Gospel Story Finder

I was released from the hospital on New Year's Eve and found my world upside down. True, I wasn't in the hospital anymore, but being home with my children who clearly were having a hard time connecting with me was much worse than I had thought.

One night I was in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, pondering unanswerable questions. Who is that person in the mirror? Will I ever like the way I look again? Can I love myself if I look this way?

I wondered if makeup would help. I hadn't opened my makeup bag for months, but I knew it had been unpacked and put in our bathroom. I found a tube of mascara and with my clumsy hands brushed it on my eyelashes.

I had been taught--and thoroughly believed in--my infinite worth as a daughter of God. I knew my value as a person transcended my looks, but that belief was being tested as I looked at my disfigured reflection in the mirror. Mascara didn't help.

I stood in front of the mirror crying, dark mascara streaming down my face, and Christian came in and wrapped his arms around me. I closed my eyes and tried to absorb another of his loving speeches.

There was a cry from downstairs. Nicholas. We both knew he wanted Christian and not me. If I went down, he'd probably end up crying even louder and wake up Ollie and the girls. But I wanted to be the one to comfort him. Nicholas cried out again, and Christian started toward the stairs.

"No, let me try," I said. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe tonight he would let me soothe his troubled sleep, like I'd always been able to before.

Christian helped me down the stairs, and when I got to the boys' room, Nicholas was crying and Ollie was zonked with a Zorro mask and cape still on. "Nicholas, Mommy's here," I said softly, and I lay beside him on the edge of the bed. " I'm here," I crooned, in much the same voice Christian had used to comfort me just a few minutes earlier. Nicholas settled down a little, and I proceeded cautiously, shocked that he was letting me touch him at all. He lay beside me, breathing deep, relaxed breaths. I looked at every detail of his face and his long brown lashes resting against his round cheeks. His chubby hands nestled their way under his cheeks. Even his white-blond hair seemed to be peacefully resting on his smooth, soft forehead. His perfect beauty struck me, and I was filled with love for this little boy, and gratitude that he would let me lie down near him. I had almost missed these precious moments with my children.

I had a choice: I could go from victim to survivor. But I didn't want to just be a survivor; I wanted to be a thriver. And I knew it was my choice, and I also firmly knew that the only way I could achieve happiness again was through my Savior, Jesus Christ.

That night I poured out my heart and soul to God. I told him that I wanted my job back again. And I didn't just want to be part of the family; I wanted to be in charge again. I wanted to do everything I did before the accident. I was determined to be present and active.

I missed me. I missed my long hair and healthy body. I missed holding my babies, and I missed snuggling up to Christian after a long day. But each day I found success knowing that I was that much closer to getting my apron back on or my fancy heels on for a weekend date.

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.

While I was on a Navy ship headed toward Japan, I attended Church meetings. Only a few Church members were on that tour of duty, but they could always answer my questions. When you are raised in the Church and hear the gospel, the Holy Ghost will help you remember what you’ve been taught so that you can teach other people.
I decided I wanted to be baptized. Back then a person usually investigated the Church for a year. Although I had only been investigating it for five months, the members on the ship felt that I was ready to be baptized. So on February 25, 1952, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Because it was February, it was extremely cold outside where I was baptized. In fact, there was a layer of ice on top of the baptismal font!

Another young friend of mine had a father who was serving as bishop. He often said he wished his dad was not the bishop so he could sit with the family in sacrament meetings and could spend more time at home and with the family. As the years passed, my friend changed his mind. He honored his father because he had served well as a bishop and the family had really learned more in many respects and had shared rich spiritual experiences that would not have come had the father been with the family more instead of being bishop. The son honored his father and his father’s Church calling, just as he honors the memories of that wonderful man.

