Gospel Story Finder

Fun. The Bakersfield California Stake wanted to come up with an activity so fun that non-LDS and less-active youth wouldn’t be able to stay away. And that’s just what happened when they threw a stake youth “Almost Anything Goes Olympics.”
Each ward made up a team and chose a country to represent. They all met at a park by a local lake and let the fun, and water balloons, fly. Along with traditional activities like tug-of-war and egg tosses, they had events like a mattress race, where six of the strongest ward members transported the smallest perched on a mattress, and the Holey Trash Can Fill, where some team members rushed to fill a punctured trash can with lake water, while their teammates tried to plug the holes with fingers, toes, knees, and even heads.
The best-loved event was the canoe race. A barbecue and dance finished off the day.
Each ward was a winner in one category or another and received a plaque. But the youth felt that the real winners were the 15 less-active and 10 non-LDS young people who shared in the fun. Many have returned to other Church activities.

When business meetings brought me to my childhood hometown of Mansfield, Massachusetts, I looked up the Web page of my old middle school. At the end of a list of current faculty members was Mrs. Christine Pfeil, my eighth-grade English teacher who was a truly influential person in my life.
When I was in eighth grade, difficulties at home left me angry and distracted from school responsibilities. Other teachers didn’t pay attention to my altered attitude and slipping grades, but Mrs. Pfeil took a personal interest. She would never accept less than my best. Often she would write on my assignments, “You can do better—try again.” Grudgingly, I would redo the assignment, thinking, “OK, you want something better? I’ll give you something better!” In her class, I felt intelligent and appreciated. When I left Qualters Middle School after eighth grade, I knew I could succeed scholastically because of Mrs. Pfeil’s belief in me.
As I looked at her name on the Web page that day, it suddenly seemed overwhelmingly important to tell her as soon as possible how she had influenced my life. I determined to find her, so at noon the next day, I excused myself from a business meeting and sped to Qualters.
I had just tried her locked classroom door when I saw Mrs. Pfeil walking down the hallway. “Carl Nelson!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in 25 years! What are you doing here?”
Impelled to deliver my message, I began abruptly. “I feel I need to tell you personally how important you were in my life. In eighth grade I was going through difficult times, but you expected my best. Precious few demanded that much from me then. As far as I can tell, your faith in me was the major reason I began trusting in my own abilities. I don’t know what my life would have been like without a teacher like you.”
As I spoke, Mrs. Pfeil’s eyes became wet. “I have to tell you a story,” she said. “I have always wanted to be a writer, even though I felt God wanted me to teach. Last night I was feeling hurt that I had never received any appreciation for my work. I told God that unless I received some thanks the very next day, I was going to retire from teaching and work on my writing. And now here you come after all this time to thank me on this particular day—this blessing is almost too much!”
Mrs. Pfeil and I were unable to talk longer. Her students began arriving, and I left, humbled that Heavenly Father let me share in helping one of His children. Reflecting upon my brief experience with Mrs. Pfeil, I remained impressed that no matter who we are or what church we belong to, our loving Father works in our lives to answer our prayers.

In 1989 there was a terrible earthquake in Armenia that killed over 30,000 people in four minutes. A distraught father went in frantic search of his son. He reached his son’s school only to find that it had been reduced to a pile of rubble. But he was driven by his promise to his son, “No matter what, I’ll always be there for you!” He visualized the corner where his son’s classroom would be, rushed there, and started to dig through the debris, brick by brick.

Others came on the scene—the fire chief, then the police—warning him of fires and explosions, and urging him to leave the search to the emergency crews. But he tenaciously carried on digging. Night came and went, and then, in the 38th hour of digging, he thought he heard his son’s voice. “Armand!” he called out. Then he heard, “Dad!?! It’s me, Dad! I told the other kids not to worry. I told ’em that if you were alive, you’d save me and when you saved me, they’d be saved. …

“There are 14 of us left out of 33. … When the building collapsed, it made a wedge, like a triangle, and it saved us.”

“Come on out, boy!”

“No, Dad! Let the other kids out first, ’cause I know you’ll get me! No matter what, I know you’ll be there for me!”

And the harvest has come from the whisperings and calming influence of the Holy Ghost, which helped the family avert tragedy late one night when they thought their home was being burglarized. Daniel woke up when he heard a sound and prepared to defend the home, but the supposed intruder turned out to be a neighbor who had come looking for help after his car had broken down.
“I realized that the Spirit had calmed me down so that we could resolve the situation by not overreacting,” Daniel says. “Afterward we prayed and thanked Heavenly Father that nothing bad had happened.”

