Gospel Story Finder

On February 15, the burden of this covenant weighed heavily on Brigham as he crossed the Mississippi. That afternoon, he pushed and pulled wagons up a snowy, muddy hill four miles west of the river. When only a few hours of daylight remained before evening would darken the way ahead, Brigham remained determined not to rest until every Latter-day Saint wagon west of the river arrived safely at Sugar Creek.30
By now, the plan to send a small advance company ahead to the mountains that year was already delayed. Brigham and other Church leaders had left the city later than planned, and some Saints—ignoring counsel to stay in Nauvoo—had crossed the river and camped with the advance company at Sugar Creek. After fleeing the city so quickly, many families on the trail were disorganized, ill-equipped, and underprepared.
Brigham did not yet know what to do. These Saints would surely slow the others down. But he would not send these Saints back to the city now that they had already left. In his mind, Nauvoo had become a prison, no place for the people of God. The road west was freedom.
He and the Twelve would simply have to press forward, trusting that the Lord would help them find a solution.31

Let me share with you the feelings of a sister about how Relief Society helped her to spiritually prepare. I was so inspired by her faith that I asked her to write her testimony and send it to me. Allow me to read a portion of it.

She writes: “What a blessing the Relief Society has been in my life. I was divorced—a single mother of a small daughter. I had also lost a son. I spent hours on my knees calling for help from my Savior and Heavenly Father. But there was the Relief Society. It was my organization. All week I struggled trying to provide for my little daughter and myself on my small wages and minimal education. Every Sunday we went to church. It seemed to me that going to Relief Society each week helped me become a stronger and better sister. Not that I missed my other meetings; I didn’t. I went because I knew that’s where I was supposed to be. I went and then feasted on the word and especially Relief Society. It was my ‘relief’ and my ‘society.’ I belonged; I felt a part. I lost myself in lessons, service to others … and to my little child. I found if I kept my mind and hands busy there was less time to think of the pain of the past. … But through all those years what I remember most was the belonging I felt—to the organization my Lord and Savior gave to all the sisters, not just to me.”

One Sunday while serving as a bishop in Mexico, I sat on the stand just before sacrament meeting and noticed a sister come into the chapel. She was a recent convert and always seemed shy. The Spirit prompted me to find out how the ward council could help her feel more comfortable at church. I asked the Relief Society president to reach out to this sister.

Sometime later, the Relief Society president told me, “Bishop, this sister really needs to have teeth replaced.”

This was one of the reasons this sister was so shy. She didn’t talk or smile because she didn’t want anyone to see her teeth. The Relief Society president asked what we should do. I decided to arrange for a dentist to examine her and find out what needed to be done.

“Are you sure?” the Relief Society president asked. “It could be expensive.”

I told her we could go ahead. As a ward, we found a way to help this sister. When I saw her again, she was talking and smiling. I had never seen her smile before!

From that point on, this sister’s life changed. She became a more active member of the ward and eventually went to the temple. Today she is a temple ordinance worker. I am sure if I ever go to the temple where she serves, I will see her smiling.

At one time, Ben, Jr., and Brad, my two oldest boys, belonged to a Japanese Scout troop because our ward didn’t have a Scout troop. One day the Scoutmaster took the boys on a hike in the Zion Narrows in southern Utah. Their progress was slower than anticipated. Concerned that the park officials whom they had checked in with would be worried about them, the Scoutmaster asked my sons and a couple of other boys to hike ahead by themselves and let the park officials know that everyone was OK. The boys took a wrong turn into a dead-end canyon and didn’t know what to do. The other boys were not Latter-day Saints, but they turned to Ben and said, “Maybe you’re the one who ought to pray for us to help us get out of here.” After he offered a prayer, Ben said, “Let’s go,” and they turned and walked out without any problem. How grateful I was that my children had learned to pray, that they had faith in that prayer, and that our Father in Heaven would help them find their way safely out of the canyon.

Christopher’s heart was heavy as he walked slowly to the family car after Primary. Why does everyone but me hear the still, small voice? he wondered.
Why can everyone hear the still, small voice but me? Christopher wondered again. He knew that following his baptism almost two years ago, he was given the gift of the Holy Ghost when he was confirmed. So why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me?
“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Melinda excitedly started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher just sadly stared at the floor of the car.
“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.
A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Melinda quit chattering.
“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as the car turned into the driveway.
Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”
Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know that the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.
“Listen, Son,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell that you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”
Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get into trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”
Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person who ever lived on the earth was Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”
“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.
“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember that good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain and after telling us the truth? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”
“It was?”
“Or how about the time when we were reading from the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was really talking about in the parable about the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”
“Wow! I never thought about it that way before!”
“And,” said Mom, “remember when you got lost in the shopping mall last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling letting you know what to do was also the Holy Ghost.”
Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him, even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I couldn’t remember it. Then I said a quick, little prayer, and suddenly my talk came back to me. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember things is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“Wow! Now I understand! All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!”

