didn’t feel scared anymore. I pulled the covers off my head and leaned over the side of the bed. As I looked under it, for the first time the blackness seemed to be peaceful and calm. There was nothing to be frightened of—Slither and Crocky were gone forever!

A few months before my eighth birthday, my mom and I were cleaning out my bedroom. We noticed how much stuff I had that I didn’t really use, and my mom asked me where I would put the new things I was going to get for my birthday. After talking about it, I said, “I don’t need gifts for my birthday. Let’s find someone who doesn’t have anything and give him or her the gifts.”
On my birthday, I invited my friends over for a party. I asked that instead of bringing a gift for me, they bring one for a seven-year-old girl who was living in a homeless shelter. A fire at the shelter had burned all of her belongings. During the party we took our gifts to the girl. Because of a death in the family, she wasn’t at the shelter, so we left the gifts on her bed. It was sad to see how little this family had. We all left feeling very grateful for what we have. When my mom asked me later how I thought the party had gone, I said, “It was fun. We did something good today.”

On my dad’s side, my paternal grandfather suffered verbal abuse from his father (who also struggled with substance abuse), so he was prone to anger and violence. My grandfather was also a single parent for a time, which led to my dad being displaced in foster homes as a child. Ultimately, my dad struggled for a long time to build a good relationship with my grandpa and to communicate his emotions effectively.
Why am I telling you these difficult family stories? Well, I recently learned it’s helpful to acknowledge difficulties that occurred in our family’s history. It’s helpful because the effects of challenges in our ancestors’ lives can influence how our current families function in mortality.
Our ancestors may have suffered many types of traumatic events, such as grief, war, abuse, crimes, financial instability, natural disasters, etc. And the effects can show up in later generations of families through common issues:
Communication problems
Unhealthy coping mechanisms
Attachment issues
Or more serious issues, including:
Mental health issues
Abuse
Addiction
When the negative psychological effects of traumatic experiences are transferred from one generation to another, experts call this phenomenon “generational trauma.”1 The purpose of identifying generational trauma isn’t to place blame on an ancestor for your issues. But becoming aware of generational trauma can help us understand some of the influences behind our own unhelpful habits, create new healthy behaviors, and invite peace into our homes.
Elder Gerrit W. Gong of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught:
“Just as joys come in families, so can sorrows. No individual is perfect, nor is any family … Yet, with heaven’s help, we can come to understand our family and make peace with each other.
“… The promise … always is that, in and through Jesus Christ, we can become our best story and our families can become happy and forever.”2
Here are a few ways I was able to heal my own heart and family relationships after learning about the generational trauma that affected my family:
Strive to become aware of negative habits in your life. Seek guidance from Heavenly Father. He wants us to rise above the conflicts in our lives, and He is more than ready to help us become “new creature[s]” (see 2 Corinthians 5:17). Attend the temple, search the scriptures, and consider counseling with Heavenly Father about working with a mental health professional or finding and reading self-help books that can offer helpful perspectives.
In my case, I denied that I had communication problems until I hit a dark point in my life and realized I needed help addressing some of my behavioral and thinking patterns.
So, after seeking guidance from Heavenly Father, I felt prompted to start meeting with a therapist. We put pieces of the puzzle of my heart together and discovered that the sources of many of my behaviors like masking pain with humor, burying emotions, and struggling to communicate effectively could possibly be traced back to a few generations before mine.
At first, I was scared by what this discovery meant for me. How could I possibly change habits that had been ingrained in me and my family? I even started to fear for my future family. Would I pass my issues on to them?
With these thoughts weighing on my mind, I didn’t think I could muster the effort to face these feelings and change these behavior cycles. But the Lord has counseled us to “be not afraid, only believe” (Mark 5:36).
As I prayed, God showed me that if I had a willing heart, He could change my heart and help me alter the behaviors that were preventing me from having healthy relationships and from growing emotionally and spiritually.
Through trials, we are given a choice to come unto Christ for hope, growth, and healing—whatever that healing may entail.
Ultimately, my healing involved the Savior. With Him, I was able to have difficult yet healing conversations with my family members, to take steps forward, to love more deeply and build greater relationships, to take uncomfortable steps forward, to forgive, and to find hope in the future. Believing in what Jesus Christ could do for me was the first step toward inviting His healing balm into my life through temple worship, prayer, and exercising faith.
