Gospel Story Finder

During the Mexican Revolution, Catherine left her home on fifteen minutes notice. She buried her silver and dishes and left a cake baking in the oven and chickens frying on the stove. Taking only one roll of bedding and one trunk of necessities, Catherine quietly closed the door on the fourth home she had been driven from because of her religious beliefs. As they drove away, two daughters stood up in the back of the wagon and began singing “Count Your Many Blessings.” (Hymns, no. 202.) Lula saw her mother, tears rolling down her cheeks, take one last look towards her husband’s grave, then smile at the children.

When I was a boy growing up in a home with a widowed mother, I heard a story that touched me and that has had a lot more meaning since I have had the blessing of having a son of my own.
A youngster was assigned by his father to see to the moving of a large rock. He tugged and pushed, and he lifted and struggled without avail. Some friends were enlisted, but together they could not move it. Reluctantly he reported to his father that he could not budge the rock.
“Have you done all you could?” asked the father.
“Yes,” said the little boy.
“Have you tried everything?” persisted the father.
“Yes,” said the boy. “I’ve tried everything.”
“No, son, you haven’t,” said his dad. “You haven’t asked me.”

For Gabby and Ethan Quesne, getting an eternal marriage was a very long, and sometimes frustrating, journey.
Below is their story and their thoughts on marriage as they experienced it in 2020:
We met at a church ball back in 2016. We can’t say that it was love at first sight because Ethan forgot who I was after that! Shortly after, we rekindled our relationship at institute and sparks flew. We pretty much saw each other four days a week after that. We then got engaged in May 2018. We knew we wanted to be with each other forever pretty quickly because of how well we got on and how much we laughed with each other. Marriage at some point was pretty much a no-brainer.
Ethan and I both want an eternal family unit and want to have children and raise them to be good, kind and thoughtful people. To us, marriage is a great way to bring about that family stability. I guess we have been preparing since our youth by trying to be good, kind people ourselves, being inspired by our parents and grandparents.
Our journey to marriage became a bit challenging when I finished university and job stability was uncertain. Then the pandemic hit, and no one could have seen that coming! We had to move our wedding from March 2020 to September 2020 and we were even unsure at some points whether the September 2020 date would go ahead with everything in the world changing so rapidly, but luckily, it did and we are happily married now. It may not have been the big day as originally planned, but it was perfect, and we are both so glad that we are now married and can start our own little family as husband and wife.
For people thinking about eternal marriage, I would say wait till you find the right person. You are going to be with this person for a long time so make sure you pick someone with the same values and morals and don’t rush it if it doesn’t feel right. Pray and work on yourself as that will help you find the perfect eternal companion for you later down the line.

Last year, I experienced an increase in anxiety and depression. Although I’ve always struggled with mental health, this time was much worse. I eventually sought medical help, but an essential part of my healing also centered on reaching out to my Savior.
As I prayed for relief, I was prompted to look for light in the world around me. I tried my best. There were times when it felt like the light I found was a flicker that quickly burned out. Many times, I imagined I stood in darkness waiting for the next sunrise, knowing it would only fade again at night. Light felt fleeting and temporary.
After months of this, I experienced a profound thought: “There is light inside me.” Doctrine and Covenants 88:13 teaches that the light of Christ is “in all things” (see also verse 7). I don’t have to chase down vanishing rays of light each day. I can carry light with me all the time.
I began to see myself as sharing a part of the divine light of my Heavenly Father and of Jesus Christ, and I realized that I had access to a light that never burned out. As I reached out to my Savior, I discovered for myself that “because the universe is filled with the Light of Christ, we can spiritually learn, progress, and grow.”1

Cecilia Celeste Merrell of the Globe Second Ward, Globe Arizona Stake, had no intention of liking the astronomy course she had to take. But when she entered class on the first day and saw the teacher dressed as a wizard, she began to get other ideas.
Now she can’t stop winning awards for her astronomy projects. She’s won just about everything you can at science and engineering fairs and at local, national, and international competitions. She’s worked hard on her projects and now knows a lot about reaching for the stars.
She also reaches for the keys—piano and organ keys—which she plays at church. She sings, writes poetry, dances, and cooks—in addition to stargazing.