President Boyd K. Packer had an experience where he had to submit his life to God's will. He had just been called as an Assistant to the Council of the Twelve and moved to Salt Lake City to find a permanent home. He located a home that was ideally suited to his family's needs. Elder Lee was helping President Packer make his choice and advised him "By all means, you are to proceed."
President Packer felt that he could not proceed. He had just completed the course work on his Doctorate Degree and with supporting a wife and eight children, had used all his resources on his education. They could barely get into the house let alone make the payments. And even though he borrowed on his insurance, and after gathering on every resource, he still didn't have enough. Elder Lee continued to insist saying "Go ahead. I know it is right."
President Packer was in deep turmoil because he was being asked to sign a contract without the resources to meet the payments. He had never done this before.
Sensing Brother Packer's feelings, Elder Lee sent him to David O. McKay, the president of the church at that time. Listening very carefully to Elder Packer, Pres. Lee advised him saying "You do this, It is the right thing" without offering any additional resources to meet the payments. This made Elder Packer very uneasy.
Elder Packer said the following "I was still not at peace, and then came the lesson." President Lee taught him the following when he said, "Boyd, do you know what is wrong with you -you always want to see the end from the beginning." President Packer quietly replied that he wanted to see at least a few steps ahead.
President Lee quoted the 12th Chapter of Ether, verse 6. "Wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith." Then he added, "My boy, you must learn to walk to the edge of the light, and perhaps a few steps into the darkness, and you will find that the light will appear and move ahead of you."
We will find that we do not always need to see the end from the beginning. If we submit to the will of the Lord, we can trust that he knows the end from the beginning.

For example, immediately after being confirmed a member, bishop Doug Holladay of the Mesa 16th Ward asked me to speak in church. I protested because I had never spoken in front of a large audience before. He persisted, and I thought he had lost his mind; I mean, my hair wasn't even dry yet. I told him that I couldn't speak in church. He then said you can bear your testimony. I told him no again. To this day, I am amazed that he was able to persuade me to bear my testimony on that Sunday because I was terrified. Yet, these opportunities to serve continued - I was assigned as a home teacher. I remember calling my first home teaching companion, and after exchanging the normal courtesies I told him the purpose of my call. He, in essence, commended me for doing my duty, but said that he wasn't interested in doing home teaching. As I hung up the phone, I had a little bit of anxiety because even though I had never had home teachers, nor had I been home teaching, I knew that wasn't the way it worked. So I reported to my Elder's Quorum President what had happened. A change was made and I was given a new companion: Daniel Zimmerman. He taught me what it was like to be a true and faithful home teacher - we made appointments in advance, we prayed for our families prior to the visit, we visited with the families, we delivered a message, and we left with a prayer. I am grateful to have passed this pattern on to my own sons.

How well I remember my father, the bishop of our ward, filling my small red wagon with food and clothing and then directing me—as a deacon in the Church—to pull the wagon behind me and visit the homes of the needy in our ward.
Often, when fast-offering funds were depleted, my father would take money from his own pocket to supply the needy in his flock with food that would keep them from going hungry. Those were the days of the Great Depression, and many families were suffering.
I remember visiting one family in particular: a sickly mother, an unemployed and discouraged father, and five children with pallid faces, all disheartened and hungry. I remember the gratitude that beamed in their faces when I walked up to their door with my wagon nearly spilling over with needed supplies. I remember how the children smiled. I remember how the mother wept. And I remember how the father stood, head bowed, unable to speak.
These impressions and many others forged within me a love for the poor; a love for my father, who served as a shepherd to his flock; and a love for the faithful and generous members of the Church who sacrificed so much to help relieve the suffering of others.

I recall a time I was babysitting my younger brother Mark, who was three years old. It was quiet, which meant trouble, so I went into the kitchen. There I found him, simply sitting on the floor playing with a long, sharp, butcher knife he had pulled from the top of the cabinet. It was bright and shiny and obviously attractive to him. I knew that potential danger, and, of course, I took it away from him. He didn’t understand. I had taken away something that was very attractive to him and something that he wanted, so he cried. When I reflect on that experience, I think of how much more infinite our Heavenly Father’s knowledge is of those things which can be hurtful to us.

In the first decade of the organization of the Church in this dispensation, many conditions and circumstances and even the geographical locations of the main bodies of the Church changed rapidly. What did not seem to change, however, was that the message of the Restoration was not uniformly received with affection and appreciation. This was especially true for the representatives and advocates of the then newly emerging Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In fact, it was often not only risky to one’s popularity but even to one’s mortal existence to be too closely identified with the Latter-day Saints.

Most of you are familiar with the general details of the history of the Church in those first few years. After relocating from New York and Pennsylvania to Kirtland, very soon many of the Saints and leaders of the Church were drawn to Missouri with the potentially great blessings the Lord had promised to his Saints, predicated on their faithfulness, in that part of the land.

It was there, in the emerging community of Far West, Missouri, that a very important and instructive revelation was received by the Prophet Joseph Smith on July 8, 1838. In that remarkable communication from the Lord, among other instructions, were given very precise directions related to the beginning and unfolding of international missionary work. Almost unique among the published revelations given through the Prophet Joseph was that the Lord specifically instructed his servants as to not only their missionary labors “over the great waters,” but also as to the exact time and place from which they should take their leave (see D&C 118).