“Thanks, Mom and Dad,” I yelled as I headed for the front door, the keys to the family car jingling in my hand. “Don’t wait up for us—it’s a double feature, and the second movie isn’t over till nearly midnight.”
Dad gave first me and then my cousin Sandi the piercing look for which he was famous in our family. “Listen, I don’t like you girls staying out late all by yourselves. Why don’t you go to an earlier movie?”
I rolled my eyes. “Dad, you’re so old-fashioned. Sandi and I are hardly babies.” We had finished our first year at Ricks College, and Sandi had come to spend the summer in Rockford, Illinois, with my family. We had jobs at a local factory, and we felt pretty responsible and grown-up. I said so to my dad.
It didn’t help much. He still quizzed us. Which theater were we going to? What movies would we see there? Were we coming straight home afterward? Finally he sighed and said, “Your mother and I will be awake when you come home, so check in with us no matter how late it is, all right?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I said, resigning myself to the inevitable.
The movies were comedies, and when we walked out of the theater late that night Sandi and I were laughing and repeating our favorite funny lines. We got into the car and headed toward home.
Even at midnight there was a lot of traffic on the main streets of Rockford, so I turned onto a side street, taking a shortcut in order to avoid most of the traffic. A battered brown car followed us around the corner. I drove three blocks and then turned onto a deserted street. The brown car turned too, close behind us. I made several other turns, leading us toward home through the back streets. When I looked into the rearview mirror, the lone man in the car waved at us and yelled something obscene.
Although it was a hot night, we quickly rolled up the windows and locked all four car doors. We decided that if we ignored the driver of the brown car he would probably lose interest. But instead he moved his car closer to ours, driving nearly bumper to bumper. Then he pulled into the middle of the street and edged his car toward ours, forcing us toward the curb. By now we were getting pretty panicky.
As I neared an intersection, Sandi said tensely, “Turn right—quick!”
I did, and with a left turn at the next light I entered the main stream of nighttime traffic. Maybe in all the noise and confusion our pursuer would lose sight of us or forget whatever crazy ideas he had.
He didn’t. At every light he was there behind us, leaning out his window to yell lewdly. He was obviously drunk, but he was persistent. Even in the bright lights of Rockford’s busiest street, we were scared.
Finally we reached Fairview Boulevard. My house was only half a block away. We turned the corner, and he followed us, only inches behind our rear bumper.
I pulled to a stop in front of my house. The front sidewalk seemed miles long. Worse yet, the porch light was off, and no light showed from any of the windows. And the brown car had already pulled to a stop behind us. Sandi checked to make sure the car doors were locked.
I got a sick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. “Sandi, we’ve got to say a prayer,” I said.
“I know. What do you think I’ve been doing all the way home?”
We were both silent for a split second, each pleading for the Lord’s guidance. I guess I was hoping for a miracle. But the stranger was out of his car and running toward us, yelling and cursing. There was no chance of getting past him, so Sandi and I sat in the locked car. The stranger grabbed the handle of my car door, then tried the door behind me. When he found the doors were locked he began pounding on the windows and trying to pry them open. He was shouting threats, and his angry drunken face was only inches from mine.
Suddenly good sense returned to me, and I pressed on the horn, making long blasts of jarring noise. Within seconds the light went on in my parents’ bedroom. Mom appeared at the window. Light from the front porch fixture suddenly flooded the yard, and my dad flung open the front door and ran out onto the lawn, bellowing, “Get out of here!” in his most menacing voice.
The man who had been so threatening and persistent moments before suddenly turned and ran. Leaping into his car, he drove off into the night.
A few minutes later Sandi and I sat at the kitchen table with Dad, giving a blow-by-blow description of the unpleasant incident. My mom bustled around the kitchen making hot chocolate and offering us occasional hugs as she passed us at the table.
Suddenly my newfound college independence didn’t seem so important. The kitchen was cozy, familiar, and comforting. Mom and Dad, scolding us because we had forgotten to write down the car’s license number, were pillars of strength and security. In that moment, my eyes flooding with tears, I thanked God for old-fashioned parents who insisted on waiting up until all their children came home.

