Gospel Story Finder

The Young Women of the Salt Lake Winder West Stake chose a rather unusual project. They became involved in making scrapbooks for patients at a medical center. The scrapbooks were filled with colorful pictures that could represent pleasant memories for older patients. Jill Richins of the Winder West Fourth Ward said that the scrapbooks became precious possessions of the patients. “We made the scrapbooks to help them fill the hours when they have nothing to occupy themselves.” The director of the medical center also worked with the girls to teach them to help orient the patients to their daily surroundings.

The white pelicans came to our river in November. The first time I saw them, they were faraway and looked like a field of white flowers floating on the silver water. My brother, Danny, and I were taking our usual shortcut along the river to school. “Laura,” he whispered, “look at the river!”
In awe, we climbed to our secret hiding place by the riverbank and watched the field of drifting white.
“Pelicans!” we said together.
We had never seen so many pelicans. Danny counted seventy-two, and I counted seventy-five.
The big white birds looked as if they were dancing to music. All together they turned. All together they circled and dipped their orange-yellow bills into the water. All together they brought them out again.
I wanted to stay with the pelicans all day, but I finally tore myself away. I kept telling myself that I could see them after school.
But they weren’t there after school. Danny and I looked up and down the river, and all we saw was a lone bittern standing on a rock. With its head and sharp bill hunched into its ruffled brown feathers, the bittern looked as sad as we were.
Our spirits brightened the next morning. As we walked along our shortcut to school, the sun flooded over the hillside and gleamed on white feathers. The pelicans were back, and they were dancing.
The day after that was Thanksgiving. After breakfast, Dad patted his stomach and said, “Before we dig into that big meal this afternoon, why don’t we do something special?”
Danny and I looked at each other. “The pelicans!” we exclaimed.
We had never taken Mom and Dad to our secret hiding place in the thicket by the river. It was usually reserved for watching the cottontail rabbits that grazed nearby. But we decided to make an exception since today was Thanksgiving and Mom and Dad had never seen the pelicans.
We all snuggled into the thicket. Peeking out one side, we saw seven little brown rabbits. Two of them hopped away, waving their white cotton-ball tails behind them. The other five stayed and stared at us with their big brown eyes.
Peeking out the other side of the thicket, we saw the white pelicans floating on the still river. Mom counted sixty-four. I counted seventy-three, and Danny seventy-five. Dad counted eighty-two. So who knows how many pelicans there were.
In perfect rhythm, the big birds were dipping their yellow bills into the water.
“Do you know what they’re doing?” Dad asked.
Danny and I shook our heads.
“They’re fishing. The water is low at this time of year, and they can easily scoop the fish into those pouches under their bills.”
For a long time we watched the pelicans fish and the cottontails graze. Not faraway I could hear the rush of cars on the busy freeway. I knew that the city was nearby, too, but here in our secret thicket we were in a beautiful world all our own.
Suddenly wings whirred over the water. In a white wave, the pelicans took off. I could see big webbed feet that matched orange yellow bills. I could see black patches on the undersides of their long white wings. Even in the air, the pelicans looked as if they were dancing. The big white birds arced and curved as one. We watched until they were only white dots in the blue sky.
As Dad was saying the prayer over Thanksgiving dinner, I was silently adding my thanks to Heavenly Father for the pelicans. Then suddenly I heard Dad say, “We especially want to thank Thee for Laura and Danny’s secret thicket and the chance to see the beautiful pelicans and the cottontail rabbits.”
When Dad finished, he smiled at me. I didn’t know if the pelicans would be back the next day or not until the next November—or maybe never. But I was grateful to Heavenly Father for letting us see them from the thicket with Mom and Dad on Thanksgiving Day.

