Gospel Story Finder

Several weeks later Johnny again came up the path, this time holding a bridle in back of him and an apple in his outstretched hand. “Betsy! Betsy!” he called. Then he stopped at a fence post and listened. He could hear the chirping of very young birds. He quickly dropped the bridle and apple.
Bracing one foot on the barbed wire, the boy heaved himself up so he could see the hole from where the tiny sounds came. But the nest was in a deep hollow. He tested the wood at the opening and carefully tore it away until he came within sight of the nest and the gaping bills of three featherless baby woodpeckers.
“Wow!” Johnny exclaimed, picking up the bridle and apple, “am I in luck! I can come up every day and watch them grow.”
The next morning Johnny was up early to eat breakfast with his father.
“Are you going to help with the milking?” Dad asked, smiling at his son.
“Oh, Dad!” Johnny said excitedly. “I found some little birds in a nest.” Then he told how he had fixed the hole so he could watch them each day.
“Johnny, I hope you didn’t touch the nest,” Dad said. “Birds don’t like to be disturbed.”
After breakfast Johnny hurried up the hill to make sure the birds were all right. He propped his foot on the barbed wire, and looked in the ragged hole. “They’re gone!” he exclaimed. He reached down into the nest to make sure. It was cold and empty. Only the soft, downy bed remained. Tears came to his eyes and he ran into the barn where his father was milking the cows.
“You had to learn for yourself, son,” Dad said quietly when he had heard Johnny’s story. “Do you remember what I told you when we were plowing on the sidehill and plowed around the lark’s nest?”
“Something about respecting nature’s laws,” Johnny answered.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Now you see that the woodpecker family chose that particular hollow post for a reason. The opening was just big enough for them, but not big enough for their enemies. When you changed that, any night owl could make a meal of the little ones. Maybe that’s what happened to your birds.”
“Dad, I didn’t want them to get hurt,” Johnny said.
“I know that, Johnny, I know.” He paused a minute before continuing. “It’s early in the year. Mr. and Mrs. Woodpecker will probably raise another family in some new nest before the summer is over.”
“Honest, will they?” Johnny asked eagerly.
“Honest,” Dad assured the boy. “And when they do, we’ll both remember how important nature’s law of survival is. Then we’ll have meadowlarks and woodpeckers and boys all growing and respecting each other. It’s all according to plan, son. Do you understand?”
And Johnny did.

But sometimes there is no one like President Monson, no home teacher, no caring sister available to minister in time of need. In those situations I have come to find solace and direction from the Comforter, another role of the Holy Ghost (see D&C 36:2).
Our grandson Quinton was born with multiple birth defects and lived three weeks short of a year, during which time he was in and out of the hospital. Sister Jensen and I were living in Argentina at that time. We truly wanted to be there with our children to comfort them and be comforted by them. This was our grandchild, whom we loved and wanted to be near. We could only pray, and we did so fervently!
Sister Jensen and I were on a mission tour when we received word Quinton had died. We stood in the hallway of a meetinghouse and hugged and comforted each other. I witness to you that assurances came to us from the Holy Ghost, a peace which passes all understanding and continues to this day (see Philippians 4:7). We also witnessed the unspeakable gift of the Holy Ghost in the lives of our son and daughter-in-law and their children, who to this day speak of that time with such faith, peace, and comfort.

Today was Thursday, the day I was going to my friend Stephen’s house after school. Because I am in kindergarten and go to school in the morning, we were going to go somewhere special for lunch first and then go to his house to play.
After we played a game, Stephen’s mother asked if I’d like to play some video games. I love to play video games!
Then I remembered that I was not allowed to play them until Friday. I told her so, and I felt good inside. She was impressed because I had been honest. She told my mom about it when she came to pick me up. Mom was happy that I had been honest and not played the video games. She called me a “Choose the Right” warrior.

In Nigeria, learning how to bake bread did more than teach an important skill. A sister in the Ikot Ekpene Branch, Nigeria Uyo Mission, says enrichment activities changed her life. She explains that after her baptism and confirmation she had stopped attending church. Then a Relief Society sister invited her to an enrichment activity where they learned how to make soap, a commodity difficult to come by in the distant village where she lived. At another activity she learned to bake high-quality bread, which was not available close to her home. Her enthusiasm has continued as sisters gather regularly to bake bread for their homes and for the sacrament on Sundays.

