Gospel Story Finder

One day my father brought home a beautiful, spirited thoroughbred. She had been fully trained as a polo pony. She happened to be about half a hand too small to qualify for the buyer of the rest of the string, so my father bought her for us. This was one of the most exciting gifts I had ever had. Here was a prize any boy would be thrilled with. She could take off like a jack rabbit. She could stop on a dime, back up almost on a run, do anything any other horse could do, and do it better. She was a thoroughbred; yet, she lacked one thing. Almost every time I got on her, she ran away with me. Perhaps it was my fault, but she simply would not accept authority. She would take the bit in her teeth and take off, paying no attention to where I wanted to go. She was a rebel. All her training and talent were lost because she was headstrong and resented authority. We had named her Lady, but it was not long before we stopped calling her Lady and finally gave her away.

While I was on my mission in Taiwan, one Christmas I was feeling a little discouraged. I knew that Christmas should be about remembering the Savior and sharing the gospel, but I was looking forward to getting a package from home and going to the annual mission Christmas Eve celebration to help bring some Christmas cheer into my life. Although the other missionaries in my apartment had already received large packages, by Christmas Eve I still had not received anything.

I was feeling pretty miserable as my companion and I rode our bikes through pouring rain to the mission office to meet up for the celebration. I hoped that a package would be waiting for me, but when we arrived, not only were there no packages, but there were also no missionaries. We were late enough that the other missionaries had already left for the party. I don’t believe I’d ever felt so empty, so depressed, and so utterly alone. It did not feel like Christmas.

Sitting in the dark, all I could think about was how lonely and miserable I felt. Tears started to fall.

Then I heard the familiar sound of a motorcycle outside. It was the evening mail delivery. I looked out and saw the mailman carrying a package to the mission office.

To my surprise, the package was addressed to me. It was from the young women of my home ward. Inside I found the most wonderful, crushed, delicious, three-week-old chocolate chip cookies I’d ever tasted! They were like manna from heaven. My companion and I ate them together, with smiles on our faces and a little more of the Christmas spirit in our hearts.

The young women who put together that package probably had no idea how much it would lift the spirits of a discouraged missionary clear across the Pacific Ocean. The true meaning of Christmas focuses on our Savior, and the Christmas gift from those young women served as a gentle reminder to me that God is aware of our simple struggles. I have since learned even more that there’s much more to Christmas than merely receiving gifts. But to this day, that simple package has been one of the most meaningful Christmas gifts I have received, and it’s one I will never forget.

President Hinckley’s words inspired one teen to stop using illegal drugs.
“Not too long ago I was deeply entrenched in the underground rave scene. With my involvement in this not-so-wholesome activity came abuse of a drug known as ecstasy. My life got to the point where I was rolling every weekend and spending all my money on illegal drugs. It wasn’t until the prophet spoke out against illicit drug use to the youth of the Church that I realized I was in big trouble. Listening to his counsel to be clean, however, helped motivate me and give me courage to stop using drugs.”

“The animals have to earn their keep.” Papa’s words echoed in Megan’s mind. The dogs guarded the sheep, and the chickens laid eggs. The sheep produced wool to sell. Megan helped shear them every spring, and their thick wool always looked like snow melting on the green field.
But Megan’s lambs were different. They were runts that were born last year, and they were too small to produce enough wool to pay for their upkeep. Papa had wanted to take them to the butcher, but the two tiny, frail babies had captured Megan’s heart. She’d pleaded to keep them, and Papa had finally agreed. “But,” he had warned her, “you will have to take care of them all by yourself.”
At first, everything had been OK. Megan had used her birthday money to buy hay when the lambs began to eat. But now her birthday money was gone, and Papa said it was too expensive to let the lambs graze in the field he rented outside town. Besides, Megan knew she would rarely see them if they went to the field. She sighed as she watched her lambs nibble the last bit of hay. It would be gone tomorrow, and she needed to find a way to feed her lambs.
Megan patted the white wool on the lambs’ heads as she leaned against the pen. Down her street she could see Mr. Flowers tending his roses. A couple houses down, Mrs. Wilmot hobbled slowly out to get the mail. Mrs. Wilmot was a widow who lived all alone. Sometimes Megan’s brother raked leaves for Mrs. Wilmot, but he always complained because Mrs. Wilmot couldn’t afford to pay him.
Megan noticed how long Mrs. Wilmot’s grass was. “I’ll offer to trim her lawn for her,” Megan decided. “But not now. I need to find a way to feed my lambs.”
Suddenly Megan had an idea. Mrs. Wilmot had grass, and Megan had sheep that needed to graze—the perfect combination! Megan patted her lambs quickly on the head and ran to Mrs. Wilmot’s house. When Mrs. Wilmot answered the door, she beamed at Megan, happy to have a visitor. The words tumbled out of Megan’s mouth as she explained her idea.
“Mrs. Wilmot, I think this could be great for both of us!” Megan finished. She held her breath, waiting for a response.
“I think so too!” Mrs. Wilmot said. “I could use the company, and my lawn could use the help. Bring the lambs over first thing tomorrow morning.” Megan and Mrs. Wilmot smiled at each other, and Megan grinned all the way home.
The next day was the beginning of a long and wonderful friendship. Megan took her sheep over to Mrs. Wilmot’s house every morning before school, and in the afternoons she stayed to visit for a while before she took her lambs home for the night. Mrs. Wilmot’s lawn stayed trimmed at the perfect height, and Megan’s lambs earned their keep.