TJ shivered. Even with the warm air blasting through his bedroom vent, he was still cold! He missed Hawaii more than ever.
TJ missed surfing in the ocean and hiking in the mountains. He missed his friends. Ohio was OK, and it was fun to see snow again, but he still felt pretty lonely.
And cold.
TJ heard a soft knock on his door, and Dad stuck his head into the room. “Hey, buddy,” Dad said.
TJ smiled. “Hey, Dad.” Right before they moved, Dad had come home from military deployment in Afghanistan. Moving was hard, but having Dad home was awesome!
Dad sat next to TJ on the bed.
“I just had an idea,” Dad said. “Let’s run a half-marathon together. We’ll make our own training plan. We can even start running tomorrow. What do you think?”
TJ looked out the window. It would take a lot of work to get ready for a 13-mile (21-km) race. “How can we run in the snow?”
“Why not? We can do anything together. It’ll be an adventure!”
It was still dark the next morning when they left the house, TJ with a pocket full of jellybeans and Dad with a bottle of water strapped to his belt. They both wore long-sleeved shirts, sweatpants, hats, and gloves, but every muscle in TJ’s body still clenched against the freezing wind.
I can’t believe I let Dad talk me into this, he thought.
It was hard at first, but as he and Dad ran and talked together, TJ almost forgot to notice the cold. Dad told TJ about his adventures as a kid and how serving a mission had changed his life. They talked about their favorite movies and cars and how Dad met Mom in Texas. TJ tried to convince Dad that ham and pineapple pizza was way better than pepperoni.
Before TJ knew it, they were back home.
We did it! he thought. He gave Dad a high five. Then they went inside for hot chocolate.
Together Dad and TJ mapped out a four-month training plan. They would train inside on a treadmill during the week, and every Saturday morning they would go for a long run outside. On Friday and Sunday they would rest.
One Saturday, TJ skipped and stayed in bed, but as soon as he heard the front door shut, he wished he’d gone with Dad. When TJ asked Dad how the run was, Dad said, “It was OK, but I missed you. It wasn’t the same without my running partner.”
After that TJ never missed a run. Soon he was looking forward to their Saturday runs all week! While they ran, TJ told Dad about his new school and Dad talked about military training and some of his adventures around the world. TJ’s favorite stories were from Dad’s mission. He hoped he could go on a mission someday, just like Dad.
By the time the snow melted, TJ decided he kind of liked Ohio. He still missed his friends in Hawaii, and he still didn’t like the cold, but he noticed his loneliness fading away. He was glad he’d done something challenging and stuck to their plan. He was part of an awesome two-man running team, and together they could do anything. He couldn’t wait to run their race!

Illustrated by Mike Eagle
As a boy, David O. McKay wanted to know for himself that Joseph Smith was a prophet. One day while looking for cattle, he got off his horse and knelt under a serviceberry bush.
He asked Heavenly Father for a spiritual witness, then waited for something wonderful to happen. Nothing did.
David: If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same “old boy” that I was before I prayed.
Disappointed, he got back on his horse and rode away.
Still, he continued faithful and in time served a mission in Scotland. One day while there, he saw an unfinished building with a stone carving over the front door. He read the inscription: “What E’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.” This advice inspired him to work harder.
David: I am here as a representative of the Lord Jesus Christ. From this moment on I will do my part.
Later, during a missionary priesthood meeting, President McMurrin, his mission president, made a prophecy.
President McMurrin: Brother David, … God is mindful of you. If you will keep the faith you will yet sit in the leading councils of the Church.
During that meeting, Elder McKay received the sure witness he had prayed for as a boy. He knew the Church was true. He also knew that Heavenly Father answers our prayers in His own time and His own way.
As President of the Church, David O. McKay taught that every member of the Church is a missionary. Latter-day Saints responded by sharing the gospel with their neighbors.
If you’d like to learn more about President McKay, do the “President David O. McKay Crossword” on page 23.