Someone was laughing. How could anyone laugh at a time like this? I looked up. Uncle Al, Grandma’s younger brother, was telling stories about her.
“Me and Annie got dancing so fast,” he was saying, “that she fell right off Aunt Lizzie’s porch and broke her arm. Aunt Lizzie was mortified, not because Annie broke her arm, but because she was doing that awful dance, the Charleston.”
Charleston? I thought. Grandma didn’t look like the Charleston type. Around our house, we always heard her “whatever happened to the waltz” sermon.
The next speaker took his time getting to the podium. He was close to a hundred years old. He had been Grandma’s bishop when she was first married and was still her bishop when she sent her first son on a mission. Even now, everyone still called him Bishop Jensen.
“I loved Annie when she was a teenager,” he said hoarsely, his brown hands trembling. Then he chuckled. “Oh, she wasn’t my girlfriend, mind you. She had pluck. When it was haying time, she’d offer to help us and everyone else in the valley. And I remember the day she came racing over to our house on that chestnut horse. She wanted us to be the first to see the saddle she won at the rodeo.”
Grandma had won a saddle? I shook my head incredulously. Maybe old Bishop Jensen wasn’t remembering quite right.
I left the funeral feeling as if I had forgotten something. One sentence by the last speaker had caught me, as if Grandma were speaking to me. But now his words were gone from my mind. It’s no use anyway, I thought. There’s nothing I can do for Grandma now. I can never wipe away last Saturday at the corral.
“I never knew Grandma had a chestnut horse,” I said to Dad as we drove to the cemetery.
“I think I only heard her talk about that horse once,” he said.
“And the saddle?” I asked.
“That was news to me. With me being the youngest of seven boys, I guess she was tired of telling the same stories by the time I came along.”
Several horses were dozing against the pasture fence as we turned into the cemetery. A stylish palomino raised its head. It looked like the horse owned by that blonde down in Glenville.
“You better not let her beat you at the barrels,” Grandma had said.
There is something I can do for Grandma, I thought. I can beat the rodeo queen in the barrel racing competition.
I was next. Ginger knew it too. She kept prancing sideways and tugging on the reins.
“Easy, girl. Don’t get all worked up before we get out there.”
The afternoon was warm. Sweat was already seeping from under Ginger’s saddle blanket. The reins felt sticky in my fingers.
The crowd roared as last year’s rodeo queen zoomed out for her turn at the barrels. I could see her blonde braids streaming behind her. She zipped sleekly around the first barrel and bolted for the next.
This blonde and I were the last two barrel racers. The other competitors’ times had been mediocre, so I felt Ginger and I still had a chance.
The rodeo queen circled the second barrel without a hitch. Uneasily, I eyed the last barrel. Maybe she would tip it over and get disqualified.
I could see the girl and her horse lean together around the third barrel. It was too close. The barrel rocked wildly. But it didn’t go over. At least it might have knocked a couple of seconds off her time. The crowd thundered as she spurted toward the finish.
I’ll show them, I thought, as I positioned Ginger for a run into the arena. But I was scared.
I charged out. The flag dropped at the starting line as Ginger and I flashed past. I hadn’t thought of Grandma until that very second. Suddenly I had a feeling that beating this rodeo queen was not what Grandma had in mind.
Ginger’s black mane flew in my face as I reined her low around the right barrel. She veered around it smooth and tight—just like a pro. I didn’t feel as much like a pro. I was slightly off balance and bumpy as we raced down the arena to the far barrel. Ginger went a little wide on this barrel, but we were still on target.
Now for the last barrel. I was in her rhythm again, so my confidence rose. “Dig, Ginger, dig,” I whispered, leaning over her neck.
She flicked her ear back briefly. I felt the tremble before blastoff.
Then we were hurtling toward the last barrel. Too fast. I tried to check her, but we were already swerving steeply around the barrel. I was off balance, askew in my stirrups. Ginger was sliding. Too far. We were falling. In slow motion, we were crashing into the barrel. Grandma’s sad gray eyes flashed before me. “You can do it,” she was saying.
“I’m sorry, Grandma. I thought I could beat her.”
I was falling.
“I was never too good with words,” said Grandma. “But you are.”
“No, my words hurt you.”
Falling. Falling.
“It’s okay,” whispered Grandma. “I know you can write it.”
“Write what?” I muttered.
Then I hit the barrel.
When I came to, I was deep in rodeo arena dirt, and Ginger’s hot breath was in my face. But I knew what I needed to do.
A cowboy was leaning over me. “Write what?” he said.
“Did I say something?” I asked.
“You keep saying you need to write something.”
I rolled to my feet. “That’s right. I do need to write it.”
“You all right?” he asked.
“I’m just fine.”
I started by interviewing Grandma’s seven sons. They each gave me a different view of Grandma’s life.
“Mom was the only widow I knew who could get seven kids ready for church and still be five minutes early,” said Uncle Orvil.
“Mom would feed every hobo who’d come along the tracks,” said Uncle Russ. “I was scared of them and would hide behind her skirts. But she wasn’t scared. She’d just put them to work chopping wood.”
“I remember Mom telling me that she wanted to be Annie Oakley when she was little,” said Uncle Rolfe, “so she took her stick horse and ran away. She was gone for most of the day. Half the county was looking for her. They finally found her fast asleep in a pasture full of unbroken mustangs.”
“Long before anyone had heard of family home evening, Mom had what she called family time once a week,” said Uncle Matt. “There was no getting around it. We had to be there.”
None of my uncles knew much about the chestnut horse or the rodeo saddle.
“Mom kept pretty silent on some things,” said Sid, my oldest uncle. “All I know is that she didn’t have that horse very long.”
He motioned to several boxes of scrapbooks and letters. “But you might find something there. You’re welcome to take them home with you.”
Digging through the scrapbooks, I finally found a small picture of Grandma on her chestnut horse. “Me and Flash, 1930” was scrawled on the back. I was surprised how much Grandma looked like me sitting on that horse. Straight brown hair and freckles.
When my great-uncle Al came to town, I asked him, “Do you know any other stories about Grandma besides the ones you told at the funeral?”
“Oh, I’m chock-full of tales about my sister,” he said. “I remember her first date with your Grandpa.”
Date? It had never occurred to me that someone would actually remember Grandma going on a date.
“To be honest, I remember her second date better. It was almost the last. Her first date was kind of normal. She came home with this goofy smile on her face and walked past me like I didn’t exist. But on her second date, she came home scratching like a hen in the barnyard. I thought she must have fleas. She kept yelling, ‘I can’t stand it,’ all the while yanking at her clothes and peeling down her socks. Come to find out, Harry’s old Plymouth also served as a truck. He’d forgotten to take the chicken feed sacks out in time for his date. Harry and Annie got covered with chicken mites. They were scratching like a couple of dogs all night and didn’t dare say a word to each other. Luckily, chicken mites would rather be on chickens than people, so Annie got over it quick. But it took a few weeks for her and Harry to get back together.”
Uncle Al and my dad were laughing so hard tears were running down their cheeks. Suddenly I remembered the words from the funeral. “Whoever does Annie’s life story is in for a few laughs.”
Uncle Al knew a little more about her chestnut horse. “Oh, yes, how she loved that little mare. Annie’s dream was to become a trick rider and ride in rodeos and wild west shows.”
“A trick rider?”
“Yep, she got pretty good at it too, considering she didn’t have that horse very long. I did watch her fall a few times in the pasture.”
“Did she barrel race too?”
“Oh, no, that was before the days of barrel racing,” he said. “But she did enter some sort of horsemanship event at the rodeo. Maybe you’ve heard about the saddle she won?”
I nodded.
Uncle Al shook his head. “It’s too bad about that saddle. I don’t think she ever got to use it.”
“She didn’t?” I said.
“Nope. She sold Flash right after that.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I have my suspicions. But the person who might know is my brother Bill.”
I hugged my notebook as I entered the rest home. Uncle Bill, Grandma’s next oldest brother, always made me a little nervous. He tended to get confused when he talked. But today he seemed sharp.
“Why did Annie sell her horse?” he repeated, leaning forward in his wheelchair. “Well, the Depression was coming on. I told her it didn’t matter; I could earn the money myself. But she had already made up her mind. Maybe you know how bullheaded she could be. She wanted to do her part for my mission. She said she couldn’t stand watching Flash eat hay in the barn while I might be hungry in England.”
“And she sold her new rodeo saddle too?” I said.
“Well, I don’t recollect that she did,” replied Uncle Bill, scratching the top of his head. “I think she kept that saddle a long time, hoping to buy another horse so she could be a trick rider. Then later on she hoped to have a daughter to give it to. To be honest, I don’t know what happened to that saddle.”
I had almost completed Grandma’s history by the time I found out what happened to her prize saddle. I ran across a letter from Bishop Jensen in the box of papers Uncle Sid had given me.
“Dear Annie: I know how you like your gifts to be anonymous. But I just wanted to tell you how thrilled the Hansens are with your saddle. They were afraid of paralysis after the accident, but now their little Marie seems determined to put that saddle on a horse. I knew you wanted your saddle to go to a girl who loves horses, and there’s no doubt Marie loves horses.”
I finished Grandma’s history and made copies for my family. Everyone was thrilled, including Bishop Jensen, who turned 100 years old the day I gave him his copy.
By the way, I never did beat that sassy blonde from Glenville in the barrels. She got married that summer and moved away. But the next year, I shortened my stirrups a notch like Grandma said and won second place. First place went to Rebecca Williams, who happened to be “little” Marie Hansen’s daughter.
Grandma’s saddle deserved to win first.