As I combined these powerful spiritual tools with therapy and self-help books that helped me develop my communication skills, learn to feel and process my emotions, and understand the underlying reasons behind my behaviors, I have been able to see miraculous results of involving the Savior and Heavenly Father in this journey.
Some of us may struggle with serious repercussions from our family’s past like abuse, addiction, or other traumatic challenges, which can take time, faith, and professional help to heal. But as Elder Patrick Kearon of the Seventy taught, “Courage, patience, and faithful focus on [the Savior]” will help you “let go of your pain and leave it at His feet.”3 Through Him, we can mend bonds, set boundaries, break negative cycles, and build beautiful, charity-filled homes and relationships.
Elder Gong also counseled:
“Genetics and family patterns influence but do not determine us.
“... Learn and acknowledge with gratitude and honesty your family heritage. Celebrate and become the positive and, where needed, humbly do everything possible not to pass on the negative. Let good things begin with you.”4
I am still a work in progress, but I am so grateful for my resilient ancestors and family members who inspire me. I am awed by Heavenly Father and our Savior, who can help us build up the relationships we cherish and endure and grow. Truly, it is through Him that I can help spread goodness in my family and fill our homes with joy.

For as long as Marie could remember, the big vacant lot next door to her house had been an ugly sight. So she was very surprised when she arrived home from school one day and saw how it had changed: All the tall weeds and broken bottles and torn newspapers were gone. The ground had been plowed too. That’s the cleanest dirt I’ve ever seen, she thought.
A man wearing baggy overalls was putting a sign up in the middle of the lot. In large letters it read:
BIRCH STREET COMMUNITY GARDEN
RESERVE YOUR PLOT NOW!
“Excuse me,” Marie said to the man. “What’s a community garden?”
“Anyone in the community—the neighborhood—may use part of this lot to grow his own garden,” the man replied. “Would you like to sign up for a plot?”
Marie had never seen a garden in her neighborhood before—only buildings and sidewalks and streets.
“A garden would be great,” she said. “I’ll ask my brothers and sisters if they’ll help me. Thanks.”
When the family sat down to supper that evening, Marie told them about the new community garden next door. “We can have fresh vegetables all summer,” she said. “It’ll be a very big garden. I’ll need help taking care of it, but we’ll have lots of fun.”
“Sorry, Sis,” said Joe, the oldest. “I need to find a summer job. I’ll be too busy to help.”
“Me, too,” said Rose. “I have a paper route. Besides, vegetables are all right, but I like flowers better.”
Marie was a little disappointed, but she still had four other children to ask.
But Flo said, “I have to take care of my rabbits. I won’t have time to garden.”
“Count me out,” Peter told her. “I hate vegetables. Yuck!”
The twins were Marie’s last hope, but before she could ask them, Mike said, “We don’t like vegetables, either.”
“We definitely hate vegetables,” Ike agreed.
After supper Marie went outside and stared at the vacant lot. It was all ready for planting, but no one would help her with the work.
A few minutes later Papa came out and stood beside her. “Marie, I’ll help you with the garden after supper every night,” he said.
“No, Papa,” Marie replied. “Thanks, but you work hard all day. I’ll just plant a small garden and take care of it myself.”
“Well, I’ll help when I can,” Papa said. “We’ll go together Saturday to reserve a little garden plot.”
Then Papa took Marie’s hand in his, and they walked back to the apartment.
At supper the next evening Marie turned to Joe. “It’s hard to find a job, isn’t it?”
“It sure is!” he answered. “I’ve been looking for weeks and still haven’t found one.”
“Nearly everyone likes corn on the cob and watermelon,” Marie pointed out. “I’ll bet that you could grow some in the garden and sell them to make money—after all, you’d have the freshest vegetables in town. You could grow enough for the family too.”
Joe’s eyes lit up. “That’s a great idea, Sis. I’ll give it a try.”
Then Marie looked across the table at Rose. “Your paper route won’t keep you busy all day,” she said. “Since you like flowers, you could grow sunflowers and scarlet runner beans. The beans have beautiful blossoms, and we can eat the beans and the sunflower seeds.”
Rose grinned. “Sure. That way I can grow flowers and food.”
Now Marie turned to Flo. “You could grow carrots and lettuce and radishes, couldn’t you? Then you wouldn’t have to spend your whole allowance on rabbit food, your pet bunnies would be happy, and there would be plenty for us too.”
“The bunnies will love it!” Flo exclaimed. “When do we start?”