At the time the revelation was received in July 1838, although the Saints were having difficulties with their neighbors in Missouri, I suppose most of the leaders and members did not appreciate how difficult fulfillment of this revelation, with its attendant specific prophecies, would finally be. In the ensuing months, after the revelation was received, conditions became even more difficult. Persecution increased, and the Prophet Joseph, together with several companions, was incarcerated in Liberty Jail while the body of the Church was physically expelled from Missouri by an edict of the governor.

Interestingly, this revelation outlining the departure of the Twelve Apostles as the first missionaries to Great Britain from the temple site at Far West, Missouri, on April 26, 1839, was not only well known to the leaders of the Church and to most of the members generally, but also to the opponents and detractors of the Church, several being apostates or dissidents.

The attitudes of those involved or observing these events were interesting and could be divided principally into three groups. The first group included those who actively opposed the Prophet Joseph, the Church, and the mission of the Restoration. These were those who recognized that this revelation (D&C 118) was unusual with respect to the specific prophecies related to the time and place of certain events. They felt strongly that if they could prevent these events from taking place, the Prophet, the Church, and the work of the Restoration would be discredited. They spoke vigorously and organized aggressively to prevent the remaining members of the Quorum of the Twelve, and other key leaders who were not in prison, from returning to the temple site in Far West and doing their parts in fulfilling the prophecy that had been declared by the Lord through the Prophet Joseph.

The second group may have, in fact, been the largest. These were those who were interested in the revelation for various reasons but considered themselves to be only bystanders. There is evidence to suggest that even some of the basically faithful leaders and members of the Church felt that though the revelation and prophecies had been given with specificity, because conditions had changed the Lord would excuse his servants from attempting to fulfill them, and the mandate to accomplish the important work that had been previously prescribed by the Lord was no longer operative, as was the case in some other instances in Church history.

The third group, although small in number and perhaps seemingly insignificant at the time, is the one on whom I would like to center our attention. These faithful Saints were those who not only understood the revelation and the prophecies included, but also felt heavy personal responsibility to see them fulfilled.

In 1869, thirty years following these most significant circumstances, Elder Wilford Woodruff of the Twelve, who had been a participant in these events, recalled them with great feeling. He reported that even among the Brethren in April 1839, the question arose, “What is to be done?” Said Elder Woodruff:
The general feeling in the Church, so far as I know, was that, under the circumstances, it was impossible to accomplish the work; and the Lord would accept the will for the deed. . . . Joseph was not with us, he was in chains in Missouri, for his religion. When President Young asked the question of the Twelve, “Brethren, what will you do about this?” the reply was, “The Lord has spoken and it is for us to obey.” We felt that the Lord God had given the commandment and we had faith to go forward and accomplish it, feeling that it was His business whether we lived or died in its accomplishment. [Wilford Woodruff, 12 December 1869, JD 13:159]

Elder Woodruff then went on to describe the trip of the remaining Twelve and a few trusted associates back to Missouri and the events of that early morning of April 26, 1839, in Far West, including the laying of the cornerstone of the temple and the other business that was conducted. He concluded his account of this experience by saying, “We then returned, nobody having molested or made us afraid. We performed that work by faith, and the Lord blessed us in doing it” (ibid.). A miracle had happened, but as Moroni explained, it would not occur “until after the trial of [their] faith” (Ether 12:6).

I suppose that no one, even those who faithfully participated, could fully understand at the time the great impact on the kingdom of that cumulative and courageous act of faith which is so obvious today. Although the mission to Britain that was commenced by the Twelve at that time was not without great difficulty, the future success of the work was not only greatly strengthened but ensured by the fulfillment of the prophecy of July 1838.

Given the prophetic calling of the Twelve, it is very possible that they might have clearly understood the long-term implications of their actions. However, it seems more likely that most were involved in doing what they did not because they necessarily understood with any detail or clarity the future consequences of their acts, but rather because they wanted “to fulfil all righteousness.”

For example, years ago, on a small island in Tonga there lived an elderly sister by the name of Vaikato Tavutu. One day a group of Tongan building missionaries came to the island to erect a chapel. After they arrived, they discovered that this sister knew all the details for the design and layout of the building. The missionaries could not understand how she knew all this without ever seeing the blueprints. It turns out that decades before the building missionaries arrived, Sister Tavutu was experiencing an illness when the apostle, George Albert Smith, visited the tiny island and gave Sister Tavutu a priesthood blessing.