Mike is now 20. Last summer, he was home from his freshman year at BYU. His family, which had moved to Germantown, Tennessee, was planning a trip back to Virginia and North Carolina to visit friends.
One night the phone rang. It was Ira Spencer.
“We hear ya’ll are headed this way,” he told Mike. “Me and the boys are going to take the boat out as a family. Would you like to tag along and make a little money for your mission? Bring your dad, too, and we’ll show him what life’s like out on the water.”
And that’s how Mike and his father ended up on the War Cry, this time sailing out of Newport, Rhode Island. “The fishing’s better up north right now,” Duke explained. Dave Spencer, 18, (Ira’s son and Duke’s brother) and Duke’s nine-year-old son, Sam (nicknamed “Hambone”), rounded out the crew.
After walking along the same Newport streets that George Washington traveled, past clapboard cottages and governor’s mansions as old as the American colonies, and stopping for five grocery carts full of food, the crew made its way to the wharf, climbed over a neighboring ship’s deck, and finally set foot on the War Cry.
Mike started remembering. “First I noticed the smells—the salt water, the fish. Then I saw the hooks on all the doors, even on the refrigerator, to keep them closed when the ship rocks, then the iron rods you use to clamp pots and pans in place. Then I looked in the sleeping quarters and remembered the narrow, hard bunks that seemed like heaven when you got a chance to use them. Then Ira and my dad fired up the engines and I remembered the noise. You have to run the engines to run the generators, and you have to run the generators to operate the rest of the equipment, the radios, the fridge. After a while you get numb to it. But at first it seems like everyone’s deaf. You have to shout to be heard.”
Noise or no noise, everyone slept aboard ship that night. And they were up early the next morning, winding miles of iron cable onto the winches, inspecting and mending nets, pouring oil by the drum into oil tanks. Seventy-five dollar filters were removed and replaced. Weather reports and market prices were checked. Eighteen tons of ice, used to keep the fish fresh, were pumped into the hold.
By late afternoon, the War Cry was underway. Sam sat on the bow and waved at a lighthouse. With David and Mike he read names of other boats as the trawler passed them on its way to harvest the sea. The Captain Ralph, the Iron Horse, the Mikentodd, the Harry Glen. The Ramona, the Skylight, the Venus, and the Chief Wanchese. Soon the city was far behind, then the shore; then there was nothing but a flat horizon. The three young men were called inside for dinner, followed by stories, jokes, and laughter, followed by sleep.
The first “haulback” came in the dark of the night. A haulback means the net is full and it’s being pulled out of the water to be dumped on deck. When the captain calls, you’ve got about five minutes until the fish come in. Like zombies from some old horror movie, fathers and sons together rose from sleep, pulled on heavy boots and overalls, pulled on yellow sea bonnets, and stumbled outside into the mist.
“Sometimes the salt air revives you,” Dave said. “Sometimes all it does is give you a chill.” This time it did a little of both. Yawns were universal. But the work went on. With Ira in the wheelhouse keeping the War Cry on course, David, Mike, and Sam positioned 16-foot, two-by-ten deck boards to hold the catch in place. Duke pulled hydraulic levers to raise the dripping bundle out of the depths and position it over the deck. Brother Lee tugged a rope that opened the bottom of the net, spilling the squirming contents out into a flat, flapping pile.
Instantly the sorting began. It takes quite an eye to be able to pick out and size the different types of flounder, and the talent of a Dr. J. to consistently flip them into the right basket. For Mike and Dave, it was an old routine. Like a power forward, Dave worked with both hands, flinging fish over his shoulders without looking up, shoveling trash fish between his legs. Like a center fighting for rebounds, Mike preferred to work close to the basket, loading it with one type of fish, then pulling up another basket to start all over again. For Sam, the sorting time was an adventure. He would waddle nearly knee-deep in fish, mud, and seaweed, picking out lobsters, crabs, and scallops, isolating them in special pails of their own. He was the guard on the team, carefully selecting his shots, working from the outside, calling for help when he needed it like an open man calls for a pass.
Brother Lee was amazed at the entire operation. “I felt totally outclassed. These guys were real pros, and I felt like a rookie in his first training camp.” But like any eager player would, he made up for inexperience with hustle.
To make the analogy complete, Duke would have been a player-coach, offering advice and assistance, jumping in to do some sorting himself as necessary. And Ira would, of course, have been the team owner, reassuring others with his presence, keeping the entire operation in order. (It was his boat, after all.)
Soon another net had been hauled back and sorted. Then another, then another, then another, then another. At what point today blurred into tomorrow blurred into the next day and the next, nobody was quite sure. The sun went down; the sun came up. Meals, at first looked forward to as a break in the monotony, finally became part of the routine.
“We ate snacks instead of lunch and took cat naps instead of sleeping,” Mike said. “You know, I really loved this when I was 16, but I’d forgotten how dead-bone tired you get. My back is starting to kill me.”
Then he looked over at his father. “We don’t get to spend a lot of time together,” Mike said. “I’m sure this is difficult work for him. He’s more the type who would rather teach or be in an office. But it’s helped him understand what I went through. He’s already told me that.”
And Brother Lee, an oral pathologist and dental educator, agreed. “I’ve never worked so hard in all of my life. Even the two-a-day workouts when I played college football are pale by comparison. But if it helps me understand my son, it’s worth it. This time on the boat is something we’ll always share.”
Later that day, Mike and his father were seated on an old plank next to each other, opening scallops, tossing the shells overboard. The shells would skip as they hit the water, then sink, spinning shiny white loops as they drifted out of sight. The conversation was pleasant, intimate. They talked of school. They talked of the other Lees back home. They talked about Mike becoming an elder soon, about his going on a mission. They talked about another fisherman, from Galilee, of how he called Peter, Andrew, James, and John to leave their nets and cast for the souls of men.
All around Mike and his father were the sounds, the smells, and the ocean. In this realm of rust and motion, of motors and commotion, they had found a moment of peace.
The first fistful of ice hit Sam softly on the shoulder.
“Hey,” he shouted, but he could see Dave coming. Soon Sam had a handful of his own, and the great ice fight was on, with both uncle and nephew flinging pieces of frozen water at each other. It was a short-lived battle. Sam ended up with ice down his chest, but he got a hug from Dave in return.

In the spring of 1899 Jennie Brimhall and Inez Knight were busy packing their clothes for a trip to Europe. The two young women had been school friends at Brigham Young Academy (later Brigham Young University), and they were looking forward to a vacation together and a chance to see Inez’s brothers, who were missionaries in England.
Lucy Jane Brimhall Amanda Inez Knight
In the middle of their vacation preparations, their bishop told the girls that he wanted to have a chat with them. Bishop Keeler asked Inez and Jennie not to go on their planned vacation but to continue packing their things and go on a mission instead!
Young Mormon women had never before been asked to go out and knock on doors and preach on street corners like Mormon men missionaries. However, after overcoming their surprise, Inez and Jennie willingly answered the call to serve as the first sister missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They went to Great Britain just a few weeks after they were called.
When they left their homes in Provo, Utah, Jennie and Inez didn’t know when they would return, because there was no “usual” time for sister missionaries to be gone. The length of their service might be several months, or it might be several years. They knew that the mission president in Europe had seen what fine work many women did in teaching the gospel, that he had requested that women missionaries be sent out as well as men, and that the prophet had agreed. Jennie and Inez also knew that they each had a testimony that they wanted to share.
When the young women disembarked in Liverpool, England, Inez’s brothers Ray and Will were there to meet them. After a brief but happy reunion, the young ladies were sent off on their own to preach the gospel in various towns.
Some of their first missionary experiences were at street meetings, during which a small group of missionaries would stand on a busy street corner and sing hymns or preach a sermon. As people stopped to listen, the missionaries talked with them and invited them to attend regular church meetings, or the missionaries made appointments to teach the people in their homes.
Inez wrote in her journal about one night when she helped at five different street meetings. She wrote that the Mormon elders, who wore tall silk hats and nice black suits, “stood like brave soldiers on the street, … telling people the Gospel truths. I was never prouder to know that I was numbered with the Latter-day Saints.”
The young women were effective in teaching the restored gospel. One man later wrote that when he heard Sister Jennie Brimhall speak as a missionary, he was an unbeliever and didn’t want to listen. But he couldn’t forget her sincere words and lovely expression. Finally, twenty years later, he investigated the gospel and became a member of the Church.
After serving eight months in England, Sister Brimhall was sent home because of poor health. Sister Knight, however, continued to work as a missionary for more than two years, and several more sisters were sent to England to labor with her.
The 1890s were not easy years to be a missionary in England. Some people there were telling false stories about the Mormons and stirring up trouble for the missionaries.
One night Sister Knight was out teaching a family with her new companion, Sister Chipman. A group of rowdies saw them and stirred up so much trouble with the neighbors by telling lies about the Mormons that a mob followed the sisters through the streets, calling them names and throwing rocks at windows and trash at the young ladies. Elder Ray Knight had been sent to walk them home, but the situation became so dangerous that three policemen had to escort the missionaries to the police station for their safety. Even though they were bruised and soiled with garbage, the sisters were not ready to give up. Instead, while they waited inside the police station for the crowd to go away, they discussed the gospel with the policemen. Later the chief of police helped the missionaries slip out the back door so that they could walk home safely.
Despite such trying experiences, Inez wrote in her journal again and again about the many friendships that she made with the English people. She was impressed with the many sacrifices the British members of the Church made to help the missionaries.
After their missions, both Jennie and Inez returned to Provo, married, and raised families. They remained friends and were active in the Red Cross and community political activities. They will always be remembered, because when they were called to serve the Lord, they served willingly and whole-heartedly.