“Becky, could you please ask your brothers to come to the family room?” Mom said. “Dad and I have something to tell everyone.”
I went and got Chip and Keith, and we gathered in the family room.
“I received some great news today,” Dad said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Grandpa Greer sent us a letter saying that Great-Grandma Meikle is going to be baptized.”
“Who is Great-Grandma Meikle?” Chip asked.
“She is Grandma Greer’s mother,” Dad said. “Do you remember when we visited Grandma and Grandpa last year? We also visited Great-Grandma Meikle in the nursing home where she lives.”
“But Great-Grandma must be 100 years old!” Keith said. “She can hardly walk. How can she be baptized? When I was baptized, I was eight years old. Grandmas can’t be baptized.”
“Great-Grandma’s birthday is next week,” Mom said. “She will be 88 years old. She wants to be baptized on her birthday. To be baptized, a person needs to be eight or older. Remember when Brother Garcia was baptized? He wasn’t eight years old.”
Brother Garcia’s daughter Maria was in my class at school. We ate lunch together. She told me the missionaries had been visiting her dad. She loved to have the missionaries in her home. “Did Great-Grandma Meikle have the missionaries visit her?” I asked.
“Yes,” Dad replied. “They visited her every week and answered her questions. Grandpa Greer has also been helping her learn the gospel. And Great-Grandma attends church meetings in the nursing home. She has made many friends in the Church.”
“Who is going to baptize her?” Keith asked. “Dad baptized me. Great-Grandma doesn’t have a dad.”
“The missionaries could do it,” Mom said, “but Great-Grandma has asked Grandpa Greer to do it.”
“Can we go?” Chip pleaded.
“I’m afraid not,” Dad said. “It’s too far away.”
“Can I write a letter?” I asked.
“What a great idea!” Mom said, smiling. “Let’s all write her letters telling her how happy we are for her.”
“I’ll tell her about my baptism so she won’t be nervous,” Keith said on his way to get a pencil and paper.
After everyone finished their letters, we put them in a big envelope and addressed it to Great-Grandma Meikle in the nursing home. Maybe she would write back and tell us all about her special day. It was great news knowing that even great-grandmas can be baptized.

“Hey—I recognize those guys! I think they’re famous,” I mused as I passed by the strange-looking passengers seated in the first-class cabin of the plane that was carrying me home at the end of my vacation. On my way back to the coach section, I tried to figure out who they were.
They didn’t look like the other passengers on the plane. They had long, ratted hair, torn jeans and vests with no shirts, lots of jewelry, and glassy looks in their eyes. I knew they were in a rock group—I’d seen them in a magazine or a video or something. But the group’s name wouldn’t come to me.
I would soon find out. The man who had shepherded them onto the plane took the seat next to mine. “Do you manage them?” I asked, hoping he’d mention the group’s name so I wouldn’t have to admit I didn’t know it.
He did, and it was such a big group I was glad I hadn’t shown my ignorance by not recognizing them. “Yeah, I take care of these guys, and let me tell you—it’s wild. They don’t do much for themselves. While we’re on planes, I let the flight attendants do the work in first class, while I get some rest back here in coach.”
I was glad he did. I’d heard enough General Authority talks to know that plane flights are great opportunities to tell people about the gospel, so I slipped it into our conversation. He was actually quite interested in what I had to say about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
As the plane landed he said, “Look, it’s been really fun talking with you, and I’d like to do something for you. Why don’t you come to our concert tonight? You can bring some of your Mormon friends. It will be nice to have some straight people there. I’ll leave tickets and backstage passes for you at the gate.”
“That would be great!” I told him. To be honest, I didn’t like his group’s hard rock music. But I was fascinated by their glittery world, so different from mine. I felt like I did in high school when I was invited to one of the incredibly popular Kilborns’ famous weekend-long parties, held only when their parents were away. Never mind that I’d declined that invitation. This was the chance of a lifetime! Maybe I could even do a little missionary work, right?
I started making phone calls as soon as I got home. Strange thing. All my friends had plans already, weren’t home, or weren’t interested in hearing that group play. Half an hour before the concert was to begin, I still hadn’t found anyone to go with me.
“Well, I guess I can just go alone,” I decided as I grabbed my keys and started for the car, which had been sitting in the hot sun all day. The door handle singed my fingers when I touched it. I had to cover the handle with the tail of my shirt to open it.
But as I was about to put the key in the ignition, I heard a voice very distinctly say, “Don’t go.” I whipped around to see who was in the backseat. No one. I started once again to put the key in the ignition, and the same voice said, “You know better. Don’t go.”
Aha—the still, small voice! Of course I knew better. But these were free tickets and backstage passes. It would be a life experience! Hey—maybe it would help me understand and help the people who listen to that music.
Even as I was rationalizing the whole thing, I knew the voice was right. How much spiritually inspired missionary work would I be able to do while obscene music was blasting, and most of the people playing and watching were high? Just what valuable things was I expecting to learn in that kind of atmosphere? I wouldn’t be setting a good example by attending that concert, and I’d be opening myself up to a lot of bad input that I didn’t need rolling around in my mind. How could I ever have thought of going?
I slowly got out of my car and went into the house. I spent a quiet evening at home alone, not unlike the one I’d spent several years before, when I passed on the Kilborns’ party.
I had no regrets. The next day as I drove to work, I turned on the radio and heard the tragic news reports of the concert the night before. There had been fights, stabbings, overdoses, hundreds of arrests, car accidents, and traffic backed up till 4:00 A.M. It was said to be the worst concert in the state’s history.
I couldn’t help but think of Mormon’s teachings about discerning good and evil: “Wherefore, take heed, my beloved brethren, that ye do not judge that which is evil to be of God, or that which is good and of God to be of the devil. … For behold, the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil” (Moro. 7:14, 16).
There was no doubt in my mind that the Spirit had saved me from misjudging, and from who knows what else. If I hadn’t listened, I could have easily burned more than my fingers.