Born in Mährisch-Ostrau, Czechoslovakia, on November 6, 1940, he was destined to see at every turn the devastation of war and the suffering innocent people endure because of the fateful decisions of others. His father, Karl Albert Uchtdorf, was conscripted into the German Army and was taken immediately from his wife and four small children. Little Dieter, the youngest in the family, knew only that his father was somewhere he didn’t want to be and that his mother, Hildegard E. Opelt Uchtdorf, was bravely fending for her little family as the war in Europe swirled around them.

With the Allies’ increasing success in the west and ominous progress by Stalin’s forces in the east, Hildegard Uchtdorf wanted to get as close as possible to the western front. So she left every meager possession the family possessed and, with her small family, made her way to Zwickau, Germany. Fortunately her husband survived the war and joined them in Zwickau, but he was a bitter opponent of both the Nazi and the Communist regimes. The former was now destroyed, but the latter was in control of their lives as a result of the postwar division of Germany. Because of Karl’s political position, their lives were in danger, so the family—for the second time in seven years—left every possession they owned and, despite the danger, made their way to a new haven in Frankfurt, West Germany.

Of this period Elder Uchtdorf has said: “We were refugees with an uncertain future. … I played in bombed-out houses and grew up with the ever-present consequences of a lost war and the awareness that my own country had inflicted terrible pain on many nations during the horrific World War II.” The family had every reason to be filled with despair and fear.

But, as President Gordon B. Hinckley once said during another time of international conflict, there is a “silver thread” that can run “through the dark tapestry of war.” And so it did for the Uchtdorfs. While in Zwickau they found the gospel of Jesus Christ. In his first message after being called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Elder Uchtdorf expressed his gratitude for that gift.

“After World War II,” he said, “my grandmother was standing in line for food when an elderly single sister with no family of her own invited her to sacrament meeting. … My grandmother and my parents accepted the invitation. They went to church, felt the Spirit, were uplifted by the kindness of the members, and were edified by the hymns of the Restoration. … How grateful I am for a spiritually sensitive grandmother, teachable parents, and a wise, white-haired, elderly single sister who had the sweet boldness to reach out and follow the Savior’s example by inviting us to ‘come and see’ (see John 1:39).”

Jesus Christ was kind to everyone He met. He is a great example of kindness to me. One day when I was in first grade, I was the leader of the day in my class. Part of being a leader of the day was choosing someone to help me carry the lunch basket filled with lunch boxes to the cafeteria. I stood in front of the class and looked out at my classmates, trying to decide who to choose. All of my good friends were raising their hands, and at first I wanted to choose one of them. But then I noticed a boy standing in the back of the room. He didn’t have many friends, and sometimes people were not very nice to him. He never got chosen for anything. Something inside my heart told me to pick him. When I picked him to be my helper, everyone else acted surprised, but he got a big smile on his face. After lunch my teacher pulled me aside and whispered in my ear, “Thank you for picking him. That was a very kind thing to do.” All day I felt really good inside.

During my years in the military, it was sometimes a challenge to find a Latter-day Saint chapel. With little notice, I could find myself in a new city or even a new country.
One Sunday I found myself in Amsterdam, Holland. At 8:30 a.m. our colonel unexpectedly announced that we had the day off. Already in uniform, I convinced a friend to drop me off at church. In his rental car, we had the following conversation:
Friend: “So where is your church?”
Me: “I don’t know because I’ve never been to this city before. But if you can get us to the city center by quarter to nine, we can find it.”
Friend: “Why? What happens at quarter to nine?”
Me: “That’s when we’ll see the Mormon missionaries heading to the chapel.”
Friend: “I thought you said you’ve never been here before?”
Me: “I haven’t.”
Friend: “So how do you know there’s a chapel here?”
Me: “There’s a chapel here all right and Mormon missionaries.”
Friend: “OK, here we are in the city center. It’s quarter to nine, and I don’t see any missionaries.”
Me: “There they are.”
Friend: “Where? You mean those small figures way up there crossing the street? We can’t even see who they are from here.”
When we caught up to the missionaries, I jumped out of the car and had an animated conversation with them, shaking hands, cracking jokes, laughing, and smiling.
Me: “Thanks for dropping me off.”
Friend: “I thought you said you didn’t know those guys?”
Me: “I don’t. We just met.”
Friend: “People don’t talk like that unless they already know each other.”
Me: “I’ll explain later.”
Friend: “I’m not sure I can find this place again, and you haven’t told me what time to pick you up.”
Me: “The meetings will last three hours. Then a family will invite me to dinner. After we eat and talk a while, they’ll drive me back to headquarters.”
Friend: “You don’t know that someone is going to invite you to dinner and drive you back.”
I reassured him that I would be well taken care of and thanked him again.
The meetings were inspiring. I accepted the first of three invitations to dinner. During dinner we had an enlightening conversation about the growth of the Church in Holland.
I have been blessed to find Church members many times during my life. Sometimes we have met in royal palaces and sometimes in humble huts. Sometimes we have met in abandoned, dusty barracks. Sometimes we have met in hospital chapels. Sometimes we have met in large tents or outside under the open sky.
Wherever we have met, I am always glad I made the effort to find the Church. For as the Lord has said, “Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them” (Matthew 18:20).