Pete had figured out what Marie was up to. “Don’t look at me,” he said stubbornly. “I still hate vegetables, and nothing you say is going to change my mind.”
“You don’t hate all vegetables,” Marie answered. “You like popcorn. That’s a vegetable. And you’re crazy about pickles. They’re made from cucumbers, you know.”
“I never thought of it that way.” Pete laughed. “OK. It looks like I’m in charge of the popcorn and pickle patch.”
“What can we grow?” asked Mike. “We don’t want to be left out.”
“We hate vegetables, but we want to grow something,” said Ike.
Marie smiled. “Well, you boys like chili better than just about anything else, so you can plant a chili patch.”
“A chili patch? How do you grow chili?” asked Mike.
“Just think about what’s in chili,” Marie said. “There are beans and tomatoes and peppers, right?”
“Yes!” cried Ike. “We’ll plant our very own chili patch!”
Then Mama, who had been listening the whole time, spoke up. “Marie, is there enough room for a patch of the other vegetables that we like? I’d like to plant some spinach, broccoli, cauliflower, and peas. We all like these, especially when they’re raw.”
“Of course, Mama! You can plant anything that you want,” Marie answered.
“What am I going to help you grow?” Papa asked Marie.
“We’ll plant an enormous dessert patch!” she said. “It will be full of sweet things like strawberries and cantaloupes to thank everyone for helping with the garden.”

I was too slow for football, too short for basketball, and too weak for wrestling. I played freshman and JV baseball, but by the time I reached my junior year in high school, the other guys going out for the varsity team were faster, taller, and stronger.
Three strikes and I was out.
I wasn’t popular enough to run for student government, talented enough to pursue the performing arts, or courageous enough to try debate.
Game over at 17, right? Not necessarily.
In English class, I could write essays the night before they were due—and still get a decent grade. I had no problem ordering a burrito in Spanish or asking for directions to the bathroom in German—thanks to my foreign language classes. Somehow, I made the honor roll despite my grades in math. And I could make people laugh.
But did I really have any talents? I wasn’t sure until I got older.
Back in high school, I had no way of knowing that the fun I had—and the time I spent—studying Spanish and German would help me learn three languages as a full-time missionary. Nor did I know that my latent talent as a writer would lead me to my livelihood. But perhaps the Lord did.

It was the middle of winter and I was serving my eighth month as a missionary in the Asana area of the Bergen Norway District. Although we tracted many hours, we taught few discussions. A baptism seemed like a miracle.
Bergen is a city built on and among seven mountains on the west coast of Norway. The mountains catch every storm that rolls up or down the coast. The clouds dump their rain on missionaries and nonmissionaries alike. The winds blow the rain horizontally, so umbrellas are used more like shields. We were lucky if our raincoats and boots dried overnight so we could wear them the next day.
One particular day the wind and rain were even much worse than usual. My companion, Sister Dolinsky, and I debated the wisdom of going out at all in such harsh weather. We knew if we didn’t we were sure to feel that depressing feeling missionaries feel when they aren’t out working. The severe weather helped us to decide to stay in and catch up on our records.
The day passed, and the storm showed no signs of stopping. Soon it was 5:30—time for us to go out for our evening tracting. We could see the fjord from our window; the water was dark and choppy. The winds were blowing full force, and the rain beat against the window. We knew we couldn’t stay in all evening too, so we dropped to our knees and asked the Lord for the strength we would need to go back out. When we got up, Sister Dolinsky said she felt the Lord wanted us to read Alma 17. We sat down at our table and began to read about Alma and the four sons of Mosiah. In verse five we read: “Now these are the circumstances which attended them in their journeyings, for they had many afflictions; they did suffer much, both in body and in mind, such as hunger, thirst and fatigue, and also much labor in the spirit.”
The fierceness of the storm seemed to diminish, and our discomfort seemed very minor as we read about those missionaries’ sufferings. The Spirit filled our tiny apartment as we continued to read verses 10–12 [Alma 17:10–12]:
“And it came to pass that the Lord did visit them with his Spirit, and said unto them: Be comforted. And they were comforted.
“And the Lord said unto them also: Go forth among the Lamanites [we substituted Norwegians for Lamanites], thy brethren, and establish my word; yet ye shall be patient in long-suffering and afflictions, that ye may show forth good examples unto them in me, and I will make an instrument of thee in my hands unto the salvation of many souls.