During the blessing sister Tavutu said she was able to understand all the words in her own tongue and he promised her that if she would be faithful, she would live to see a beautiful chapel erected on her island. She saw this chapel in a vision and saw that it would have a “gold steeple that shone in the sunlight.”

The supervising labor missionary went on to say:

“One day [many years after her vision, Sister Tavutu] became very ill. Her brother went to her and told her she had better repent of her sins and confess her lies [about her vision about the chapel which had never come]. He told her she knew that she had told lies all those years and now she was going to die with that on her conscience. Well, Vaikato recovered; and after many years, her vision was fulfilled.

“Vaikato was not certain of her age but thought she might be 102 or so. She was on the work site each morning helping to fill the barrels with water with which to mix the mortar; she was also carrying the coral bricks to the builders. I spoke to her through an interpreter and told her not to carry the water. The buckets were too heavy for her and the men could do it. I also asked her to please only carry one brick at a time, as they were about the size of our cinder blocks. However, as soon as I was out of sight, she started carrying two bricks at a time again. One of the Tongan builders came to me and asked for some gloves for Vaikato because her hands were bleeding from the rough blocks. I got down from the scaffold and went to the lady, admonishing her again through the interpreter to only carry one brick at a time. I took off my gloves and gave them to her.

“The tears started running down Vaikato’s cheeks, and I thought I had wounded her feelings. Then I noticed the tears rolling down the interpreter’s face. He told me: ‘The little lady said that the Savior’s hands had bled for her and that she was not ashamed to have her hands bleed for the Savior’s work.’” (Eric Shumway, Tongan Saints: Legacy of Faith, 178-180).

When I was a mission president in South Africa in 2005, I felt a very strong prompting by the Spirit to move our Norwegian missionary, Elder Joseph Henriksen, all the way across the mission—in between normal transfer dates—to replace a missionary who needed to have surgery. I had just interviewed Elder Henriksen in Queenstown, a two-hour flight plus a two-hour drive away from Cape Town, and on the flight home the Spirit kept telling me that he was the one who needed to move into the Strand Branch and replace the elder needing surgery.
As soon as we returned to the mission home, I called Elder Henriksen and asked him to pack his bags. . . . We picked him up [the next day] and talked to him about his new area, where they hadn’t had a baptism for 18 months. I explained to Elder Henriksen that he was the one the Lord had selected to be there and to make a difference in that branch. We introduced him to his new companion, who drove him another hour to Strand, a beautiful beach area on the Atlantic Ocean, about 50 miles south of Cape Town.
The first week in his new area, Elder Henriksen was thumbing through the area book and found a referral that hadn’t been contacted in the seaside town of Hermanus, another hour south of Strand, but in their assigned area. There was a small branch in Hermanus with about twenty active members, but he and his companion were the closest missionaries. Not wanting to waste time, but feeling prompted to contact the referral, he and his companion looked up the addresses of all the members in Hermanus so they could visit them as well as contacting the referral. Then they set aside a day to visit Hermanus.
When that day came, Elder Henriksen and his companion taught a first lesson in the home they were referred to, then began visiting the members. They knocked on the door of a member lady who expressed great surprise at seeing elders at her door. “I didn’t think we had missionaries in Hermanus anymore!” she exclaimed. Then she told them it was the greatest day of her life. She had just received in the mail a 300-year history of her ancestors. She was excited to be able to do temple work for hundreds of family members who had gone on before. Then she told them that her only problem was that she couldn’t understand any of it because it was written in Norwegian.
Elder Henriksen looked at her, smiled and said, “I’m Norwegian!” What a tender mercy for the Lord to inspire a mission president to suddenly transfer the only Norwegian missionary on the African continent to the area where this dear sister lived and needed a Norwegian translator. While he served there, he was able to visit her once a week and complete the translation. This experience strengthened the faith of everyone involved.
But the story doesn’t stop there. Because of what Elder Henriksen saw and felt in Strand and Hermanus, he telephoned one morning and said, “President, if you will leave me here six months, I promise you we will have twenty baptisms in the Strand Branch!” I reminded him that they hadn’t had baptized anyone in that branch in a year and a half. But I felt inspired to leave him there for the six months. Well, he didn’t just baptize 20 people, he baptized 21 in just six months! The Strand Branch grew so fast that it soon became the Somerset West Ward in the Cape Town Stake with three sets of missionaries, and there were soon two full-time missionaries in Hermanus as well, where they had several baptisms in that small but growing branch. The Lord truly knows how to make sure the right person is in the right place at the right time.