I really don’t know how I let Sister Moffat talk me into it in the first place. Before I knew what was happening, I had agreed to give a five-minute talk in sacrament meeting about being a Cub Scout. All the other guys were pounding me on the back, saying that they were glad it was me, not them.
“You really are a pal, Alan,” Will said. “You saved all the rest of us.”
Yeah, I thought, but who’s going to save me?
When I got home, I told Mom about it. “I don’t know why I said I’d do it. I can’t talk for five minutes.”
“It sounds like a great opportunity to me,” she said, smiling.
Somehow I knew she’d say that. That’s what mothers always say. “But five minutes,” I said. “That’s a long time to say I like Cub Scouting because it’s fun and helps me learn new things.”
Mom chuckled. “Five minutes isn’t nearly as long as it sounds to you. I’ll help you. Together I’m sure we can think of enough to take up five minutes.”
“I sure hope so,” I said. I was glad she had volunteered to help though. It was kind of like she had picked up the other end of a heavy load that I had been trying to lift by myself.
Because this was a talk for sacrament meeting, and because Dad says that sacrament meeting is probably the most important of all our Church meetings, I knew that I couldn’t put off preparing it until Saturday. So after school on Monday I asked Mom if she had had time to write any of my talk.
She looked at me in surprise. “Now, wait a minute. I didn’t say that I would write your talk. I said that I would help you write one.”
“But you always wrote my talks before,” I said. “I thought that that’s what you meant when you said that you’d help me.”
“You’re old enough now that I don’t have to do everything for you. Wasn’t it you who was telling me last week that a ten-year-old ought to have more privileges than his eight-year-old sister?”
“But I don’t even know how to begin,” I wailed. “You said that you’d help me.”
“I will,” Mom answered. “But there’s a difference between helping you and doing it for you.”
Well, when Mom finally convinced me that she really wasn’t going to do it all, I pleaded for suggestions. She said that we should start with prayer. Then, by asking questions, she helped me get a better idea of what I wanted to say. After that, she helped me decide in what order to say things.
I still had to sit down and write the talk out myself, but it wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it would be, because I knew what I wanted to say. When I finished, Mom helped me correct some grammar mistakes.
Once the talk was written, I started feeling kind of glad that I was going to talk in sacrament meeting. I practiced giving it every day in front of a mirror. By the time Saturday rolled around, I felt pretty confident. As long as I had my paper there to remind me what came next, I could give most of the talk by just glancing down once in a while.
Sunday morning I made one last trial run with Dad as my audience. “Alan, that is a very fine talk,” he said. “You’ll do just great in sacrament meeting. But there is one thing that you don’t want to forget.”
“What’s that?” I asked, a little disappointed to think that something wasn’t just right.
Seeing my disappointment, he said, “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with your talk. I just want to remind you to ask Heavenly Father to help you do your best.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling much better. “I will.”
Sitting up on the stand, I felt pretty important. I glanced at the clock—two minutes until the meeting started. I felt a nervous excitement as I reached into my pocket for my talk. It wasn’t there! I felt in my other pockets. I looked on the floor. It was gone! Just then the bishop got up and announced the opening song and prayer.
What was I going to do? I caught Mom’s eye and gave her a pleading look. She just smiled at me. I began praying fervently that the paper with my talk on it would miraculously appear. I felt in my pockets again—nothing. When I put the hymnbook under my seat, I felt around the entire area for my paper—still nothing.
When the deacons were just about finished passing the sacrament, I knew that my miracle was not going to happen. I began praying that I would be able to remember my talk or that I would at least know what to say.
Suddenly I heard my name as the bishop announced me as the first speaker. With leaden feet I walked slowly to the pulpit. I could see my mother and father smiling at me. Will was pointing at me.
I was sure that everyone could see me shaking. Very slowly I announced the topic of my talk. There was Sister Moffat. She was smiling too. I just stood there quaking for a minute. Then something miraculous did happen: I remembered the first few sentences! As I began speaking, I remembered more and more. It was almost like I was standing in front of the mirror at home, except that I felt a warm, radiating glow around me.
I was finished before I knew it. The rest of the meeting was like a pleasant after-glow. I felt wonderful. That feeling was only intensified by all the compliments I received when the meeting was over.
“Alan,” Dad said, “you were great!”
“You really were,” Mom said as she planted a kiss on my cheek. “We’re proud of you.”
“But you know,” I confessed, “I didn’t think that I was going to be able to do it, because I lost the paper with my talk on it. When I discovered that it was gone, it was too late to do anything else but pray for help. So I did. Heavenly Father really came through for me.”
“It sounds like you learned more than just how to give a good talk,” said Dad, giving my shoulders a squeeze.
“Yeah, I really did.”

My grandparents Lena Sofia and Matts Leander Renlund received God’s power through their baptismal covenant when they joined the Church in 1912 in Finland. They were happy to be part of the first branch of the Church in Finland.

Leander died from tuberculosis five years later when Lena was pregnant with their tenth child. That child, my father, was born two months after Leander’s death. Lena eventually buried not just her husband but also seven of her ten children. As an impoverished widow, she struggled. For 20 years she did not get a good night’s rest. During the day, she scrambled to provide food for her family. At night, she took care of dying family members. It is hard to imagine how she coped.

Lena persevered because she knew that her deceased husband and children could be hers through the eternities. The doctrine of temple blessings, including that of eternal families, brought her peace because she trusted in the sealing power. While in mortality, she neither received her endowment nor was she sealed to Leander, but Leander remained a vital influence in her life and part of her great hope for the future.

In 1938, Lena submitted records so that temple ordinances could be performed for her deceased family members, some of the earliest submitted from Finland. After she died, temple ordinances were performed by others for her, Leander, and her deceased children. By proxy, she was endowed, Lena and Leander were sealed to each other, and their deceased children and my father were sealed to them. Like others, Lena “died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, … [was] persuaded of them, and embraced them.”

