Gospel Story Finder

When Jean’s senior year began, she started her first journey through the refiner’s fire. Our mother and stepfather were divorced, and Mother drifted further and further from the Church. She no longer cared whether or not Jean even went to sacrament meetings much less all her other activities. Jean trudged on with the help of her friends and the support and sympathy of her bishop’s family. Her testimony grew stronger still, and she continued in all of her activities.
At graduation time, Jean learned that her trials had only begun. Mother remarried and moved far away. Jean had no choice. She had to go live with our father in rural Georgia. He lived in a tiny, isolated town where he was the minister of the only church.
Our father had always been bitter toward the Mormons, and that bitterness had turned to hatred when all three of his daughters had been baptized. Jean was his baby, his special pet, and it cut him to the quick to see her not only in a religion different from his but as a Mormon and a devout Mormon at that. He looked upon her move to his house as an answer to prayers. Now things would be different. Now he would be able to show her the error of her ways.
Although I live more than 200 miles away, I came as often as possible during the summer and took Jean to my home in Columbia. However, the summer soon ended, and Jean had to start commuting to college. Jean had a car to make the drive back and forth to school but not for her personal use on weekends. The nearest branch was 30 miles away, and even if she could get there, Dad wouldn’t let her go. There wasn’t an institute at her small college, and it just seemed that there was no way for her to have any contact with Church members.
Days turned into weeks, and then months had gone by since she had attended a meeting. She read her scriptures, wrote daily in her journal, and spent hours on her knees. As she grew closer to her Heavenly Father through earnest prayer, Jean’s testimony of the gospel grew. She began to realize how often she had taken the opportunity to attend meetings and functions of the Church for granted, how she had even wished meetings would hurry and be over. During this time, Dad made every effort to break her testimony. He quoted scripture after scripture, but Jean’s seminary scriptures stood her in good stead. She was able to parry with scriptures of her own. Sometimes he threw things at her that she couldn’t or, to stop an argument, wouldn’t defend. While her testimony wasn’t harmed, it did make Jean weary as she faced each day on the defensive, knowing that everything she loved and considered holy would be denounced in her father’s booming voice at mealtimes, in discussions with her stepmother, or in his verbal prayers.
Some nights only hours on bended knees kept her from total despair. She fought back the desire to rage against her Heavenly Father for deserting her. Soon even the scriptures she loved were difficult to read because they produced such a terrible longing for her old friends, teachers, and bishop. Often she lay in bed at night with tears streaming down her face trying to remember that she wasn’t the only Latter-day Saint in the world. She tried to be strong, but she was young and alone and there had been no contact with members for so long.
One night in January, Jean reached rock bottom. Her father and stepmother had baited her and prayed aloud for her soul until she was ready to scream. No one understood the trials she was going through. Her sisters sympathized, but we were too far away to be any help. Finally Jean knelt by her bed and poured her heart out as she had so many times in the past. She told her Heavenly Father that she knew he loved her and that he had promised no burden heavier than she could bear. She begged for some sort of help because the burden had grown so heavy that she could not bear it any longer.
When Jean left Natchez, her records had been sent to the nearest branch. Once the records were received, she was assigned home teachers. However, as no one had ever met Jean and she lived so far away and had never attended a meeting, the home teachers didn’t visit her. In their minds, she was probably someone who had joined the Church at age eight but had never been active. Someone in the branch had heard that a Mr. Swilley in Egypt, Georgia, was the Baptist preacher there, and this Jean was probably his wife. No way were they going to drive all that way to get a door slammed in their faces!
In a small branch, the work load is heavy for each member. The home teacher lived 15 miles on the other side of the town where the branch was located, a total of 45 miles one way on country roads from Jean. Months went by, and each month his home teaching report was complete except for Sister Swilley. Being a good and conscientious man, this bothered him. He decided to go at least once just to see what sort of circumstances she was in.
The night came when he couldn’t rest until he had made the effort to see this sister. He called his companion, a young boy of 16, and they began the long drive. As they drove farther into the countryside, they began to be uneasy and wished they could turn around and go home. Yet something urged them on. Little did they know that at that moment, Jean Swilley was on her knees begging her Father in Heaven to throw her a lifeline. As her prayer ended and she dried her tears, Dad knocked on her bedroom door. “Jeanie, there are two men outside, and they are asking for you. They are Mormons, and I won’t ask them in, but you can go talk to them on the porch.”
Jean flew through the house and onto the porch. She stood on the steps, and tears fell again as the older of the two men stretched out his hand and said, “We are your home teachers …” He didn’t have to say anything else because Jean fell into his arms and cried out all the pain and loneliness that was there. Finally someone had come. God had indeed heard her prayers.
As Jean told her story to these wonderful men, I know that their hearts were touched. They expressed sorrow for not having come sooner and promised to make the branch president aware of her situation. They prayed with Jean and told her to call them when it got too hard and left with the most beautiful words Jean had ever heard, “You aren’t alone anymore.”
Jean is still not allowed to go to church, but her spirit is so much stronger now that she knows her Father in Heaven is aware of her needs and answers her prayers. Dad said the home teachers could keep coming as long as they had a talk with him first. When Jean explained the situation to the home teachers, they told her that they would talk with him and do it gladly.
Jean’s home teachers had every excuse in the world not to visit her. It was inconvenient—one and a half hours just in driving time. She had expressed no interest in seeing them. They did not think she would welcome them, and they were busy with other church responsibilities. Still, they obeyed the promptings of the Holy Spirit.
Those home teachers will never know just how happy they made my sister nor will they know how thankful they made me for a Heavenly Father that heard my sister’s prayers. How can they know what will come of their talk with my dad? Or that Mother, who had drifted so far away that she denied the Church on every opportunity, would cry when told that her baby girl wasn’t quite so wretched anymore and why. How could they have known that Mother would say through her tears, “I knew He would take care of her and hear her prayers.” I know that more good will come because those two men listened and obeyed. I hope that I will learn to listen and obey. I hope we all will.