“And it came to pass that the hearts of the [missionaries] took courage to go forth unto the [Norwegians] to declare unto them the word of God.”
After reading those verses we knew that the Lord knew the discomfort we experienced tracting in such harsh weather, yet we also knew that he expected us to take courage and go forth in affliction to bring the word of God to the people we were called to serve. Our afflictions were small compared to those of Alma and the sons of Mosiah.
We put on our coats and took the bus to our tracting area. At the first door we knocked on we found a young man who worked out on the North Sea on an oil rig. He said he wasn’t usually home, but the storm had kept him from going out to sea to work. We taught him about the Book of Mormon, and he said he would like to read it. We gave him a copy and left with a good feeling.
The knowledge that the Lord knew of my small sufferings as a missionary, and that his Spirit comforted and encouraged us to continue with his work by inspiring my companion and me to turn to the scriptures, stayed with me the rest of my mission and will stay with me for the rest of my life.

The results were truly remarkable. A young returned missionary unable to find work for eight months, was skeptical when his bishop suggested a certain amount for his contribution. He told the Lord, however, that if he had an income he would willingly pay the assessment—and more if it were required of him. The first employer he approached that day offered him a permanent job and he started work the next day. Two days later he was given a significant increase in pay.

Jimmy stared out the icy window, trying to see through the dim evening light. “Please let someone come soon,” he whispered.
“Your sister’s shivering, Jimmy.” Mama’s voice sounded weaker than before. “Will you help her?”
He loosened the blanket from his bare feet. “Here. You can use mine for a while,” he said, tucking it around his sister’s shoulders. He returned to the window and again pressed his face against the glass. Suddenly, he saw a tall man standing at the end of the alley.
“Jimmy! Wait! Where are you going?” Mama called.
Her only answer was the door closing behind him.
Elder Palmer shoved his hand in his overcoat pocket. One silver dollar. That was all he had, but just touching it gave him hope that he would soon find a warm room for the night.
“Please, mister.”
Elder Palmer turned to see a small boy hopping from one foot to the other, trying to keep his bare feet out of the snow.
“Could you give me ten cents to buy some bread for my sick mother and my little sister?”
“Yes! Of course, dear boy,” he said, handing him his silver dollar.
“Oh, thank you, sir. I’ll bring you back your change.”
“No, you keep it. You need it more than I do. What is your name? Where do you live?”
“Jimmy Rose, and I live there.” He pointed to a door a short distance down the alley, then darted toward it.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Dr. Gray whirled around. He hadn’t heard the man enter his office. “Yes?”
“I saw your fire through the window. May I warm myself for a few minutes?”
“By all means. Come in.”
The man put down his traveling bag and sat next to the fire.
“Have you just arrived in town?” Dr. Gray asked.
“Yes. I’m from Utah. I’m a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“You are a Mormon?” the doctor asked. “Where are you staying? I’d like to talk to you about your religion.”
“I’m traveling as Christ’s Apostles did, without purse or scrip, having faith that the Lord will provide.”
Dr. Gray studied his guest. “If you have that much faith in the Lord,” he said, “then I will be His helper tonight. Please come to my home and have supper with my wife and me.
The next morning someone knocked on Jimmy’s front door. He opened it.
“Hello, young man.”
Jimmy grabbed Elder Palmer’s arm. “Mama,” he said, dragging him to her bedside, “this is the good man who gave me the dollar.”
Mrs. Rose carefully lifted her head. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what we would have done without you. My husband died some time back, and I’ve been too sick to work. Our food and coal ran out yesterday.”
“But we have more now,” Jimmy said, pointing to a bucket of coal. “I bought it last night.”
“It looks like you’ve done a fine job of taking care of your family,” Elder Palmer said.
Jimmy stood a little taller. “I’m trying to, sir.”
Elder Palmer turned back to Jimmy’s mother. “There is something more I can do for you. I am an elder in the true Church of Jesus Christ. That means that I have the authority to act in God’s name and give you a blessing of health, if you desire it and have the faith to be healed.”
Mrs. Rose thought for a long moment. Finally, she said, “Yes, I’d like a blessing.”
A while later there was another knock on the door. The new visitor held up his medical bag and said, “Elder Palmer told me about your mother, and I’ve come to help.”
“I am already well, doctor,” Mrs. Rose said.
Jimmy started to close the door, but the doctor stopped him. “My wife ordered groceries and coal for your family, and they have just arrived. Will you help the deliveryman, Jimmy?”