One Sunday morning, we were sitting on the veranda when my oldest daughter, who was three years old, asked me a question that caught me by surprise. She saw some of her friends going to church in their nice clothes. “How come we don’t go to church?” she asked. At that time we weren’t attending church because my wife and I belonged to different churches and neither wanted to join the other’s church.
My daughter’s question really made me think. I was troubled because before I was married, I always went to church. That night I was inspired to kneel and seek divine guidance. I recall even saying that I would offer my life to serve the Lord.
A few days later, two young men knocked at our door and introduced themselves as messengers of the Lord. When I saw their calling cards, I remembered some things I knew about their church. When I was young, I used to read western novels that referred to Mormon pioneers and settlements. I had also read about some members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in American magazines. When we started talking about the doctrines of the Church, I was surprised to find that I already believed most of its teachings. I had read the Bible and knew that God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost were three separate beings, and I felt that there must be prophets and revelation.
The elders continued to teach me for several months, but somehow I could not gain a testimony of Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. I had read the passages in the Book of Mormon that the missionaries marked for me, but I had trouble accepting their challenge to read the whole book.
I enjoyed having them in our home, but I had the feeling that they were getting discouraged with me. One day when they challenged me to read and pray, I felt that it would be the last challenge. I didn’t want them to stop their visits, so I decided to read. This time before starting, I prayed with a real desire to know if the book was true. A miracle happened: instead of getting bored as usual, I was so interested that I couldn’t stop reading.
That night, after reading many chapters, I knew that this was the word of God. Now that I had a strong testimony of the Book of Mormon, it was very easy for me to accept Joseph Smith as a prophet. When the missionaries returned and asked me if I wanted to be baptized, I said yes. I was baptized in November 1964. I felt the Spirit of the Lord so strongly during my baptism that I really felt reborn. Besides the covenant of baptism, I made a private covenant that I would serve the Lord all my life.
I am very grateful to be a member of the Church. I hope that you children of the Church will learn through prayer and study that the gospel and the Book of Mormon are true. My wife and I have eight children whom we have raised in the gospel. I am grateful my oldest daughter, when she was a small child, asked me that important question. Because of her, I began to seek the truth and to serve the Lord and others. You can help your parents and families remember the Lord, as my daughter helped me.

