Gospel Story Finder

All of the Authorities who are here tonight could testify that in the reorganization of stakes they have had remarkable and inspiring experiences. I recall being assigned to reorganize a stake about 40 years ago. The president had suddenly died. The Brethren asked me to go down and speak at the funeral and reorganize the stake. I had never done this before. I was new as a General Authority. I was to be all alone.
When I arrived, I was taken to another town, where I participated in the funeral service. I asked all of the stake officers and the bishops to remain after the service and announced that a reorganization of the stake would take place the next evening.
I asked the mission president to sit with me as I interviewed the brethren, none of whom I knew. We interviewed late into the evening. I soon discovered there were problems in the stake. There were divisive feelings. When we were all through, I said to the mission president, “I am not satisfied. Are there not others?” He said, “I know of only one man whom we have not interviewed. He moved here rather recently on a transfer in his company. He is the second counselor in a bishopric. I do not know him well. He resides in another city.”
I said, “Let’s go see him.” We drove and went to the hotel where I would be staying for the night. Here I was, having interviewed all of these brethren and having not found one that I considered worthy to preside and having scheduled the reorganization for the next evening.
We arrived late at the hotel. I called the man; a sleepy voice answered the phone. I said that I wished to see him that evening. I apologized for calling him so late. He said, “I’ve just gone to bed, but I’ll put on my clothes and come.”
He came to the hotel. The conversation that followed was most interesting. He was a graduate of BYU in petroleum geology. He worked for a big oil company. He had served elsewhere in positions of responsibility in the Church. He knew the program of the Church. He had served a mission. He knew the gospel. He was mature in the Church. And the territory for which he was responsible as an employee of the oil company was exactly the same as the territory of the stake. I told him we would telephone him in the morning and excused him.
The mission president went on his way, and I went to bed.
At about three o’clock the next morning I awoke. Doubts began to flood my mind. This man was almost a total stranger to the people of the stake. I got out of bed and got on my knees and pleaded with the Lord for direction. I did not hear a voice, but I had a very distinct impression that said, “I told you who should be stake president. Why do you continue to ask?”
Ashamed of myself for troubling the Lord again, I went to bed and fell asleep. I phoned the man early the next morning and issued to him a call to serve as president of the stake. I asked him to select counselors.
That evening when people gathered for the meeting, there was much speculation as to who would be the stake president, but no one even thought of this man. When I announced his name, people looked at one another for a clue to discovering who he was. I had him come to the stand. I announced his counselors and had them come to the stand.
Even though they did not know him, the people sustained him. Things began to happen in that stake. The people had known for a long time that they needed a stake center, but they had been uncertain and argumentative as to where it should go. He went to work and within 18 months had a beautiful new stake center ready for dedication. He unified the stake. He traveled up and down, meeting the people and extending his love to them. That stake, which had grown tired, came to life and literally bubbled with new enthusiasm. It stands as a shining star in the large constellation of stakes in this Church.