“Class, I have a surprise for you,” Mrs. Taylor said as she walked to the front of the room.
Evelyn looked up from her test, grinning. There was a big “A+” at the top.
“You all did so well on your tests that tomorrow we’ll watch a movie as a reward,” Mrs. Taylor said, writing three movie titles on the board. “Here are the options we can vote on,” she said over everyone’s cheers.
Evelyn bounced in her seat, trying to see what the titles were. The first two movies were some of her favorites. She leaned over to her friend Katy. “Which one are you going to vote for?”
“Definitely number three,” Katy said. “My parents wouldn’t let us watch it at home, so I never got to see it.”
Evelyn looked at the board again and saw the name of the third movie. Her heart started to pound. Evelyn had heard of this movie, and she knew it was one she wouldn’t feel right about watching. What if her class voted for it?
“Who would like to vote for option one?” Mrs. Taylor asked.
Evelyn stretched her hand high and looked around. She bit her lip nervously. Only two other people were voting.
Mrs. Taylor made tally marks on the board. “Option two?”
Evelyn’s heart sank. Only three hands went up.
“And option three?”
Fifteen hands shot up. Evelyn slumped down in her seat, a sick feeling settling in her stomach. How could she get out of watching that movie if everyone else wanted to?
When she got home, Evelyn went straight to her room and let her backpack fall to the floor with a heavy thunk. The sick feeling had stuck with her the entire day. “I wish I actually could be sick,” she thought. “Then I wouldn’t have to go to school tomorrow.”
Evelyn pulled her test out of her backpack and stared at it, clutching it in her hands. “The movie was supposed to be a reward, not a punishment!” she thought, angrily crumpling the test up and stuffing it under her bed. Tears welled up in her eyes. She knelt by her bed and started to cry. Then she started to pray. She choked out a few tangled sentences, asking Heavenly Father to take the problem away, but after a while her prayer changed. “Please help me to make this better. I don’t want to see a movie that will make me feel bad, and I hope that my friends and teacher will understand.”
Evelyn finished her prayer. The trembling, sick feeling had disappeared. She didn’t even feel afraid anymore.
Jumping to her feet, Evelyn raced out of her room to find Mom. She had an idea.
The next day, Evelyn walked into class. In one hand she held a note from Mom explaining how watching the movie would make Evelyn feel uncomfortable. In the other hand she carried three of her favorite movies. Evelyn handed the note to Mrs. Taylor and watched her read it.
“Thank you for letting me know how you feel,” Mrs. Taylor said.
“My mom says it is OK for me to go sit in with another class while the movie is playing,” Evelyn said. “But I also brought some other movies in case everyone would like to watch one of them instead.”
Mrs. Taylor smiled and reached for the stack of movies. “A movie is not much of a reward if we can’t all enjoy it,” she said.
Mrs. Taylor wrote the new titles on the board. “Class, I’d like to vote again on the movie for today. I have some new options for you.”
Evelyn went and sat at her desk, happy she wouldn’t have to miss out on the class reward. But the best reward of all was knowing that Heavenly Father had taken away her fear and given her courage to do what was right.

There is a message for Latter-day Saints in a seldom quoted revelation given to the Prophet Joseph Smith in 1838. “I remember my servant Oliver Granger; behold, verily I say unto him that his name shall be had in sacred remembrance from generation to generation, forever and ever, saith the Lord” (D&C 117:12).
Oliver Granger was a very ordinary man. He was mostly blind, having “lost his sight by cold and exposure” (History of the Church, 4:408). The First Presidency described him as “a man of the most strict integrity and moral virtue; and in fine, to be a man of God” (History of the Church, 3:350).
When the Saints were driven from Kirtland, Ohio, in a scene that would be repeated in Independence, in Far West, and in Nauvoo, Oliver was left behind to sell their properties for what little he could. There was not much chance that he could succeed. And, really, he did not succeed!
But the Lord said, “Let him contend earnestly for the redemption of the First Presidency of my Church, saith the Lord; and when he falls he shall rise again, for his sacrifice shall be more sacred unto me than his increase, saith the Lord” (D&C 117:13).
What did Oliver Granger do that his name should be held in sacred remembrance? Nothing much, really. It was not so much what he did as what he was.
When we honor Oliver, much, perhaps even most, of the honor should go to Lydia Dibble Granger, his wife.
Oliver and Lydia finally left Kirtland to join the Saints in Far West, Missouri. They had gone but a few miles from Kirtland when they were turned back by a mob. Only later did they join the Saints at Nauvoo.
Oliver died at age 47, leaving Lydia to look after their children.
The Lord did not expect Oliver to be perfect, perhaps not even to succeed. “When he falls he shall rise again, for his sacrifice shall be more sacred unto me than his increase, saith the Lord” (D&C 117:13).

Over the years I’ve found that of everyone I need to forgive, the hardest to forgive is myself. One time I lied to my parents, and then one lie led to another until it became a giant web of lies and cover-ups. I felt guilty and generally unhappy, but I was too embarrassed to admit what I’d done. To make matters worse, instead of coming clean about my lies on my own, I got caught! It was hard to be around my parents because I knew they loved and trusted me, and I’d betrayed that trust.
Once it was all out in the open, I did feel some relief, but I just couldn’t seem to forgive myself. I was ashamed of my behavior and vowed to be honest from then on, no matter what. I didn’t want to disappoint myself or my parents anymore.
I knew my parents would be understanding and forgiving, and they were. They like to say, “Clean up the mess and let’s move forward,” which we did.
Once I set things right with my parents, I changed my habits to help me access the power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ more than ever before. I fasted and prayed, particularly seeking to understand the Atonement better. I also tried to make scripture study a part of my everyday routine and to make it more meaningful. This meant making personal prayer a priority so that I was prepared to not only read the scriptures but also to understand them through the Spirit.
As I searched, I found answers and peace in the scriptures. I more fully understood that Jesus Christ atoned for my sins and that as I repented of them, He truly would “remember them no more” (D&C 58:42). Part of forgiving myself was being able to accept this great gift that Christ offered me. I realized He invites all of us to partake, but we actually have to be willing to accept it.
One day I was reading in Alma 22 where Aaron teaches the gospel to the king of the Lamanites and invites him to pray. I love what the king says when he prays: “I will give away all my sins to know thee [God]” (Alma 22:18). That phrase struck my heart with particular force at that time. As I recommitted myself to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ through repentance, I was able to forgive myself and feel peace again.
It took time, and it wasn’t easy, but by prioritizing and putting my personal prayer and scripture study first, I found comfort and felt the pure love of Christ through a greater understanding of what He did for me personally. When I realized that He loves me despite my mistakes, I felt the forgiveness He offers. I accepted His forgiveness and was able to forgive myself.