At Brigham Young University we have had some great athletic coaches. We have them now and we have had them in the past. One of these of long ago was Eugene L. Roberts. He grew up in Provo and drifted aimlessly with the wrong kind of friends. Then something remarkable happened. I read you his own words. He wrote:
“Several years ago when Provo City was scarred with unsightly saloons and other questionable forms of amusement, I was standing one evening on the street, waiting for my gang to show up, when I noticed that the [Provo] tabernacle was lighted up and that a large crowd was moving in that direction. I had nothing to do so I drifted over there and went in. I thought I might find some of my gang, or at least some of the girls that I was interested in. Upon entering, I ran across three or four of the fellows and we placed ourselves under the gallery where there was a crowd of young ladies, who seemed to promise entertainment. We were not interested in what came from the pulpit. We knew that the people on the rostrum were all old fogies. They didn’t know anything about life, and they certainly couldn’t tell us anything, for we knew it all. So we settled down to have a good time. Right in the midst of our disturbance there thundered from the pulpit the following [statement]:
“‘You can’t tell the character of an individual by the way he does his daily work. Watch him when his work is done. See where he goes. Note the companions he seeks, and the things he does when he may do as he pleases. Then you can tell his true character.’
“I looked up toward the rostrum,” Roberts continued, “because I was struck with this powerful statement. I saw there a slim, dark-haired fierce-eyed fighting-man whom I knew and feared; but didn’t have any particular love for.”
As he continued, “[the speaker] went on to make a comparison. He said: ‘Let us take the eagle, for example. This bird works as hard and as efficiently as any other animal or bird in doing its daily work. It provides for itself and its young by the sweat of its brow, so to speak; but when its daily work is over and the eagle has time of its own to do just as it pleases, note how it spends its recreational moments. It flies in the highest realms of heaven, spreads its wings and bathes in the upper air, for it loves the pure, clean atmosphere and the lofty heights.
“‘On the other hand, let us consider the hog. This animal grunts and grubs and provides for its young just as well as the eagle; but when its working hours are over and it has some recreational moments, observe where it goes and what it does. The hog will seek out the muddiest hole in the pasture and will roll and soak itself in filth, for this is the thing it loves. People can be either eagles or hogs in their leisure time.’
“Now when I heard this short speech,” said Gene Roberts, “I was dumbfounded. I turned to my companions abashed for I was ashamed to be caught listening. What was my surprise to find everyone of the gang with his attention fixed upon the speaker and his eyes containing a far-away expression.
“We went out of the tabernacle that evening rather quiet and we separated from each other unusually early. I thought of that speech all the way home. I classified myself immediately as of the hog family. I thought of that speech for years. That night there was implanted within me the faintest beginnings of ambition to lift myself out of the hog group and to rise to that of the eagle. …
“There was instilled within me that same evening, the urge to help fill up the mud holes in the social pasture so that those people with hog tendencies would find it difficult to wallow in recreational filth. As a result of constant thinking about that speech, I was stirred to devote my whole life and my profession toward developing wholesome recreational activities for the young people, so that it would be natural and easy for them to indulge in the eagle-type of leisure.
“The man who made that speech which affected my life more than any other speech I ever heard, was President George H. Brimhall. May God bless him!” (Raymond Brimhall Holbrook and Esther Hamilton Holbrook, The Tall Pine Tree: The Life and Work of George H. Brimhall [n.p., 1988], pp. 111–13).
That simple story, told by a great teacher, turned around the life of a drifter and made of him an able and gifted leader. I repeat it tonight because I think that most of us are constantly faced with a choice of whether we wallow in the mire or fly to lofty heights.

A little while ago my family and I moved to Kentucky. I was really upset because I was leaving all my friends and extended family behind. Kentucky was very different from what I was used to. The first time we went to church, I saw that there weren’t very many people there. When I realized how small my branch was, I decided that instead of thinking bad about it, I would do something about it.
The next day, my mom and I went to the store. Before we left the house, I grabbed a stack of pass-along cards. When we got to the store, I got a candy bar and went to check out. The cashier scanned the candy, then handed it to me. I handed it back. She looked confused and said, “You just paid for this, ma’am.”
I said, “I know, but I’m giving this to you as a gift.” Then I put a pass-along card with the candy. She smiled and thanked me. She looked at the back of the pass-along card, where I had written, “Everyone is a child of God.” I walked away with happiness, knowing that even if she didn’t join the Church, I still did something good.
Later that day, I remembered that I left the rest of the pass-along cards by the cash register! The next time we went to the store, I went to ask if they were still there. Then I saw something, and I stopped in my steps. About five of the cash registers had pass-along cards that said, “Everyone is a child of God.” The cashier had passed them out! I felt so happy because of what I did.