In an interview I had recently, a dear sister talked emotionally about her experience coming here as a student. She said:

This is sacred ground for me. I was so excited to come! I felt so grown up and it was an exciting time for my family. But the excitement was cut short as our family received word that my father was diagnosed with cancer. That word came just three days prior to my departure for Idaho. A cloud descended on our family. What should have been a joyous trip with my parents turned out to be a solemn ride with just my sister who drove me to Rexburg and dropped me and a few belongings off at the curb outside the women's dorms. I was alone and feeling very lost and very down.

She continues:

My schedule was incomplete, and I desperately needed to add a particular class. My mother had told me to go to the Advising Office on Monday morning to see if someone there could help me. I arrived early but was told that everything in the time slot I had available was full. I stepped out of that office and began to cry. A kind man approached me and asked me what was the matter. I was painfully shy but through my tears, I told him my plight. It turned out that he was a faculty member in that program. He kindly gave me his room number and invited me to join his class (which, by the way, was technically full).

This good woman then added, "I learned in that moment that God was aware of me and that this place was very special."

When I was two years old, my father died, leaving my mother and six children. My oldest brother, Lincoln, was seventeen at the time and was still in high school.
When he graduated, Lincoln began working full time to support us. He never complained about having to work so hard at such a young age or about not being able to go to college or serve a mission, both of which he wanted so much. Lincoln was always dependable and faithful, and later in life he managed a business and served as a wonderful stake president and mission president. Many people loved him because of his character and his cheerful, gracious personality.
It was Lincoln who taught me how important it is to feel needed.

My name is Tyler, and I am eight years old. One day at camp I was walking with my dad, and we saw a newborn fawn lying under a car in the shade. I was worried about it because it seemed tired. I started petting it.
After a while I saw a mother doe with another baby fawn. I knew that the doe was abandoning the first baby under the car. A doctor came and helped me carry the fawn across the street to where the mother was. The doe was leaving, but we put the fawn on the grass and walked away, hoping that the mother would come back.
I was so worried about the baby deer all night, and I prayed three times to Heavenly Father that He would help the fawn. In the morning we checked where we had left the fawn and saw that it was gone. Then we saw the doe lying in some grass with her two babies.
I know that Heavenly Father answered my prayer.

My first year as a member of the Church was a long and difficult one, but also full of rewards. Being the only member in your family isn’t the easiest thing, and I also received much persecution from old friends. In May of 2004, I received the Melchizedek Priesthood and a call to serve in the Virginia Richmond Mission, speaking Spanish. I left my nonmember family in July of 2004, not knowing exactly what I was getting myself into or just what it was that I was leaving behind.

During the beginning months of my mission, I heard many things from many friends about the progress of my parents in the Church. They had been attending church off and on and had allowed the missionaries to come by every so often. I was always excited to hear news. Then one Saturday morning my mission president told me he had just spoken with my stake president about my parents. My parents had decided to join the Church. The gospel had now changed their lives for the better, just as it had mine only two years before.

I am so grateful for my Savior Jesus Christ and for the opportunity I had to serve Him as a missionary. I now understand more fully the plan of salvation. I know that this is the gospel and Church of Jesus Christ. Upon returning from my mission in July of 2006 I was overjoyed to enter the Mesa temple with my parents, where we were sealed as a family for time and all eternity. It’s a day I could hardly have imagined just a few years earlier.