At the time, my 21-year-old daughter, KennaDee, was working in a Veterans Affairs (VA) nursing home. KennaDee loves to sing, and she did it often at work. She sang showtunes as the residents ate lunch. She also sang the official songs of the military branches they had served in and took requests during lunch (including a Christian hymn she didn’t know at first but learned for one resident).
One female resident had lived a life full of abuse. She was combative and would not let the caregivers feed, bathe, or dress her. She would fight against taking her medications and any kind of physical exam. One day, acting upon inspiration, my daughter sang her Primary songs from the Children’s Songbook. The woman calmed immediately. She showed a light of recognition in her eyes. The employees discovered that this woman would cooperate as long as KennaDee sang Primary songs. They could dress, bathe, and feed her and give her medications with little struggle or resistance. KennaDee even taught some Primary songs to the other staff members so they could help this woman when KennaDee wasn’t working.

Second, I believe we have not prepared ourselves to be good messengers. The general membership of the Church seems to be in the same position I found myself in as a full-time missionary many years ago. At that time we were given little training to fulfill our responsibilities. As I arrived in the mission field, I was assigned a companion who was also new in the field. He was anxious to be about the work that he had been assigned and called to perform. He encouraged me almost immediately to go door-to-door tracting with him. I will never forget our first door approach. As we started toward the house, I turned to him and asked, “What do I do?” His reply astonished me. He said, “I don’t know. I have never tried this before.” How different is the training of our full-time missionaries we have serving today! We need to be more on a par with them if we are to fulfill our responsibilities as member missionaries.

Ramón ran, skipped, and jogged on the way to school. All at once he slowed to a walk.
Today was Monday. New helpers would be chosen in his class at school.
Ramón wanted very much to be a classroom helper. Every changeover day he smiled hopefully at his teacher, Mrs. Martin. Mrs. Martin always smiled back at him, but she had never chosen him to be a classroom helper.
The warning bell was ringing as Ramón hurried into the school building. He had almost reached his classroom when he saw a little girl sitting on the floor, crying as she tried to pick up crayons she had dropped.
Ramón bent down beside her. “I’ll help you.”
Soon all the crayons were picked up, and the little girl hurried on her way.
Mrs. Martin stood at the door of the classroom. Ramón smiled at her. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. He sat at his desk and waited for Mrs. Martin to announce this week’s helpers.
She chose Alise to put the library books away, Matt to pass out the study pages, Maria to take care of the art supplies, and Robert to feed the fish.
Ramón was sad that he was not chosen for any of the jobs. He took his pencil out of his desk and got ready to start his work. Just then Matt, who was passing out the study pages, dropped the whole pile.
Ramón jumped up. He helped Matt pick up the papers. Matt didn’t say thank you, but Ramón smiled at him anyway.
The classroom door opened, and the principal walked in. With him was a boy Ramón had never seen before. Mrs. Martin spoke to them for a moment.
When the principal left, Mrs. Martin said, “Class, this is Steven, who will now be in our class. I want you to welcome him.”
Then Mrs. Martin said, “Ramón, you are always friendly and smiling and helpful. Will you be my very special helper today and show Steven all around our school? He needs to know where the gym, the cafeteria and the washrooms are.”
Ramón smiled at his teacher and nodded. He smiled at Steven too.
On the way home from school that day, Ramón ran and skipped and jogged. He was too happy to walk.
“This was a very special day,” he told his mother, “because I got to be a very special helper.”