Rachelle pulled her shoelaces as tightly as they could go. Last Friday, her laces had come undone, and she had tripped with her lunch tray. Now as she stretched them with all her might, she silently hoped that she wouldn’t be embarrassed again.
Pop! Rachelle fell back on her bed, holding a broken shoelace in her hand. She didn’t want to cry, and the tears that started in her eyes only made her mad. Taking the shoelace, she hurried to the kitchen and held it out for Dad to see.
“Oh no!” Dad frowned. “I don’t think we have any more. We’ll just have to tie it together and hope it holds that way.”
Rachelle threw the lace on the floor and angrily stamped her foot. “All the bad things happen to me!”
Dad chuckled. “Sometimes it does seem that way.”
Rachelle didn’t see how her father could laugh. Now she would probably trip with her lunch tray again. If she did, everyone would think she was really weird. “It’s not fair. Why am I the only one with bad luck? Why don’t I get to have blessings?”
This time when Dad answered her, he was more serious. “I know that sometimes life seems to have a lot of troubles. But I think that if you don’t see the blessings in your life, it’s because you’re not looking for them.”
“I looked,” Rachelle argued. “There aren’t any there.”
“Honey,” Dad gently scolded. “There are blessings everywhere. Really, you have more than you imagine.”
Rachelle rolled her eyes as she sat at the breakfast table. She watched Dad finish spreading butter on her toast and stir her orange juice again. Usually by now, he was getting ready for work. Today he was helping Mom, instead.
“Was Mom up all night with the baby again?” Rachelle quietly asked.
Dad nodded. “Now, there’s a blessing we all enjoy; however, he just doesn’t enjoy sleeping at night like the rest of us.”
When they had finished eating, Dad helped Rachelle read out of the Book of Mormon. They knelt together for prayers, and then Dad helped her put on a jacket and her backpack. When she turned around to give him a kiss good-bye, he held her face in his hands and said, “Rachelle, I want you to do something for me today.”
“Sure, Dad. What?”
“Look around you all day long and try really hard to find blessings the Lord has given you. Write them down in your notebook and share them with us tonight during family home evening.”
“That sounds like a school assignment.”
“In a way it is,” Dad answered. “Just as you sometimes do schoolwork at home, this time I want you to do home work at school.”
Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Rachelle promised that she would. “But don’t be surprised if my paper is blank,” she called over her shoulder as she left the house. She heard her dad chuckling as he closed the door behind her.
When Rachelle was joined by her friends Misty and Stormi, she almost completely forgot about her assignment. But she remembered it when Misty grumped that they lived just too near their school to not be included on the bus route. It seemed like the walk to school was always too long.
“You see,” Rachelle announced her thoughts out loud, “of course I have to walk to school! I’m just one of those people who don’t get any blessings. This is going to be one of the easiest assignments I’ve ever had.”
Misty and Stormi looked at each other, but neither of them said anything. Whatever was bothering Rachelle would most likely be forgotten by lunchtime.
In a way, they were right. By noon, Rachelle had not written anything on her paper for family home evening. She was happily eating her green salad and chatting with Misty and Stormi in between bites, when a loud noise and a lot of laughing caught her attention. At the front of the lunchroom, where everyone could see, stood the new boy. His hair was a mess as usual, his clothes looked dirty, and even though his face was turning red, his ears and neck looked like someone forgot to remind him to scrub them.
All the kids in the lunchroom were pointing and laughing at him because he had dropped his tray.
“Wow!” Rachelle exclaimed. “I sure am glad that wasn’t me.” She remembered how worried she had been that she would drop her tray. But the shoelace Dad had fixed had held just fine, and she hadn’t tripped. “I’d better write that down.” She took a piece of notebook paper from her pocket. “I didn’t drop my tray, and my shoelace stayed together.”
The new boy walked quickly to a seat in the lunchroom. He passed Rachelle’s table on the way. She noticed something else about him. He didn’t have any shoelaces.
“I guess I ought to write that, too,” she mumbled to herself. “I have shoelaces.”
“What on earth are you doing?” Stormi asked.
“Oh, it’s just an assignment my dad gave me today,” Rachelle explained. “I have to write down all my blessings.”
“Why?” Misty wondered.
Rachelle shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it might be because my dad doesn’t think I’m grateful or something.”
“Uh-huh.” Stormi nodded. “My dad does stuff like that to me, too.”
“So you wrote stuff you have that the new boy doesn’t?” Misty guessed.
Rachelle nodded.
“Isn’t he in our ward?” Stormi asked.
Rachelle and Misty shrugged.
“I heard my mom say that his only family is his grandma,” Stormi told them. “Mom said that they moved their trailer house here last week. I guess they move a lot.”
“Does he have any brothers or sisters?” Rachelle asked.
Stormi shook her head. “There are just him and his grandma.”
Rachelle wrote, “I have a house to live in” and “I have a baby brother” and “I have a mom who takes good care of me” and “I have a dad.” She looked over to the table where the new boy was hungrily eating. He didn’t seem to notice that no one was sitting by him, and some kids were making rude faces at him. He ate his food as if it were a feast for a king. Rachelle wrote, “I have a nice school lunch” and “I have good friends.” She was quiet as she looked at her paper. The list had gotten really long in just a short time.
“Come on, Rachelle,” Misty called. She and Stormi were standing by the table, ready to scrape their trays and go outside.
“Um, I’ll come in a minute.” Rachelle was glad her friends left without saying anything else. A lump was forming in her throat. How could she have complained about anything? She was probably one of the most blessed girls in the whole world. Rachelle felt really ashamed for her grumpiness that morning. She found where she had written, “I have a dad” on her paper and added “who puts up with my complaining.”
That night in family home evening when Dad asked for her paper, she unfolded it and tried to read. But the lump started to form in her throat again.
Dad smiled understandingly. “I can tell by the look on Rachelle’s face that she has done her assignment very well.”
Rachelle nodded and turned her paper over so her parents could see. “It’s a lot more than I thought I would have,” she admitted.
Mom held a small sack out for Rachelle to take and said, “Rachelle, Dad told me you needed new shoelaces, so I managed to get to the store to buy some for you today.”
Taking the laces out of the sack, she asked, “Mom, would it be OK if I gave these to someone else?”
Mom and Dad looked in surprise at each other, and Dad asked, “Who?”
“There’s a new boy in our ward who doesn’t even have any broken laces to tie together.”
Mom nodded. “I think I know who you mean. That’s a wonderful idea, Rachelle.”
“The idea is really Dad’s,” Rachelle told her mother. “He wanted me to see that I have all kinds of blessings and shouldn’t complain.”
Dad picked up Rachelle’s paper and wrote something down.
“What are you writing on my paper?”
“I’m just adding something that you missed.” Dad handed her the paper.
Rachelle read, “I have a giving heart.”

Photographs by Sepi Hawaikirangi
When 118 youth from Auckland, New Zealand, and their leaders planned a four-day temple conference to the Hamilton New Zealand Temple, they had a simple but impressive goal: to perform as many baptisms for the dead as possible during their stay.
They began preparing for the trip many months in advance. As part of the preparation, young men and young women researched names from their family histories that they could bring with them to the temple.
All their preparation paid off in a big way. The youth and their leaders had a spiritual feast from the moment they arrived to when they set their sights back home four days later—not to mention all the blessings that came before and after the event because of their devotion to family history and temple worthiness.
In order to spend as much time at the temple as they could, they wanted to stay near the temple instead of making the two-hour drive each direction every day. So for the whole temple conference, youth and leaders stayed in dorm rooms near the temple.
Being that close to the temple was its own reward for the youth. Nichalahr U., a Laurel from the group, said, “I didn’t want to come home after the temple conference because I got used to waking up to the view of the temple and how peaceful it was to just turn and look at it standing in front of you.”
You can enjoy the blessing of seeing the temple each day by putting a picture of one in your room.
It wasn’t practical to have 62 young men and 56 young women all doing baptisms at once, so they decided instead to go to the temple in shifts. The youth were divided into five groups, and each group attended at least two shifts at the temple during the four days.
That might sound at first like there was a lot of downtime and waiting in between. But nothing could be further from the truth. When they weren’t in a shift doing baptisms, the youth headed into the community to do service projects. Sometimes they walked over a mile (1.61 km) to reach their destinations—at which point they’d begin the service project.
They helped out with cleaning, yard work, and anything else families and organizations needed. One youth group helped replant a marae, an outdoor public meeting place in the New Zealand culture.
The youth were also in charge of cooking their own meals, which led to another goal the youth made for the conference: to learn how to prepare and cook food from 72-hour kits. This, too, required a fair amount of planning. Each young man and young woman had a budget to plan and shop for ingredients.
Although the dorm rooms had large kitchens to use, the youth all whipped up their masterpiece meals on a gas stove outside. Those meals were put to good use too, since the youth needed a lot of energy to keep up with the schedule. The only way they could fit everything in was to wake up at 5:00 a.m. and keep going strong until bedtime.
Of course, this was a four-day youth conference, so there had to be at least a little recreational time! One fun event was a dance. Yet even here the dance became more meaningful than usual as a result of some visitors.
During the week, the youth had an unexpected treat when they met a group of Saints from New Caledonia (a group of islands in the southwest Pacific Ocean that belong to France) who were also visiting the temple. They quickly became friends and had the opportunity to sing hymns and also perform ordinances in the temple in English as well as French.
On the night of the dance, the Saints from New Caledonia came to visit these youth. As soon as they arrived, the youth from New Zealand danced joyfully in a circle around them to welcome them. They hugged each other in friendship formed over a shared love of temple work.
Not surprisingly, the highlight of the conference was the actual time in the temple. Mahonri K., a priest, researched and brought names from his own family to do proxy work for them. “I was excited to help my ancestors who had passed on through the veil by being baptized and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost on their behalf,” he says. “My testimony of baptism has been largely strengthened.”
Throughout the week, the young men and young women felt a strong spiritual connection to the work. Sara M., a Mia Maid, said, “I now have a strong testimony of the gospel and the importance of temple work.”
From the beginning, their goal was to complete as many baptisms as possible to help their ancestors. They succeeded rather spectacularly. The 118 youth performed baptisms and confirmations for 3,542 people, many of whom were their ancestors.
By the time the young men and young women were ready to leave, their testimonies were strengthened and their hearts were filled with gratitude. The youth even invited the sisters who work in the temple laundry to their closing exercises so that the youth could sing a closing song to them in appreciation for their hard work. (Just imagine how much laundry needed to be washed during this temple conference!)
The youth will remember the spiritual experiences they had during this temple conference for the rest of their lives. “The feeling that I received throughout each baptism was pure and innocent,” says Caleb R., a priest. “I could feel the warm embrace of the Savior’s love.”
Throughout the temple conference the youth strengthened their ties with the Savior, with each other, and with their ancestors. After gaining such new enthusiasm for the work, their journey in family history is only getting started.