Around the world needles have been slipping through satins, calicos, muslins, and velvets, stitches taken tiny and neat. No ordinary sewing projects, these—they’re works sewn from the strong threads of testimony, thankfulness, love of family, and all the lovely feelings a young woman holds sweet in her life.
What’s the occasion?
The young women of the Church have made banners to celebrate the Church’s 150th anniversary!
“A banner lets you express what’s important to you,” explained Shauna Stebers of the Northwest First Ward, Chicago Illinois Stake. “It’s not just a sewing project—it’s a part of your personality, of what’s important to you and how you feel about the gospel. And it’s a special reminder of the Church’s sesquicentennial that you’ll be able to pass down to your children and to their children.”
If you could float your thoughts or goals high above the crowd for the world to see, what would you show them? Some young women quilted or sewed slogans on their banners like “Plant happiness and love will grow,” or “I love and sustain our prophet,” or “Prayer is so simple it’s like quietly opening a door.” Other young women filled their banners with symbols of their heritage and goals. And all of them spent long hours designing, planning, and sewing the banners (often with the help of mom, dad, brothers, or sisters).
And the stories the banners tell! Marylynne Aposhina of the Hunter Ninth Ward, Hunter Utah West Stake, designed her banner after an oriental rug her great grandfather, Zadik Moses Aposhina, had made. A wealthy rug designer, her grandfather was forced to flee Armenia because of persecution against Christians. He lost his wealth, and some of his family members were sold as slaves in Mexico, but after overwhelming struggles, they finally reached the Salt Lake Valley.
“Making the banner helped me appreciate my heritage even more,” said Marylynne. “My mother and grandmother and I had fun together doing it, too. I don’t get to do things with both of them very often.”
Teuila Matua, a Mia Maid from the West Jordan 24th Ward, West Jordan Utah South Stake, whose first name means “Ginger Flower,” is Samoan, and her banner reflected her heritage. Her banner was symbolic of a taupaou (handmaiden) of Samoa, who must be of royal family, must be pure, and have dignity.
Teuila explained, “My heritage and the work of the Lord go hand in hand. First, I am born of the royal birthright of Christ. Second, I have purity in keeping clean thoughts and maintaining moral standards. Third, I have dignity in studying the scriptures, attending Church meetings, and keeping the commandments of the Lord.”
Mary Lou Beilfuss, a Laurel from the Holladay 17th Ward, Salt Lake Olympus Stake, earned the money for her banner by working at a grocery store. The theme of her banner was eternal life.
“It helped me understand more about the recent death of my father, because I studied more about eternal life. The subject was on my mind a lot, and the banner gave me the opportunity to express it on material.
“My mother and sister helped me make it. We are very close already, but working together helped us share our love. I feel close to them because they’re always willing to help. We also shared tears together because the banner had a very special meaning. It made my sister and I think of our father and my mom of her husband.
“I learned from making this banner that I am a daughter of God and that he is there when I call. It has helped my self-image and helped me grow closer to my Heavenly Father. Also, it comforted me about my father’s death,” said Mary Lou.
Many of the young women earned the money needed for the banner by themselves. Others made their banners from materials they already had. LeeAnn Cox of the West Jordan 36th Ward, West Jordan Utah Stake, raised the money by babysitting, giving rides on her horse, and selling bread.
And the excitement of making the banners was often contagious. Annett Pemberton, a Laurel from the Bluffdale Second Ward, Riverton Utah Stake, spread her enthusiasm for the banner to her friends and family. “I included everyone as I prepared my banner—mother, father, all 11 brothers and sisters, 5 friends, my basketball coach, and my sewing teacher at school. I learned that friends can make a big difference in a person’s life if you give them the chance to help.” Annett’s brothers and sisters each made a quilted patch with their name on it for the bottom of her banner. The patchwork symbolizes love, purity, and loyalty to the gospel, Annett explained, and her theme is “A Quilt for My Lord.”
And there are many, many other stories that the banners tell. LeeAnn Cox’s banner was in honor of her pioneer ancestors whose son was lost while they traveled across Nebraska. The mother pinned a red shawl on the shoulders of her husband who was to search along the trail for the lost son. The bright shawl waving in the evening sun let a mother, sick with worry, know that all was well.
Kjersti Harward’s banner honors her grandparents in Sweden who dearly wanted to come to America after they joined the Church. Even though they saved enough money, they decided they couldn’t leave their parents, who were unable to make the strenuous journey. Her grandparents sacrificed by remaining in Sweden until their parents no longer needed them.
Displaying the banners has been just as exciting as making them, many of the young women have found. For the Pioneer Day Parade in the Salt Lake Valley, 1,500 young women dressed in white marched up Salt Lake streets, heads erect, banners pointed towards the sky. Thirty-six young women dressed in costumes from around the world marched alongside. And a band of 76 young women playing flute, drum, and clarinet accompanied them all by playing hymns.
In Pasadena, California, at the Rose Bowl, 400 young women dressed in white displayed their banners to the audience gathered for a regional dance festival. And throughout the Church, programs are being held in special meetings where the young women have the opportunity of displaying their banners and bearing their testimonies.
“Making the banners can bring you special opportunities and blessings, even if you can’t march in the 24th of July parade like we did,” said Alyson Barlow of the Monument Park 16th Ward, Salt Lake Monument Park Stake. “It lets you say how you feel about the gospel and brings you closer to whoever helps you.”
Lanette Madsen of the Butler 16th Ward, Salt Lake Wasatch Stake, agreed. “It’s helped me grow so much and can be a great missionary tool. We were able to display our banners and explain them to the people who attended the World Conference on Records. Thousands of people were there, many of them non-Mormons, and I think we were able to touch the hearts of the people who saw us. Many of them were from other countries, and even if they didn’t know our language, they could still feel our spirit.”
“It gives you a good opportunity to spread the gospel, because people ask you what your banner is about. It’s an easy way to talk to them about yourself and the gospel and what you believe,” said Becca Briggs of the Oak Hills 5th Ward, Provo Utah Oak Hills Stake.
For many of these nimble-fingered seamstresses, their banners have pulled a shower of blessings down from the sky. It’s given them the chance to learn more about their heritage, to get closer to their families, and to pass their testimonies down to future generations. And to top it off, they’ll have a lasting reminder of the Church’s 150th birthday.
As Jeannie Winters of the Taylorsville Utah North Stake, 14th Ward, put it, “I think all the young women should make banners, because if they don’t, they’re passing up a great experience they’ll remember all their life.”

Betsy King Duzette waded into the frigid water of the Mississippi River. The 58-year-old widow and convert from Connecticut was then baptized for her uncles, mother-in-law, and her husband’s stepfather.
The Prophet Joseph Smith had recently taught the Saints, in August 1840, about the doctrine of baptism for the dead. In their excitement, they performed baptisms in the river, since the Nauvoo Temple was not completed. Women were baptized for men and men for women. Soon, however, the Lord revealed to Joseph Smith that baptisms for deceased ancestors must be done in dedicated temples (see Doctrine and Covenants 124:28–35). And in 1845, Brigham Young announced that women should be baptized for women and men for men.
Betsy’s husband, Philemon Duzette, had died six years earlier. She braved the chilly waters to be baptized for his deceased relatives as well as her own. That included baptism for Philemon’s stepfather, Jesse Peas, who died 50 years earlier when Betsy was a young girl. She may never have met him but likely knew of him and knew his name and his relationship to Philemon and his mother, Martha Wing. Betsy had known Martha when she was alive.
Betsy was baptized as proxy for Jesse almost immediately following the revelations on baptism for the dead. And she and her husband named one of their children after Jesse. Philemon’s biological father, also named Philemon, died when he was an infant, and Jesse Peas became his stepfather when Philemon was three and helped Martha raise him.
Just as Betsy King Duzette believed and trusted when she waded into the Mississippi River on behalf of her stepfather-in-law, we, all of us, can be connected, sealed, bound, and welded together eternally.