Illustration by Vlad Gusev
I was in the middle of the Forbidden City in Beijing, China. Only minutes before, I had been surrounded by friends and teachers, but I was suddenly completely and utterly alone.
I immediately understood the danger I was in. A solitary 15-year-old American stood out like a sore thumb in the bustling palace museum. I had come to China with other high school classmates on a school-sponsored trip, and our teachers and guides had warned us numerous times about the possible dangers of touring a foreign country if we were not careful.
I walked around the area, pushing through crowds of tourists—Chinese and foreigner alike—and stood on my tiptoes trying to look for the matching red and white shirts that each member of our group wore. But I saw nothing. Somehow, my group had slipped away without me and I had no idea what direction they had gone in. I sat down and watched the entrances and exits. Ten minutes passed, then 30, then 45. No one from my group appeared.
Someone grabbed my hand. I looked up to see a short woman with slightly crazed eyes and long fingernails. She pulled at my hand. “Follow me,” she said in broken English. “Pretty girl, follow me.”
I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Get back,” I yelled, pulling my hand back. Before she could grab it again, I raced through an exit and entered another section of the city.
I ran for a while until I was even more lost than before. I sat on a nearby step, away from the groups of people, and started to cry. I knew a few words of Chinese but certainly not enough to get directions back to our hotel, somewhere on the other side of the sprawling city of Beijing. And at this point, I was not even sure where an exit was.
Amid tears, I started to pray. I admitted that I had been foolish to wander from the group, even for a moment, and I pleaded with Heavenly Father to help me find a way back to my group.
I stood up and walked back in the general direction I had come from. I did not receive any immediate revelation—and I was unsure of what that revelation would sound or feel like even if I did receive it. I had felt the Spirit before, a warm feeling after serving someone or hearing a talk in church, but I had never felt anything specific—certainly not directions on where to go. I started walking forward uncertainly, continuing the prayer in my heart.
I finally reached a fork in the road. I started to go right when I heard a voice whisper, “Stay.”
The voice was so soft that I almost disregarded it completely as one of my own thoughts. But it contained a sureness that I certainly didn’t feel at the moment. “Sit on that bench,” the voice said. I looked up and saw a bench in the middle of the fork. I went over and sat down. Only three minutes later, a familiar white and red shirt appeared in the crowd and waved toward me. It was our tour guide for the day.
I jumped up from the bench I was sitting on. I was so happy I almost hugged the woman.
“We have been looking for you for an hour!” she said. “Where were you?”
As she led me back to my group, I explained to her where I had been, starting with my separation from the group and ending with my decision to sit down instead of going right at the fork in the road.
“You’re very lucky,” she said. “If you had gone right at that turn, it would have taken you in the opposite direction from the rest of the group. The city is so big, I would never have been able to find you.”
I left China a few weeks later, managing to not get lost again during the trip, but I have thought back many times to the moment when I heard the voice of the Spirit whisper to me. It was not the kind of prompting I had received before, but it is what the Lord knew I needed in order to avoid going down a wrong path. I also recognized how easy it would have been to ignore it if I had not been listening.
Since that day, I have heard the Spirit many times in many different ways, warning me of both physical and spiritual danger. Sometimes I have seen the consequences of following or disobeying that voice like I did that first day in the Forbidden City. More often, I haven’t been able to see the results. But I have learned that when I humble myself and am willing to listen, the Lord will help me recognize the Spirit’s promptings and He will guide me back to where I need to be. With Him, I am never alone.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

Even though I had been attending a preschool for three years to help me with my speech problems, when I started kindergarten, my family, friends, and schoolteachers still had a hard time understanding what I was saying. My parents were concerned. My family fasted for me, and my dad gave me a priesthood blessing. My speech didn’t improve overnight, but by the middle of the school year my teacher, my family, and my friends could understand me better. Heavenly Father blessed me and the people who worked with me. I could finally bear my testimony. I still have to take speech classes and work hard, but I know Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers.

Other experiences may not be so dramatic but are nevertheless real and heartwarming. I recall an elderly couple whose frame home, situated at the end of a dirt lane, had not seen a coat of paint for too many years. These were neat and tidy people; they were concerned about the appearance of their small house. In a moment of inspiration I called, not upon the elders quorum or upon volunteers to wield paint brushes, but rather, following the welfare handbook, upon the family members who lived in other areas. Four sons-in-law and four daughters took brushes in hand and participated in the project. The paint had been provided by a dealer located in our area. The result was a transformation not only of the house but of the family. The children determined how they might best help mother and dad in their old age. They did so voluntarily and with gladness of heart. A house was painted, a family united, and respect preserved.

Completing the picture. My husband and I and our three children decided that we would each read the Book of Mormon individually. We cut a print of an ancient prophet holding golden plates into five pieces. Each family member was responsible to complete the picture by completing our reading. Our youngest son does not read yet, so I read an illustrated Book of Mormon with him.One by one we finished our reading and began to pray for those still working on the challenge. We all finished by the end of the year, and we showed by following the living prophet that we value the words of our ancient prophets. Cinara Lilian Leão Machado, São Carlos, Brazil