In 1973, my husband and I sat calmly listening to a Church speaker describe how disfellowshipments and excommunications had increased in recent years within the Church. As I shook my head sadly, feeling secure in my temple marriage, testimony, and Church activity, I hadn’t the least notion at that time of how my future would be devastatingly affected by this process.
My life was drastically altered some seven years later when my husband, an active Melchizedek Priesthood holder, returned missionary, former bishopric member, and father to our six children, was called before a Church court and disfellowshipped.
I felt rejected, betrayed, and frightened that this could happen to me. As I poured out my soul to the Lord, searching for answers, I learned eternal truths that helped me through this heartrending experience. In a way only he could do, the Lord has mercifully stood me back on my feet, both emotionally and spiritually.
I’m convinced my anguish couldn’t have been more intense had I been the one disciplined in court. I had tried long and hard to do all the Lord asked of me. I’d married a wonderful young man who glowed with a testimony of the gospel, and I now felt betrayed. He had changed, and I had no control over the situation. I wept for our young son approaching Aaronic Priesthood age and wondered how we could explain that his father could not confer this precious priesthood on him. Another son would be baptized in a short time. Again we would have to search for an explanation. I was afraid to face family, friends, and ward members. Although I’d done my best to assure myself and my children of happiness, it seemed as though I were living in a nightmare.
Finding a way to deal with grief and disappointment developed into a full-time job. Needing someone to talk to, I turned to the Lord for help and comfort. He became my loving counselor.
Several years earlier, at the death of our infant son, I had blamed myself for the loss. An understanding doctor wisely counseled that this was common, but nonetheless wrong. A grieving person naturally searches for something he might have done to prevent tragedy. “Don’t give in to the temptation to blame yourself,” he advised.
Following the Church court, I found myself falling into this trap again. Gradually I realized I could neither control nor take responsibility for my husband’s actions. I began to concentrate on the things I could control and change in myself.
At the same time I tried to accept not only my situation, but my husband as well. I learned that comparing our spiritual progress to that of other couples was useless. When I read about exemplary fathers and husbands, I still struggled with discouragement. Yet I was able to tell myself, “Their situations are different. The Lord will help me with mine.” As I expressed gratitude for blessings I did have, a loving acceptance grew within me. Along with it, the attitude in our entire family improved. To my amazement, I discovered times when I was happier and more at peace than I’d been in years.
Sometimes I hesitated asking for certain blessings, fearing that my husband’s situation might prevent our receiving them. The Lord quickly dismissed my apprehension, however, and over the years presented us with material and spiritual blessings.
My self-esteem had been shattered by our experience with the disfellowshipment. I was busy many hours each week, serving as president of one of the ward auxiliaries. How could the Lord, or for that matter, the bishop, possibly expect me to continue in this calling? Emotionally and physically, I was drained. But nothing was mentioned concerning my release, and I stayed in that position. I later understood this to be the Lord’s way of demonstrating a need for my abilities. At the same time, our children continued to do well in and out of school. Here the Lord was assuring me that we weren’t failing as parents. These experiences lifted me and convinced me of my worth.
As the weeks, months, and years went by, the pain sometimes grew less and sometimes grew stronger. I got used to most people avoiding the issue in conversation. Few got past the fear of not knowing what to say, and so said nothing. I’ll always appreciate the friend who sincerely asked, “How are things going?” and listened patiently as I told her.
The Lord continued to comfort and teach me. Often I complained about my husband’s unwillingness to change. Without exception, Heavenly Father refused to accept my criticism. Through inspiration he referred me, in a loving way, to scriptures on tolerance. He also reminded me of my special role as a wife. I was convinced that parts of Doctrine and Covenants 25, where the Lord calls Emma Smith to aid and comfort her husband, applied as much to me as to Emma. Over and over I read this section, each time believing more in my husband’s worth.
I prayed regularly for an increase in love toward my husband. The Lord answered in unusual, but practical ways. I sought opportunities to give of myself, knowing those we serve become those we love. I didn’t have to look far, as my husband was hurt in three minor accidents within a year. During his short convalescent periods at home I provided emotional care and concern. I was rewarded many times over with greater love and appreciation for him.
I realized, too, that my service didn’t need to be a huge undertaking. Since my husband was away from home much of the time, I tried to make him the center of my attention when he was at home. Saying something positive or complimentary to him each day grew from a challenge into a habit. I also refrained from criticizing my husband, either to him or anyone else. These small efforts worked wonders. Like a dying plant rediscovering light and nourishment, our love regained vitality.
I drew great comfort and hope from the twenty-seventh chapter of Mosiah. Here an angel appears to Alma the Younger because of the faith and prayers of his father. (See Mosiah 27:8–17.) Through this scripture the Lord assured me that he answers prayers said in behalf of others. I have made it a point to never cease praying for my husband. More difficult, but just as important, is maintaining faith that one day his heart will change.
Charity, I’ve also discovered, is a gift from God. Shortly after the Church court, I was suddenly consumed with a deep affection and acceptance for my husband. I longed to help and support him in every possible way. This sweet sensation stayed long enough for me to realize that I wanted it always. I pray regularly, as Moroni suggested, “with all the energy of heart [to] be filled with this love.” (Moro. 7:48.)
My husband has now been reinstated into the Church. Though many changes for good have come, his gospel commitment and spiritual desire for activity have yet to return. I’ve accepted the fact, however, that only he can control those things. Instead of focusing on our failures, I can now express gratitude for the things we’re doing right. I’ve discovered, to my surprise, that it’s possible to be happy in any situation. I’ve also learned that through the most painful experience of my life has come my greatest growth.
Editor’s note: At the author’s request, her name has been withheld.