Lena lived as though she had already made these covenants in her life. She knew that her baptismal and sacramental covenants connected her to the Savior. She “let the sweet longing for [the Redeemer’s] holy place bring hope to [her] desolate heart.” Lena considered it one of God’s great mercies that she learned about eternal families before experiencing the tragedies in her life. Through covenant, she received the power of God to endure and rise above the depressive pull of her challenges and hardships.

If we follow up, the Lord will not let us down. I have seen the unspeakable joy that accompanies testimony-driven inviting and faithful follow-up among members of the Church the world over. While in Argentina recently, I encouraged members to invite someone to church before this general conference. An eight-year-old by the name of Joshua listened and invited his best friend and his friend’s family to an open house at their ward in Buenos Aires. Let me read from a letter I just received that explained Joshua’s invitation and his faithful follow-up:
“Every few minutes [Joshua] would run out to the gate to see if they were coming. He said that he knew they would [come].
“The evening wore on and Joshua’s friend did not come, but Joshua did not give up. He faithfully checked the front gate every few minutes. It was time to start putting things away when Joshua started to jump up and down announcing, ‘They are here! They are here!’ I looked up to see an entire family approaching the church. Joshua ran out to greet them and hugged his friend. They all came in and seemed to enjoy the open house very much. They took some pamphlets and spent lots of time getting acquainted with some new friends. It was great to see the faith of this little boy and to know that Primary children can be missionaries too.”

“In 1849, Chief Walker, the Ute Indian chief, met in council with President Brigham Young. He requested the Mormon leader to send colonists to settle on their land. Welcome and his family went to help settle the town of Manti in the Sanpete Valley.
“On July 27, 1854, Welcome was sustained as the Manti Stake president. That afternoon, as they were baptizing some settlers who had been converted, a large crowd gathered. Among them was Chief Walker and many of his people. Welcome asked the chief if any of his people would like to be baptized. The chief replied that he did not know but would ask them. That day many Indians were baptized there.”

Billy loved Ashley, his baby sister. He really did.
What he didn’t like was that she took up so much of his mother’s time.
If his mother wasn’t feeding Ashley, she was changing her diaper.
If she wasn’t changing her diaper, she was giving her a bath.
If she wasn’t giving her a bath, she was rocking her to sleep.
And if his mother wasn’t rocking Ashley to sleep, she was taking a nap herself because Ashley had cried and kept her up most of the night.
Billy wished that his mother had a little more time for him. He dreamed about them doing something together. Like going to the park on a picnic. Just the two of them. Without Ashley.
One day, as though his mother could read his thoughts, she ruffled his hair and said, “I think that it’s time you and I did something together. Just the two of us.”
Billy beamed hopefully. “Nobody else?”
“Nobody else.”
“Could we go on a picnic?”
His mother closed her eyes and smiled. “Ah, yes, a picnic. That sounds good to me. Let’s do it this Saturday.”
Billy could hardly wait. He dragged out the old quilt for them to sit on. He washed out the thermos bottle and wiped off the picnic basket. He could almost taste the cold fried chicken and the wonderful thumbprint cookies.
Finally Saturday came.
His mother came into his room. She wasn’t smiling. There were dark circles under her eyes. “I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone our picnic,” she said. “Ashley is sick. I have to take her to the doctor.”
After his mother had gone, Billy put the quilt away. And the thermos bottle. And the picnic basket. Then he went into Ashley’s room. Her yellow rattle was on the floor. Billy kicked it. Then he was sorry and picked it up and washed it off.
When Ashley was feeling better, Billy’s mother took his hands in hers. “It’s time to plan that picnic again.”
Billy smiled. He got the quilt and the thermos bottle and the basket ready. He was very quiet and very kind to Ashley. He did not want her to get sick. And she didn’t.
On Saturday morning Ashley gurgled happily in her crib. The sun was shining. Billy’s mother was wrapping up the cookies.
The phone rang. When Billy’s mother hung up, her face was sad. “That was Mrs. Benson. She sprained her ankle this morning. She can’t take care of Ashley today.”
Billy didn’t bother to put the quilt and thermos bottle away. When his mother offered him a cookie, he shook his head. As he passed Ashley’s room, he wanted to push the door shut with a bang, but he remembered how he felt when he kicked the rattle, so he didn’t.
The following Saturday, Ashley was not sick and Mrs. Benson’s ankle was fine. But Billy could have cried—it was raining!
He thumped down the stairs. His mother was putting food in the basket.
“It’s raining,” Billy said.
“So I’ve noticed,” his mother said cheerily.
“So we can’t have the picnic.”
Billy’s mother laughed. “I think the picnic has been postponed long enough. Please get the umbrella.”
Billy did as he was told, though he couldn’t imagine a picnic in the rain.
“Everything will get soggy,” he said as they waved good-bye to Ashley and Mrs. Benson.
Billy’s mother handed him the basket. “You carry this. I’ll hold the umbrella.”
The two of them walked down one street and up another. Billy kept asking, “Where are we going?”
And his mother kept saying, “On a picnic, of course!”
Finally they came to a big old house. The kind you see in storybooks. It had a wide, wrap-around porch.
“Right this way,” Billy’s mother said.
“Whose house is this?”
“It’s Mrs. Benson’s house. She said that we could use it. Isn’t this a wonderful porch? It’s just perfect for a picnic.”
Billy held out his hands. He didn’t feel a single drop of rain. They would be snug and dry on Mrs. Benson’s porch—and they would still be outside!
It was a wonderful picnic! Billy ate three pieces of chicken and two cookies. He drank at least four cups of lemonade. Best of all, Billy had his special time with his mother.
They talked about all sorts of things. About the new ant farm in Billy’s classroom. About the trouble he was having kicking the soccer ball. About why spring was Billy’s favorite season and autumn was his mother’s. And they talked about when Billy was a baby like Ashley.
“Did I cry like Ashley?”
His mother laughed. “Oh, much louder. And longer.”
“Did I take up so much of your time?”
“More of it. I was new at mothering when I had you.”
“Did you love me like you love Ashley … even though I cried louder?”
“I loved you every bit as much.” She smiled, hugging him. “I still do!”
When it was time to go home, they made sure they left Mrs. Benson’s porch as clean as they had found it.
It was still raining. Billy carried the basket, and his mother carried the umbrella. “We’ll do something together again soon,” she said. “I promise.”
Billy squeezed his mother’s hand. She was busy these days. But she loved him.