When I was 15, my father and I took a walk one Sunday evening. Suddenly, my father stopped and suggested that we go to the Mormon Church. I was surprised, but out of curiosity I went with him. The choir was singing a beautiful hymn. I had never heard anything so touching.
After the song, a missionary stood up and gave a talk about the Godhead. He later talked to my father and me for a few minutes.
I didn’t go back to church until one year later when I went to learn English from the missionaries. When each English class ended, we drifted into religious discussions. The missionaries taught me about the gospel and how to pray to God the Father in the name of Jesus Christ. They told me about the Restoration of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith, the coming forth of the Book of Mormon, and many other gospel principles.
All this was so new to me, yet it had a familiar sound. I studied the scriptures intently and prayed sincerely for enlightenment, which was given to me.
My father noticed a change in me. But when he realized that I was getting serious about the Church, he became angry and forbade me to go to church. I went anyway. Frequently he sent my brother to bring me home in the middle of Church meetings.
When I turned 17, my father asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I told him I wanted his approval to be baptized. He pounded his fist on the table and shouted, “Never!”
By this time my parents had joined a different church. My father sent the church’s minister and others to talk to me, but I was firm in my testimony of the gospel. Father told me I was a disgrace to the family, and I was forced to leave home. I stayed at the home of a Relief Society sister for about a week. During that time my father’s heart was softened, and he allowed me to come home.
Within several months my father realized that nothing could take away the testimony I had of the gospel, so he gave his consent for me to be baptized. My joy and happiness were so great that they made a deep impression on my father. He even wanted to go with me to Oslo to attend my baptism.
All through this time, my mother didn’t say very much, but I could tell that she believed the gospel was true. We spent many hours talking about the gospel together.
However, the struggle was not over at home. My father wouldn’t listen to me. I put pamphlets on his nightstand, as he always read long into the night. I invited the missionaries to our home often, and they talked to my father, but nothing seemed to help.
One day my father asked me, “Do you ever pray?” I told him that I prayed every day that his eyes would be opened to the truthfulness of the gospel. He responded that it was all from the devil but then said, “Let’s pray together.”
I said, “All right, you pray to your God, and I will pray to my God, and we will see which answers first.” So we did.
Soon after that I started noticing that he was reading the pamphlets and the Book of Mormon. He went to church several times with me but would never talk about it or show me any change in his beliefs. Still, there was rarely a day when we didn’t discuss different principles of the gospel.
One day, after three years of this, he told me he was going to Oslo and wanted me to go with him. When we arrived at the station, one of the local elders was there. I asked him where he was going.
The elder said, “Don’t you know? I’m going to baptize your father.”
I cried and laughed! One month later my mother and youngest brother were also baptized. My sister and her husband joined the Church a short time later, as did three of my brothers.
Sara Elvira Eriksen’s faithful posterity in the Church now numbers in the hundreds. This account from her personal history was submitted by her children, Rose Anderson, Betty Farley, Aksel Tanner, and Janet Bylund.

One beautiful spring day I left the door open to enjoy the fresh air. A small bird flew in the open door and then realized this was not where it wanted to be. It flew desperately around the room, repeatedly flying into the window glass in an attempt to escape. I tried to gently guide it toward the open door, but it was frightened and kept darting away. It finally landed on top of the window drapes in bewildered exhaustion. I took a broom and slowly reached the bristle end up to where the bird nervously perched. As I held the head of the broom next to its feet, the bird tentatively stepped onto the bristles. Slowly, very slowly, I walked to the open door, holding the broom as steady as I could. As soon as we reached the open door, the bird swiftly flew to freedom.

I grew up in a little town called Raymond, in the Western Canadian province of Alberta. As a boy, I always enjoyed it when my father invited me to ride with him in the car. It didn't really matter where we went, it was just fun to go someplace with my Dad. Dad was the town doctor, so sometimes he took me to his office or the hospital with him. Occasionally he would take me with him when he traveled to the neighboring towns of Magrath or Lethbridge. I especially liked it when we went to the town of Magrath because it usually meant we would get to stop at Denny's Ice Cream Parlor.

One Saturday, I was very excited when my father invited me to accompany him as he drove to visit a farmer friend who lived several hours away near the town of Rosemary. It was a beautiful spring day and I thought life was pretty wonderful as we drove across the countryside, passing the many farms and ranches. Dad would always point out important and interesting things to me as we drove along. We had a new white and green 1955 Plymouth that I thought was just the best looking car around. I thought, "How can life get any better than this?" just Dad and me in the new Plymouth.

When we arrived at the farm, we were greeted by the farmer and his children. Several of the children were about my age and they were happy to have a playmate for a couple of hours. As the fathers went one direction and the kids went the other, my father turned to me and said: "Bill, Have fun, but don't take your shoes off."

A spring thunderstorm had passed through the area earlier in the day leaving puddles of water in the pastures. It was warm and the prairie grass smell that comes after a rain storm was energizing. Soon we were playing tag in the horse pasture and having lots of fun. Running and splashing in the puddles got my running shoes and socks all wet so I decided I would just take them off and try to dry them out. I leaned them up against a fence post and pointed the inside so the sun would dry them out. Besides, running through the wet grass felt good on my feet. From my 10th year to my 11th year, I had grown taller and stronger and I remember being impressed with myself and how fast I could run. I was having a great time running around that pasture barefoot.

Suddenly I headed off in a different direction, running as hard as I could go. In a split second my delight turned to panic as I looked down and realized I was entering a prairie cactus patch. I tried to slow down, but it was too late. Barefoot, I ran right into the middle of that cactus patch. Prairie cactus grows low to the ground, and you can't really see it until you're on top of it.