The alarm jangled while I groped through the darkness to shut it off. Even at that early hour, I jumped out of bed with anticipation. I was eager to join my friends on a hike up Timpanogos, a large, snowcapped mountain which overlooks Provo in Utah Valley.
The hike followed steep switchback trails, then a climb up a sloped snowfield near a sheer drop-off and a slide down a glacier. The reward was a well-earned picnic by the crystal waters of the tiny lake fed by the glacier’s runoff.
My mother got up early with me and graciously fixed breakfast, packed my lunch, and fussed around making sure I was properly prepared.
Eager to be off, I was a little impatient when she asked me to come back to the bedroom with her. I think I even rolled my eyes a little when she knelt by the bed and invited me to join her. At 14, that sort of thing can seem sort of sappy. But I truly did love my mother with that prickly heart of mine and was secretly pleased by her concern.
She gave a simple but beautiful prayer asking the Lord for my safety and protection that day. It touched that sometimes rebellious heart of mine. Embarrassed to show my feelings, I ducked my head and wiped at my eyes.
I hiked that day with a glow in my soul. I had been reminded what a special mother I had.
On our way back down the mountain, someone in our group decided it would be much faster to take shortcuts between the switchbacks, even though we had been warned not to do so at the beginning of the day. We all followed like sheep.
Midway between the trails, someone above me started a small rock slide. Pebbles and stones and a few larger rocks showered down around us. Then, as if in slow motion, I saw one fist-sized rock knock sharply against the shoulder of the boy just above me. The rock bounced around me, then catapulted to strike the girl in front of me right in the back of her head. A gash was opened and began bleeding profusely as head wounds do.
Slipping and sliding down to the next trail, my friend was helped by a fellow hiker who donated his handkerchief and first-aid skills. Careful now to abide by the hiking rules, we eventually made it down the mountain and home.
I’ve never forgotten that day my mother knelt with me, and I believe I was spared injury because of her prayer. Deep down I knew she loved me, but since becoming a teenager, I’d lost communication with her. I’d become independent, “prickly sensitive,” and sometimes difficult to get along with. I was finding it harder to feel my mother’s love. But on that clear morning a strong bond was forged between us by prayer. It made all the difference then and later to know my mother was praying for me.

We are grateful President Dallin H. Oaks will be our concluding speaker. When I was a new freshman at Brigham Young University and President Oaks was the new president of Brigham Young University, we spoke together on a panel for parents and prospective students. As I waited nervously for the program to begin, President Oaks leaned over to assure me. With a warm smile, he said he was wearing a red tie because he was celebrating his 40th birthday and was feeling old. To me, as a new freshman, 40 did seem pretty old!

Scott had asked. He had begged. When he was in first grade he’d worn out the dog pages in our encyclopedias. He’d bought books on dogs, too, and read them from cover to cover. (Scott could do that because he’d been reading since he was four.) But he never got a dog.

Daddy and Mother explained to him a dozen times maybe how dogs belonged in the country, how they were a nuisance in the city, and how it wasn’t fair to dogs or people to have dogs cooped up. “And besides,” they’d finally say, “Tom wanted a dog once, and he had to learn that a boy can’t always have everything he wants.”