Rebecca Swanston, a 12-year-old member of the Mt. Zion Baptist Church, had a speaking part in this year’s program. She participated with two LDS boys, Jean Gonzalez and Jason Godwin. Rebecca’s lines were about the lives of prominent African Americans and their contributions to society. Rebecca will remember those important facts, but she will also remember her new friends.

“I probably wouldn’t know Jason and Jean if we hadn’t done this program,” she says. “We’ve had a great time. I can’t wait for next year’s Black history program.”

Life was going according to plan.
I was just about to complete my mission. During the previous 18 months, my testimony had been strengthened, and my vision of the plan of salvation had expanded. I had never felt closer to my Savior and my Heavenly Father. Life just seemed blissful.
Sure, my family and I were experiencing our share of trials, but overall, I was excited and had a lot of plans for what would come next. But then I came home. And the shock was pretty brutal. I struggled adjusting to everyday life again. I worried incessantly about making good choices and being perfect in my obedience. I put so much pressure on myself to stay at the high spiritual level that I had throughout my mission because I feared that if I didn’t, I would regress spiritually.
As the pressure I put on myself increased, I started experiencing anxiety and panic attacks. They became more and more frequent, and I eventually felt like I was drowning.
Unfortunately, I hid my feelings from my family and friends. I knew that anxiety and depression were nothing to be ashamed of, but I felt so out of control and lost that I didn’t even know how to express what I was experiencing to seek help.
Thankfully, the Lord is always there to guide us when we turn to Him. After some pondering and prayer, I felt prompted to open up to my brother and his wife. They helped me recognize that I wasn’t as “crazy” as I thought and that emotional struggles can happen to anyone.
Sister Reyna I. Aburto, Second Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, testified of this truth: “My dear friends, it can happen to any of us—especially when, as believers in the plan of happiness, we place unnecessary burdens on ourselves by thinking we need to be perfect now. Such thoughts can be overwhelming. Achieving perfection is a process that will take place throughout our mortal life and beyond—and only through the grace of Jesus Christ.”1
As I prayed to Heavenly Father for guidance, I realized that I needed to give the resources He has provided for us a chance, and I needed to learn and change for the better. Gratefully, at that time I had the chance to attend the Church’s emotional resilience course. The opportunity seemed to come at just the right time, and I don’t believe it was a coincidence.
In the course manual, emotional resilience is defined as the following:
“The ability to adapt to emotional challenges with courage and faith centered in Jesus Christ.
“Helping yourself and others the best you can.
“Reaching out for additional help when needed.”2
In other words, emotional resilience is something we all need.
To me, this inspired course is a clear sign that Heavenly Father is aware of the trials we are facing nowadays as members of the Church of Jesus Christ. He wants to be able to help us keep moving forward on the path back to Him. Seeing the many beautiful aspects of this course helped me realize just how deeply Heavenly Father knows each of us and our individual needs, and I immediately felt peace as I started studying. The course teaches clear and powerful eternal truths that can be applied to our lives when dealing with mental health issues, whether it be ourselves or someone we love.
One of the teachings that struck me is found in chapter 9, “Providing Strength to Others.” This chapter is what helped me finally reach out for more help. It teaches the principle of serving one another. I learned how important it was to serve others by validating their feelings, emotions, and opinions and reaching out with empathy and understanding. I also realized that I needed to trust others to help me in my struggles.
When I was able to put these ideas into practice and open up to my family and friends about my mental health struggles, I was surprised that they were so compassionate and nonjudgmental. I received so much support from them.
I feel like my anxiety would have taken a deeper and darker turn if I hadn’t shared my challenges with my loved ones. And this experience helped me reach out and empathize with others about their worries and problems too.
I find it funny how when I came back from my mission, I was so worried about losing the “spiritual ground” that I had gained during my mission, because now I realize that coming home was just the beginning of a new chapter where I could find new ways to deepen my faith.
My personal relationships with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ have grown and deepened so much since I came home, especially because of the principles I learned in this emotional resilience course and through relying on Heavenly Father and the Savior for help. They feel much more real and present in my everyday life.
I’ve learned and accepted that as children of God, we constantly change, learn, and evolve. And yet through our life changes, Heavenly Father is unchanging. He didn’t expect me to be perfect on my mission, and He doesn’t expect that now. He simply loves me and wants me to continue to strive toward Him and do the best I can on my journey back to Him.
Now, just because I took this emotional resilience course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t have any more anxiety or panic attacks or moments when I feel overwhelmed by fear of the future. I still do at times. But now I recognize these patterns and have learned tools to help address them in a healthier way, improving the quality of my daily life.
In the end, this course taught me coping mechanisms for times when I experience anxiety and challenges. It taught me to have patience and compassion for myself and my imperfections. And I learned to understand how God sees me and to not be terrorized by the unknowns of the future.
Through both professional and heavenly help, I’ve come to realize that we have the necessary tools to know how to “act … and not to be acted upon” (2 Nephi 2:26) by our emotions and feelings as we continue to move toward Christ.