Fu-yen Li lived in the little village of Tao Yuan below the mountains in southern China. Like most children, he spent a lot of time playing. Early one morning, he and Chun were playing pirates when his father Fu-hui appeared. The older man was holding a straw basket in one hand and a lantern in the other. “Fu-yen,” said Fu-hui, “I want you to come with me.”
“But we are playing pirates,” protested Fu-yen.
Fu-hui was firm. “Fu-yen, you can play later,” he insisted, nodding his head.
Fu-yen kicked a pebble out of the way. He glanced at Chun, hoping his playmate would understand, and followed his father up the narrow, rocky path toward the mountains. Every now and then Fu-hui glanced back and nodded his head and Fu-yen hurried to catch up with him.
Fu-yen’s straw hat kept slipping off his head. He retied the strings under his chin, but soon the hat was hanging down his back. It was warm and beads of perspiration began to appear on the boy’s upper lip. He looked down at the village below. The terraced gardens were sparkling like jade in the sun. But the peaceful scene failed to overcome his disappointment. I’d rather be playing with my friend, he thought.
Fu-hui seemed to know what his son was thinking. “You are unhappy, my son,” he began, “but you will learn a great deal today—a special kind of lesson.”
“But,” complained Fu-yen, “I learn in school. Isn’t that enough?”
Fu-hui smiled. He remembered when he was a boy and how he had wanted to play most of the time.
“Sometimes one learns more by actual experience,” explained Fu-hui. “Seeing things in physical form will benefit you all of your life.”
Fu-yen looked away. “Where are we going, Father?” he finally asked.
“To the caves.”
“What’s at the caves?”
“Swifts. The breeding season of these birds must be over by now. The nests can be collected.”
“Nests? What are you going to do with birds’ nests?” Fu-yen asked.
“Make bird’s-nest soup,” answered Fu-hui.
Bird’s-nest soup! Fu-yen wondered. Then he recalled once eating soup that his mother claimed was made from birds’ nests. It had tasted so much like chicken that he had thought she was teasing him.
“Who would want bird’s-nest soup!” he muttered.
“Bird’s-nest soup is a delicacy because the nests are available only once a year after the breeding season,” Father explained. “I shall sell them.”
Fu-yen remembered the village marketplace where farmers gathered to sell their wares. His father had taken him there once. It was so crowded with people that he was glad when they had returned home.
Silence stretched between the father and his son until they came to the caves. Several small brown swifts flew out as they entered. Fu-hui lighted the lantern, and slowly their eyes adjusted to the darkness within. The musty odor in the cave reminded Fu-yen of their chicken coop. Nests lined the walls, and broken eggshells and feathers lay everywhere.
Fu-yen studied the nests clinging to the walls. “I have seen such nests in the village,” he reminded his father. “Why come all this way to collect them?”
“Only a special kind of swift’s nest is used to make soup,” Father said. “There are as many as seventy-five species throughout the world. Many of them are in Europe. There is one type of swift in America called the chimney swallow, because they build their nests in unused chimneys. They make their nests out of sticky saliva and cover it with small sticks, but such nests are not pure enough to eat. These nests used for soup are made wholly of dried saliva and are built by the swift genus called collocalia, of the species fuciphaga. Only their saliva becomes milky white when it dries. The whitest nests bring the highest price.”
Fu-yen stared at the nests that resembled half-saucers on the wall. He held the lantern while Fu-hui loosened some to put in the basket. They moved deeper into the cave.
“Look!” cried Fu-yen. “This nest must have baby birds in it. I can hear them cheeping. Father, please don’t take it.”
Fu-hui smiled. “We will wait until the young ones take flight.”
Fu-hui lifted Fu-yen up so he could see into the nest. The tiny birds were crying for food.
“Oh, Father,” he said, “they are so little and helpless.”
“You know, Fu-yen, parent birds love their babies just as we love our children. They watch over them and teach them how to live so that they can survive.”
“It made me happy to see those baby birds,” Fu-yen said. “I, too, want to watch over them and protect them.”
“Life is precious in any form,” said Fu-hui, lowering Fu-yen to his feet.
Just then the mother bird returned with insects to feed her young.
The baby birds cried out again, stretching their necks to be first. One by one, the mother fed her young.
Fu-yen and his father came out of the caves into the bright sunlight.
“I am glad you came with me,” said Fu-hui. “It is only once in a while you can collect birds’ nests for soup.”
“I’m glad, too,” admitted Fu-yen. “I can hardly wait to see Chun’s face when I tell him about bird’s-nest soup.”

At youth conferences in the Orlando Florida and St. Albans England Stakes, teens received written “calls” to be member missionaries. They then participated in “mini missionary training centers,” where they were assigned a companion and attended workshops on how to share the gospel with others. “My understanding of the importance of missionary work has grown, and I feel I’m better prepared to share the gospel with my peers,” says 16-year-old Rachael Solomon of Orlando.