About three years ago, Sinah M., a 17-year-old young woman from North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany, faced these questions. Her answers were influenced by what had come before that moment.
“I danced all my life and was very passionate about it,” says Sinah. “I did ballet, modern dance, jazz—a bit of everything, but mostly ballet.” Dancing made her happy and was a big part of her identity. “Everything revolved around dancing,” she says.
But then she started feeling pain in her feet whenever she would dance. She felt it even when she walked, and it wouldn’t go away. She sought answers and healing through doctors, priesthood blessings, and prayer. But the cause of her pain remained a mystery, and relief from her physical suffering did not come.
“I definitely had moments where I suddenly had thoughts like, ‘Does Heavenly Father love me? Why do I have to go through this? Why does he allow it to hurt me so much?’” says Sinah.
But in spite of such thoughts, she responded to this trial with overwhelming faith and trust in the Lord.
Before facing this challenge, Sinah had already developed faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
“I’ve always been interested in the gospel,” says Sinah. She’s glad her parents taught her the gospel, took her to church, and planted within her a desire to learn about the gospel for herself.
“I’m a person who questions a lot, but I don’t despair in this questioning,” she says. “It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I actually learned that it’s OK to have questions. I allowed myself to have questions, and I prayed for knowledge and strength and that Heavenly Father would help me to build my testimony even stronger.”
Over time, she noticed that this approach had, in fact, made her testimony stronger. “I’ve always been very open to the gospel, but I also allowed myself to have questions when they came, and I sought gospel knowledge even more.”
Though her physical struggles were at times hard to deal with, Sinah’s foundation of faith prepared her to face this challenge.
“I actually told myself from the beginning that no matter how hard it is, no matter how much it hurts, no matter what I’m going through, I don’t want to blame the Lord or be angry with Him,” she says. “So I told myself I can be frustrated, I can be sad, but I don’t want that to be a reason why my testimony suddenly starts to crumble. I’d rather come out of this stronger than suddenly have doubts.”
“I told myself I can be frustrated, I can be sad, but I don’t want that to be a reason why my testimony suddenly starts to crumble.”
Sinah also decided early on that she would not go through this trial alone. Since she doesn’t dance anymore, she now finds great joy in just being together with family and friends. And she has sought comfort and counsel from her Heavenly Father as well as from parents and leaders.
For example, she says, “I’ve talked about it a lot with people on temple trips and so on, and they’ve said that questions often pop into your head—always this why. But they’ve said, ‘Father in Heaven knows that you’re strong enough to deal with it.’ And hearing that from other people is very helpful.”
She has also felt love and strength from Heavenly Father by being with other youth at FSY conferences. But perhaps more than anything, she has felt strength and peace through priesthood blessings. “With every blessing I’ve received, I’ve felt the Spirit so strongly and really noticed that Heavenly Father is really there and that He really loves me. I notice that it can’t have been said to me just by the priesthood holder, but it was really inspired.”
“Because I couldn’t dance anymore, I had to set a different center,” says Sinah. “And that is becoming more and more the gospel. Of course, it’s still hard. But I’ve simply learned to trust in the Lord much more.”
That trust means she’s able to move forward despite not having the answers or the outcome she would have liked. “The healing I was hoping for has not yet come,” says Sinah. “But I have learned even more that Heavenly Father does have a plan, that I am going through this for a reason.”
“The healing I was hoping for has not yet come. But I have learned even more that Heavenly Father does have a plan.”
Her faith also gives her perspective. “I don’t know when I might be pain-free again or if that will be the case for the rest of my life,” she says. “I don’t know, but I have faith in the Lord that at the very latest when I am back with Him, I will no longer have to be in pain and that there is somehow a reason why I am going through this.”

I was baptized on December 5, 1993, in the city of Minsk. At that time, it was the only city in Belarus with a branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I attended worship services there, but I lived in Borisov, 40 miles (70 km) away. I was 17 years old, and there was sharp opposition in my family. But because of the trials I had at that time, my faith and testimony of the truth were strengthened. I was even fortunate enough to go to the temple twice in Freiberg, Germany, to perform baptisms for the dead. I impatiently awaited the time when I could receive my endowment.
In 1996 I began dating my future husband. Igor gladly accepted the news of the Restoration and was baptized on February 23, 1997. On March 1 we were married. Having a strong testimony of temple work, I wanted more than anything to go to the temple as soon as possible.
In September 1997, we moved to St. Petersburg, Russia, where Igor studied at the university. Our daughter Nelly was born there. Even after Igor had been a member for a year and a year had passed since our marriage, we still couldn’t go to the temple because we didn’t have visas and couldn’t get exit papers.
When Nelly was six months old, I became pregnant. It seemed to me we were in a hopeless situation. Igor couldn’t find steady work because he didn’t have a visa. He was holding down three jobs, but it wasn’t enough money for us to live on. Igor’s parents helped by sending money and food from time to time, but I was practically in despair because of our financial struggles. I felt even worse because we couldn’t go to the temple. In August 1998, after the exchange rate rose sharply, we decided to return to Belarus.
Our second daughter, Yelyena, was born in Minsk on January 6, 1999. Igor had a steady job now, but we still didn’t have enough money to go to the temple. Gradually we saved, however, and at the end of August 2000, we took the children to Germany. Igor has relatives in Kaiserslautern, and we stayed with them.
Early on the morning of September 2, we began our journey to the temple in Frankfurt. Although the trip was very tiring and included two transfers, we were full of enthusiasm and joy. We are grateful to all the temple workers, the temple president, and also the sisters who watched our daughters while we went through the endowment session. That was an unforgettable day! It is difficult to put into words the feelings we experienced there, but they were very good.
After the endowment session, we went into the sealing room, where Yelyena was already crying (it was her nap time). I hardly heard any of the sealing ceremony because of the crying, but we were very happy anyway. That was the most wonderful trip of our lives because we were in the house of the Lord.
We even managed to return to the temple. In February 2001 a group of members from Minsk went to Freiberg. I wanted to participate in the ordinance of sealings for the dead, since I had heard so little during our own sealing. I was grateful when Igor and I were invited to participate.
We now have a son, Robert, and as a family we attend the Minsk Second Branch (or, as it is known in Belarus, the Second Religious Community of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Minsk). And while we have overcome several difficulties, we now have new ones. I am very grateful for all of these trials. No matter what happens to us on this journey, Heavenly Father wants only good for us. No one else can help us in our most difficult hour. If we reject Him because of some difficulties, it would be like throwing away a life preserver because it did not keep us from falling into the river.
The burden is easy and the yoke light when we are with the Lord. He will not give us trials we cannot bear.