A few weeks ago, Kathy and I visited the home of Matt and Sarah Johnson. On the wall was a picture of their precious family, a beautiful image of the Savior, and an illustration of the temple.
Their four daughters, Maddy, Ruby, Claire, and June, spoke happily about how much they loved their mother.
For over a year Sarah had regularly scheduled Saturday appointments for the family to attend the temple together so that the girls could participate in baptisms for family members who lived previously.
In November of last year, Sarah scheduled a family temple appointment for the last week in December on Thursday instead of Saturday. “I hope you’re OK with that,” she said to Matt.
Sarah had been diagnosed with cancer, but the doctors anticipated she would live two or three more years. During a sacrament meeting, Sarah had shared her powerful testimony, saying that whatever the outcome for her, she loved the Savior with all her heart and that “the victory had already been won” by Him. As December progressed, unexpectedly Sarah’s health rapidly declined, and she was admitted to the hospital. In the early morning of Thursday, December 29, she quietly completed her mortality. Matt had been by Sarah’s side all through the night.
With his heart breaking, and completely exhausted physically and emotionally, he arrived home, sorrowing with his daughters. As Matt glanced at his phone, he noticed the reminder of the unusual Thursday temple appointment Sarah had scheduled for later that day. Matt said, “When I first saw it, I thought, This just isn’t going to work.”
But then Matt’s mind caught hold upon this thought: “The Savior lives. There is no place we would rather be as a family than in His holy house.”
Matt, Maddy, Ruby, Claire, and June arrived at the temple for the appointment Sarah had scheduled for them. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Matt performed the baptisms with his daughters. They deeply felt their love and eternal bond with Sarah, and they felt the immense love and comforting peace of the Savior. Matt tenderly shared, “While I feel deep sorrow and grief, I am shouting for joy, knowing my Father’s wonderful plan of salvation.”

This is a story of vision lost and vision gained.
It’s the story of Kailey I. of eastern Utah, USA, who as a baby was so eager to enter this life that she came early and spent her first four and a half months of life in the newborn intensive care unit. Doctors said she might not live long and that if she did survive, she wouldn’t be able to see or speak. She would spend her life in a wheelchair, they said, and she would suffer from cerebral palsy.
Today, Kailey and her parents say that Heavenly Father must have had other plans. The years have been filled with prayer and days of ward and family fasts, multiple priesthood blessings, repeated surgeries, several three-and-a-half-hour drives to doctors, and even a two-and-a-half-month period of total blindness. Despite all that, Kailey is a vibrant, happy 12-year-old who just advanced from Primary into Young Women.
But her eyes, diseased from birth, have never provided more than limited sight. At age 10, Kailey permanently lost vision in her left eye. Now her right eye—which has a field of vision so small it’s like looking through a straw—is getting worse.
Kailey, ever the optimist, has been learning braille, a language that allows her to read by feeling raised dots with her fingertips. “Braille is going to be part of my life,” she says. “So I decided to start learning now. That way, I’ll have a head start.”
But to communicate in Braille, Kailey needed expensive equipment, including a special computer.
Though many people in the community—such as those at her father’s work as well as in the ward—would have gladly paid for the equipment, Kailey decided she could raise money for the equipment herself by recycling aluminum cans. The problem: it would take a lot of cans. When the ward deacons quorum president, Carter N., learned about her goal and dilemma, he came to the rescue and brought others with him.
“My uncle had a metal shed,” Carter says. “He said I could tear it down, recycle the metal, and make some money to help Kailey, so I did that with his help. But I kept thinking about her idea to recycle cans. ‘Couldn’t we collect enough cans to help pay for her equipment?’”
The next Sunday at bishopric youth committee (BYC) meeting, Carter shared his feelings and presented a plan. “The youth and the leaders talked it through,” Carter says, “and we all said, ‘We can do it’” to help Kailey collect cans. “We’ve been gathering cans ever since.”
Gathering may be an understatement.
“The BYC took the idea and ran with it,” says Mark D. Holmes, Kailey and Carter’s bishop. “The youth made plans, put up posters, and did all the work. The rest of the ward joined in too. Pretty soon people who weren’t members of the Church saw us out gathering cans and were eager to get involved.” Many businesses invited the youth to put up posters and set out boxes labeled “Kans for Kailey.”
Although the original goal was just to recycle as much as possible, during the next few months, more than 14,000 aluminum cans were collected by the youth, the ward, and the community. “The bishop let us store them in his shop building,” Carter explains. “We completely filled that, plus a couple of horse trailers.” After the cans were crushed to save space, they still filled a storage shed that’s 12 feet wide, 12 feet deep, and 8 feet tall.
“At first I didn’t think we could get that many cans,” says Michael P., 13. “But when people remembered they were doing it for Kailey, they all seemed to have more desire to help.”
“We were doing for her something she couldn’t do entirely for herself,” says Kinsley K., 12. “In a small way, we were following the example of the Savior.”
The money collected from the recycling provided more than enough money to purchase the Braille equipment. “I really like the equipment,” Kailey says. “I use it a lot.”
What’s more, the youth, the ward, and the community all gained a vision of what they could do when they worked together.
But there’s more to the story. Because of her physical challenges, Kailey hadn’t always felt like she fit in at church. She and her younger brother Kenston, 10, both have autism, which makes it tough for them to express their feelings and interact with other people. Kenston also has Tourette’s syndrome, and so he makes repeated, quick movements and utters sounds that he cannot control. Even though their testimonies of the gospel are strong, Kailey and her family felt like they might be a distraction to others, and so they sometimes left Church meetings early or didn’t come at all.
However, when the youth started gathering cans, Kailey joined in every activity. She quickly made friends with the youth and the youth leaders in the ward.
“She joined right in and did everything,” says Rachel M., 17. “And by being there, she got to see not only what we were doing, but she experienced our attitudes about doing it as well.”
“Kailey’s always nice,” says Tommi B., 12. “When you see her, she’s always the first one to say hi.”
“I just want to be friends with everyone,” Kailey says. “It really means a lot to me to be accepted.”
As Kailey’s parents saw how well she was fellowshipped by the youth of the ward, they gained an increased vision of how the ward family could support their family. They felt more welcome at meetings, including bringing Kenston along. Ward members have come to understand that Kenston will sometimes unexpectedly sit in the choir seats and then return to his family after a few minutes or that he may make a noise he can’t stop, and they also understand that his friendship is quick and genuine.
“It didn’t take long before the youth caught the vision that getting Braille equipment was never really the true goal of this project,” Bishop Holmes says. “The real goal was to let Kailey and her family know that we love them and that we need them here to make our ward family complete.”