Evan Stephens’s family came to Utah from Wales. When he was twelve years old, he was asked to join the choir. Evan borrowed music books and taught himself to read, play, and write music. In 1890 he was asked to direct the Tabernacle Choir. Three years later he and the choir traveled to the Chicago World’s Fair, entered a musical competition, and won the $1,000 second prize; he also received a gold medal. A conductor and composer, Evan Stephens has nineteen of his hymns in our current hymnbook and five children’s songs in Sing with Me. “True to the Faith” (Hymns, no. 254), and “Let Us All Press On” (Hymns, no. 243) are two of his most popular hymns. “O Bright Smiling Morning” (Sing with Me, G-9) and “Let’s Be Kind to One Another” (Sing with Me, B-68) are still sung by children today.

During this time, I found great comfort in the talk “Grateful in Any Circumstances” from Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. His teachings spoke peace to my broken heart, including these words:
“Some are facing the end of a cherished relationship, such as the death of a loved one or estrangement from a family member. Others feel they are facing the end of hope—the hope of being married or bearing children or overcoming an illness. Others may be facing the end of their faith, as confusing and conflicting voices in the world tempt them to question, even abandon, what they once knew to be true.
“Sooner or later, I believe that all of us experience times when the very fabric of our world tears at the seams, leaving us feeling alone, frustrated, and adrift.
“It can happen to anyone. No one is immune.
“Everyone’s situation is different, and the details of each life are unique. Nevertheless, I have learned that there is something that would take away the bitterness that may come into our lives. There is one thing we can do to make life sweeter, more joyful, even glorious.
“We can be grateful!”2
Based on Elder Uchtdorf’s talk, I started keeping a gratitude journal. In the wake of our twins’ deaths, I’d started experiencing uncontrollable anxiety and despair; the simple act of writing down the good things that had happened each day gave me the courage to let go of the bitterness and blame that had consumed me. I learned to be grateful for every day that I am alive and for the experiences that God gives me. I am a much happier person, despite our losses; I’ve learned to be “thankful in [my] circumstances—whatever they may be.”3

My grandfather used to graze his cattle each summer in the beautiful, lush, high mountain valleys east of our town in central Utah. However, the cattle craved and needed supplemental nutrients from licking rock salt. The rock salt came from a salt mine some distance away. Grandfather replenished the salt at the salt licks by putting a packsaddle on a sturdy horse and filling the packsaddle with rock salt. I called the packhorse Slowpoke for good reason. Grandfather put me on Slowpoke with the saddle loaded with rock salt. He gave me the reins so I could guide the horse up the mountain following Grandfather on his horse.
My horse Slowpoke was slow, but I didn’t push him because he carried such a heavy load. It took a full day to ride up the mountain to the salt licks and to unload the rock salt from the pack animal. As the day got warmer, my sweaty legs would sting as they rubbed against the lumps of rock salt in the packsaddle. It was a joy when we crossed a stream and I could get off the horse and get rid of the sting by washing and drying my legs.
Grandfather would sing most of the day. Mostly he sang the songs of Zion. But one song he sang that impressed me greatly was “Show me your companions, and I will tell you what you are.” Looking back on it, taking salt to the mountain valley was an enjoyable experience, while the additional nutrients from the rock salt fortified the cattle.

The Primary children of the Ville-Marie Ward, Montréal Québec Stake, and their teachers and leaders enjoyed visiting the Montréal Québec Temple grounds. They were calm and reverent as the temple presidency welcomed them and gave them a tour of the grounds. They loved seeing the colorful flowers and the beautiful temple. They also viewed a film about the temple, and each received a small card with a picture of the temple.

The earliest [time I can remember having] spiritual feelings was when I was about five years of age, a very small boy. I was crying from the pain of an earache. There were no wonder drugs at the time. My mother prepared a bag of table salt and put it on the stove to warm. My father softly put his hands upon my head and gave me a blessing, rebuking the pain and the illness by authority of the holy priesthood and in the name of Jesus Christ. He then took me tenderly in his arms and placed the bag of warm salt at my ear. The pain [grew less] and left. I fell asleep in my father’s secure embrace. As I was falling asleep, the words of his administration floated through my mind.
Later in my youth, my brother and I slept in an unheated bedroom in the winter. People thought that was good for you. Before falling into a warm bed, we knelt to say our prayers. There were expressions of simple gratitude. They concluded in the name of Jesus.
I recall jumping into my bed after I had said amen, pulling the covers up around my neck, and thinking of what I had just done in speaking to my Father in Heaven in the name of His Son. I did not have great knowledge of the gospel.
But there was some kind of lingering peace and security in communing with the heavens in and through the Lord Jesus.
That testimony grew in my heart as a missionary when I read the New Testament and the Book of Mormon, which further bore witness of [the Savior]. That knowledge became the foundation of my life, standing on the footings of the answered prayers of my childhood.
Since then my faith has grown much further. I have become His Apostle, appointed to do His will and teach His word. I have become His witness to the world. I repeat that witness of faith to you.
Jesus is my friend. He is my exemplar. He is my teacher. He is my healer. He is my leader. He is my Savior and my Redeemer. He is my God and my King.
Gratefully, and with love, I bear witness of these things.