Last October my family moved from Minnesota to my grandmother’s house in Utah. My father stayed in Minnesota to fix up the house before we sold it. Things weren’t going as quickly as we had hoped, so my mother traveled to Minnesota to help him. At 17 and the oldest, I was put in charge of my younger sister and three younger brothers until my parents got back. My grandmother was visiting my aunt, so it would be just us kids for a while.
I had been left in charge before, and it would be no big deal to take care of the children for a couple of weeks. It was summer, so I didn’t have to worry about school or homework, and my parents left the minivan so I could bus my siblings around. The first night, we ate a quick dinner, watched some TV, and I finally managed to get them into bed. I was very tired when I crawled into bed, but I couldn’t sleep.
I lay there for almost an hour, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what I was going to do the next day. I heard a creaking sound, but houses always creak at night. Normally, I wouldn’t have noticed, but I wasn’t used to sleeping in this house. Not only that, but I was in charge of keeping my younger sister and brothers safe. After a few more creaks, I convinced myself that someone had opened the door and was walking around inside. I was wide awake now. I said a quick prayer and tried to dismiss the creaking sounds as regular house sounds.
After a few minutes I was on edge again. This time I sat up on my bed to bow my head and fold my arms. I prayed that my sister, brothers, and I would be safe while my parents were gone and that I would be able to feel peaceful that night. Afterward I was calmer, but I still couldn’t sleep.
I prayed again, and this time I received the impression that I should check the house. I got up and went to the door of my room and stopped. I could picture myself opening it and finding a burglar with a gun. I did not want to open the door but, remembering my impression, I went into the hall and turned on the light. I opened every door and checked every room. Then I checked the door locks. Everything was fine. I went back to bed and fell asleep.
Later I realized the reason for my prompting. I felt that Heavenly Father wanted me to know that He was keeping us safe. He wanted me to know that my prayer had been answered. I have a testimony that God will answer our prayers, even over little things like being scared at night. He will take care of us if we trust Him.

When Tracey Gould was only five months old, she lost both legs below the knees, half of one arm, and part of her remaining hand. But that hasn’t stopped her from ranking third among all the women crossbow competitors in the British Isles.
Tracey wins most countrywide crossbow competitions, and has received a sports scholarship for her talent. She was also presented to H.R.H. Lady Diana at a civic reception where she had been chosen to represent Derbyshire County for courage in sports.
Tracey also teaches Primary, plays volleyball and table tennis, skates, skis, types, and paints. Although she has undergone countless operations over the past 18 years, she’s aware that many blessings have accompanied her ordeals.

The gray squirrel leaped from limb to limb in a frantic attempt to escape the terrible talons of its attackers, but to no avail. The great horned owls were quick and sure. Like twin lightning bolts they struck their mark, with beak and claw doing their awful work with deadly precision. And then, as if adding insult to injury, the intruders took over the squirrel’s nest, high atop a towering cottonwood tree behind Grandma and Grandpa’s farmhouse.
At first Grandpa was upset by the owls’ brazen behavior, but he began to appreciate them more and more as the days passed. The owls were excellent hunters. Rabbits, gophers, and field mice made up the major portion of their diet.
Intrigued by the owls’ activities, Grandpa and Uncle Bruce soon found themselves observing the birds every day through binoculars. In January they noticed that the great birds were keeping close to their nest and that one of them seemed to be sitting in it at all times. Later that spring Grandpa and Uncle Bruce spotted a fuzzy little face peering back at them from the nest.
One night there was a windstorm, and the next day they couldn’t see the baby owl. They searched the ground around the tree to see if the owlet had been blown out of the nest, and sure enough, it had.
The ground where the baby owl had fallen was cold and very hard. Grandpa figured that the owlet had lain there for about twenty-four hours. He and Uncle Bruce fixed up a plastic ice-cream bucket with some straw. Then they carefully wrapped a warm towel around the baby bird, placed it inside the bucket, and waited.
For about twenty minutes nothing happened. Then the little owl started to move and to make a tiny peeping sound. Half an hour later it was actively wriggling about, so they decided to feed it something—but what? Most birds like worms, but the ground was still frozen. Then an idea struck them: Perhaps the baby owl would think that noodles left over from their supper were worms. When Uncle Bruce dangled one before the little bird, it opened its beak and gulped it right down. Then it opened its mouth wide for another one. Soon the owl had devoured almost a cupful of noodles. For dessert it ate a teaspoonful of hamburger!
Having saved the baby owl’s life, Grandpa and Uncle Bruce had to figure out what to do with it. They tried to get it back into its nest. But the nest was too high to reach, even with their tallest ladder. Their next idea was to build a new nest. Not far away was a dead tree with a hollow in a branch about five feet off the ground. Uncle Bruce lined this cavity with straw and set the owl inside. The next day the bird was still there.
To be sure that it got enough to eat, Grandpa and Uncle Bruce continued to feed it. Grandpa’s dog, Queenie, would catch mice, so Uncle Bruce fed them to the owl after he had skinned them and cut them into bite-size pieces. The owl ate about half a mouse each time, nibbling Uncle Bruce’s fingers in the process. By the next morning the other half of the mouse would be gone too. Periodically other bird feathers were found in the nest, so Uncle Bruce and Grandpa knew that the parent owls were feeding their little offspring too.
After some weeks the little owl’s parents were often seen watching from another tree as Uncle Bruce fed the owlet. Whenever Uncle Bruce approached the growing bird, its parents started to click their beaks nervously. The little one would imitate them, and now and then it would also hiss like a snake. Finally it acquired a natural fear of man, so Uncle Bruce stopped feeding it. The parents took over completely, and Uncle Bruce and Grandpa just checked on the owl now and then to see if it was all right.
In time the baby owl grew to be as large as its parents. Then one day it was gone. Thinking that its wing feathers were not big enough to allow it to fly very far, Grandpa and Uncle Bruce searched the woods around the farm. But they found no trace of it.
Many months passed and memories of the young owl began to fade. Then one evening as they were sitting on their porch, Grandma and Grandpa heard a soft hooting sound from the direction of the old willow tree. Going over to investigate, they were greeted by two pairs of great round eyes. Yes, the owl had returned with a mate of its own to live where it had been so well cared for as a helpless little bird.

I had a similar experience as a young boy on my grandparents’ farm. They taught me about tithing with examples of one egg or one bushel of peaches out of ten. Years later I used those same kinds of examples to try to teach the principles of tithing to our own children.