Recently we travelled with my daughter and the local high school choirs up to Seattle for their annual choir trip. While we were there they performed for the Sunday noon Mass at the Cathedral of St. James, and sang Mack Wilberg's arrangement of "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing."

Even though I'd heard that song many times before, they sang it so purely, so beautifully, in that glorious space, as the final words of that hymn washed over me, "Take my heart. Oh, take and seal it. Seal it for thy courts on high,"[15] the words of that prayer were my prayer, and God heard, took my heart and changed it.

He accepted my offering, and has touched my life in such a way that I will never be able to deny that He lives, that He knows and loves me, has work for me to do, and eagerly anticipates my faithful return. For all things testify of him.

I had the strangest feeling when the whole family left for church without me. My mother and father didn’t make half the fuss I had expected when, just before time to leave, I announced, “I don’t want to go to meeting today.”

“Oh!” Grandma said, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not, are you sick?” Mama asked.

“Sort of,” I replied. “I’m sick of listening to long, boring talks.”

“Well, sounds as though we have only a part-time Mormon,” Papa remarked.

“I am not a part-time Mormon,” I protested. “I’m one all the time.”

“Your testimony sounds a bit shaky to me,” Papa responded.

“What does a testimony have to do with going to church anyway?” I asked.

“Everything,” my sister Laura chipped in. “If a person knows the gospel is true, she tries to do what she’s supposed to.”

“You’re preaching,” I objected.

“What will you do while we’re in church?” Mama asked.

“I’ll play with Joyce and Joan and their cousins.”

“Church is out by five. You can play with them after that,” Mother suggested.

Everyone was looking at me like I had two heads. I was annoyed. Couldn’t I be different just once? I knew plenty of kids that didn’t have to go to church, and their parents didn’t go either.

“If we wait until after church, we can’t finish our hut down by the river,” I explained.

Shaking her head, Mama sighed, “So Papa is right. We do have a part-time Mormon in the family.”

Feeling hurt, I asked, “How come?”

“Just think it over,” she answered.

And off my family went to church without me. I almost ran after them as they passed through the gate, but then I overheard Laura say, “She won’t really miss meeting. She’ll catch up with us before we reach the corner.”

Well! I’ll show her, I thought.

To prevent my weakening, I changed quickly into my old sweat shirt and jeans. Already Joan and the others were calling for me over the picket fence.

I had a strong urge to shout, “I’m not going.” Instead, I met them at the gate.

Usually going to the river was exciting, but today it wasn’t. There was still time to change my mind and attend church with my folks, for they always left early. While I stood, debating, Joyce asked, “Well, what’s bothering you? Did your old cat die or something?”

“Of course not, silly. Come on, let’s go,” I answered decisively.

I didn’t feel much like talking, so I ran ahead, making the other girls race to catch up. When we came to the river, we were winded.

The river! Big deal! I thought. It’s nothing more than a trickle through sand and rocks, and I thought it would be so great!

The sun was sizzling hot, my clothes were sticky, and a rock was in my shoe. Suddenly Joyce wailed, “Oh, look! Someone has caved our hut in.”

Sure enough! All our hard work of cutting and placing tamarack branches was wasted. The hut was a wreck.

Discouraged, I plopped down against a boulder in the shade of a black willow, shaking the gravel out of my shoes. A gnat that wouldn’t be shooed away buzzed my ears.