The schoolroom in the basement of the converted church looked large and bare, even though a long table and some chairs were set up in the center. The pale green walls were lit by fluorescent lights the length of the ceiling, and a noisy radiator hissed in the corner. The room was not cold, but as I shivered in worry and tension I felt as though I were still outside in the snow.
The situation was not in itself frightening: I was to teach a group of refugees who had been driven from their homes on the other side of the world, and who could not yet speak the language of their new country.
I was not frightened of them. They were the kindest and most willing of students. But they needed so much. They had suffered the terrors of war. They had been driven out of their familiar patterns of life into a world almost completely alien to them. My experiences in the world seemed so small compared to theirs. I was afraid I would not be able to help them.
I now realize that I cannot change many things about the situation of my students. I cannot change the war that drove them from their homes. I cannot change the fact that they will now have to spend many years rebuilding their lives and overcoming emotional scars. I cannot give them everything they need to be happy and comfortable in their new country.
These ideas seem simple, but they were difficult for me to accept. I wanted to believe that I could make these people happier. And I could, as I later realized—but not by solving their problems for them.
My first insight into how I could best serve came as I thought about how the Lord helps me. Sometimes he gives me direction when I ask. But much more often, he blesses me with a sense of his love. He assures me again and again that he loves me and accepts me as I am. Despite my imperfections, I know he has a vision of my potential that is far above my own, and that he will help me reach it.
This feeling of God’s love for me has been the greatest blessing of my life. But as I thought about my own service, I found that giving this kind of love was far down on my list of ways I could help others. I had focused on solving others’ problems, rather than on loving them unconditionally.
As I began to think of my refugee students as people to love, rather than as people to help, my anxiety over them left me. I found new energy and joy in their service. What is more, it quickly became evident that I was doing more good than I had done before. My students developed confidence in me and began asking my help in doing things they could not do for themselves. These opportunities would not have come if they had not first learned that I loved them.