Approximately 18 months ago, in the fall of 2017, my 64-year-old brother Mike informed me that he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He also told me that he had received a priesthood blessing from his home teacher and that he had met with his bishop. He later texted me a picture of the Oakland California Temple taken from the hospital where he was receiving treatment, with the caption “Look what I can see from my hospital room.”
I was as surprised by his comments about home teachers, priesthood blessings, bishops, and temples as I was about the cancer. You see, Mike, a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, hadn’t regularly attended church for close to 50 years.
As a family, we were almost as intrigued with his spiritual progress as we were with his progress in fighting the cancer, largely because of his now frequent questions about the Book of Mormon, the sealing power, and life after death. As the months passed and the cancer spread, a need for additional and more specialized treatment eventually brought Mike to Utah and the Huntsman Cancer Institute.
Shortly after his arrival, Mike was visited by John Holbrook, the ward mission leader of the ward that served the care facility where he was now living. John commented that “it was obvious to me that Mike was a son of God” and that they quickly developed a bond and a friendship, which led to John becoming Mike’s de facto ministering brother. There was an immediate invitation to have the missionaries visit, which my brother politely declined, but a month into their friendship, John asked again, explaining to Mike, “I think you’d enjoy hearing the gospel message.” This time the invitation was accepted, leading to meetings with the missionaries, as well as visits with Bishop Jon Sharp, whose conversations eventually led to Mike receiving his patriarchal blessing, 57 years after his baptism.
In early December of last year, following months of procedures, Mike decided to stop the cancer treatments, which were causing severe side effects, and to just let nature take its course. We were informed by his doctor that Mike had approximately three months to live. In the meantime, the gospel questions continued—as did the visits and support of his local priesthood leaders. On our visits with Mike, we often saw an open copy of the Book of Mormon on the bedstand as we discussed the Restoration of the gospel, priesthood keys, temple ordinances, and the eternal nature of man.
By mid-December, with his patriarchal blessing in hand, Mike actually appeared to be gaining strength, and his prognosis of at least another three months seemed likely. We even made plans for him to join us for Christmas, for New Year’s, and beyond. On December 16, I received an unexpected call from Bishop Sharp, who informed me that he and the stake president had interviewed Mike, had found him worthy to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood, and asked when I would be available to participate. The ordinance was scheduled for that Friday, December 21.
When the day arrived, my wife, Carol, and I arrived at the care facility and were immediately met in the hallway near his room and informed that Mike had no pulse. We entered the room to find the patriarch, his bishop, and his stake president already waiting—and then Mike opened his eyes. He recognized me and acknowledged that he could hear me and was ready to receive the priesthood. Fifty years after Mike had been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, I had the privilege, assisted by his local leaders, to confer the Melchizedek Priesthood and ordain my brother to the office of elder. Five hours later, Mike passed away, crossing the veil to meet our parents as a holder of the Melchizedek Priesthood.
John, who was Mike’s friend, ministering brother, and a former mission president, used to tell his missionaries that “if someone is on a list that says ‘not interested,’ don’t give up. People change.” He then told us, “Mike changed mightily.” John was first a friend, providing frequent encouragement and support—but his ministering didn’t stop at friendly visits. John knew that a minister is more than a friend and that friendship is magnified as we minister.
Knowing that he would soon die, my brother Mike commented, “It’s amazing how pancreatic cancer can make you focus on what’s most important.” Thanks to wonderful men and women who saw a need, did not judge, and ministered like the Savior, it wasn’t too late for Mike. For some, change may come sooner; for others, perhaps beyond the veil. However, we must remember that it is never too late and no one has ever wandered so far from the path that he or she is beyond the reach of the infinite Atonement of Jesus Christ, which is limitless in its duration and scope.

From 1856 to 1860, thousands of Latter-day Saint pioneers pulled their belongings in handcarts for over 1,000 miles (1,600 km) as they traveled to the Salt Lake Valley. One hundred sixty-seven years ago this very week, on October 4, 1856, President Brigham Young was surprised to learn that two handcart companies, led by Edward Martin and James Willie, were still hundreds of miles from Salt Lake, with winter fast approaching. The very next day, not far from where we meet today, President Young stood before the Saints and declared: “Many of our brethren and sisters are on the plains with hand-carts, and they must be brought here. … Go and bring in those people now on the plains.”
Just two days later, the first rescue parties departed in search of the handcart pioneers.
A member of the Willie company described the desperate situation prior to the arrival of the main rescue team. He shared: “[Just] when it seemed all would be lost, … and there seemed little left to live for, like a thunderbolt out of the clear sky, God answered our prayers. A rescue party, bringing food and supplies … , came into sight. … How we thanked God for our rescue.”

Earlier that week the Valiant class had their farewell activity for Sister Stott. Travis knew that before the activity was over, his teacher would make sure she taught them something. She always did. The moment came as she set up a maze in the multipurpose room while they waited outside. Then, one at a time, she blindfolded them and guided them through the maze by telling them when to stop and turn.
It wasn’t always easy, but by listening carefully and obeying her directions, each class member was successful. Afterward, she talked to the class about how they need to have faith and trust in Heavenly Father and listen for His guidance—after their prayers, for instance—and follow His instructions in the scriptures and as given by their parents and Church leaders. She said that He would always do what was best for them. It was a lesson Travis would never forget.

Let me share some thoughts about Sister Carmen Reich, my mother-in-law, who was truly an elect lady. She embraced the gospel in a most difficult and dark time of her life, and she liberated herself from grief and sorrow.

As a young woman—a widow and the mother of two young girls—she freed herself from a world of old traditions and moved into a world of great spirituality. She embraced the teachings of the gospel, with its intellectual and spiritual power, on a fast track. When the missionaries gave her the Book of Mormon and invited her to read the verses they had marked, she read the whole book within only a few days. She learned things beyond the understanding of her peers because she learned them by the Spirit of God. She was the humblest of the humble, the wisest of the wise, because she was willing and pure enough to believe when God had spoken.

She was baptized on November 7, 1954. Only a few weeks after her baptism, she was asked by the missionary who baptized her to write her testimony. The missionary wanted to use her testimony in his teaching to help others feel the true spirit of conversion. Fortunately, the missionary kept the handwritten original for more than 40 years, and then he returned it to her as a very special and loving gift.

Let me share with you parts of her written testimony. Please keep in mind that she wrote these words only a few weeks after hearing about the gospel. Before the missionaries came, she had never heard anything about the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith, or Mormons in general. In 1954 there were no temples outside the continental United States, except in Canada and Hawaii.