Even President David O. McKay went through this mental process as a teenage boy. He has told us about kneeling by a serviceberry bush as a boy in Huntsville to find out once and for all about the truth of the work. May I quote President McKay as he tells of that occasion:
“I knelt down and with all the fervor of my heart poured out my soul to God and asked him for a testimony of this gospel. I had in mind that there would be some manifestation; that I should receive some transformation that would leave me absolutely without doubt.
“I got up, mounted my horse, and as he started over the trail, I remember rather introspectively searching myself and involuntarily shaking my head, saying to myself, ‘No sir, there is no change; I am just the same boy I was before I knelt down.’ The anticipated manifestation had not come. …
“However, it did come, but not in the way I had anticipated. Even the manifestation of God’s power and the presence of his angels came; but when it did come, it was simply a confirmation, it was not a testimony.” (Treasures of Life, [Deseret Book Co., 1962], pp. 229–30.)

At the end of my ballet class, my dance teacher said, “Girls, we have a Golden Ribbon Dance to watch today.” A Golden Ribbon Dance is a dance you choreograph yourself and perform for your class. Afterward you can choose a golden ribbon. But the really exciting part is that the teachers choose 10 of these dances to be performed in the Christmas recital.
My friend Addie got into position to perform her dance, and the music started. She began dancing really gracefully and beautifully. As she flowed with the music, I started thinking about a dance I could create.
When I got home, I looked online for some music for my Golden Ribbon Dance. I searched for LDS music, and the first thing that popped up was “Have I Done Any Good?” I listened to the music and loved it, so I started making up my dance. I was so excited that when I was about half finished, I ran downstairs and showed my mom. She loved it!
My dance company’s theme this year was “Art in Motion,” so I was supposed to choose some art to inspire my dance. We looked through some LDS art about service. We found four pictures that I liked. My favorite was one called The Good Samaritan.
I practiced and practiced and practiced so I could be ready to perform. I even showed my sister and sister-in-law, and they both loved it.
When I felt ready, I brought all my pictures to class. I chose four girls to hold the pictures behind me during my performance. As I danced, I wasn’t even thinking about whether I would get chosen for the Christmas recital. I just had a really warm, peaceful feeling inside as I shared my testimony about Jesus with art, music, and my very own dance!

I could not help noticing the lady in the seat across the aisle. She was looking around the bus with her eyes wide and glossy, her thin hands clasped together in front of her. She kept squinting out the window, shaking her wispy hair, and making a funny noise. She began fidgeting more and more, and I wondered if she was going to make a scene. I turned to the window, trying to ignore her, but curiosity made me look back again.
It was then that I saw tears in her eyes. I wondered if she might be in trouble. I wanted to help, but what if she did make a scene? I wouldn’t know what to do. Besides, I thought, I have to get to school on time, and my stop is coming up.
Then I looked over to where she was sitting and saw the fearful expression on her face. The next thing I knew, I stood up, crossed the aisle, and sat down beside her.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you need some help?”
Her eyes were wet and her hands were shaking. Her delicate face stared at me blankly, like a young child’s, so I asked her again, “Are you okay?”
She looked down at her green handbag and fumbled through it for a pen and a notebook. She began writing, “Have we left Ottawa? I think I took the wrong bus.”
I picked up the pen and wrote, “Are you deaf?” She responded with a nod. “Don’t worry,” I continued to write. “We’ll figure this out.”
My stop was coming up next, and I knew this would make me late, but I didn’t ring the bell. Instead, I approached the bus driver, who phoned the station for directions. I wrote the alternate route down for her, and the bus driver said he would ensure that she caught the connecting bus.
“What is your name?” I wrote quickly, before getting off at a stop quite a distance now from the school.
“Anna,” she scribbled. “Thank you. You are the friend I was praying for.” A calm smile spread across her face that made her hazel eyes sparkle. I could feel her love and appreciation. As I smiled back at her, I felt an understanding that bonded us together.
As the door swished behind me, and I waved good-bye, I could not believe that I had almost let Anna take that frightening journey alone. I ran all the way back to school with a smile on my face. I was glad I had listened to the promptings of the Holy Ghost telling me that someone else needed help.

Before she found the gospel, A. Munkhsaihan saw the world as a dark place with little hope. Finding faith and hope through the gospel changed the world for her.

In the years before 1990, she taught Russian. But when the political and cultural climate of Mongolia changed, she found that she needed to learn English so she could teach it. Munkhsaihan studied English for a year with Latter-day Saint missionaries. Before listening to the missionary discussions, she determined that she would examine their faith carefully. She found their religion was more than a faith based on true principles—it was a way of life. She was baptized and confirmed in June 2000, and the rest of her family joined the Church a month later. Now she sees the world as a much brighter place for her, her children, and her grandchildren. Currently, she serves as president of the Relief Society in the Ulaanbaatar district.