Scott begged a whole yearful, but all he got was a rabbit. He kept him a few months and then gave him to Uncle George’s kids who live on a farm. But I didn’t want a rabbit. Rabbits don’t love you back the way a dog does. Scott’s rabbit hopped away without a backward glance when we turned him loose in Uncle George’s field.

“Joey’s dog would have howled his head off if he’d been turned out and left like that,” I said as the rabbit disappeared behind a haystack.

“Today we’ll make pictures of our houses,” said Miss Greene, the teacher.
“Yippee!” Everyone in kindergarten loved to paint. Matt carefully dipped the tip of his brush into the orange paint. Then he made a bright roof for his house. That’s when it happened—he knocked over the orange paint, and it splattered on his shirt.
Matt looked down at the big orange blob. His mom wouldn’t like that. He didn’t like it either.
“Would you like me to call your mother and ask her to bring you another shirt?” Miss Greene asked.
“She’s shopping today,” Matt said, swallowing hard. He didn’t want to cry.
“Then we’ll just have to do our best to clean you up,” Miss Greene smiled at him.
A little later, Matt was sitting at his table, printing the alphabet. The spill had been wiped up, and his hands were scrubbed clean. But his shirt still had the orange blob on it.
“That looks like a pumpkin,” Lisa giggled, pointing at it.
Matt tried to slouch so that it didn’t show.
“We could call it your pumpkin shirt,” Bill said.
“No you can’t,” said Matt, his ears turning pink.
Everyone started working again, but Matt’s pencil kept slipping, His letters looked all squiggly.
The recess bell rang, and everyone lined up to go outside. Usually Matt hurried to the front of the line, but not today. He didn’t want to go outside and hear the kids laugh at his “pumpkin shirt.”
“Hi,” said someone. Matt looked up.
Albert stood beside him. Albert was probably the quietest kid in the class. Matt had never played games with him. He’d never even thought about asking Albert to play.
Albert dropped a blue sweater on the table. “Here, you can wear that over your shirt today. My mom always makes me take a sweater, but it’s warm enough today without it.”
Matt slipped the sweater on. The sleeves were still warm from Albert’s arms. He slowly buttoned it up. It covered up the orange blob perfectly. “Thanks!” Matt smiled at Albert.
Albert nodded and went to go outside.
“Wait,” Matt said. “Do you want to play catch with me? I brought my ball.”
Albert grinned. “I sure do!”
Matt grinned back. He still didn’t like the orange blob on his shirt, but he did like the new friend he had found.

When I was a deacon, my mother told me that Elder William J. Critchlow, Jr., an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve, was coming to speak in our stake conference. We arrived late and had to sit in the back, far from the podium—and when Elder Critchlow stood to speak, I couldn’t see him. Mother told me to carry a chair up the aisle and place it in front of the podium. It must have looked rather strange to Elder Critchlow to see a twelve-year-old boy in the middle of the aisle, staring straight up at him.
I don’t remember much of what he said. But as he talked, a spirit settled over me, whispering, “This is a man of God. You may believe him.” At the end of the session, he came up to me and laid his hand on my shoulder. A deep peace and happiness came over me, and I learned in that moment what it means to be blessed. That early experience taught me that by hearkening to the words of the Brethren, we are on the path to becoming truly blessed in the presence of Christ. Oh, how happy we will be if we come unto Christ by trusting and following his servants.

Silvia H. Allred, first counselor in the Relief Society general presidency, has told of her mother, Hilda Alvarenga, who was called to serve as Relief Society president in a branch in El Salvador when she was a convert in her 30s. She told the branch president that she was inexperienced, unprepared, and inadequate. But the branch president called her anyway. While serving, she learned leadership skills and developed new gifts, such as teaching, public speaking, and organizing meetings, activities, and service projects. She helped others in the branch become builders of the kingdom.2 Today, as in our past, Heavenly Father expects His daughters to have a leadership role in every ward or branch. Sisters such as Hilda Alvarenga are becoming pioneers and role models for future generations.