This is the English translation of Sister Reich’s handwritten testimony:
“Special characteristics of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints that are not present in other religious communities include, above all, modern revelation given through the Prophet Joseph Smith.
“The Book of Mormon in its clear and pure language is next, with all the instructions and promises for the Church of Jesus Christ; it is truly a second witness, together with the Bible, that Jesus Christ lives.
“Bound together by faith in a personal God, that is, God the Father, God the Son, and the Holy Ghost, who facilitates prayer and also influences personally.
“Also, faith in the premortal life, the preexistence, the purpose of our earthly life, and our life after death is so valuable for us and especially interesting and informative. It is clearly laid out, and our lives receive new meaning and direction.
“The Church has given us the Word of Wisdom as a guide to keep body and spirit in the most perfect shape possible to realize our desire and goal. So we keep our bodies healthy and improve them. All this from the knowledge that we will take them up again after death in the same form.
“Totally new to me, of course, is temple work with its many sacred ordinances, having families together forever. All this was given through revelation to the Prophet Joseph Smith.”

Carmen Reich, my dear mother-in-law, passed away in 2000 at age 83.

On September 11, 2001, the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City were hit by terrorist-controlled airliners that caused both towers to collapse. Thousands of people were killed. Out of this tragedy have come hundreds of stories of courageous, unselfish acts. One very poignant and heroic account is the Washington Post’s story of retired army Colonel Cyril “Rick” Rescorla, who was working as vice president for corporate security of Morgan Stanley Dean Witter.
Rick was a very experienced ex-military combat leader. He was in his office when “the first plane struck the north tower at 8:48 A.M. … He took a call from the 71st floor reporting the fireball in One World Trade Center, and he immediately ordered an evacuation of all 2,700 employees in Building Two,” as well as 1,000 more in Building Five. Using his bullhorn, he moved up the floors, working through a bottleneck on the 44th and going as high as the 72nd, helping to evacuate the people from each floor. One friend who saw Rick reassuring people in the 10th-floor stairwell told him, “Rick, you’ve got to get out, too.”
“As soon as I make sure everyone else is out,” he replied.
“He was not rattled at all. He was putting the lives of his colleagues ahead of his own.” He called headquarters to say he was going back up to search for stragglers.
His wife had watched the United Airlines jet go through his tower. “After a while, her phone rang. It was Rick.
“‘I don’t want you to cry,’ he said. ‘I have to evacuate my people now.’
“She kept sobbing.
“‘If something happens to me, I want you to know that you made my life.’
“The phone went dead.” Rick did not make it out.
“Morgan Stanley lost only six of its 2,700 employees in the south tower on Sept. 11, an isolated miracle amid the carnage. And company officials say Rescorla deserves most of the credit. He drew up the evacuation plan. He hustled his colleagues to safety. And then he apparently went back into the inferno to search for stragglers. He was the last man out of the south tower after the World Trade Center bombing in 1993, and no one seems to doubt that he would’ve been again last month if the skyscraper hadn’t collapsed on him first.”
Amid the great evil and carnage of September 11, 2001, Rick was not looking for what might be in it for him; instead he was unselfishly thinking about others and the danger they were in. Rick Rescorla was the “right man in the right place at the right time.” Rick, “a 62-year-old mountain of a man cooly [sacrificed] his life for others.” As the Savior Himself said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

Nine-year-old Carrie held her dad’s strong hand tightly as they walked through the bleating sheep in the paddock (enclosed area). Ewes, watching their playful lambs, stamped their feet protectively as father and daughter pushed through the milling flock to the sheep shed. Old Jake, his face weathered by the Montana summer sun and winter cold, met them at the door. He was holding a new lamb.
“We have a bad one this time, boss. I gave him his first feeding, but he’s got a crooked set of hind legs and can’t seem to get up on them at all.”
Dad took the squirming lamb gently and carefully examined its twisted legs.
“What do you think, boss?” Jake asked. “He won’t be able to suck from his mother, so he’ll be just another bummer (orphan) lamb—and a mighty poor one at that.”
Dad put the lamb down in the new straw and watched the determined baby struggle to get up. Its forelegs were strong.
Carrie knelt beside it and stroked its wiry, short wool, hardly warm enough to keep it alive without a mother in the cold April nights. Its huge, soft eyes turned to her, and with a loud bleat it again struggled to get to its feet. Instead, it fell, the deformed legs useless. “Daddy, you wouldn’t really kill this lamb, would you?”
Dad studied the lamb, then Jake, then Carrie for a long time. Finally he asked Jake, “Do you think he’s pretty healthy otherwise?”
“Seems to be. He took the bottle OK.”
“Please, Daddy,” Carrie pleaded, “if he can take the bottle, can’t I feed him with the other bummer lambs?”
“That’s a big responsibility,” Dad said. “Raising a bummer is hard enough when they can fend for themselves and go to the pasture for grass when they’re bigger. You’d have to be not only his mother but also his back legs.”
The lamb continued to bleat and struggle to get up. Carrie hugged it. “But could I try? I promise to get up early to feed him before school. And as soon as I get home, I’ll take care of him again.”
Jake laughed, “Well, you can’t beat that for loving. But you’re forgetting the feeding during the day and at least one in the middle of the night. And how are you going to keep this little fellow warm?”
Carrie looked up at the old sheepherder. “You’d help me, wouldn’t you?” she pleaded. “I could help extra by feeding the ewes after school for you.”
“It looks like she’s as determined to keep that lamb as he is to get up and walk,” Dad said to Jake. He turned to Carrie. “Yes, you can keep this lamb. He will be your special responsibility. Jake and I will help you, but you will have to ask us.”
Joyfully Carrie picked up the lamb and followed Dad outside.
Soon Carrie faced the problems of her little lamb. It couldn’t be put in with the other bummer lambs for fear that they would trample it. She not only had to put up a pen for it outside, but she also had to put it in a big box in the sunroom at night to keep it warm. It couldn’t move about by itself, so she needed to move it often and change its straw frequently to keep it clean and warm. Like all the other bummer lambs, it had to be fed at six in the morning and again in the evening, as well as by Jake while she was in school. And she had to get up at night to check on and feed the hungry baby. No matter how sleepy she was, she had to clean out the bottles so that no sour milk would cause sickness. Besides, as she had promised, she helped Jake with the ewes.
One night at supper, Carrie, especially tired, slumped in her chair and blurted, “It’s just too hard.”
“What’s too hard?” Mom asked.
“It’s too hard to take care of my lamb. And he’ll never run and play with the other lambs. He’ll always be different.”
“Did you want to help him?”
“Yes, but I didn’t want all his problems,” Carrie faltered.
“Have you asked your father for his help? I know he said that he’d help you if you asked him.”
Carrie did ask for help. She and her dad made a better pen for the lamb outside. They also fixed up an old wagon for her to haul the growing lamb around in. They found that with some grain and a few hours in the pasture each day, it needed fewer bottle feedings.
Whenever the lamb, affectionately named Little Lamb, heard Carrie’s voice, he bleated happily to her and wriggled all over in excitement. Despite his unusable back legs, he started to pull forward on his forelegs, and when she held him, he nuzzled her lovingly and shook his head playfully.
Spring slipped into summer. The lambs spent more and more time in the pasture. With his strong forelegs, Little Lamb joined the others, pulling himself forward slowly but determinedly.
Watching the little flock of orphans one evening, Carrie and Dad laughed to see the strong bummers leap over Little Lamb and circle back around him, including him in a playful game of tag.
“Well, Carrie, it seems that your lamb is doing wonderfully,” Dad observed. “Thank you for taking such good care of him.”
“Oh, Dad, I couldn’t have done it without you!”
The next morning, Carrie ran out with her bucket of bottles as usual, calling “Lambie, lambie, lambie,” and hearing a chorus of noisy, appreciative blatting in return. Just as they recognized her call, she knew their voices. But one was missing—Little Lamb’s.
She ran to the lamb pen. He was gone! Frantically she looked in the pasture, in the driveway. No Little Lamb. She ran to the house, calling, “Dad! Mom! Jake! Have you seen Little Lamb?”
Soon the entire family was involved in the hunt.
It was Jake who discovered that the pasture gate had been left open. Somehow, Little Lamb had pulled himself to the creek flowing past the house. Jake found him lying lifeless near the water.
Carrying the lamb, he slowly walked back to the house. “I’m sorry, Carrie. He’s gone.”
“Oh, no!” she sobbed, reaching for the lamb. “He can’t be. I tried my best to take care of him. I loved him even with his bad legs. Dad, Jake, can’t you do something?” Dad gathered Carrie and the lamb into his arms, cradling them silently for a few moments as Carrie continued to sob. “Why did he have to die? Why?”
Finally Dad spoke. “I don’t know why this lamb died, but I do know that he lived for a special reason. He was born too deformed to stay with his mother. But he lived to give you love, to help you know that all life is good, even though it may be different. He lived so that you could learn the joy that comes from caring for someone else, for putting the needs of someone else above your own. Maybe you won’t understand all that right now, but I hope you’ll understand that the love you have for Little Lamb is good and that your memories of him should be happy ones.”