After the gospel changed her own life, Munkhsaihan wondered what would happen if she applied its principles in her work as a teacher. She began trying consciously to love all her students—and with some that was difficult. She began to pray for her students. Interestingly, she found herself changing; she developed a greater capacity to love them. Even though the students did not know she was praying for them, their attitudes toward her changed as well.

“As we exercise faith in the gospel, we can change ourselves,” she says.

And this, her experience suggests, is how the gospel may change Mongolia. As members change themselves through faith in Jesus Christ, they will change the world around them.

I was ordained an elder, and on the day of my departure for active duty with the navy, a member of my ward bishopric joined my family and friends at the train station to bid me farewell. Just before train time, he placed in my hand a small volume titled Missionary Handbook. I laughed and commented that I wasn’t going on a mission.
He answered, “Take it anyway. It may come in handy.”
It did. I needed a hard, rectangular object to place in the bottom of my seabag so that my clothing would stay more firm and would thus be less wrinkled. The Missionary Handbook was just what I needed, and it served well in my seabag for 12 weeks.
The night before our Christmas leave, our thoughts were of home. The barracks were quiet, but then the silence was broken by my buddy in the adjoining bunk—a Mormon boy, Leland Merrill—who began to moan in pain. I inquired concerning the reason, and he said he felt really sick. He did not want to go to the base dispensary, for he knew that doing such would prevent his going home the following day.
He seemed to grow worse as the hours passed. Finally, knowing that I was an elder, he asked me to give him a priesthood blessing.
I had never before given a priesthood blessing, I had never received a blessing, and I had never witnessed a blessing being given. As I prayed silently for help, I remembered the Missionary Handbook in the bottom of my seabag. I quickly emptied the bag and took the book to the night-light. There I read how one blesses the sick. With many curious sailors looking on, I proceeded with the blessing. Before I could put everything back into my bag, Leland Merrill was sleeping like a child. He awakened the following morning feeling fine. The gratitude each of us felt for the power of the priesthood was immense.

While growing up, I struggled with my mental health. I was eventually diagnosed with anxiety and depression, but I never told anyone the details. I never told anyone that I was often hearing voices and seeing things that nobody else did. I was worried about what they might think.
When I returned from my mission early because of my issues with mental health, I realized I needed to get help. So I set up an appointment with a psychiatrist. I made a plan to tell her only that I needed to get off the medication I had been taking for depression because it was making my symptoms worse.
But the Lord had different plans for that day.
When I stepped into the psychiatrist’s office, I felt the strongest sense of peace. My parents and I had been praying that the doctor would be inspired to help me and that I would be able to get things figured out. And I wasn’t sure why, but I felt that I was finally going to receive answers.
What I thought would be a quick appointment turned into a two-hour interview as the doctor asked me questions that struck me very personally. I was nervous, but the Spirit whispered, “This is the time to be honest. You can trust her.”
Taking deep breaths, I answered each question, feeling more and more comfortable with every answer. Finally, the doctor calmly said to me, “You have schizoaffective disorder.” She explained that it’s a cross between schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. I could not believe it.
“Schizophrenia?” I thought. “No way!” I immediately thought of supervillains and people locked up in straitjackets—those were the only types of people I thought could have schizophrenia. Horrified, I thought, “How am I ever going to tell my parents?” and “What will people think of me if they find out?” But the peace I felt from the Spirit persisted, and I heard it whisper once again, “This is right. You can trust her.”
Initially, I was terrified of letting people know. Not only did I have these problems, but now I had this label—one that would probably make people think of insane criminals! But time passed, and gradually I learned to accept that I have this condition, just as someone diagnosed with cancer or diabetes must accept theirs.
I’ve come to realize that labels—even scary-sounding ones—don’t define me. I’m still the same Courtney I was before I was diagnosed. Now I just understand the problems I face a little better. Just because I have a name for my condition now doesn’t change the way I’ve lived my life. It doesn’t change my worth, and it doesn’t change everything I’ve accomplished.
Today I can honestly say that I’ve been blessed by this experience. I have seen miracles come about because of my willingness to be honest and thanks to the treatment I’ve received. My paranoia and panic attacks have significantly lessened. I don’t hear voices in my head anymore, and I can walk around my house at night without being haunted by hallucinations. I’d never trade the healing that I am experiencing for the secrecy I once had about these challenges.
I know that the Lord truly knows what we need and when we need it. Sometimes we just have to be brave enough to reach for the tools He has provided for us. I believe that the Lord extended His mercy to guide me to that specific doctor at that specific time. It was nothing short of a blessing.