A missionary district leader was wondering why Elder Parker, who was about to conclude his mission, was successful in spite of his inability to memorize the discussions. To understand, he teamed with Elder Parker to give a discussion. Elder Parker’s presentation was so disorganized that by the end of the formal lesson, the district leader was confused and surmised that the family being taught felt the same way.

It was then that “Elder Parker leaned forward and put his hand on the arm of the family’s father. He then looked him straight in the eyes, told him how much he loved him and his family, and bore one of the most humble and powerful testimonies that the district leader had ever heard. By the time he finished, every member of the family, including the father, and both elders had tears running down their cheeks. Next, Elder Parker taught the father how to pray, and they all knelt down while the father prayed that they might receive testimonies of their own and thanked Heavenly Father for the great love that he felt. Two weeks later the whole family was baptized.”

Later, Elder Parker apologized to his district leader for not knowing the discussions. He said he struggled with memorization, even though he spent hours each day working on it. He said that he knelt in prayer before teaching each family and asked Heavenly Father to bless him when he bore his testimony so that people would feel his love and the Spirit and know they were being taught the truth (see Allan K. Burgess and Max H. Molgard, “That Is the Worst Lesson I’ve Ever Heard!” in Sunshine for the Latter-day Saint Soul [1998], 181–83).

Before each game at BYU the captains of the two teams meet at the center circle with the referees and go through a meaningless ritual where nothing of real significance is said. But on the day we played Notre Dame, a referee friend of mine said something during that meeting that really hit home with me. He said, “Men, we referees are going to work hard tonight. We’re going to make some mistakes, but you work hard too.”
I remembered his words, and the game began. During the last few minutes, I went up for a rebound, and a bigger Notre Dame player knocked me to the floor. As I lay there, I looked up, and the referee pointed down and indicated that the foul was on me. Surprised at his decision. I got up off the floor. I smiled at the referee and said, “You know, you were right in what you said before the game.”
He looked at me with a puzzled expression. I continued, “You said you were going to make some mistakes tonight, and you just made a big one.” We looked at each other, and we both had a good laugh and continued to play.

Michael Weir said:
“My marriage had failed. I was living a life contrary to the principles of the Church. Not only was I inactive but had lost confidence in my ability to go back. I became successful in business, drove the nicest car, and bought expensive clothes. I had everything that the world would want.
“One day, my company hired Ken Wheeler, whom I knew to be a Mormon by the way he acted. We became friends, and he invited me to Church. I wanted to go but didn’t feel worthy. He continued to invite me, and I continued to refuse. I wanted to get back, but I didn’t have the strength to do it.
“One night, alone in my apartment, I became very depressed and broke into uncontrollable sobs. I prayed to the Lord and begged for His help. The next day Ken asked me how I was doing; he could sense something was wrong. Putting his arms around me, he said, ‘He still loves you, and we do, too. Why don’t you come back home?’ That was the answer to my prayers; that was the help I had begged for the night before.
“I came home! I felt uncomfortable at first, but the feeling that everyone cared made it easier. Today, I don’t drive the nicest car or wear the fanciest clothes, but I feel richer than ever.”
He continued, “Those who have fallen away want so badly to come back, but they are afraid to make the move. They don’t lose their testimony; they lose confidence in themselves.”