A powerful experience in my own life involved an impressive Maori lady in New Zealand when I served a mission there. Seriously ill, she was taken to the hospital to have an operation. It was doubtful that she would survive, because of her heavy weight and her advanced age.

She requested that I bless her, saying: “I know I’ll be all right if you’ll give me a blessing, Elder!” I sensed deeply the responsibility, and prayed at her bedside before assuming it. Then a blessing came to her through me that surprised both my companion and me by its positive nature—and I worried, fearing that I had been carried away by my own desire for her recovery. She held my hand and said, “Thank you. I’ll see you at church next Sunday.”

I did not believe her. Yet the operation was successful and her recovery complete—and she did attend testimony meeting the following Sunday. Though physically weak, she stood to eloquently thank the Lord for helping her at a critical hour. In this instance, her faith was a central factor in the blessing.

“Not again!” Howard gasped, sick at heart, as he peeked from behind the bushes in his neighbor’s yard. But no one heard his quiet plea, and the neighborhood boys again stuffed the soaked, terrified kitten back into the sack. One boy gave the sack a hefty toss, and again it flew into the canal.
This time, however, the kitten could barely struggle free. As the sack and kitten floated down the canal, the boys finally lost interest.
As soon as the boys turned their backs, Howard dashed from behind the bushes, jumped the neighbor’s fence, and raced to the kitten’s aid. The poor animal could barely meow, and Howard had no trouble fishing it out of the canal and wrapping it gently in his shirttail. As Howard hurried home, tears filled his eyes. He prayed that the kitten would somehow survive.
“Howard William Hunter, what have you got there?” Dorothy, Howard’s younger sister, asked him. She stood on the front porch, hands on hips, trying to look as stern as she thought her mother would.
“Howard William Hunter,” his mother echoed, coming up behind Dorothy. “What have you got there?” She placed her hands on her hips as the screen door banged shut behind her. Both mother and daughter looked at him expectantly.
Howard was still too upset to speak. Instead, he carefully unwrapped the kitten.
“Oh my goodness!” Mother exclaimed, covering her mouth in surprise. Shaking her head, she gently placed a hand on Howard’s shoulder. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she explained to her tenderhearted son, “I know how much you love animals, Howard, but I’m afraid we can’t save this poor kitten.”
“Mother, we have to try!” Howard wailed. “We have to!”
Mother thought for a moment. “Come on, Howard. I think I know what to do.” She turned and hurried into the house.
Inside the hall closet, Mother found an old quilt and a small wooden box and placed them on the kitchen table. Howard and Dorothy watched as their mother lined the box with the quilt. “Now, give me the kitten,” she told Howard. He quietly placed the animal in her gentle hands, and she wrapped it in the quilt. “We’ll put the box where it’s warm,” she said, sliding it carefully under the stove.
“Now what should we do?” Dorothy asked.
“Be very quiet,” Mother said, putting her finger to her lips. “Play outside, and don’t be noisy in the house. We’ll let the kitten rest and see if it’s better in the morning.”
“How will we know if it’s all right?” Howard wondered.
“Don’t worry.” Mother smiled and patted him on the back. “We’ll know.”
Howard didn’t sleep well that night. He dreamed that the neighborhood boys had found the kitten under the stove and were trying to steal it.
Before the sun came up the next morning, Howard heard meowing. He sat straight up in bed and rubbed his eyes. When the kitten meowed again, he raced to the kitchen.
The kitten had climbed out of the box and was meowing for its mother as it wandered around the kitchen. Howard dropped onto the floor beside the kitten, who looked up hopefully into Howard’s eyes. He gently patted the kitten’s soft, warm fur. “I’ll get you some milk,” Howard said, taking a saucer from the cupboard. He poured some milk from the tin can in his mother’s cool pantry, and set the saucer in front of the hungry kitten.
“It’s going to be just fine now,” Mother said as she came into the kitchen and saw the kitten hungrily lapping up the milk. “That was a wonderful thing you did, Howard.”
Howard smiled up at his mother. He felt warm inside as he watched the kitten drink.