Last spring, I was asked to model for the prom fashion show on a local television station in Los Angeles. I was so excited to be one of the five girls chosen to be on TV. After weeks of rehearsal and preparation, we finally had the dress fitting. I quickly learned that the director of the show had already picked out all of the dresses to be modeled. I had been chosen to wear the most revealing dresses.
When I saw the dresses I was expected to wear, a line from the Young Women theme came to me: “We will ‘stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places’ (Mosiah 18:9).”
I felt extremely uncomfortable with the dresses that had been chosen for me, and I knew that I would not be standing “as a witness of God” if I wore them. I requested a dress change but was told that the director wanted me to wear those specific dresses and not any others. My only other option was to exclude myself from the show.
The decision was difficult to make, but I knew I was doing the right thing when I chose not to be part of the show. I wanted to keep the commandments under all circumstances, not just when I had nothing to lose.
[illustration] Photograph © PhotoSpin

Besides helping her overcome challenges, Haylee knows that Heavenly Father protects her. “One time my mom and I went hiking in Kodachrome State Park,” she says, “but as we started up the trail, I didn’t feel good about it. I asked my mom if we should turn back, and she didn’t think so. I asked if we could say a prayer, so we did.” A few minutes later, they heard a strange rattling noise. Haylee had nearly stepped on a coiled rattlesnake! She knew that Heavenly Father had answered her prayer.

“Each week for several weeks I gave a lady with five children in our ward a few hours to herself. Babysitting five kids is not easy. At times I could have pulled my hair out, but I survived and without losing my temper. I helped the children each transfer one of their drawings onto a quilt block, and we made a special quilt for their mother. Doing good works for someone else gave me a warm feeling inside.”
Heather BellMeridian Idaho East Stake

I was once moved by a Christlike example of everyday ministering when I was shopping in a big grocery store. I came across a lady who was trying to lift heavy cases of water into her cart.

A man nearby quickly noticed that she was struggling and came over to help. When they got the cases loaded, he even asked if she needed any more help from him.

As I noticed this beautiful act, this stranger looked over at me and greeted me kindly with a smile. His expression seemed to say that he was willing to help me as well if I needed it.

His example reminded me of the Savior.

The Savior always ministered without hesitation when He saw a need. He often served and offered His aid without question—only love. Seeing the example of this man has stuck with me and inspired me to look for everyday opportunities to minster in my own life. And I now see that those opportunities are everywhere.