While in school, I met my husband, and we were married in 2007. My mother also joined the Church that year. She told me that she had never known why I was so happy, even with all the terrible things that had happened to us. But once she joined the Church, she understood. The gospel of Jesus Christ has blessed my family, and I’m happy to see my mother blessed after all the sacrifices she has made. I will always be grateful for her.

Dan wasn’t the only one to be involved in baptisms during a minimission. Brian Wallen, 16, a priest in the Castle Rock Ward, Longview Washington Stake, served in Beaverton, Oregon, for three weeks, witnessing two baptisms and performing one.

“The missionaries had been teaching Mike, 15, and Joe, 16, for a while before I got there. They’re football players, and they were always talking about weight lifting. I’ve lifted weights, too, and since we’re in the same age group, we had a lot in common. When we talked about the gospel, they seemed to accept my ideas and my testimony. They were baptized the second week I was there.

“And then I got to baptize Amy Beth Valence. She’s nine years old. It made me feel great to use my priesthood. I didn’t expect to baptize anyone during a three-week mission!”

One day when strolling down the road on which the Bridlington meeting house stands, my mind not taken up so much as usual with the needs of the day, I took to looking at the buildings that line this very ancient of streets.
My first observation was a surprising one, when I realised there had been eight churches of different denominations on the street at some point. Many were still there, but now used for different purposes than their builders intended. I then began to wonder at what had been on the sites of new buildings squeezed between the Victorian shops and houses. My curiosity aroused, I made a visit to our local studies library, and returned many times, as I became absorbed in the history of this road that had existed since pre-Christian times.
I was fascinated and felt that maybe others of the town would be also. This thought coincided with an invitation to attend a meeting to discuss ideas for the year’s Heritage Open Days (every September thousands of volunteers in towns and cities across the country organise events to celebrate Britain’s heritage and culture). I went along and volunteered to give a talk and put on an exhibition on the history of the street. Conscious that the biggest problem in doing so is finding a location, I had previously approached the Bishop and been given permission to use the church building.
A further thought had already come into my mind- why not extend the event to include a chapel Open House? Saddened by the missionaries’ lack of success in getting people to come into the building, I felt that putting on something of a nonreligious nature could be the encouragement people needed and hopefully once in the building, they might ask questions, pick up leaflets and read things on notice boards.
The foyer had the history of the Bridlington Ward, the Church’s involvement in humanitarian aid, emergency preparedness and ‘Just Serve.’ The notice board in the baptismal font told of Christ’s original Church, the apostasy and the restoration; and our belief in the need for baptism and the form it should take. Displays on the work of Relief Society, the Young Men and Young Women’s programmes and Primary, filled the classrooms, and the Elders Quorum were on hand to give help and advice on family history and show a film about one brother’s experience of finding out more about his family than merely their names and dates.
With excellent advertising on social media, in local newspapers and free events booklets supplied by the Heritage Week organisation, seventy people attended. No one asked the missionaries for the discussions, no-one new appeared at church the following day, but one man who attended the lecture approached me and raised my spirits when he expressed his appreciation for being able to tour the building and learn something of our beliefs. Others may have felt the same, but not expressed it. Seeds were sown and continued effort and new ideas will bring results. As Christ said: "If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you." (Matthew 17:20)

At the invitation of a cousin, 18-year-old Aroldo B. Cavalcante attended a regional conference in 1988 featuring President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008), then serving as First Counselor in the First Presidency.
“I felt something very strong,” he recounted. “I could see a light in President Hinckley.”
Though he attended church for the next three years, he wasn’t baptized. One day missionaries knocked on his door. Holding their area book, they read what past missionaries had written about him. What struck him was the last sentence: “He doesn’t want to commit to Jesus Christ.”
Elder Cavalcante recounted, “I thought I was very committed to Jesus Christ, and that line was too strong for me.”
Wondering whether that was what the Savior also thought of him, he asked, “What can I do to change this, Elders?’”
The missionaries started teaching him, and the 21-year-old was baptized just 10 days later. Elder Cavalcante has been committed to the Savior’s gospel ever since.
“This work is not about us. It’s about the Savior. And I try to do my very best for Him, not for me,” said Elder Cavalcante.