“Yes, sir!” Jimmy ran outside. When he returned, the doctor was putting away his stethoscope.
“You have been quite sick,” he said to Mrs. Rose, “but you now seem all right. If you’re careful, you should be able to do your usual work.”
“It’s time for me to continue with mine too,” Elder Palmer said.
“I’d like to hear more about your church,” Mrs. Rose said. “Will you please come back and visit us?”
Jimmy grabbed his hand. “Yes, will you?”
“My wife asked that you return to our home too,” Dr. Gray added.
Elder Palmer smiled, “I’d be honored.”
Jimmy led the missionary to the door, but as he put his hand on the latch, he paused. How could he thank this man who had brought so much goodness to his family?
“What is it, Jimmy?” Elder Palmer asked.
Jimmy swallowed hard. “I—I’m glad I saw you through the window!” he said.

I had an experience when I was in the southern states that helped me to realize what I think the Lord meant. I received a letter from a good brother from down in Phoenix. He was quite an elderly man. He said that his grandfather was one of the first converts in the state of Mississippi back in 1840. He said, “Since that time my father and his descendants have given over 100 years worth of missionary service to the Church.” There were then 15 in the mission field, and we had three of them in our mission.
I told that story in a missionary meeting after I was appointed Presiding Bishop in 1940—just 100 years after the grandfather joined the Church. His grandson happened to be in that meeting and I didn’t know it. He came up to me after and said, “Brother Richards, it is now 165 years of service.” When you get to adding 10 or 15 years at a time, it doesn’t take long to add another 100 years.
This was my thought: If that missionary who waded through the swamps of Mississippi back in 1840, when they traveled without purse or scrip and many of them contracted malaria fever, had only brought that one man into the Church, he might not have thought that he had done much. But in 100 years there was 165 years of missionary service from that one man and his descendants, without counting all the converts he had made and all the converts they had made. How can you “lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal” (Matt. 6:20) in any better manner than by performing a service like that?

Olivia hung her head as she listened to the excited whispers of the girls sitting behind her on the bus.
“I’m so glad your mom said you could get off at my bus stop with me! Did you bring the games?”
“I’ve got them. My mom let me bring a bag of popcorn too!”
Olivia frowned into the book she was reading. Didn’t they know she could hear them? She definitely didn’t like listening to her two friends make plans for something she wasn’t invited to.
Stephanie, Rebecca, and Olivia had been friends for a long time. They used to do everything together. But when the new school year started, Stephanie and Rebecca found out they had the same teacher, while Olivia was in a different class! Olivia remembered the sad feeling she had in her stomach as the two girls eagerly talked about sitting next to each other in class and eating together at lunch. She had that same sad feeling now.
The bus rolled to a stop in front of Rebecca’s house. Olivia watched miserably from the window as the girls jumped off the bus and ran to the front yard.
By the time the bus finally reached Olivia’s stop, she could barely hold back her tears. She hurried into the house.
“How was school?” Mom asked.
Olivia started crying. “It was awful! Rebecca and Stephanie barely even talk to me anymore, and we were supposed to be best friends forever!” she sobbed.
“I’m so sorry, Olivia. It’s hard when friendships start to change,” Mom said. She paused for a moment. “Do you remember when we went to the temple to be sealed?” she asked, pointing at the picture hanging on the wall. Olivia looked and saw her family smiling in front of the temple. She had been a lot younger then, but she could still remember being with her parents and older sister, Jane, in the beautiful sealing room.
“Do you know why we worked so hard to get ready to go to the temple?” Mom asked.
“Because we wanted to be a family forever?” Olivia said.
“Exactly. Even if you’re not best friends with Rebecca and Stephanie forever, you’ll still have your family as your friends forever.”
“Yeah,” Olivia said. “But it’s not the same.”
“I know your feelings are hurt,” Mom said, “but I’m glad you’re home. I have a job for you and Jane.”
Olivia couldn’t believe her ears. Instead of helping her feel better, Mom was giving her chores!
“Go put on some old clothes and meet me on the back porch. Tell Jane to come too.”
Olivia went upstairs, stomping her feet a little, and put on her work clothes.
When the girls were dressed and outside, they saw Mom walking back from the shed. She was carrying a green can, some paintbrushes, and a wadded-up sheet of plastic. When she got to the porch, she laid down the plastic and handed each girl a brush.