I believe peer pressure is one of the more difficult problems to deal with in high school. It’s sometimes very scary to be different than the average person. No one wants to be rejected. But you would be surprised at how many of your friends would rather not drink, smoke, or take drugs, but are scared to admit it.

There were five hundred students in my high school, and I was one of only three Latter-day Saints. I sent out fifty invitations to a party for my sixteenth birthday. On the bottom I put, “No alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs.” When I gave those invitations out, my parents and I were afraid that no one would come to the party. However, thirty-five out of fifty invited did come.

About a month later, I received an invitation to a friend’s party. On the bottom it read, “No alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs.” I received many similar invitations over the next two years.

What you have to do is decide now what you will do and then stick to it. True friends will accept you for who you are. They may continue to smoke or drink, but they won’t pressure you once you’ve politely said, “I don’t smoke” (or drink, or whatever). If they do continue to pressure, find a new set of friends who accept you for you and what you stand for.

Michelle Seibert, 21Merritt Island, Florida

In October 2018 President Russell M Nelson, in a general conference address, told us about the Church’s resolve to remove the use of ‘Mormon’ in reference to the Lord’s Church and its members.
I am very grateful for this directive and strive to do all I can to make sure everyone knows I am not a ‘Mormon’ and nor is it the name of the Church I attend. I worship and follow Jesus Christ.
About a year later, I was awkwardly trying to find a topic to study for my dissertation. My degree is in journalism, and I knew that the matter of faith isn’t a popular choice in journalism. As I struggled with my project, I decided to include in my preliminary thesis some things that certain UK media enterprises did in covering stories about the Church and its members. Eventually my whole dissertation ended up being a small analysis of the use of ‘Mormon’ by the Guardian and the Daily Mail in online media.
My research and results were fascinating. I learned that these organisations were just throwing the word ‘Mormon’ around hoping the audiences would be able to make sense of what they meant and hoping it would provide a popular effect. However, I thought the audience was likely to be more confused by its use than the journalists.
There are at least three prominent and very different churches in America that are recognised as ‘Mormon’. One of them openly practices polygamy and uses the word ‘Mormons’ for their members. The confused journalists I was interviewing at the time, said that all these people, including me, were ‘Mormons’ according to their understanding, and the understanding of their audiences; this was in late 2019 and early 2020.
It didn’t take too long to realise how important it is for UK members of the Church to do their best to ensure the correct use of the name of the Church. I’ve not yet perfected my dissertation enough for me to feel comfortable in publishing it. However, the impact the project had on me was profound, and I did get a good grade. I’m proud of it. I will share it eventually with those who are interested.
There is a special spirit that comes into our hearts when we firmly ensure correct use of the name of the Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, in our hearts, minds, and conversations. My understanding and faith that Jesus Christ is the head of the Church and guides the policies, teachings, and operations of the Church, has grown. I have felt so much closer to the Saviour because of it.

But on those days when my legs felt up to it, I would take a shorter but more difficult run up to the Iwo Jima Memorial, high atop a hill overlooking the Potomac and adjacent to Arlington National Cemetery. As I am sure all of you know, this large bronze and granite sculpture captures one of the most famous battle photographs ever taken, the raising of the American flag on Mount Suribachi on Iwo Jima. Five Marines and one navy corpsman took part in that flag raising. Three of the six did not survive the battle, but the navy corpsman did. His name was Pharmacist Mate 2nd Class John Bradley.

I would like to tell you a little of his story. He rarely spoke to his family about his experiences on Iwo Jima. When pressed, he would gloss over and downplay how he had won the nation’s second highest award for bravery—the Navy Cross.

He earned that decoration by rushing to the aid of two wounded Marines and then shielding them with his body from enemy fire while he tended to their wounds. When Bradley hurried to their aid, he didn’t exactly rush, he crawled. He crawled because he had been shot through both legs just a few minutes before.