“Who wants a tamarack hut anyway?” I snapped.

Indignantly, with hands on her hips, Joan stood before me. “Look! Something is bothering you. What is it? You’re the one who thought the hut was so important.”

“Ah, I’m all right,” I said. “I just have some thinking to do, OK? Why don’t you all forget about me and go have some fun?”

“C’mon, let’s let the old potato sit and stew,” Joan urged. “The last one in the river is a mud turtle!”

There was a scramble as the girls pulled off their shoes and stockings, and I was left alone.

I sat and thought, If I need a testimony, I’d better do something about it. All my life I’ve heard people get up in church and say what they’re thankful for. Being thankful is important. Our Heavenly Father wouldn’t want to bless us if we weren’t thankful. But a testimony must be more than that. I thought hard.

When Joseph Smith went into the woods to pray, he saw the Father and the Son. So he had a testimony. He knew Jesus Christ was the Son of God. Hot as the day was, that thought made my skin prickle, and I shivered.

In Sunday School we had talked about an angel of God coming down and showing the gold plates to the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon. So of course they had testimonies.

But I had never seen an angel or seen a light or heard a voice from heaven. So that’s probably why I was in this sorry state, sitting in the dirt against an old lava rock in my grubbiest clothes, while my sisters sat in church in their crisp pink and blue dresses beside Papa, Mama, and Grandma. Then like a bolt, the thought struck me! None of my family has seen or heard anymore than I have!

I learned back against that boulder ready to cry. I wanted a testimony too! “Please help me, Heavenly Father,” I prayed.

Gradually, a sweet, sweet feeling swept through me. Why, I did have a testimony. I had always had one. If I knew Joseph knew and that the Three Witnesses knew that Jesus Christ was the Son of our Heavenly Father—then naturally I knew too. How wonderful! Tears trickled down my gritty cheeks. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” I whispered.

I ran to the riverbank where my friends were playing. “Hey, everybody, c’mere,” I called excitedly.

“Well, look who’s come alive,” Joyce said. Eagerly they came.

“Come on, let’s go home. This is no way to spend Sunday,” I told them.

Timidly one of the cousins said, “Mama and Papa would never let us do this at home.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” I agreed. “And we’re not coming to the river anymore on Sunday. We’ll fix that hut tomorrow.”

“Then the hut matters?” Joan asked.

“Sure it does. Tamarack huts are important.”

The family was already home when I got there. I hurried and scrubbed away my disgrace. No one paid any attention to me except Mama. “Did you have a good time at the river?” she asked.

“I suffered,” I answered.

The following Sunday was fast day, and I had been saving a surprise all week for my family. I was the first one at the pulpit when it was time to bear testimonies. I knew exactly what I was going to say.

But when I looked down at the people, their faces blurred. I was scared. My heart pounded and my throat was dry. I couldn’t remember one single word I had planned to say. Lying on the pulpit was a slip of paper with the title of the closing song, “I know That My Redeemer Lives.”

Tingling from head to toe, I took a deep breath and said, “Oh, how very much I know that my Redeemer really and truly lives.” Tears began to sting my eyes. Fearing I might cry, I could only add, “in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Reaching my seat again, I squeezed in between Laura and Papa. His big brown hand closed over mine and his smile was broad and warm.