Parents are always looking for better ways to teach, and the results of their efforts are sometimes unexpected. Attempting to teach tithing to our young son, I explained the principle of a tenth and how it would apply to the eggs gathered in a chicken farm and the young calves or horses born in a breeding herd. When I finished what I was sure was a clear explanation, I wanted to test whether our seven-year-old had understood. I asked him to imagine that he was a farmer with a harvest of eggs and young animals. I supplied the figures and then asked our little boy what he would give to the bishop as tithing. He thought deeply for a moment and then said, “I would give him a very old horse.”

We obviously had some further conversations on the principle of tithing, and I am proud of the way he and his brother and sisters learned and practiced that principle. But I have often thought of that little boy’s words as I have observed how some adult Church members relate to the law of tithing. I think we still have some whose attitude and performance consist of giving the bishop something like “a very old horse.”

The spirit of gathering was strong in the hearts of the converts in Europe. Their great desire was to immigrate to America, where they might be with the majority of the Saints. Like many others, the Moultons did not have enough money to fulfill this desire. But their resolution was strong, and they began to save money in a fruit jar.
In 1849, President Brigham Young (1801–77) set up the Perpetual Emigration Fund to help Church members secure passage to America. The first to travel with the aid of this fund did so by wagon train, but this means of transportation was slow and expensive. Even with the help of the Perpetual Emigration Fund, few could afford to make the journey. Church leaders investigated the use of handcarts and learned that handcarts would make travel faster and less costly.
By then the Moulton family numbered seven children, but with their fruit jar savings, help from the Perpetual Emigration Fund, and the cheaper means of transportation, their dreams of immigration became a possibility. For a family of nine, it took careful planning to prepare for the trip. To save even more money for the purchases they would need to make, they lived chiefly on barley flour for nearly a year.
As the time of their departure approached, Thomas hesitated to make the journey because his wife was expecting a baby. But Sarah Denton Moulton was a woman of faith and could not be deterred. Before they left England, one of the missionaries gave Sarah a blessing in which he promised her that if she would go to Utah, she would make the journey safely without losing even one member of her family—quite a promised blessing to a soon-to-be family of 10!
The family, who set sail from Liverpool, England, in 1856 on the ship Thornton, welcomed a new baby boy just three days into the voyage. The Thornton had been chartered to carry 764 Danish, Swedish, and English Saints. They were under the direction of a missionary named James Grey Willie.
Six weeks later the Thornton sailed into New York Harbor. The Moulton family then boarded a train to make the long journey westward. They arrived in Iowa City, Iowa, in June 1856, which was the starting point for the handcart companies. Only three days before their arrival, Captain Edward Bunker’s handcart company had pulled away from Iowa City, taking many of the available handcarts.
About two weeks later, the Willie company was joined by another company of Saints, under the direction of Edward Martin. Church agents at Iowa City, who had worked hard to equip and send off the first three handcart companies, now had to struggle frantically to provide for an unexpectedly large body of late arrivals. They had to construct 250 handcarts before these Saints could continue their journey.
Every able-bodied man was put to work making handcarts, while the women made dozens of tents for the journey. Many of these amateur cart makers did not adhere to specifications but made carts of various sizes and strength, which would prove a handicap to them. Of necessity, the number of needed handcarts required that they be built out of green, unseasoned timber, and in some instances, using rawhide and tin for the wheels. Each cart carried food as well as the total earthly possessions of many of the Saints.
Often, 400 to 500 pounds (180 to 230 kg) of flour, bedding, cooking utensils, and clothing were loaded onto each handcart. Only 17 pounds (8 kg) of personal luggage on a cart was allowed each person.
Thomas Moulton and his family of 10 were assigned to the fourth handcart company, again under the direction of Captain Willie. It comprised over 400 Saints, with more than the usual number of aged folks. A report made in September of that year listed “404 persons, 6 wagons, 87 handcarts, 6 yoke of oxen, 32 cows, and 5 mules.”1
The Moulton family was allowed one covered and one open handcart. Thomas and his wife pulled the covered cart. New baby Charles and sister Lizzie (Sophia Elizabeth) rode in this cart. Lottie (Charlotte) could ride whenever the cart was going downhill. Eight-year-old James Heber walked behind with a rope tied around his waist to keep him from straying. The other heavy cart was pulled by the two oldest girls—Sarah Elizabeth (19) and Mary Ann (15)—and by brothers William (12) and Joseph (10).
In July 1856 the Moultons bade farewell to Iowa City and began their 1,300-mile (2,090 km) journey westward. After traveling 26 days, they reached Winter Quarters (Florence), Nebraska. As was customary, they spent several days there, mending carts and taking on supplies since there were no major cities between Winter Quarters and Salt Lake City.
It was so late in the season before the Willie company was prepared to leave Winter Quarters that a council was held to decide whether they should go or remain until spring. Some who already had been over the route strongly cautioned them against the danger of traveling so late in the season. But Captain Willie and many company members felt that they should go on because they had no accommodations to spend the winter in Florence.
With inadequate provisions, members of the Willie company started their journey again on August 18, thinking they could replenish their supplies at Fort Laramie (north of present-day Laramie, Wyoming). In the face of the warning they had received, they placed an extra 100-pound (45 kg) sack of flour in each cart and trusted that they would meet supply wagons sent out from Salt Lake City. However, the drivers of the supply wagons, thinking there were no more immigrants on the trail, headed back to Salt Lake City in late September, before the Willie company reached them.