“You’re going to let us paint something?” Olivia asked skeptically. Usually Dad did those kinds of projects.
“Yep,” Mom said. “I want the back door painted by dinner time.” And then she turned and went into the house.
The girls looked at each other for a long moment and then grinned. This could be fun. They dipped their brushes in the smooth, green paint and got to work. Olivia liked this job—it didn’t seem like doing chores at all. Jane showed her how to move her brush in long, even strokes. Soon the girls were laughing and talking. Olivia started to remember all the fun times she and Jane had spent together. She was glad she would always have her sister for a friend.
A couple of hours later, the girls were covered in splotches of green paint and wearing huge smiles. Olivia carefully opened the shiny green door and poked her head inside. “Mom, we’re done with the door,” she called. “Come see how great it looks!”
Mom came outside and looked at the door. “That’s beautiful,” she said. “I love how it turned out.” She gave the girls each a hug. “Did painting help?”
Olivia nodded. “I guess I was just feeling sorry for myself,” she said. “I’m glad Jane is my sister.”
“And your family will always be there for you,” Mom said.
Olivia smiled. “I know. It’s good to remember that.”

The question and the surroundings took me back to my senior year in high school. I was also a salesclerk, selling men’s clothing part-time.
It was Christmas Eve day. Snow was falling gently, and there seemed to be more shoppers than usual. They were weaving in and out of the displays, picking up last-minute gifts.
A few days earlier, several friends had called me asking, “Could you come to a party on Christmas Eve? We’re planning to meet up the canyon. It will be beautiful. Get a date and be with us.”
I was delighted with the prospect of being with a group of friends and enthusiastically looked forward to that social event. I had asked a lovely young woman to go with me, and she seemed to be as excited as I was.
As the time approached for the store to close and for me to leave for the party, a subtle uneasiness disturbed my positive feelings.
“What’s wrong?” I asked myself. Then reality struck. I did not want to be with my friends on this special night. I wanted to be with my family as I had been for the previous 16 or 17 Christmas Eves. Even though there were still customers shuffling about, I hurried to the telephone and called my friend.
“Don, I, er … well, I don’t know how to say this, but don’t count on me this evening. I’m going to spend Christmas Eve with my family.” I think he understood.
I quickly called my date. We agreed to spend time together during the holidays but not on that particular evening.
Suddenly a burden had been lifted. I had made the right decision.

The two eagles gulped altitude with their broad, golden wings until the cliff line was far below them. Then they closed their wings and dropped out of the sky, spinning downward at a wind-warping speed of almost 200 miles per hour. Just as the juniper and sagebrush rushed up to crush them, they spun the world on end with a flick of their seven-foot wings and shot upward again. Spiraling up on a thermal, they banked away from each other and were soon a valley apart. Then, pivoting in midair, they rushed together like two warring biplanes, their wingbeats cracking echoes off the cliff face. Just inches short of disaster they casually palmed the air aside and brushed feathers as they blasted past each other. They flashed together again, flipping on their backs and displaying their talons in mock combat. They soared and dived, playing the wind like a violin, spinning gravity like a yo-yo. One moment they were sailing ships, running with the breeze or tacking against it. The next they were jet fighters, dive-bombing their shadows. They were more free in their ocean of air than any fish in water or any man on land.
But one man on the land watched them—with his eyes hardly comprehending, with his camera clicking like a telegraph, and long afterward with a notebook and pencil, remembering. Kent Keller, of Orem, Utah, had seen golden eagle courtship flights before, but like any reasonable person, he could only fully believe it when he was seeing it.
Perhaps it is partly this aura of impossibility that draws Kent to eagles, just as it has drawn poets, prophets, and emperors for centuries.
Actually, it all started with snakes. From the day he was born, Kent seemed to delight in all wild creatures, but snakes were his first real love. As a very young boy, he turned his backyard into a reptile menagerie with cages full of crawling snakes, gila monsters, horned toads, lizards, and just about any other tail-twitching belly-crawler he could find. As soon as he learned to read, he went hunting for reptiles in the library too.
But a new love was waiting in the wings, and at 12 years of age, Kent was to have his eyes snatched from the delightful snake-harboring ground to the wide, blue, eagle-bearing sky.
One day on a camping trip Kent’s Scoutmaster pointed at a dead cottonwood tree and said, “Hey, guys, there are two eagles!” The two golden eagles perched on skeletal limbs burned their image into an unexposed surface of Kent’s brain and filled his life’s appointment book all in an instant. He came. He saw. He was conquered.