One evening when I was 11 years old, I heard a commotion outside my window. I looked out the window, and in the street were newsboys carrying stacks of newspapers in their arms announcing the news that President George Albert Smith, the eighth President of the Church, had died. President Smith had been the only prophet I had known in my short time on earth. It was during his administration that I first felt the stirrings of a testimony, and even then I knew how important God’s prophets are. I had been taught in Primary and in my home by loving parents that President Smith was our earthly link to our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, that They could talk to me through him. What an empowering concept for a young girl! The Spirit had confirmed in my 11-year-old mind that this was true. When I learned of his death, I felt a tremendous loss.
However, just five days after President Smith’s death, President David O. McKay stood in this tabernacle and spoke to those assembled. He had just been unanimously sustained as the prophet, seer, and revelator by the Saints. As he brushed back the tears, he said: “No one can preside over this Church without first being in tune with the head of the Church, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He is our head. This is his Church. … With his guidance, with his inspiration, we cannot fail.”
I quickly came to love and revere President McKay just as I had loved and revered President Smith. In fact, I remember seeing him stand at this pulpit, with his white hair gleaming, and thinking he looked just like an angel.

Observing and serving sometimes requires great effort. An inspired young woman named Alexandria noticed that her cousin Madison was unable to complete her own Personal Progress requirements because she suffered from severe autism. Alexandria rallied the young women in her ward, counseled with her leaders, and determined to do something for Maddy that she could not do herself. Each of the young women completed a portion of the Personal Progress activities and projects vicariously to enable Maddy to receive her own medallion.

These young women will progress well into roles of motherhood and Relief Society sisterhood because they are learning to first observe, then serve in charitable ways.

For example, after John and Maria Linford joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Gravely, England, in 1842, John became president of the local branch. Relatives and friends, however, did not share the joy the Linfords found in the Restoration. If they could not persuade John to give up his new religion, then they would “starve him to it” by boycotting his shoemaking business.

In 1856 the Perpetual Emigrating Fund gave John and Maria an opportunity to immigrate to the Salt Lake Valley. They sailed to New York with three of their sons. From there they traveled to Iowa City, Iowa, from which they left in July 1856 with the ill-fated James G. Willie handcart company.

Early on October 21, near the banks of the Sweetwater River in Wyoming, John spoke his last words.

“I am glad we came,” he told Maria when she asked him if he was sorry they had left England. “I shall not live to reach Salt Lake, but you and the boys will, and I do not regret all we have gone through if our boys can grow up and raise their families in Zion.”1

As we embrace the challenge and blessing of building Zion in our families, branches, wards, stakes, and communities, we look with John and Maria Linford toward the day when our children and grandchildren “can grow up and raise their families in Zion” among every nation, kindred, and tongue.

When I was a young university student, one of my classmates urgently pleaded with a group of us—his Latter-day Saint friends—to donate blood for his mother, who was bleeding profusely. We went directly to the hospital to have our blood typed and tested. I’ll never forget our shock when told that one of the prospective donors was unfit because of a positive blood test for a venereal disease. That infected blood was his own! Fortunately, his mother survived, but I’ll never forget his lingering sorrow. He bore the burden of knowing that his personal immorality had disqualified him from giving needed aid to his mother, and he had added to her grief. I learned a great lesson: if one dishonors the commandments of God, one dishonors mother, and if one dishonors mother, one dishonors the commandments of God.

Joseph often displayed courage, as one beneficiary later reported: “Sickness and fright had robbed me of strength. Joseph had to decide w[he]ther to leave me to be captured by the mob or endanger himself by rendering aid. Choosing the latter course, he lifted me upon his own broad shoulders and bore me with occasional rests through the swamp and darkness. Several hours later we emerged upon the lonely road and soon reached safety. Joseph’s … strength permitted him to [save] my life” (in Carl Arrington, “Brother Joseph,” New Era, Dec. 1973, p. 19).