Well, I was on top of it. So there I stood. In the middle of a cactus patch. Barefoot. In real pain. Embarrassed. Wondering why I had taken my shoes off. I also wondered why my Dad hadn't told me about the cactus. You see, we didn't have prairie cactus around my town, but my Dad knew it was different around Rosemary. Why hadn't he told me about the cactus? Why did he just tell me "Don't take your shoes off?"

Dad carried me to the car and laid me down in the back seat of the Plymouth. He told me we'd be home in a couple of hours when he would work on my feet. I had cactus thorns all over the bottom of both feet. The ride home was different than the ride to the farm.

I had plenty of time to think about why I hadn't followed the counsel my father had given.

When we got home, Dad didn't need to take me to the doctor, because he was the doctor. He just carried me into the house and laid me on the kitchen table. He got out his brown leather doctor bag and went to work on the bottom of my feet. I recall that he spent several hours with his tweezers, needle, razor blade and antiseptic as his slowly extracted every thorn from the bottom of my tender feet.

I know Dad thought I was pretty stupid for not heeding his warning. I'm kind of embarrassed to tell you this story, because you probably think I was pretty stupid, too.

However, the experience was a real blessing for me, because it helped me to focus on advise my father gave me from that time on.

In later years, I don't remember my father ever saying: "Remember the cactus patch."

However, I said it to myself many times. Especially when I got advice that didn't seem all that important, or when I could see no harm in ignoring the advice.

Quite often, I would say to myself: "Maybe my Dad knows something I haven't thought of." or "You're a stupid kid if you don't 'Remember the Cactus patch.'"

David Smith of Spokane, Washington, thinks with his hands and keeps on tinkering with wires, lights, and component parts until he figures out anything from a coin-tossing game to a completely new kind of computer. Dave estimates that his award-winning computer design can solve problems twice as fast as current computers. It is in the process of being patented. His “Tract-Computer,” cited by the U.S. Defense and Space Departments, cost Dave 4,500 hours and $1,200. He built it all from scratch and all on his own. Dave is the son of Mr. and Mrs. A. H. Smith and is quick to claim the blessing of Church membership, because it keeps him “alert and in touch with inspiration.” He’s earned his Duty to God award and has been a cross-country track man for his high school.

“Boy, I’ll bet you’re glad that your sister’s getting married tomorrow!” With all the fussing over Christine’s temple wedding and reception, and finding himself in everyone’s way most of the time, Jason had to agree with his friend Randy. He was glad that the wedding was tomorrow! As he tossed the baseball idly back to Randy, he said, “Well, at least I won’t have to stand in line anymore to use the bathroom. She’s always in there taking a bath or doing something to her face.”
“Yeah, sisters can make life miserable,” Randy agreed. “Even mine, and she’s only two years old!”
The boys called it quits on the game of catch and found a seat on the back porch steps.
“Remember that game we played in the mud last summer?” Jason asked. “Lucky for me, I got home before my folks saw me. But who do you think I found in the bathroom? Christine! It smelled like a perfume factory in there! Phew!”
Randy frowned. “I bet she told on you, too, didn’t she?”
“Well, … no.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I guess she didn’t,” Jason said with a shrug. “At least Mom and Dad never said a word when—”
Before Jason could finish, two of Christine’s girlfriends, her bridesmaids for the reception, came out the back door, down the steps, and drove away in their car.
“Don’t girls ever stop giggling?” Randy complained. “I guess you’ve heard a lot of that in your house.”
“Yeah.” Jason sighed. “Sometimes when Christine had friends over, I’d go to my room just to get some peace and quiet. All they ever did was eat pizza and talk about boys! Yuck!” Jason kicked a stone off the step below, then added thoughtfully,
“But she always saved me some pizza.”
“Who?”
“My sister.”
“Oh.”
The two friends silently watched a robin working on a worm in the grass.
“Hey! Just think!” Randy shouted. “Now you’ll have a new sitter when your folks go out.”
“So?”
“Well, didn’t you always tell me that your sister gave you a hard time when she stayed with you, making you go to bed at the same time, even when it wasn’t a school night?”
Jason remembered the many times that Christine had watched him. “Yeah. Nine o’clock, even on weekends!” Then he remembered something else. “Nine o’clock without fail except for that night last year when we had the bad storm and the lights went out.”
Randy elbowed his friend. “She made you go to bed earlier, right?”
“Well, … no,” Jason admitted. He smiled a little. “Christine got out our sleeping bags and flashlights, made some sandwiches, and turned on her portable radio. We camped out in the living room.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah! It was neat!”
“Neat, huh?” Randy teased. “OK. I guess you forgot the Halloween when she made the costume that made you a laughingstock!”
Jason stopped smiling. That was a Halloween that he’d never forget! Christine had volunteered to make him a costume in her home economics class at school. Jason was supposed to be a plain old pirate. But Christine outdid herself and added so much ribbon and lace and so many sequins that Jason ended up looking more like a gypsy than a pirate.
“Ha! You really looked funny!” Randy laughed, wagging a finger at Jason.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Jason admitted, his face getting hot and red. He didn’t like remembering that terrible night! “If it hadn’t been for that lousy costume, those big guys from Willow Street would have left me alone and not taken my whole bag of candy.”
But Jason also remembered how Christine had gotten angry—not at him, but at the bullies who’d stolen his candy. “Let’s go!” she had ordered, grabbing Jason by the arm, then spending two more hours in their rainy neighborhood with him, watching and waiting as Jason refilled his treat bag.
“Boy, she’s some sister,” Randy said in a tone of disgust.
“Yeah, she sure is,” Jason agreed quietly. He got up, adding, “And tomorrow’s the wedding. This is my last chance to really tell her what I think of her.”
Jason marched straight to Christine’s bedroom, took a deep breath, and knocked.
“Come on in,” Christine called. She was setting her hair, stretching and pulling strands of it over prickly tubes. “Hi, Jase!” she said cheerfully. “What’s up?”
The room was filled with clouds of Christine’s perfume. Jason almost forgot what he wanted to say as he stared at the billowing, white gown that hung on her closet door.
Christine looked at him in the mirror. “Is something wrong?” she asked, putting down her brush and turning to her little brother.
“I—I—” he stammered, blushing. “I just wanted to tell you something,” Jason managed to say very quickly. Standing as tall as possible, he took a deep breath and let it out: “Christine, I love you, and I’m gonna miss you!”