I encourage you to visit the Iwo Jima War Memorial one day. When you do, step back and read the engraved words: “Where Uncommon Valor Was a Common Virtue.” Then study the faces of those men, all young men, captured with great detail in bronze. You will have to go around to the south side and look toward the Potomac River. There you will find John Bradley. You will recognize him. He’s the one with the empty canteen pouch. You see, prior to climbing Mount Suribachi, he gave the last of his water to a dying Marine. And on that hot bubbling sulfur island, John Bradley would go the next 24 hours without water.

There is something in what Corpsman Bradley did that goes beyond bravery—it goes beyond sacrifice. I think it is selflessness. The scriptures call it charity. John Bradley was certainly brave, and his sacrifices have surely secured a great reward for him in the next life, but most of all he was selfless. His brave acts were not done for any reward, nor were they intended to be captured by CBS or the News at 10. There was no public glory in what he did. In fact, men under fire rarely speak of glory. Instead, they speak of those who can be counted on and those who cannot. Above all, they speak about and remember individual acts of selflessness.

When Felix de Weldon, the sculptor of the Marine Corps War Memorial, asked John Bradley what happened to his canteen, Corpsman Bradley couldn’t even remember. In the heat of the battle he had forgotten. But the surviving Marines of Bradley’s unit knew, and they remembered. They told de Weldon the story of his sharing his water. Selflessness, you see, is unforgettable—even small acts of selflessness are unforgettable.

John Bradley gave the last of his water to a wounded Marine on February 23, 1945. That afternoon he was struggling to climb the fire-swept heights of Mount Suribachi. The next day he braved enemy fire to aid two wounded Marines. And just a few days later, though wounded himself, he again braved enemy fire to aid two more Marines and shielded them with his own body as he tended to their wounds. It was not for sense of self that he performed those brave acts of courage. It was for others, for those he knew and for those he had never even met. Deep within his soul, John Bradley instinctually understood that “non sibi sed patriae” (not for self but for country) is contagious.

You see, after aiding those final two wounded Marines, Corpsman John Bradley, badly wounded, lost consciousness. He awoke 36 hours later aboard a hospital ship. How he arrived there is unknown. The names of those Marines or sailors who carried him off the field of battle, who placed him on the small boat, who carried him to the ship, have been lost to history. But their selfless deeds remain unforgettable in the life of John Bradley.

Spencer W. Kimball worked hard as a child. At haying time, he stood atop the hay wagon and tromped down the load as his older brothers, Gordon and Del, pitchforked more up to him.
Sometimes they teased him by throwing two huge forkfuls at almost the same time. The first would knock him down, and the second would bury him.
Spencer: Hey!
Gordon: You’re right. It is hay.
Spencer loved Primary, which was held on weekdays at that time. One hot Monday morning, he heard the bell that rang a half hour before Primary.
Spencer: I have to go to Primary.
His brothers thought that he was only trying to get out of work.
Gordon: You’re not going anywhere.
Spencer: If Pa were here, he’d let me go.
Del: Well, Pa is not here, and you’re not going.
They kept pitching hay up until a large pile formed. When Spencer didn’t appear to tromp the hay down, they became worried.
Gordon: What’s the matter with you up there?
Spencer didn’t answer. They looked off across the field and saw their little brother halfway to the meetinghouse, running as fast as he could.
All his life Spencer W. Kimball faithfully attended every meeting he was able to attend. As an Apostle and as President of the Church, he scheduled thousands of meetings with members, leaders, and missionaries all around the world and he announced many temples to be built. He worked from early morning to evening. Even among other hard-working General Authorities, he was known as an incredibly hard worker.
If you’d like to learn more about President Spencer W. Kimball, do the “President Spencer W. Kimball Crossword” on page 26.

There was a time when I didn’t want to be around a girl in my Young Women class. Some of her behaviors didn’t seem very appropriate to me. I asked myself, “Why is she like that?”

Then in a conference, someone talked about how we shouldn’t see people as they are but for who they can become. That hit me hard. I decided to try and see the good things about this young woman. She participated in class. She was willing to come to church even though she and her sister were the only active members in their family. She was willing to come to activities, even when her sister wasn’t as willing.

When I started looking for good things about this young woman, I felt like I was no longer seeing her with my earthly eyes. I felt like I was seeing her through the eyes of God, the way He would see her.

I would like to share an experience in my own life which helps me to remember that God is aware of me and that he will always take care of my needs.

The Miracle of the 13 Bok Choy

In August of 1998 our family began a one-year assignment living and teaching at the Church College in Pesega, Samoa.