The glistening morning sun cast its warming rays over the dilapidated old barn, transforming it into a painter’s dream. On the sagging barn door was a large poster—
STRAY-ANIMAL AUCTION
June 10, 1894—10:00 A.M.
All critters sold to highest bidder
CASH ONLY
Clouds of dust rose from all the roads leading to the barn as a colorful crowd began to gather. There were cowpunchers in worn chaps and ten-gallon Stetsons, sitting cross-legged in their saddles, and be-whiskered farmers in bib overalls and straw hats, tying their horses and wagons to fence rails. A sprinkling of better-dressed townsfolk arrived in black-top buggies. A pair of Navajo Indians had taken up squatter’s rights beside the barn, hoping to trade one of their bright handmade blankets for a goat or a sheep.
Wow! thought nine-year-old T. J. as he scrambled to the top of the high pole fence and stared down at the corral filled with animals churning about. This is better than a circus. He opened his little, ragged purse and counted his coins for the umpteenth time, “Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two cents. It’s not much, but I don’t care. I’m going to bid anyway!”
The old auctioneer chided him, “Back again, T. J.? Are you going to buy yourself a horse today?”
He’s just poking fun at me, T. J. thought and gave him a disgusted look. “I’ll show you,” he muttered to himself. “I’m really going to bid today.”
In the corral beneath T. J. were several large horses, three old milk cows, a young steer with long horns, two nanny goats, and four sheep.
The auctioneer climbed on top of the auction box. Just as he was about to speak, T. J. lost his balance and plunged headlong into the corral, landing on the back of the steer. The startled animal took off, kicking and bellowing. T. J. grabbed hold of its horns and managed to stay on top as it bucked and plowed in and out among the other frightened animals.
Everyone clapped and hollered, “Hang in there, T. J.” “You can do it.” “Whoopee!”
Suddenly the steer stopped, and T. J. sailed off, landing sprawled out in the dust of the smelly corral. Everyone cheered.
“Humph,” grunted the auctioneer. “Now that the show’s over, we’ll get started.”
A big, bay mare was led out for inspection. “How much am I bid for this fine mare?” the auctioneer asked.
Before anyone else could say anything, T. J. waved his arms wildly and shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
Everybody snickered, and one of the men hollered, “Well, kid, I’ll just have to bid ten dollars and sixty-two cents.”
T. J.’s hopes were dashed. The horse was eventually sold for eighteen dollars and sixty-two cents. Then the next horse was brought forward.
“How much am I bid for this fine gelding?” the auctioneer queried.
Once again young T. J. bravely shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
This time the crowd really laughed and hooted. After several bids, the gelding sold for twenty-two dollars and sixty-two cents. Still determined, T. J. bid unsuccessfully on the third horse.
For a change of pace the auctioneer sold two milk cows and a sheep. Soon there was only one horse left, another mare. As she was led out for display, T. J. could see big, shiny patches of hide here and there between dust and dirt where she had been rolling around in the smelly corral. “All she needs is to be brushed and wiped down,” T. J. sighed. “She’s just beautiful, and I want her.”
As he longingly gazed at the mare, he heard the auctioneer roar with feigned admiration, “I’ve saved the best for last! How much am I bid for this beauty?”
T. J. was shocked to hear Old Pete sneer, “The best? Why she’s the worst-looking critter I’ve seen in all my life. She must be sick, and you must be crazy!”
Pete’s son added, “Yeah, Pa! Worse still, I hear that she’s a stumpsucker.”
Someone else volunteered, “Besides that, I know for a fact that she has a mean streak a mile wide.”
Then they all stopped talking and looked at T. J. The boy felt sorry for that horse; he even loved her. And he didn’t believe one word of what he’d just heard. But he’d given up all hope of being able to buy a horse with sixty-two cents. He just sat there, staring sadly at the horse he wanted so badly. Then he heard a farmer say, “Tell you what—I’ll bid five cents for the nag.”
Somebody else hollered, “I’ll go you one better, Jake. I bid twenty-five cents!”
Old Pete jumped up and shouted, “I’m going to get that mare for fifty-five cents!”
T. J. came to life and wildly waved both arms and shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
Dead silence followed. The auctioneer was very disgruntled to have the bidding go sour. In fact, he was furious. “I have a high bid of sixty-two cents. How about ten dollars and sixty-two cents?”
Not a single word was spoken; not a single head nodded.
“Then how about five dollars and sixty-two cents?”
When no one offered to up the bid, he exploded, “Well, I’m not going to sell this horse for sixty-two cents, and that’s final!”
“Oh, yes, you are!” Old Pete yelled. “You’ll sell to the highest bidder, or none of us are paying for our animals.”
The other men shouted in agreement.
Realizing that the men meant business, the auctioneer meekly declared, “I have a high bid of sixty-two cents. Do I hear any more bids? Going once, going twice, …” Down went the gavel. “Sold to T. J. for sixty-two cents.”
The crowed went wild. They whistled and clapped and threw their hats into the air and slapped each other on the back. T. J. was speechless. He scrambled down off the fence and reached into his pocket for his purse—but it was gone! “I’ve lost my money!” he wailed. He scurried under the fence and ran frantically in and out among the startled animals.
“Hold on, everybody. T. J.’s lost his purse!” shouted Old Pete as he jumped down and began to help T. J. search. Soon there were as many men in the corral as there were animals, all running hither and thither. Dogs were barking, cows were bellowing, and sheep were bleating.
All at once T. J. spied his purse in the muck under the hoof of a cow. “I’ve found it! I’ve found it!” he screamed.
“Hurray!” shouted the men as Old Pete lifted T. J. over the fence.
T. J. counted out his sixty-two cents for the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper gave him a leg up, and there sat T. J. astride his very own horse. “I’m going to call her Beauty,” he proudly announced, lovingly stroking her tangled mane, “‘cause she’s the most beautiful horse in the world, and she’s all mine.”