John’s soggy shoes slid in the rutted ice alongside the handcart. A toe snagged on a half-buried rock, and he pitched forward into the snow.
Mama helped him up. “My feet hurt bad, Mama. Could I ride a little way in the handcart?”
“Papa’s too sick to pull extra weight, John. See the willows ahead? We’ll camp there tonight by the river.”
John peered through the falling snow. The willows were so far away! He counted steps: “One … two … three … ,” trying to forget the pain in his half-frozen feet. An ache started in his hands. It worsened until he could no longer concentrate.
His gaze fixed on Mama’s skirt, blowing stiffly in the rising wind. “Your skirt’s frozen, Mama.”
“Only the edges where it drags through the snow,” Mama said, hugging him. Then her light, sweet voice sang out, “Come, come, ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear …”
Instantly, every voice in the handcart company took up the words. It was a camp rule that when one began singing that special hymn, all must join in.
As Papa’s thin frame pulled against the weight of the handcart, his lips moved soundlessly to the words. A fit of coughing doubled him over. He staggered and fell.
John leaped to Papa’s side and cradled his head in his lap. Men dropped their own handcarts and hurried to help. Papa whispered, “I just need a moment to catch my breath.” Heavy coughing shook him.
The men lifted Papa into the handcart. Tears trembled on Mama’s eyelashes as she tucked a warm buffalo robe around him.
Papa had said that the robes they had bought in Fort Laramie were a mixed blessing. Those who chose to keep warm with them might die of hauling the extra weight. John was glad now that they had discarded other things in order to keep them.
As the men went back to their own handcarts, Mama said, “It’s up to us now, John.” She took Papa’s place in front of the handcart. John stood beside her. His body strained. The handcart bumped slowly forward.
John’s feet, clumsy with cold, trudged inch by weary inch toward the willows. After a while, he felt neither hands nor feet, numbed as they were by wind-whipped snow and sleet.
Finally they reached the willows. “Get what rest you can,” the captain told the company. “Tomorrow we cross the river.”
Cross the river? John could see no ferry. The river was dark with slush ice. He shuddered.
Papa crawled from the handcart and steadied himself against the wheel, coughing weakly.
“I can make camp, Papal” cried John. Papa reached into the handcart for the tent. “Some are working who are sicker than I am,” he said.
Digging in the snow, John found a few sticks of firewood. Soon a pot of mush bubbled over a fire.
Mama scraped the mush into three bowls. “It’s such a little bit,” John sighed, gulping the steaming gruel.
“I know,” said Mama. “The company captain said we must cut the rations in half again.”
Papa spooned a bit of mush into his mouth. “Nobody dreamed that winter would come so early,” he murmured. “Nor be so savage.”
That night John huddled with Mama and Papa under the buffalo robes. Slowly, feeling returned to his hands and feet. Exhausted, he slept.
The next morning John awakened to a camp half buried in snow. In the fierce wind, he helped Mama and Papa pack the handcart. With other Saints, they struggled through the still-falling snow to the riverbank.
“Oh, Papa!” John stared at the rushing slush-thickened water.
“If I stumble, grab the handcart,” was all Papa said. Grimly he pulled the cart into the icy water.
John splashed in behind him. He gasped as the freezing water crept to his chest. Mama hiked up her long skirts and waded after him.
Chunks of jagged ice floated by. One slammed into Papa. He staggered and fell. Trying to reach him, John stepped on a sharp rock and slipped. In an instant, the freezing water closed over him.
Hands grabbed him and steadied him in the fast-moving current. He looked for Papa. There he was! Men were helping him across the river. He saw Mama pulling their handcart onto the far bank.
By the time John reached the handcart, the bitter wind had frozen his clothes to his body. Mama tore them off and helped him into dry things. She replaced her ice-crusted skirt with another one.
Reeling with cold, Papa found dry clothing. Mama shielded him from the storm with a buffalo robe while he changed.
Nobody in the group had strength enough to pitch a tent, but Mama spread their buffalo robes in the scant shelter of the handcart. They burrowed under them, hugging each other for warmth.
John heard snorting and stamping. Horses? That creaking—was it wagons? He poked his head from the covers.
“Papa! Mama!” he called. “It’s covered wagons pulling into camp!” Papa coughed, unable to answer. Mama’s blue lips moved, but no sound came. John scrambled from the covers to get help.
“Brigham Young sent us with provisions as soon as he heard about your company,” a rescuer told John.
“Your mama and papa are suffering from fatigue and exposure,” another said. “We’ll get them into a wagon right away.”
Soon fires blazed in the camp. John stood warming himself, breathing in the smell of sizzling buffalo meat and pan bread.
Given a plate of hot food, John could eat only a mouthful. He was so tired!
The rescuers lifted him into the wagon with Mama and Papa. Bundled under heavy quilts, he listened to Papa’s racking cough and labored breathing.
“Are you all right, Papa?”
Papa couldn’t speak for coughing. The wagon began to move through swirling snow toward Salt Lake. Weak voices of the handcart company joined joyfully with the strong voices of the rescuers. “But if our lives are spared again To see the Saints their rest obtain, Oh, how we’ll make this chorus swell—All is well! All is well!”

Through rigorous effort to look to and for Jesus Christ in my every thought and deed, my eyes were enlightened and my understanding quickened to recognize that Jesus Christ was calling for me to “come unto” Him. From this early season of discipleship in my youth, I can recall an invitation extended to me by the missionaries to join them as they taught the gospel to a group of young girls about my age. One evening, as we were seated in the family home of one of these young women, their tender question of why I believe pricked my heart and allowed me to testify to them with deepened understanding of the Lord’s vision about the spiritual motivations of my discipleship and has refined my testimony going forward.