Leann liked preschool. She especially liked the days when her mommy was the parent-helper.
“Today we’re going to talk about our bodies,” the teacher, Mrs. Whitney, said after all the children had gathered in a circle on the floor. “What are some of the things that our bodies can do?”
Everyone took turns naming things.
“Run.”
“Eat.”
“Play.”
“Sing,” Leann said.
Mrs. Whitney smiled. “That’s right. Our bodies can do all those things and more. We’re going to make life-size pictures of ourselves.” She gave a long sheet of white paper to each child.
Leann lay down on the paper, and Mommy traced an outline of her. While Mommy helped the other children, Leann drew in hair, eyes, ears, a mouth, and a nose. She colored her shirt and jumper blue just like the ones she was wearing.
Leann looked at the picture of herself. Something was missing. “Where’s my spirit?” she whispered to Mommy.
“Your spirit is part of you,” Mommy said, “but it’s not something we can see.”
“But I want to draw my spirit so everyone will know that I have one.” Leann chose a yellow crayon and drew a circle around her picture.
After all the children had finished coloring, Mrs. Whitney asked them to show their pictures and to name the parts of their bodies.
Soon it was Leann’s turn. She held up the picture of herself so that the other children could see it. “And this yellow circle helps me remember that I have a spirit,” she said, pointing to the yellow circle.
She smiled at Mommy.
Mommy smiled back.
Leann knew that her spirit wasn’t really a circle, but the yellow color reminded her that her spirit was happy because she was a child of God.

“I don’t know how we’re sisters. It’s like we’re from two different planets,” I complained to my best friend as I saw my older sister walking away from me at school.
Catheryn and I were three years apart and had been best friends until she turned eight. I think she realized it wasn’t cool to be friends with your little sister, and we started making new friends.
When I was 17, I moved to Orem, Utah, where Catheryn had moved for college. We seldom saw each other. She left for a semester abroad, and I was busy finishing up my senior year of high school.
When she returned, however, things began to change. She never said anything about the two of us not being friends. Everything clicked, and we began to have a real relationship. It was more than just friends; we were sisters again.
We spent the next year and a half getting to know each other. We would talk on the phone, go shopping, have dinner together, and of course we loved to share clothes. It was my dream come true.
Then in November of 2006 Catheryn and her husband, Steve, were involved in an accident at a reservoir. They were both killed. In an instant my new best friend was gone, and I felt like a part of me was gone with her. I didn’t understand why Heavenly Father would take my sister away when I was just starting to get to know her again. “If only we had more time,” I thought.
Each day I prayed to understand the Lord’s plan and why Catheryn had died. I didn’t think I would ever feel whole again.
One night as I prayed, I felt completely surrounded by the love of God. His Spirit wrapped around me like a thick, warm quilt and filled the emptiness I had been feeling. I changed my bitter attitude to a thankful one. I was grateful Catheryn and I had become friends at all. And more than that, I was grateful to have a Father who answered my prayers and could understand exactly how I felt.

In junior high and high school, I reached my dream to be an athlete. I played football and baseball. Our football games were usually played on Friday evenings. My father now worked out of town for a defense contractor during the week. But each Friday afternoon, he left work and drove six or seven hours to make it to every one of my games. He never arrived in time for the start of the game, but the coaches would leave a sideline pass at the gate for him. I knew that sometime during the first half, I would look up and there he would be on the sideline, watching me. Then after church on Sunday afternoons, he would have to turn around and drive back to work.
At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them that I understood completely how my father felt about me.

Around the turn of the previous century, two missionaries were laboring in the mountains of the southern United States. One day, from a hilltop, they saw people gathering in a clearing far below. The missionaries did not often have many people to whom they might preach, so they made their way down to the clearing.
A little boy had drowned, and there was to be a funeral. His parents had sent for the minister to “say words” over their son. The missionaries stood back as the itinerant minister faced the grieving father and mother and began his sermon. If the parents expected to receive comfort from this man of the cloth, they would be disappointed.
He scolded them severely for not having had the little boy baptized. They had put it off because of one thing or another, and now it was too late. He told them very bluntly that their little boy had gone to hell. It was their fault. They were to blame for his endless torment.
After the sermon was over and the grave was covered, the elders approached the grieving parents. “We are servants of the Lord,” they told the mother, “and we have come with a message for you.” As the sobbing parents listened, the two elders read from the revelations and bore their testimony of the restoration of the keys for the redemption of both the living and the dead.
I have some sympathy for that preacher. He was doing the best he could with such light and knowledge as he had. But there is more that he should have been able to offer. There is the fulness of the gospel.
The elders came as comforters, as teachers, as servants of the Lord, as authorized ministers of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
These children of whom I spoke represent all of our Heavenly Father’s children. “Children are an heritage of the Lord: and … happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.”2