But finding eagles isn’t all that easy until you learn where to look, and it was two years before Kent was able to make a house call. One rainy afternoon in early May he stepped onto a tiny protruding ledge that overhung more than 150 feet of sheer emptiness. As he peered over the edge, the sun burst through the rain clouds, spotlighting the golden hackles of a female eagle on her nest about ten yards down. Seeing Kent, she soared silently away but left behind two eaglets who sat cheeping at him in a blaze of downy sunshine.
Kent says of that instant: “At that moment I was so inspired by the beauty and majesty of the eagles that I felt more alive myself. The air smelled fresher, and the stream far below sparkled more brightly than before. I had simply opened my eyes and had really seen and felt what was around me.”
From eagles Kent’s love spread to all raptors (birds of prey). The fierce independence and aristocratic bearing of these aerial hunters caught his imagination and sent him out during every spare moment to follow their flight and study their habits.
He went to the library too, hunting these feathered sky-riders among the quiet stacks of books. He learned, both from books and experience (he doesn’t believe a book until he has proved it in nature) about the different raptors—where they nested, where they hunted, how they hunted, what their prey was, how they mated, and even how they flew. Before long he could see a bird silhouetted gnat-small on the horizon and name it by its flight pattern. Every time he saw a bird or visited a nest, he took careful scientific notes of everything he observed. He has several PhD dissertations lying unwritten in his notebooks.
During his junior year in high school, Kent dropped out of football and basketball to allow more time for raptor study. He traveled miles and miles searching out nests and roosting areas. He developed the climbing ability of a mountain goat and the stamina of a mustang. Leaving home Friday night after school or well before dawn Saturday morning, getting home well after dark Saturday night, and spending much of the time in between climbing steep mountains at a brisk trot, he found many raptor nests and gradually became a legitimate expert in the field. Weekdays after school also found him in the hills as often as possible.
One of his most rewarding experiences came one winter after a month-long search when he found the winter roosting grounds of bald eagles from Canada and Alaska. “I stood alone in two feet of snow near the bottom of an isolated canyon in west-central Utah, my eyes searching the sky for signs of life. Suddenly, as if by magic, they came, one by one, in pairs, and in small groups. Bald eagles dropped from the tall pine trees to the south and were gradually caught up in thermal drafts of air. Slowly circling higher and higher, traveling on wings of up to eight feet in length, they drifted west in a steady stream of traffic across the sky.”
That summer he carried back-breaking loads of wood and canvas up a towering mountain in order to build a blind from which to observe these eagles during the coming winter. When the snows were deep on the mountain a few months later, he spent hours watching them up close. “I have often crawled out of a warm bed at 3:00 A.M. and hiked up tall mountains through three feet of snow in the dark. Then I have sat cramped and numbed in a dark blind until mid-afternoon. By that time I have begun to wonder what is wrong with me. Suddenly, only 30 feet away and halfway up a scraggly old pine tree, a beautiful bald eagle has landed, and I wonder no longer.”
Kent interrupted his eagle watching to accept a mission call to the Kentucky Louisville Mission, but on his return he was on the road again checking nests.
Kent, like other students of raptors, is especially interested in the predators’ nesting behavior because this is the cycle that stands between the species and extinction.
There is also the mystery of the eternal interplay between the flight and the nest, freedom and responsibility. “An eagle’s freedom is exciting. They can leave the ground any time they want and ride the wind, and yet, like people, they’re tied down with responsibilities. When an eagle has eggs, she’s on the nest for 45 days, and she may leave it for only an hour a day. Eagles must follow their food supply too. They have certain laws they have to live within, but when they get up there and ride that wind, there’s not much that can touch them.”
In Utah, golden eagles begin their courtship flights in January or February, lay eggs from late February through March, and then incubate them from 42 to 45 days, after which the eaglets stay in the nest for from eight to ten weeks before taking to their wings. Kent warns that anyone interested in eagles should simply stay away from the nests during egg laying and incubation because during that period adult eagles are most prone to abandon the nest. Whenever a human being approaches her nest, the female eagle will invariably leave it until he is gone, and even if she returns, exposure to heat or cold can easily destroy the eggs. After the eaglets have hatched, the nest can be safely visited for very short periods of time, but after the eaglets are about seven weeks old, there is serious danger of frightening them off the nest before they are able to fly.