Poverty defined Heber’s growing years but not negatively. Having little money was a challenge that never deterred him. Wanting to learn to pitch a baseball but not having enough money for a ball, Heber earned the money by shining boots for his mother’s boarders. Later he longed to attend the Salt Lake Theatre; instead of feeling sorry that he had no money to buy tickets, he obtained a job as a water carrier for theater patrons and was thus allowed to watch the plays.6

I often hoped that my father’s mantra was true, but I was never quite sure I believed it. Over the years I learned to admire the dedication that my father had to his mantra. But I must say that I never saw it “come around” until years later when we took a trip to Flaming Gorge Reservoir. I remember this trip clearly because it was Friday the thirteenth. Since I was the only child left in the house, I knew it would be a great getaway with my parents. We loved to fish at Flaming Gorge.

This happened while I was in high school—which, according to my kids, was shortly after the earth cooled and most likely during the Jurassic period.

We owned a small cabin cruiser that was about fourteen to fifteen feet in length. It was big enough to sleep three if someone was willing to sleep on the floor—and that was always me. We put our boat in at Sheep Creek Marina. Our goal was to go as far north as possible, spend the weekend in our little boat, and fish until we had our limit.

As I remember, we joked that it was Friday the thirteenth. What followed later that weekend etched that date forever in my mind.

On Friday, heading toward the Wyoming side of the reservoir, we traveled some distance before we began to fish. Frankly, the fishing wasn’t very good, but we loved being out on the boat together in such a beautiful place.

I remember my father saying, “Look, there’s a man on the far shore who’s waving at us.”

I looked up but could barely see anyone. Still, I knew that it was time to pull in the lines. We fired up the motor and went toward the other side of the reservoir, where the man was still waving at us. It seemed odd to me that this man was standing on a barren hillside with no other boat in sight, but when he saw that we were coming, he motioned for us to go around a bend into a small hidden cove. When we came around the hill I was shocked to see a beautiful big yacht pulled onto the shore. It was easily twice the length and width of our little boat.

The man thanked us profusely for coming to his assistance. His battery was dead, and he wondered if we could help him. We did, and soon his big motor roared back to life. The man and his family were very grateful. We lost an hour of fishing, but we were soon back out on the reservoir.

The next day the fishing didn’t improve. As a matter of fact, it was terrible, so we decided to call it quits and go back to the marina. We were about two miles from the marina where we had launched our boat when we found ourselves fighting a blustering headwind that slowed our progress. The waves were kicking up, and suddenly our engine decided to quit. We tried in vain to get it running, but it simply wouldn’t start. My dad was a do-it-yourself kind of guy, and he had built our cabin cruiser from a basic hull. He could always keep our cars and our boat motors running, but not this time.

In the midst of trying to pull-start our outboard motor, much to our surprise, the fellow in the big yacht pulled up and asked if he could be of assistance. I had never been so pleased to see someone! Flaming Gorge is a very big reservoir, and we had been out there for two days. I was amazed that of all the people on the reservoir, he would be the person to show up to give us aid. He offered to tow us back to the marina, even though we were still quite a distance out. We happily accepted his kind offer.

All was going well, and we went at a nice and even slow click for some time, being pulled behind this monstrosity of a boat. We could actually see the marina in the distance when suddenly the motor on the yacht died. We checked the gas lines, the fuel filter—everything. But the motor wouldn’t start. It was Friday-the-thirteenth-weekend kind of luck. We tried his little trolling motor, but it wouldn’t start.

In the meantime, the wind had kicked up into a gale-force wind and was blowing us farther and farther away from the marina. I could barely see the marina in the distance as my dad and Mr. Yacht Guy worked on the engines. Three motors, and not a single one of them would start. What luck!

Out of the blue a little old man and his wife puttered up to us in a little twelve-foot, open-bow, aluminum fishing boat. I remember being shocked to see his wife sitting there all done up pretty with pancake makeup plastered on her windblown face.

I thought, “What in the world are these two doing out here in this tiny boat amid all of these winds and waves?”

The old gentleman offered to tow us in. Quite frankly, I looked at him in disbelief. He hooked a line to the big yacht, and with his little twenty-five horsepower outboard motor, he puttered away like a tugboat with a battleship. Soon he and the big yacht faded out of sight as they went toward the marina.

Meanwhile, we were being blown ever farther away from our destination. We were still in a pickle. But forty-five minutes later the little old man and his wife came back out to us, tossed us a line, and proceeded to tow us back to the dock. I was amazed that these folks were so willing to go so far out of their way to help us. Their kindness and willingness to give so much time and effort to assist total strangers was a gift that I will never forget.

By now we were fast friends—made so by the events of the day and the weekend. We helped the rich fellow get his yacht loaded onto his trailer, and next we helped load the little aluminum boat. As fate would have it, the old gentleman had left the lights on in his car, so his car battery was dead. My dad pulled out his jumper cables and got the car running. We all helped to get the little boat and ours safely secured onto our trailers.

We laughed all the way home about the adventures of that weekend. What goes around really does comes around. I finally had a chance to witness my father’s mantra in action. I may be a little slow, but this was a lesson of a lifetime that I couldn’t ignore.

Thanks, Dad, for being such a great example to me.