Dasch couldn’t wait to play with Charlie!
Charlie was the class teddy bear. He was brown and furry. He had his own clothes. He even had a baseball hat.
Each weekend, one student took Charlie home. It was Dasch’s turn.
Dasch was excited. He had a baseball hat to wear too.
Dasch and Charlie had fun. They ate cheese pizza. They played video games. They had a sleepover.
On Sunday, lots of people visited. Dasch’s sister was leaving on a mission. She was going far away. Everyone said goodbye.
Charlie said goodbye too. His big weekend was almost over.
The next day Dasch took Charlie back to school. Dasch stood in front of the class. “What did you and Charlie do?” his teacher asked.
Dasch was nervous. He held Charlie tight.
Should he tell about the pizza? The video games? The sleepover?
Should he tell about Sunday? The kids in class didn’t go to his church. What if they laughed?
Dasch thought about his sister. He knew what she would do.
He took a deep breath. He told all about his weekend, even about his sister’s mission. He told how Charlie said goodbye.
Everyone clapped. They didn’t laugh at all!
Dasch smiled. He was brave just like his sister. Maybe he was a missionary too!

“Tillman dribbles downcourt. He’s double-teamed by O’Neal and Hardaway. Wow! Somehow he got free. Slam dunk! The crowd is going wild. Tillman comes up with a steal. He stops behind the three-point line. It’s good! Robert Tillman has single-handedly brought his team …”
“What do you think, Robert?”
“Uh, obey the commandments.”
“Good. That is one thing you can do. Now, Sylvia, what else can you … ”
Hah. Sunday School is the same every week. Every answer is “obey the commandments,” or “read the scriptures,” or “pray.” All I have to do is use one of those answers. No listening required. I’d rather be watching basketball anyway. Someday I’ll be playing professional basketball. Boy, I’ve got to practice more. But Mom wouldn’t let me play on Sunday anyway. I don’t know why she won’t let me. I go to church, so why can’t I have the rest of the day off …
“Robert, do you have any ideas?”
“Obey the commandments.”
“That’s what Jerry said.”
“Oh, I meant read the scriptures.”
“Very good.”
Man, this is so easy. The answers are so simple. I don’t need this. What I need is a math tutor so I don’t fail math. If I fail math, I won’t be eligible to play basketball. I have to play. If I don’t, it’ll rule out my chances of getting a scholarship. Without that, I can say good-bye to the pros. I thought the Holy Ghost was supposed to help me. And I need help with my homework. What have I done wrong? What am I supposed to do to get help from Heavenly Father? I don’t do anything wrong. I don’t drink or smoke. I don’t even have a girlfriend. I don’t swear. I wish someone would just tell me what I am supposed …
“Brother Tillman. Please wake up and tell us what we can do to stay close to our Heavenly Father.”
“Oh, sorry. How about pray?”
“Very good, Robert.”
Pray. That’s the answer to almost all the questions in this class. I wish math was as easy as this class. Sunday School is so easy, and I know all the answers. Pray. Obey the commandments. Read the scriptures. It’s easy. If I do all of those things, my problems will disappear. That means if I do all those things, I will get help with my math. Well, it hasn’t worked so far. I read the scriptures. Just today in priesthood, I read a scripture. President Hunter said to read the scriptures every day. Well, I don’t read every day, but … I guess I don’t read much at all. I have homework, basketball, my friends.
I do everything else. I pray. At least I used to say my prayers every night. Sometimes when I stay up doing homework, I’m too tired to kneel down. In the morning, I don’t have time. I’d be late for school if I took time to say my prayers all the time. I’m sure Heavenly Father wouldn’t want to hear prayers from me when I’m tired. Well, maybe he would.
I do keep all the commandments. I don’t kill, I don’t steal, and I don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I keep the Sabbath day holy. Most of the time. Well, I suppose I do have some work to do there …
“What would you say, Sylvia?”
“Listen to the Holy Ghost.”
“That’s right.”
That makes sense. The answers to the questions are easy to say in class. They’re just words there. It’s life where it gets more difficult. There, you can’t just say the words. You have to put in the effort too. I guess I’ve never really thought about it that way before. I definitely need Heavenly Father’s help. I better get to work.