My job was to teach in the in-country EIL program. Our young family lived in a campus home next to the country director’s home who at the time was Brother Tavana. Brother Fata and his family, the coordinator of religious education, lived on the other side of us. We enjoyed working and living in Samoa. Our son, Matthew, was baptized during our time there, and we became reacquainted with many of our BYU–Hawaii friends who had returned to work in the Church schools. There was no television reception at the time, so we found ourselves spending a lot of time together as a family.

Without the many distractions of today’s modern world, I also tried my hand at gardening. At that time, next to the country director’s home was a garden area. It was a fenced in piece of land about the size of a tennis court. Vines and other plants had grown up along the fence and since no one could see inside it became my secret garden. Once I caught the gardening fever, I would go there almost every night after work and tend to my plants.

The biggest challenge that I had, however, was that I could not get any vegetables to grow. I would prepare the soil, sow the seeds, and they would spring up, but then the hot Samoan sun would come out and burn them up before I could provide relief, or insects or birds would devour the plant or fruit before I could harvest them. Other times, the plants looked like they were going to make it, but a tropical storm would blow through and flood the garden and my plants would drown. I tried all sorts of vegetables with no luck.

In retrospect, I should have stuck with taro, bananas, and papayas. But this palagi wanted to do it the way he was taught. I was the grandson of Idaho potato and sugar beet farmers, and the son of parents who believed that no summer day of play should begin without first weeding the garden! Of course, it was wrong, but I was young and inexperienced and a bit too proud to admit defeat. I thought I could do it on my own, so I consulted no one.

Finally, I had a breakthrough. I went to the local garden shop and selected bok choy seeds from the seed counter. Like the other plants I had tried to grow, I prepared the soil, made a row, and planted the seeds hoping that these would be the plants that changed my unlucky streak. Within a few days, the seeds sprouted everywhere along the row. There were so many I knew thinning would be required, so I waited a few more weeks until they were large enough to do so.

After thinning the row, I had thirteen plants. These were hardy plants. They didn’t wilt under the sun, the insects for some reason didn’t eat the leaves, and no rain flooded the row. In fact, much to my surprise, my cabbage plants continued to grow and flourish. As they did, I diligently attended to them each night after work, digging around them to loosen the soil to improve aeration, water retention, nutrient uptake, and reduce competition from weeds.

After about a month of the careful nurturing of my beautiful 13 heads of bok choy, I returned to our home and excitedly made a proclamation to my wife and children that the bok choy were ready to harvest. I’m certain that they could have cared less. They had no vested interest in my final success nor could they understand the joy I felt at successfully growing a vegetable from seed to harvest in my Samoan secret garden. So, the next day after work, I returned to my garden with a knife to cut the bok choy and a basket to carry them back to our home. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with them, but I was ready to harvest. As I walked through the gate and looked at my row of bok choy, much to my dismay, I discovered that someone had sneaked into my garden, cut all 13 of my cherished plants, and taken them away!

To say that I was devastated by this turn of events is an understatement. My joy degraded into anger at the person or persons who harvested my plants, and later a mild form of depression overtook me and stayed with me for longer than it should have. It lasted about a month. After some time of wallowing in self-pity, the Holy Ghost whispered to me something like the following: “Brent you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Someone took your bok choy and probably enjoyed eating them. Get over it. Move on. Get a life for Heaven’s sake!” And so I did! I snapped out of my funk and decided that I would return to my secret garden and try again. On the appointed day, I arrived home from work, grabbed some garden tools, and headed to the garden. I had not been back for quite some time, so I was expecting to find quite a few weeds.

Well, you can imagine my surprise when I found that my bok choy plants, the ones that had been taken several weeks before, had all grown back. Not only were all 13 plants there, they were bigger and fuller than the ones that had been taken, and they were ready to be harvested. I was in shock. I stood for a long time looking at the row of plants dumbfounded. It appeared as if they had never been taken. At that point in an almost Elder Hugh B. Brown-like “I am the gardener” manner, I heard a voice in my mind say, “Trust in the Lord and He will bless your life. [2] Never mind who took your bok choy, trust in me and you will be blessed.” Of course, I immediately ran home for a knife and a basket, and we ate bok choy for days after. We also shared them with our neighbors and friends. Throughout my life, I have had my share of disappointments because of what I have perceived to be failed opportunities, but like the disappointment I felt with my stolen bok choy, it never really lasts long. In every case so far, I feel like the Lord is saying, “Don’t worry, that is not the path you should go. I know what is best for you. Trust in me.” Remembering the miracle of the 13 heads of bok choy has sustained my faith in a loving and kind Heavenly Father.