Upon seeing the canvas-topped wagons inching toward the wide curve of our fishing creek, Peter sucked in his breath. “Mormons!” He grabbed my arm and pulled me through a mud puddle, and into the tall grass.
“Look what you did!” I wailed, wiping at the mud on my new birthday shoes.
Peter only slapped the willow stick that was meant to become my birthday whistle against his leg. “If they camp, we’ll need to warn Pa. He’ll get men from town to help drive them on their way!”
I looked at my brother’s grim face. “Are Mormons bad?”
“Maybe not. But nobody I know wants them around.”
I parted the grass and eased my face through, hoping I could get a glimpse of a Mormon. At the same time, my heart thumped for fear that I might. I saw their wagons circling under the cottonwoods, and I drew back. “I think they are camping, Peter!”
Peter slapped the willow stick against his leg again. “They’ll see us if we try to sneak for home.”
I crept farther into the grass and hunched down. What would happen if they saw us, I dared not ask. My heart was pounding. I knew it was important to be very, very still.
But soon my feet began to burn inside my new shoes. One cramped-up foot began to feel the stab of a thousand little needles. I squirmed and tried to carefully change positions. But I tipped over, shaking the clump of grass we were hiding in. Peter glared at me as I tried to right myself. And as I did, I saw the willows just beyond us wiggle!
A little girl, about my size, stepped through them. Her blue eyes opened wide with surprise when she saw us. Then she smiled. “Hello. Were you planning to fish here too?”
I thought Peter would answer her, but he didn’t, so I said, “We came to cut a willow stick. Peter is making a whistle for my birthday. We—we thought you were Mormons.”
She stepped closer to us, pulling her skirt through the willows behind her. Lifting her chin, she said, “We are.”
I was going to warn her about the mud puddle, but I was somehow speechless. She stepped into the mud with bare feet—bare feet already covered with dust.
She looked hopefully at Peter. “Would you make a whistle for my little brother, Billy? He’s awful sick. A whistle might cheer him some.”
Now Peter puffed himself up. “Not for a Mormon boy, I wouldn’t! And you have no right to stop here, you know!”
The little girl bit her lip. “We must stop somewhere to rest. I only wanted to find a willow to use for a fishing pole. I—I hoped to catch a fish for Billy’s supper.”
Peter growled, “The fish in this creek don’t belong to Mormons, either.”
I wanted to take away her hurt look. “They belong to God,” I piped up, ignoring Peter’s glare.
“Of course,” she agreed. “That’s why we stopped here. We pray to know where to stop, to know where we might find food.”
I thought of all the good things Mama had cooked for my birthday dinner, so much that we hadn’t eaten half of it: chicken dumplings, bread pudding swimming in fresh cow’s cream, and lots of other good things. Now just the thoughts of it choked me some.
“It’s high time we tell Pa, Amy,” Peter told me. “He’ll see that these Mormons move on!”
Peter broke out of the willows and began running across the fields toward home. I hung back, biting my lip and hurting inside for the Mormon girl. She turned away and started toward the wagons.
“Wait!” I called out, making a sudden decision.
She hesitated, and I sat down and tugged at one of my new shoes. “These are my birthday shoes,” I hollered to her. “They hurt me. I’m going to throw them in the creek!” I held the shoe high as if to throw it.
She came running back. “Oh, please don’t throw your shoes in the creek!”
She reached for the shoe, and I saw the plea in her eyes. Grinning, I handed her the matching one. I think she could tell, then, that I wanted to be her friend.
“Don’t worry about how my brother talked,” I told her. “Papa is a kind man. He’ll let you fish in our creek. I’m sure he will.” I turned and ran across the field in my bare feet. I hardly felt the dry stubble of the field, my steps seemed so light.
As I stood in the kitchen, trying to catch my breath, I studied the faces of my parents. Peter had already told them about the Mormons. “God told them to stop here because they’re hungry,” I burst out. “And there’s a little boy who’s very sick.”
Mama and Papa looked thoughtful. I touched Papa’s hand. “Couldn’t we help them? Do we need to drive Mormons away?”
Peter noticed my shoeless feet. “Look! I bet Amy gave her new shoes to that Mormon girl!”
I looked at Mama. “They hurt me,” I said.
Mama drew me close. “And they hurt you even more when another little girl had none, is that it?”
Oh, how I loved Mama at that moment. And I loved Papa extra special when he said, “I wonder how we’d feel right now, if we sat down to all those leftovers from Amy’s birthday dinner.”
I would choke, I knew I would. Papa knew I would too.
Peter frowned. “You mean you aren’t going to get the men in town to help drive them away?”
“No, I’m going to have you get a slab of side meat out of the smokehouse. And maybe a sack of that meal we still have in the pantry.”
Good, kind Papa!
“And chicken dumplings for little Billy?” I asked.
I heard the thwack of the willow stick against Peter’s leg. He still had the whistle stick in his hand. I looked at Mama and Papa and said, “Peter is making a whistle especially for a Mormon—for little Billy—aren’t you, Peter?”
Peter saw my grin, and the darkness in his face began to fade. “Well, I guess maybe I am.” Then he was grinning right along with the rest of us.

Service has taken on a special meaning to the girls in the Copenhagen Denmark Stake. The Young Women were asked to help an LDS family in Poland. They gladly responded and began organizing the first parcel of hard-to-get items to send to the Polish family of four. They sent such items as soap, toothpaste, flour, razor blades, vitamins, and shoes. The parcel was received so gratefully that the girls decided to gather more badly needed items and have them personally delivered by a family in their ward who offered to spend their vacation making the trip into Poland.
The family was able to deliver the items gathered by the girls to the Polish couple and their two sons, who were grateful to have contact with Church members. They were also able to bring the news that a temple is to be built in East Germany.
The Young Women of the Copenhagen First Ward also filled sharing socks made by some California Young Women. These socks, filled by the Copenhagen girls with candy and small gifts, were given to children in Poland.
News of their successful service project has spread, and four other Copenhagen wards have also adopted Polish families. The girls hold work projects to earn money to pay for the postage on the packages they mail to Poland.

She was sure it was late fall of 1993. At least that’s what Amy Westerby thought when she left Provo one morning to travel to Antelope Island located in the middle of the Great Salt Lake in Utah. Somewhere along the way, she seemed to go back in time 600 years before Christ.
Amy had been selected to play the character Susan in the new seminary videos where truths from the Book of Mormon are played out in modern scenarios. This day she was there to participate in the opening shots of the video called I Will Prepare the Way, where her character walks along a long, white sand beach. She was also going to get the chance to see Nephi’s boat being built.
According to Amy it was amazing to see a huge wooden boat being constructed before her eyes. And the men playing Nephi and his brothers were so realistically dressed. It felt a little like a time machine. “It was great just to be there,” said Amy, “and watch the whole thing happen.”

Elizabeth Ann Whitney, wife of Newel K. Whitney, recalled, "One night when the mob were in search of the Prophet, and he had taken refuge in my home, the little children gathered in one of the rooms and prayed, as they often did, that the Prophet might be unmolested and rest there in peace. They all knelt down and prayed earnestly to the Lord and said they would not rise until they had a testimony. Very soon one of the children rose from her knees,-- saying "I have the spirit, brother Joseph will be safe." The Prophet and Brother and Sister Whitney had been standing at the door and when Joseph heard this, he turned to Bishop Whitney and said, while his eyes were filled with tears: "You need not hide me to-night, I will be perfectly safe."