I often reflect on the wonderful mothers I have had in my life, especially when Mother’s Day gets close. Although many sons could say many good things about their mothers, I briefly offer my own experiences and circumstances—they may be a little different. I publicly declare my enormous appreciation for mothers, despite having experienced much motherly absence in my own life. I am also conscious that Heavenly Father was most likely involved in the positive aspects of my short account. He certainly was in later years when I was blessed by being baptised at the age of 33, along with my wife, Jenny.
My natural mother, Irene, was unknown to me; she died from a serious infection in 1946 caused by inadequately clean medical instruments. I was 8 months old at the time, so the key consequence for me was the loss of that physical bond so essential to an infant in their early years. I was the fourth child, so very fortunately there were older siblings who had some memories of Irene; and even more fortunate was the connection I made with Shirley, the dear lifetime friend of my oldest sibling, Gwen, who fondly recalled her memories of my mother.
Shirley would often visit our home in Hayes, within a stone’s throw of her own home. She always remembered the very kind lady that was my mother. This connection with Shirley was made when I was in my fifties, and fortunately well before Gwen passed away in her late 70s — this long-distance friendship between Shirley in England and Gwen in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, was crucial to me in becoming better acquainted with my early departed mother.
Following Irene’s death, my father, Joe, had to decide on his children’s care. My two oldest siblings (Gwen and Peter) were placed into an orphanage called Spurgeons, located in Reigate, Surrey (now the headquarters of the Surrey Fire Service). My immediately older sister, Sue, was taken in by Grandmother Ada, Irene’s mother. In my case, my father made an unusual arrangement by letting a young married couple, the Tappins, move into our house and become my foster parents. They cared for me while my father went to work in Nigeria for the next six years. (In later years I tried to find the Tappins, unfortunately without success.)
Then in 1950, my three siblings were shipped out to what was then, Southern Rhodesia under the Fairbridge scheme, set up to provide opportunities in the British colonies for fruitful lives for orphaned British children.
In my case, I escaped shipment by coming under the care of my stepmother, Hilda, in 1949, who moved into our house in Hayes with my half-brother John, when the Tappins moved away. Hilda was a marvellous lady and loved me as her own; she was in fact a good friend of Irene’s sister Molly. Hilda, John, and I, then spent 1951 and 1952 with Joe in Nigeria.
Among many very good deeds, Hilda was largely responsible for gathering the whole of Joe’s offspring as a family. In late 1952, Joe, Hilda, John, and I went to Southern Rhodesia, and siblings Gwen, Peter and Sue were taken out of the Fairbridge home, located near Bulawayo in the south, to join the rest of us now located in what was Salisbury, the capital. We were all together in the one home for a precious two years. Then, due to concerns about space in our three-bedroomed Rhodesia-Railways-provided house, Gwen left to live in a special establishment set up to house young single women.
Those years in colonial Rhodesia were wonderful, especially for John and me. As youngsters we lived a largely outdoor life, often running around barefoot and getting up to mischief, but mostly creatively (building platforms in trees; forming rowing boats from corrugated metal sheets — usually used for roofing purposes; fabricating catapults from carefully chosen branches of trees and rubber strips from old car-tyre inner tubes, and bows that we used to shoot arrows made from dried elephant grass with pins in their heads and chicken feathers as fletching). Hilda was always around to attend to our injuries, and provide as best she could for us, including repairing clothing.
Most significantly, Irene was a devoted Christian, of the Anglican order. She gave time to keeping the local church building clean and tidy. It was she who was responsible for bringing a knowledge of Christ into my life and helping me to prepare for confirmation in the Anglican faith when I was twelve (I also had to be baptised just before, as there was no record of this having been done when I was an infant). I remember many of those times.
But, tragically within a year, Hilda died from a bloodborne disease, probably arising from an insect bite, but never confirmed. So, the wonderful architect of our recovered life was taken away from the family that she had gathered, loved, and cared for during the 1950s.
Life thereafter was very much based on the children taking up various responsibilities, the greatest burden falling on Sue (Gwen married a year later in 1959). Gwen nevertheless became a confidant during my growing teenage years. My formal attachment to the Anglican faith quickly faded, my father being a declared atheist. However, I often wonder whether, in some way or another, the spirit of Hilda, in her post-mortal state, was influencing events when I became a member of the Church in 1979 (I do like to think so).
Now, onto my third ‘mother’, in fact my mother-in-law, Christine. Jenny’s parents Christine and Bill were a wonderful kindly couple — what examples they were to Jenny and me as we started our own family (eventually including six children). There came a time after some house moves during our early years of our marriage, that Jenny’s parents relocated a few miles away from our home in Tunbridge Wells. Christine was an ever-present support to Jenny in those days, and she was always very welcome to our home. I mostly remember the happy banter she and I would have. When she passed away in 2000, in her mid 80s, it took me years to come to terms with her absence; one always seems more appreciative of loss in later years. To say I had a soft spot for Christine would understate it. She was my adopted mother, whether she knew it or not. I remember, once so shocked and agitated by Jenny’s and my joining the Church, Christine in subsequent years became a staunch defender, while remaining wedded to her Anglican faith. Close to her death she occasionally expressed doubts, but I tried to reassure her that her faith in Christ was not misplaced.
Finally, I must add my love for my wife of 55 years — what a mother she has been to our children, someone who has been ever ready to serve them, and her grandchildren, as well as her slothful husband, without question or reservation. What a treasure!
What treasures are all our mothers.