Yellow Leaf was lying on a moss-covered boulder that overhung a deep, clear brook. Dreamily, she watched a huge speckled trout nosing among the pebbles on the bottom of the deep pool. Olive green, with iridescent flecks of color on each side, the trout was so beautiful, Yellow Leaf had no desire to catch it. A pale golden moth fluttered too near the surface. The trout spun upward with incredible speed. “Aiii,” the Indian girl sighed in sorrow as the moth vanished.
A strange squealing sound startled Yellow Leaf and drew her to the top of the hill. Dropping flat, she watched in amazement as a clumsy, bargelike wagon drawn by a pair of oxen pulled to a stop below. The squealing sound she had heard was the iron-bound wheels, badly in need of grease.
Judging from the clouds of dust still hanging in the air, the wagon had come out of the arid, boulder-strewn badlands. The people in the wagon must have traveled all night to have survived; it would have been impossible to travel during the heat of the day.
The wagon had no cover; only charred pieces of canvas clung to the metal hoops across the top of the wagon. There were no water barrels lashed to the sides. Creeping closer, Yellow Leaf saw a telltale arrow piercing the wagon bed.
This family was probably all who had survived from a wagon train. Indian tribes to the east, who were also enemies of her tribe, were on the warpath because of a broken treaty. These Indians must have attacked the wagon train.
Yellow Leaf felt pity for the little family. “They will have little chance of survival here,” she murmured. Yellow Leaf watched the woman, carrying a small baby, herd two other children to the meager shade provided by a large boulder. The man, bent with fatigue, moved about among the rocks, searching.
“Water! They’re dying of thirst!” the girl whispered as she remembered the missing barrels. “If they had horses instead of oxen, the horses would sniff out the water and lead the people to it.”
Yellow Leaf yearned to help, but she didn’t dare. Even if she could speak their language, it wouldn’t help. The man had a gun, and she would almost certainly be shot if she approached. Regretfully she turned to leave.
A feeble wail from the baby stopped her. It sounded like her baby brother. Looking back, she saw that the man was some distance away, still threading his way through the barren rocks. There was water out there, but he wouldn’t know where to find it. He was even going in the wrong direction and would soon drop in his tracks from thirst and weakness.
There was another weak cry from the baby, and Yellow Leaf raced back to the brook. Spilling the lush purple berries from the earthenware pot, she filled it with icy water. Hesitating for only a moment, Yellow Leaf glided silently down the steep slope.
The woman was lying there, curled protectively around her children, her eyes closed, and her lips cracked and swollen. Forgetting all danger, the Indian girl knelt and scooped up water in her hands, letting it splash on the woman’s face. Her skyblue eyes reflected disbelief as they fluttered open and stared into Yellow Leaf’s dark eyes. For a long moment, the girl held her breath, expecting the woman to begin screaming; that would bring the man running with one of the long guns feared by Yellow Leaf’s people.
But the woman’s panic was overcome by concern for her children. Taking a metal cup from the wagon, the mother watched carefully as the older boy and girl drank, making certain they didn’t drink too much. She cared for the baby, and then she wet cloths to cool the heads of the children. Only then did she drink herself.
Preoccupied with watching the children, Yellow Leaf didn’t hear the man approach. She wasn’t aware of the danger until the woman cried out, “No, Frank. No! She brought us water.”
The man seemed dazed as he lowered his rifle. “Water? Where could she find water in this dried-up land? There’s not a sprig of grass anywhere!”
When he too had quenched his thirst, the tall, gaunt man pointed to the clay pot and asked, “Where?” His tired face fell as Yellow Leaf pointed to the bluff.
“We could never get the wagon up there,” he sighed, motioning toward the heavy wagon and the thirsty oxen.
Yellow Leaf understood. Standing up, she walked to the wagon and stood waiting. “She wants us to get in. Maybe she knows a way!” the woman said hopefully.
Walking ahead of the oxen, Yellow Leaf led the way around the barren hills to a gentle slope that led up and then down into a green valley where the brook wound like a silver thread.
“It’s the most beautiful spot I’ve ever seen! It’s exactly the place we’ve dreamed about,” the woman cried in delight.
“Yes. There are trees to build a cabin, and the land wouldn’t take too much clearing. It’s rich ground, too, Sarah. Almost anything should grow here,” the man said softly, his eyes bright with excitement and hope.
Neither noticed when the Indian girl slipped away. Turning for a last glimpse, Yellow Leaf felt tears sting her eyes as she watched the man and woman, hand in hand, lost in their brave dreams for the future. They were the first white people who had ever seen the fertile valley hidden away behind the desolate rocky hills. Would they ever know the anguish Yellow Leaf suffered at giving them her beautiful green land?
A chill swept over Yellow Leaf. Suddenly she felt like the fluttering golden moth.