Elder John Taylor served three missions to Europe. The first two were to Great Britain; the third was to France and Germany. While serving, he saw many people join the Church, and he witnessed many miracles.
In Liverpool, Elder Taylor went to visit a new member, James McGuffy, who had invited Thomas Tate, a friend from Ireland, to his home.
Elder Taylor, Brother McGuffy, and Mr. Tate discussed the gospel for a long time.
John: God has chosen a prophet on the earth today.
Tate: This is very interesting.
Just before he left, Elder Taylor made a prophecy that startled him.
John: Mr. Tate, you will be the first man baptized into the Church in Ireland.
John: Now, why did I say that? There aren’t any missionaries in Ireland, and we aren’t planning to go there!
A month later, Elder Taylor agreed to go with Brother McGuffy to Ireland to teach his friends and relatives. However, after several nights of teaching the gospel, no one wanted to be baptized.
John: The Lord’s restored gospel is on the earth today.
John: The Book of Mormon teaches us more about God’s plan.
They visited the farm of Mr. Tate, whom Elder Taylor had met in Liverpool. As they were walking, Elder Taylor taught the plan of salvation.
As they came to the top of a hill, they saw Loch (Lake) Brickland in front of them. Mr. Tate quoted from Acts 8:36 in the Bible.
Tate: “Here is water; what doth hinder me to be baptized?”
Elder Taylor and Mr. Tate waded into the lake, and Elder Taylor baptized Mr. Tate, thus fulfilling Elder Taylor’s prophecy in Liverpool that Mr. Tate would be the first person to be baptized in Ireland.

Ellie trudged along after her younger sister, her skirts bouncing against her ankles, baby John in her arms. He felt as heavy as a full water bucket, and Ellie was hot. She pushed her bonnet off her head and watched enviously as her sister played with the Petersen girls. Mary was five and too small to carry a baby.
She turned to look at Mama. Something was wrong! Mama sat hunched over on the wagon seat, her hands clenching the reins.
“Mama?” Ellie called, holding the baby close as she ran back. “Mama, are you all right?”
Mama straightened slowly. Her face was pale, and her eyes looked wide. “I’m fine, Ellie. Are you looking after your sister?”
“I am, Mama. She’s right up ahead.” Ellie reached up and touched her mother’s clammy hand. “You’re ill, Mama. Let me drive the wagon.”
“You’re too young. Tending Mary and John is plenty for you. I’ll be fine.” Mama flicked the reins to keep the oxen moving, and Ellie backed away.
Mama won’t let me do anything but tend children, Ellie thought. I’m old enough. Well, … maybe not. The oxen take a strong arm. But Mama isn’t strong right now, either. Ellie hurried back to where her brother and the other boys were herding the extra oxen. “Harry, Mama’s sick. Can you drive the wagon?”
Harry gave his stick to another boy and ran ahead. Ellie ran after him and settled the baby in a corner of the wagon, then made a bed for Mama. “You rest now, Mama. Evening stop will be soon.”
Mama smiled. “I think I will sleep a little, Ellie, but you wake me when we stop. I’ll need to fix supper.”
Ellie kissed her mother’s cheek. It was hot and dry. She worried as she climbed down with the baby. Mama needed rest—lots of it. Ellie would handle the evening chores on her own.
Mary and the Petersen girls skipped alongside the wagon, laughing and chattering. Mama needed quiet, so Ellie sent them to gather buffalo chips for the fire. There was still a basketful in the wagon, but she didn’t want to be caught short.
“Don’t go too far, now—only up to that rise.” Ellie pointed, and the girls scampered off. Baby John had fallen asleep in her arms, so Ellie laid him next to Mama and carefully poured a cup of water.
Her mind worked as she gently sponged Mama’s face. Papa had gone ahead with some other men to hunt and wouldn’t be back for a day or two. Brother Cooper, the company captain, had said that they might reach another creek tonight. If they did, would he call a wash day? Mama needed to rest in one spot. If they stopped for a wash day, maybe it would be enough time for Mama to get well.
Shouts interrupted Ellie’s thoughts. Harry stopped the wagon, then started, then stopped again. Ellie peered ahead—trees! They really had reached a creek! “Time for evening camp,” she said to Mama, but Mama and John slept on.
Ellie waved to the girls. They returned, laden with wide, flat buffalo chips, and dumped them where Ellie pointed.
Ellie lifted the heavy oaken bucket and followed Harry and the oxen down to the creek. Her arms ached by the time she got the water back to the wagon, but Ellie was too busy to think about it. She started the fire, then mixed the biscuits. After giving her mother a few sips of water and sponging her face again, she put a pot of beans on the fire. Then Ellie cut up a piece of dried meat and put it into a kettle with some wild onions and water. The broth would strengthen her mother, and she’d thicken the rest for stew tomorrow.
When the fire had died down and was glowing bright with hot coals, Ellie put the biscuits on to bake. She stirred the beans again as she glanced around at the camp. What else? What else would Mama be doing? She couldn’t sweep out the wagon without disturbing Mama, but she got the bedrolls down and laid them out beside the wagon. Then she went to look for the Petersens.
“Sister Petersen,” Ellie asked politely, “have you heard if we’re going to have a washing day tomorrow? Or should I try to do some tonight?”
Sister Petersen smiled. “Helping out, are we? Well, Brother Cooper says that we’ll stay here the day, so tell your mama not to worry about any washing tonight.”
“Thank you, Sister Petersen. But Mama has a fever, so I’m doing it.”
“A fever? I’ll come over.” Sister Petersen bustled back with Ellie to check on Mama. On the way, she offered, “Do you need any help, girl? I’ll fix—”
“No, thank you, Sister Petersen. Dinner’s fixed and the beds are ready. Harry took care of the oxen, and I’m going to do some mending tonight. We’re doing fine.”
Sister Petersen looked Ellie up and down intently. Then she nodded and climbed up to Mama.
Ellie listened to their murmuring voices as she dished up beans and biscuits for Harry and Mary. Then she ladled some broth into a cup and headed for the wagon, just as Sister Petersen climbed down. She nodded again at Ellie as she left.
Ellie took the broth and a spoon up for Mama. Her skin was still hot, but her eyes weren’t so blank. “Here, Mama.” Ellie spooned the warm liquid into Mama’s mouth. “This will help.”
Mama took a few sips, then smiled wanly. “I’m sorry, Ellie, that I can’t do much.”
“That’s all right, Mama. Everything’s set for tonight.”
Mama nodded. “Sister Petersen told me. You’re a good girl. But tomorrow, I—”
“No, Mama,” Ellie said firmly. “I can take care of things tomorrow. You need to rest while we’re stopped.”
“But that’s so much for you, Ellie,” Mama protested.
Ellie was silent as she fed Mama the rest of the broth. Then she wiped her mother’s face gently and said, “You taught me well, Mama. I can do it, even the washing. I’m old enough.”
Mama closed her eyes and smiled. “You’re a good girl.”
Ellie quietly climbed down from the wagon and looked at the children eating and at the bedrolls. “I’m old enough,” she repeated, then got herself some supper and went to join the others.