As further evidence to help you understand the challenge my parents faced in raising our family, let me tell you about our family scripture reading. Each morning, my mother read the Book of Mormon to us during breakfast. During this time, my older brother, Dave, and I would sit quietly but irreverently. To be completely honest, we weren’t listening. We were reading the print on the cereal boxes.

Finally, one morning, I decided to square up with my mother. I exclaimed, “Mom, why are you doing this to us? Why are you reading the Book of Mormon every morning?” I then made a statement that I am embarrassed to admit to. In fact, I can’t believe I actually said it. I told her, “Mom, I am not listening!”

Her loving response was a defining moment in my life. She said, “Son, I was at a meeting where President Marion G. Romney taught about the blessings of scripture reading. During this meeting, I received a promise that if I would read the Book of Mormon to my children every day, I would not lose them.” She then looked me straight in the eyes and, with absolute determination, said, “And I will not lose you!”

Her words pierced my heart. Notwithstanding my imperfections, I was worth saving! She taught me the eternal truth that I am a son of a loving Heavenly Father. I learned that no matter what the circumstance, I was worth it. This was a perfect moment for an imperfect little boy.

by Craig Doxey
“No way,” I heard a few of the Venturers murmur as we looked down at the Snake River for the first time. “Look at some of those rapids!”
“Don’t worry,” I assured them, “we won’t be going down this portion of the river. But we will be hitting King Rapid before our river trip is over, and it’s pretty big!”
The Venturers of the Orem 27th Ward, Orem Utah South Stake, had been planning and preparing for this trip since last year. In the back of the Venturing manual there were several pages of instructions detailing how to build a kayak. At a post officers seminar in the fall the presidency had voted to build kayaks during the winter and plan a superactivity around them. Last January when we finally began seriously looking at the idea of building our own kayaks and running a river, we suddenly began to realize the great amount of planning and work that this project would take. After several voting sessions with the Venturer post, post committee, and parents, we decided to give it a try.
We were able to enlist the aid of an explorer adviser who had done this before, and with his instructions and guidance and a kayak mold that we rented, we began purchasing materials. Each boy was asked to earn $50.00 in order to purchase the necessary resin and fiberglass. The post presidency planned several money-making projects, and the boys were able to come up with the rest of the money through cherry picking and yard work.
As each boat was built, our Venturer post learned to work together. At least four or five people are needed for each kayak built. Gradually teamwork skills emerged as the boys began helping each other with their boats. With visions of whitewater and beautiful rivers, they labored through the smell, stickiness, dirtiness, and work of each boat.
As plans for the superactivity began to materialize, we decided to run the Snake River from Jackson Lake Dam to a small resort called Astoria Hot Springs about 70 miles downriver. It was decided in our post meetings that we needed to learn how to read a river and how to paddle. We also needed experience before hitting the “big water” of the Snake. Utah Lake served as our first practice camp, followed by several practice runs and camps down the Provo River. One of the most important skills learned was how to “ferry glide” across a river. This technique is used to move swiftly across a river, even through a rapid, without wasting energy. Our practices required each Venturer to intentionally swamp his boat—many were able to perform this great feat without even trying. I’ll never forget the picture of one of our smallest Venturers towing our 200-pound assistant adviser across the Provo River after the adviser had unintentionally swamped his boat!
We felt well prepared as we began our trip down the Snake River, and each of the skills we had learned and developed were evident as the Venturers ran rapids as tall as they were. “It was worth all that effort,” several of them said as we floated through the beautiful, primitive parts of Teton National Park, camped on the shores of the Snake, and saw elk, beaver, eagles, and other wild animals. Throughout the river trip, and in testimonies given at the testimony meeting the final night on the river, gratefulness was expressed to the Lord for the great experience we had had, for the brotherhood that had developed, and for the beauties of the land that we saw on our trip down the Snake River.

Leaving my quiet moment of reminiscence behind, I rose from the steps to clean the dog’s run. I grabbed the shovel and the hose and let Hush Pup, our old dog, out of his run to soak up some sunshine.
Just then my husband, who had been in the backyard building a deck, came around the house. He smiled, took the shovel from my hands without a word, and began to help. I was shocked. My husband was trying to finish the deck before the cold weather set in. He never left a project in the middle of the day. Grateful for the unexpected help, I started hosing down the other end of the run.
All of a sudden my husband began to scream. I looked up to see a swarm of wasps surrounding and attacking him. A calming voice in my mind said, “Spray him with water.” I did. Even while he ran I kept aiming the stream of water at him. Although the water repelled the wasps, he was still stung seven times.
While we attended to his left arm, where most of the stings were, a thought came to me. I had been spared! I’m allergic to bees. And due to the cancer, the lymph nodes had been removed from my left arm. If I had been stung, I would not have been able to fight the poisons from the stings and nobody would have been there to spray me with water.
A feeling of love and warmth filled my heart. I was so grateful my husband had listened to the promptings of the Holy Ghost. My life had been spared a second time.