First flight is as breathtaking an experience for eagles as it is for people, and the proud lords of the skyways start out as bumbling, incompetent aviators. They too often crash and break a wing on the first flight and become easy prey to starvation or some four-legged predator. Kent once saw a ten-week-old eagle make its first flight and remembers: “He hopped off the nest as if he knew what he was doing, but all of a sudden he was speeding down toward the opposite cliff and losing altitude fast. You could see the shock in his eyes. His wings were spread out, his primary and secondary feathers flapping back and forth in the breeze. His head was moving back and forth watching the ground and looking back up at the nest—looking everywhere at once. He looked as if he was wondering what he had gotten himself into, whether he had really blown it, but you could also feel his exhilaration and the thrill of his first flight. He dropped down to the mouth of the canyon and hit an updraft that just pushed him right up out of sight. I found him the next day sitting on a tree unhurt.”
Kent realized from day one that it would be unthinkable to put an eagle in a cage like his childhood pet lizards, so he found another way of capturing the wild, free beauty of these magnificent creatures—photography. He seldom goes anywhere without his camera and his 400, 150, and 50 mm lenses. Over the years he has accumulated a fine collection of raptor slides and has organized them into several slide shows guaranteed to make you sad you were not born an eagle. He presents these shows to many groups and enjoys sharing them with people in rest homes and with handicapped children. It is his way of giving wings to people who are the most earthbound.
“I love eagles,” he says, “but people are the most important part of that love. It wouldn’t mean a thing to me if I went out there and filmed all those great things and didn’t have anybody to share it with.”
In photographing raptors, Kent has developed a skill that few people share. If you don’t believe it, go out sometime and photograph a bird moving in and out of focus at eye-blurring speed across blue sky, white clouds, black mountainsides, and blazing patches of snow, all in a few seconds. You’ll be very lucky even to find the thing in your telephoto lens, much less focus it and get the right exposure.
Kent’s delight in all living things has never faded. He still can’t pass up a lizard without stopping and watching. A porcupine is still a miracle. A turtle is still a masterpiece. A raven or a meadowlark is still breathtaking, and snakes still make him shiver as good as they make most of us shiver bad. There are no commonplace animals for Kent; they all bring him joy just by being. It is significant that on the gun rack in his pickup he has hung only a pair of binoculars.
But in spite of his reverence for all things, those binoculars are filled mostly with raptors right now, and Kent has been repaid for his thousands of hours of work with some heart-thumping experiences—a squadron of bald eagles on a winter day, the soaring rise of a Swainson’s hawk, the screaming dive of a prairie falcon, the puppet-like unreality of baby owls. And speaking of owls, he had the privilege of being knocked backwards off a 30-foot cliff by a frightened great horned owl and of having his face bloodied by the fierce attack of another not-at-all frightened member of the species.
He especially remembers one top-of-the-world moment on a peak high in a remote canyon. The granite walls were so buffeted by a tree-toppling wind that day that he had to lie flat to avoid being blown away like a leaf. A golden eagle came floating down onto the highest point on the peak, sorting out the changing, punishing wind with his wings, and somehow keeping an even keel. He stood there a moment looking regally around at the whole world lying beneath his talons as if inspecting his kingdom. “He only touched down for a few seconds, and then he simply opened his wings and turned them back into the wind. He shot up and out of sight like a rocket without ever flapping a wing.”
No one but Kent can say how many hours of sleep or basketball games or TV shows that experience was worth to him, but he isn’t complaining.
There is another aspect to Kent’s studies beyond the intellectual and aesthetic. Living with these magnificent birds has strengthened his testimony of his Creator. One winter day he took an atheist friend to a canyon where he knew there would be eagles. As they stood in the snow watching some 50 bald eagles soar above them, Kent looked at his open-mouthed friend and said quietly, “That didn’t just happen by accident.”
“Boy, I know it!” his friend said, his voice small with awe.
If anybody wants to know why eagles are worth saving, maybe that’s why.

My father was the son of Lithuanians, but he was born in Scotland. He moved to Brazil when he was still young. His ability to speak English facilitated his conversion, since he could read the Book of Mormon in English and there was not yet a reliable translation into Portuguese. This language barrier prevented my mother from joining the Church until a few years later, but when she did, she became a powerful example of dedication to others and love of God in our family. She is now 92 years old, and she is here today. It gives me great joy to say that I love her for her great faithfulness. I will also honor and bless her name forever.