Another moving story of loyalty is that of Stephen Markham, who appeared in the Prophet’s later life at nearly every occasion of peril. When Joseph was imprisoned in Missouri, Stephen Markham brought the Smith family safely to Illinois. 15 When Joseph was illegally detained and abused by two Missouri constables, it was Stephen Markham who defied them, shamed them into humane behavior, and helped prevent the Prophet’s abduction to Missouri.16 At Carthage, it was Brother Markham who offered to trade clothes and help the Prophet escape.17 On the day of the martyrdom, Brother Markham was returning to the jail with medicine for Willard Richards when the conspiring guards challenged him, attacked him, and finally forced him away at bayonet point to keep him from returning to the Prophet. Prodded onto his horse, he was poked so many times that his boots filled with blood.18 Joseph Smith’s last journal entry records a prophecy spoken to Stephen Markham that “if I and Hyrum were ever taken again, we should be massacred.”19 The measure of Brother Markham’s love is his brave effort to prevent that prophecy’s fulfillment.

That evening, Holly went to the LDS dance, which is one of the highlights of social life for young Latter-day Saints in Calgary. After the dance, she brought home many of her friends to meet her grandfather, who received them with graciousness and humor. He made them all feel like old and valued friends, and they also felt the powerful witness of the Spirit that they were in the presence of a beloved servant of God.

Recently my friend Richard came home from work to find a very small girl sitting on the curb in front of his house, crying. He asked if he could help. Through her sobs she explained that she was lost. He told her that this was his house and his wife was inside. He told her he knew she shouldn’t go with strangers, but if she felt comfortable going inside, he and his wife would try to find her home. They went into his house, and his wife, Linda, began to console the little girl. “I’m sure you must be very frightened,” she said.
“I was frightened,” the girl responded, “until I saw the picture of Jesus hanging on your wall. Then I knew I would be safe.”

1. That morning for breakfast, each family member had only a half-piece of bread. Six-year-old Elizabeth noticed Mother’s worried expression.
2. Mother gave Father the last piece of bread, spread with lard, for his lunch. “I’m sorry, Joseph,” she said, “that I can’t give you more. But food is scarce, and people haven’t enough for themselves, let alone for the temple workers.”
Father smiled and said, “I know that whatever you fix is done with love, and I appreciate you.”
3. Although Elizabeth was hungry, she didn’t want Father to have to stop his carpentry work on the Manti Temple to earn money for food. She knew how important temples were to the Lord’s work.
4. Elizabeth rocked Baby Sina while Mother mended clothes with neat, fast stitches. When the baby fussed, Elizabeth bounced her gently and sang “Come, Come, Ye Saints” to her.
5. There was only enough flour for one more batch of bread, so Elizabeth and Mother knelt down together to ask Heavenly Father for help.
6. That night, after having only one small piece of bread each for supper, they went to bed early before the hunger pangs started again. Elizabeth thought that her stomach was resting on her backbone, but pioneer girls were too brave to complain.
7. Sunbeams were already resting on her quilt when Elizabeth awoke the next morning. Just as she finished dressing, Aunt Matilda came.
8. “Last night,” Aunt Matilda said, “I dreamed that you were hungry and desperate for something to eat. So I got up early to bring you some fresh eggs and milk, flour, and dried apples and berries from my farm.”
9. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” Elizabeth whispered, as her grateful father hugged his sister.