As I read about my ancestors, I learned that they apparently had the typical Kirschbaum trait of a quiet, good-natured disposition—except when aggravated. I read with amusement about a local notary who apparently played a mean trick on one of my ancestors. The man later found himself shut up in his own house by a cartload of “natural fertilizer” that was delivered to his doorstep by Herr Kirschbaum himself—the mayor.

Even though it was a hot July day, Mary Elizabeth Rollins and her sister Caroline lay shivering on top of several large pieces of paper. The thick rows of five- and six-foot-high corn hid the two girls from the angry men who were hunting for them. The girls held their breath, praying for the men to stop their search and leave the cornfield.
It was 1833, and there was a lot of unrest in Independence, Missouri. More and more converts had settled in the area, and nonmember neighbors wanted the Saints to leave Jackson County. Instead, the little community was growing. There was even a printing press in Brother William Phelps’s house, and the whole town knew that he was printing revelations received by the Prophet Joseph Smith and preparing them for publication.
It was some of those very revelations that the girls were lying on. A mob of angry men had become outraged at an editorial written by Brother Phelps that was printed in the Church newspaper. Fifteen-year-old Mary Elizabeth and thirteen-year-old Caroline had watched as the men broke into the Phelps’s home and threw the printing press and the printed revelations from the second-story window to the ground below. When Mary Elizabeth saw the papers hit the street, she knew what had to be done. She knew that those revelations and commandments came from the Lord and that it was important that the Saints have copies of them.
Even though they were frightened, both girls ran and gathered up as many of the large papers as they could carry. When members of the mob spotted them from the window and yelled at them to stop, the girls ran to the nearby cornfield, lay down on the sheets of paper, and prayed for protection.
It seemed like hours before the men grew tired of looking for the girls, but finally they left. Mary Elizabeth and Caroline waited a bit longer before gathering up the sacred papers and creeping out of their hiding place.
The revelations were returned to Brother Phelps. Shortly afterward, those salvaged pages were combined with other pages that had been saved, and a tiny book called the Book of Commandments was printed. Two years later those same commandments and revelations were combined with additional revelations from the Lord and printed in a new book. Whenever they read the Doctrine and Covenants, Mary Elizabeth and Caroline remembered the part that they played in the coming forth of this sacred book of scripture.

Almost thirty years ago I knew a boy, even a priest, who held the authority of the Aaronic Priesthood. As the bishop, I was his quorum president. This boy, Robert, stuttered and stammered, void of control. Self-conscious, shy, fearful of himself and all others, he had an impediment of speech which was devastating to him. Never did he fulfill an assignment; never would he look another in the eye; always would he gaze downward. Then one day, through a set of unusual circumstances, he accepted an assignment to perform the priestly responsibility to baptize another.

I sat next to him in the baptistry of this sacred tabernacle. He was dressed in immaculate white, prepared for the ordinance he was to perform. I asked Robert how he felt. He gazed at the floor and stuttered almost incoherently that he felt terrible.

We both prayed fervently that he would be made equal to his task. Then the clerk read the words: “Nancy Ann McArthur will now be baptized by Robert Williams, a priest.” Robert left my side, stepped into the font, took little Nancy by the hand, and helped her into that water which cleanses human lives and provides a spiritual rebirth. He then gazed as though toward heaven and, with his right arm to the square, repeated the words “Nancy Ann McArthur, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost” (see D&C 20:73). Not once did he stammer. Not once did he stutter. Not once did he falter. A modern miracle had been witnessed.

In the dressing room, as I congratulated Robert, I expected to hear this same uninterrupted flow of speech. I was wrong. He gazed downward and stammered his reply of gratitude.

To each of you this day, I testify that when Robert acted in the authority of the Aaronic Priesthood, he spoke with power, with conviction, and with heavenly help.