Wilford Woodruff was a very influential missionary, bringing thousands of people into the Church. While serving in England in 1840, he met the Benbow family. After hearing his message, the Benbows talked with Elder Woodruff about the gospel until 2 a.m.
Brother Benbow: I thank the Lord that you have found us! We, and hundreds of our friends, have been searching for the true gospel of Jesus Christ.
Mr. Benbow told his friends about the missionary who would be preaching at his house.
On the first day, six people—including the Benbows—were baptized. On the second day, Elder Woodruff baptized 600 people!
Among those baptized were 45 preachers, who owned chapels and houses that could be used for teaching the gospel.
Wilford Woodruff: The Lord has truly prepared this place to receive His word.

As a young person I also learned that it was easier to follow the Savior if I had a good attitude. My father set the example for me. From as early as I can remember, I knew that my father trusted me and had confidence in me. He was a road builder and timberman. I started to run large construction equipment for him when I was a teenager. Once I happened to turn one of his trucks upside down. When my father saw it, instead of scolding me, he said, “Jack, since you’ve got it upside down, you might as well get it greased.” He used a little humor to put me at ease and then, over time, taught me how to keep better control of the equipment. What could have been a bad experience turned into a good one because he loved me and wanted to teach me.

This passage of scripture brings to mind an experience I had as a young boy. My family had traveled from our home in California to Salt Lake City, where General Conference was being held. After we had waited in line, an usher found a place for us, up behind the choir on a wooden bench at the base of the big organ pipes in the Tabernacle. It gave me a visual perspective on General Conference that I’ve never had since, and certainly don’t expect to enjoy again. Spencer W. Kimball, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, began to speak. I have no memory of what he said, but as I viewed him from behind, standing at the pulpit and speaking to the people, in an instant I understood – somehow perceived clearly – that I was seeing and listening to a prophet. It is difficult to describe other than as a moment of enlightenment. It was not a particularly emotional experience, but actually rather matter of fact. I recognized something about him that seemed plain as day to me. He later became the President of Church when I was in my early 20s. Sustaining him in that office was, to me, a completely obvious and easy thing to do.

Besides the wallabies and kangaroos, other marsupials living near the Scout camp included the potoroo, ring-tailed possums, echidnas, and wombats. The famous Tasmanian devils have never been sighted on Maria Island.
This information alone allowed the boys to sleep easier at night, although many still felt sleeping was the biggest problem at the camp.
“The nights were really bad. The possums were out in force raiding tents and rubbish bins all night. In the whole camp the worst thing was trying to get to sleep. There was one rock that seemed to follow me all night, and between that and the wind and the cold I didn’t sleep much,” said Stephen Szekely, of Launceston.
“The possums through the night gave me the willies because we had to keep bashing them out of our food box and a possum got in our tent and climbed up our tent pole. We broke our torch (flashlight) trying to get him out of there. Then the emus got in our tent and dunged all over Heath’s, Andrew’s, and my sleeping gear. But the kangaroos were great; they weren’t pests like the emus,” said Geoffrey Jones, a nonmember from Glen Huon.

Even the herding of the sheep and the clipping of the wool was often done by the girls, particularly when they had no brothers or their brothers had other work to do. Many girls had some herding experience, and a few did all the herding. Minerva Stone herded her father’s little band of 15 or 20 sheep on the bench east of Ogden. Her work included feeding and raising the lambs whose mothers disowned them. In getting the sheep back to her home each evening, she often followed paths lined with cockleburs. She was barefooted.
“I would hesitate,” she wrote, “and wonder whether it be the least painful to run over the burrs or to walk slowly. Running would be more acute, but sooner ended, while walking slowly would prolong my misery. However my supply of shoe leather [the souls of her naked feet] was inexhaustible. As soon as one thickness would wear off, another would grow in its place.”

My dad, my brother, and I were hired to clean an apartment. While we were cleaning, I found a video game. I was excited because I had just gotten a new video game player. I took the game home with me. Later that night my dad’s friend came over, and I told him about the game I found. He warned me that it showed bad pictures. I got the game, broke it in half, and threw it away because President Gordon B. Hinckley has told us not to listen to or watch these things. I felt the Holy Ghost, and I knew I had done the right thing.