In Florence, the Moultons found it advisable to leave behind a box of supplies because the load they had to pull for a family of 10 was just too heavy. By then, they had left baggage at the port in Liverpool, a box of clothing onboard ship, a trunk of clothing at New York City, and a trunk of supplies containing most of their personal belongings at Iowa City. Even on the trail, they looked for ways to ease their burden.
It is difficult for those who enjoy all the comforts of modern life to imagine the daily misery of the Moulton family and the other remarkable men and women of those handcart companies. Can we imagine the blistered hands and feet, sore muscles, dust and grit, sunburn, flies and mosquitoes, stampeding buffalo herds, and Indian encounters? Can we imagine the river crossings and the difficulties of sand and slippery rocks as they tried to get the handcarts across swift or deep-running water? Can we understand the weakness that comes from a lack of sufficient nourishment?
During their travels, the Moulton children went into the fields with their mother to glean wild wheat to add food to their rapidly diminishing supplies. At one point the family had only barley bread and one apple a day for every three members.
Just before dusk on September 12, a party of missionaries returning from the British Mission arrived in camp. They were led by Elder Franklin D. Richards (1821–99) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, my wife’s great-great-grandfather. When Elder Richards and the others saw the difficulties of the handcart company, they promised to hurry on to the Salt Lake Valley and send back help as soon as possible.
On September 30 the Willie company reached Fort Laramie, Wyoming, 400 miles (645 km) east of Salt Lake City.
With the beginning of October, winter set in, and the difficulties multiplied as the company attempted to press onward. Provisions were running so low that Captain Willie was compelled to cut rations to 15 ounces (425 g) of flour for men, 13 ounces for women, 9 ounces for children, and 5 ounces for infants. Soon they would face howling wind and drifting snow. By the morning of October 20 the snow was 4 inches (10 cm) deep, and tents and wagon covers had been smashed by its weight. Five members of the company and some of the draft animals had died of cold and starvation the night before the storm, and five more members died over the next three days. Feeding the women, children, and sick first, many of the reasonably strong men were forced to go without anything to eat.
Sweetwater River near Martin’s Cove, Wyoming, USA
Two miles (3 km) below Rocky Ridge on the Sweetwater River, the company made camp and waited in starvation, cold, and misery for the storm to pass.
When the Franklin D. Richards party reached Salt Lake City, they immediately reported to President Young the precarious condition of the immigrants. The Saints in the valley had not expected more immigrants until the following year, and news of their plight spread like wildfire.
Two days later, October 6, 1856, general conference was held in the Old Tabernacle. From the pulpit, President Young made the call for men, food, and supplies in mule- or horse-drawn wagons to leave the following day to render assistance.2
John Bennett Hawkins was in the Old Tabernacle on that day and answered the call to help. He was one of the hundreds of individuals in relief parties that set out from Salt Lake City. On the evening of October 21, the rescuer wagons finally reached the Willie camp. They were greeted with joy and gratitude by the frozen and starving survivors. This was the first meeting of John Bennett Hawkins and Sarah Elizabeth Moulton, who would become my great-grandparents.
On October 22, some of the rescuers pushed on to help the other handcart companies, while William H. Kimball, with the remaining wagons, started back to Salt Lake City in charge of the Willie company.
Those too weak to pull their handcarts placed their possessions in the wagons and walked beside them. Those unable to walk rode in the wagons. When they arrived at Rocky Ridge, another terrible snowstorm fell upon them. As they struggled up the side of the ridge, they had to wrap themselves in blankets and quilts to keep from freezing to death. About 40 of the company had already perished.3
The weather was so cold that many of the Saints suffered frostbite on their hands, feet, and faces while crossing the ridge. One woman was blinded by the frost.
We can imagine the Moultons, with their brood of eight children, pulling and pushing their two carts as they struggled through the deep snow. One cart was drawn by Thomas and his wife with its precious cargo?Lottie, Lizzie, and baby Charles?with little James Heber stumbling and being dragged along by the rope around his waist. The other cart was drawn and pushed by Sarah Elizabeth and the other three children. A kind, elderly woman, seeing little James Heber’s struggle, grasped his hand as he trailed behind the handcart. This kindly act saved his right hand, but his left hand, exposed to the subzero weather, froze. When they reached Salt Lake City, several of his fingers on that hand were amputated.
Early in the afternoon of November 9, the wagons of suffering humanity halted in front of the tithing office building, where the Joseph Smith Memorial Building now stands in Salt Lake City. Many arrived with frozen feet and limbs. Sixty-nine had died on the journey. But the promise to the Moulton family in that blessing in England had been fulfilled. Thomas and Sarah Denton Moulton had not lost a child.
The company was greeted by hundreds of Salt Lake citizens anxiously awaiting their coming and ready to help with their care. Gratitude and appreciation toward one of the young heroes who had helped save the Moultons from the grasp of death soon blossomed into romance and love for Sarah Elizabeth.
On December 5, 1856, amidst the happy wishes of her loved ones, Sarah Elizabeth married John Bennett Hawkins, her rescuer. They were sealed for time and eternity the following July in the Endowment House. They made their home in Salt Lake City and were blessed with three sons and seven daughters. One of those daughters, Esther Emily, married my grandfather Charles Rasband in 1891.
On July 24 we celebrate Pioneer Day, and we express gratitude for the many pioneers who gave everything to build up the Salt Lake Valley and many other communities in the western United States. We also express gratitude for Latter-day Saint pioneers throughout the world who have blazed—and are blazing—a gospel path for others to follow.
What moved them on? What pushed them forward? The answer is a testimony of the Lord Jesus Christ. As a great-grandson of pioneers, I add my witness and testimony that their struggles were not in vain. What they felt, I feel. What they knew, I know and bear record of.