Gravely ill with a fever, young Elizabeth Beardall receives a blessing from Latter-day Saint missionaries in which they make four promises. The first two—that she will be healed and join the Church—have been fulfilled. The accomplishment of the third—that she will travel to Utah—begins in 1863 when her family sails for America from England. But America is a large country, and the end of the voyage is only the beginning of the journey. When the family finally reaches the Missouri River, they still have far to go.
“Stay here with the baggage,” Father said. “I’ll get the family and return shortly.” Elizabeth nodded and tried to look brave as she watched him hurry off the boat. She turned to look across the muddy waters of the Missouri River. It was wide, but nothing compared to the Atlantic Ocean her family had crossed on the sailing ship Cynosure. She decided that if she could survive the eight-week crossing from England, she could certainly endure a one-day trip down a river.
“Are you going to the Salt Lake Valley?” a woman asked her.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied. “I can’t wait to get there to fulfill my third promise.”
“Third promise?”
“Yes. When I was very sick, the elders promised me I would get well, join the Church, go to Utah, and be a mother in Israel.”
The woman smiled. “That’s wonderful. Perhaps we’ll be in the same wagon train. I’m Sister Rowley.”
Elizabeth shook her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Beardall, and here comes my family.” Elizabeth pointed to where her parents and brother and sister were hurrying up the road toward the boat.
“Oh dear,” Sister Rowley said as the sailors bustled around the deck. “I hope they make it in time!”
Elizabeth’s family was still a block away when the boat pulled away from the dock. “No!” Elizabeth cried. “Wait!”
Sister Rowley put her arm around Elizabeth. “There is another boat tomorrow. Your family will come then. Don’t worry. I’ll tell the Church leaders that I will take care of you in the meantime.”
When they got off the boat in Florence, Nebraska, Elizabeth waited outside a business office while the Rowley family went inside. When Sister Rowley came out she was smiling. “It’s all settled, my dear,” she said. “You can come with us.”
Elizabeth frowned. “With you? But I need to wait for my family.”
Sister Rowley looked around at the noisy crowds and shook her head. “I can’t leave you here alone. Your parents will be told where to find you. And by leaving now,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “you’ll hasten the fulfillment of your third promise.”
Elizabeth felt tears prick her eyes. She knew that the trip would be hard, but she had never imagined she might be making it by herself. And what if she never saw her family again? Was any promise worth that?
Sister Rowley seemed to read her thoughts. “It will all be worth it in the end,” she said. “Our sacrifices may seem great, but God has promised us a much greater reward.”
As the wagon train rolled westward, Elizabeth kept busy washing clothes, gathering buffalo chips for fuel, and fetching water. But at night when the company gathered around the blazing campfire to sing and dance, Elizabeth missed her family terribly. She found comfort in the evening star that shone in the western sky. It seemed to whisper, “God is over all. He knows your secret sorrow and will not forsake you.” Elizabeth knew that she was not really alone.
After two weeks of travel, the company stopped for repairs. Elizabeth asked Sister Rowley what she could do to help. “Go out and play, dear,” Sister Rowley told her. “You have been too solemn. You need more laughter and fewer tears.”
Elizabeth nodded and went to join some children who were playing marbles and rolling hoops. The other children were kind, but the games did not cheer Elizabeth. Suddenly a boy called out, “Who is that stranger coming into camp?”
Elizabeth saw a man in the distance, hurrying toward them. She looked more closely, hardly daring to believe her eyes. It was her father! She ran to him, and he clasped her in his arms. Both were crying for joy. “We were only a day behind,” Father said, “but I despaired of ever catching up.”
“I knew we’d be together again someday,” Elizabeth sobbed. Now, with the Lord’s help, they could continue their journey to Utah and to the fulfillment of the third promise.
Author’s Note: There were many more challenges for Elizabeth on the trek west. Elizabeth’s mother gave birth to a baby boy on the trail, and Elizabeth had to nurse her mother, tend the younger children, and do her mother’s chores as well as her own. Once Elizabeth was out washing when a sandstorm hit. She became lost and wandered for three days before she was found. Finally in October 1863, her family arrived in the Salt Lake Valley with little food or clothing. Later, Elizabeth married and became a mother in Israel as foretold. All the Lord’s promises to her were fulfilled.

There is an antidote for times [of testing and trial]: learn to laugh. …
… I remember when one of our daughters went on a blind date. She was all dressed up and waiting for her date to arrive when the doorbell rang. In walked a man who seemed a little old, but she tried to be polite. She introduced him to me and my wife and the other children; then she put on her coat and went out the door. We watched as she got into the car, but the car didn’t move. Eventually our daughter got out of the car and, red faced, ran back into the house. The man that she thought was her blind date had actually come to pick up another of our daughters who had agreed to be a babysitter for him and his wife.
We all had a good laugh over that. In fact, we couldn’t stop laughing. Later, when our daughter’s real blind date showed up, I couldn’t come out to meet him because I was still in the kitchen laughing. Now, I realize that our daughter could have felt humiliated and embarrassed. But she laughed with us, and as a result, we still laugh about it today.
The next time you’re tempted to groan, you might try to laugh instead. It will extend your life and make the lives of all those around you more enjoyable.