Gospel Story Finder

Preceding the comforting revelation to Joseph and Oliver that I have just cited, the Prophet endured a poignant, painful experience familiar to all of us that taught him to look to the Savior and not fear the opinions, pressures, and threats of men. I quote from the account in our Priesthood and Relief Society manual, Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Joseph Smith:

On June 14, 1828, Martin Harris left Harmony, Pennsylvania, taking the first 116 manuscript pages translated from the gold plates to show to some of his family members in Palmyra, New York. The very next day, Joseph and Emma's first child was born, a son they named Alvin. The baby died that same day, and Emma's health declined until she was near death herself. The Prophet's mother later wrote: "For some time, [Emma] seemed to tremble upon the verge of the silent home of her infant. So uncertain seemed her fate for a season that in the space of two weeks her husband never slept one hour in undisturbed quiet. At the end of this time, his anxiety became so great about the manuscript that he determined, as his wife was now some better, that as soon as she had gained a little more strength he would make a trip to New York and see after the same."[17] In July, at Emma's suggestion, the Prophet left Emma in her mother's care and traveled by stagecoach to his parents' home in Manchester Township, New York. The Prophet's trip covered about 125 miles and took two or three days to complete. Distraught about the loss of his firstborn son, worried about his wife, and gravely concerned about the manuscript, Joseph neither ate nor slept during the entire trip. A fellow traveler, the only other passenger on the stagecoach, observed the Prophet's weakened state and insisted on accompanying him for the 20-mile walk from the stagecoach station to the Smith home. For the last four miles of the walk, recalled the Prophet's mother, "the stranger was under the necessity of leading Joseph by his arm, for nature was too much exhausted to support him any longer and he would fall asleep as he stood upon his feet."[18] Immediately upon reaching his parents' home, the Prophet sent for Martin Harris. Martin arrived at the Smith home in the early afternoon, downcast and forlorn. He did not have the manuscript, he said, and did not know where it was. Hearing this, Joseph exclaimed, "Oh! My God, my God. ... All is lost, is lost. What shall I do? I have sinned. It is I that tempted the wrath of God by asking him for that which I had no right to ask.... How shall I appear before the Lord? Of what rebuke am I not worthy from the angel of the Most High?" As the day wore on, the Prophet paced back and forth in his parents' home in great distress, "weeping and grieving." The next day he left to return to Harmony, where, he said, "I commenced humbling myself in mighty prayer before the Lord ... that if possible I might obtain mercy at his hands and be forgiven of all that I had done which was contrary to his will."[19] The Lord severely chastised the Prophet for fearing man more than God, but assured him he could be forgiven. "Thou art Joseph," the Lord said, "and thou wast chosen to do the work of the Lord, but because of transgression, if thou art not aware thou wilt fall. But remember, God is merciful; therefore, repent of that which thou hast done which is contrary to the commandment which I gave you, and thou art still chosen, and art again called to the work."[20] For a time, the Lord took the Urim and Thummim and the plates from Joseph. But these things were soon restored to him. "The angel was rejoiced when he gave me back the Urim and Thummim," the Prophet recalled, "and said that God was pleased with my faithfulness and humility, and loved me for my penitence and diligence in prayer, in the which I had performed my duty so well as to ... be able to enter upon the work of translation again."[21] As Joseph moved forward in the great work before him, he was now fortified by the sweet feelings of receiving the Lord's forgiveness and a renewed determination to do His will.[22]

My family and I were roasting hot dogs around a campfire when I fell out of my chair and burned my arm. I got a third-degree burn on my elbow. It hurt so bad. My sisters hugged me and tried to make me laugh while my brother went to get my dad’s consecrated oil. My dad gave me a priesthood blessing. He blessed me to heal quickly and feel no more pain. The pain went away. When we went to the hospital, the doctors and nurses were surprised that I was cheerful and talkative. I made them all laugh. I know the blessing helped me to heal quickly. I am thankful my dad has the faith to use the power of the Lord to bless me.

The morning after I returned home to Ghana from my mission in the Ivory Coast, I woke up at 6:00 a.m. My appointment with the stake president to have him release me was not until the afternoon, so I decided to sleep in. While I was falling asleep, an impression flashed through my mind: “Go to the Cape Coast mission home.” I knew the Ghana Cape Coast Mission home, but I had no idea why I needed to go there that morning.

After having these thoughts, I began to feel anxious about the impression, so I headed to the mission home. On my way I worried about what I would say to the mission president. I knew he would ask me the purpose of my visit, so I tried to prepare a suitable answer.

When I arrived, I still did not know the answer. The mission president, Melvin B. Sabey, invited me into his office, thinking that I came there for him to release me. After asking a few questions, President Sabey told me to go to my stake president to be released.

“I know that, President,” I replied.

He paused for some seconds and then asked me the very question I had been striving to answer: “Why are you here this morning, Elder Mobio?”

“President Sabey, I don’t have a suitable answer to that question,” I said. “It’s just that this morning I had a strong impression to come here.”

He paused again for a moment and told me softly, “Elder Mobio, your presence here is the assistance I prayed for yesterday.” He explained that his assistants had just arrived with new missionaries. Among them was an Ivorian, the first French-speaking missionary he had ever received, and he didn’t know how he was going to communicate with him. Then he declared, “I am certain Heavenly Father heard my concern yesterday night.”

I had finally learned the reason for my morning impression. We immediately joined the new missionaries, and I interpreted for the Ivorian elder as he started his mission.

Seven months later I traveled back to the Ivory Coast to renew my passport and to share that wonderful experience with my mission president. He told me, “We are instruments in the Lord’s hands. He knows how and when to use us in His work.”

In 1895, Joseph Alma Ott, my great-uncle, became the first missionary called from the small southern Utah town of Tropic. He was the third son of David Benton Ott and Hannah Normington, sturdy pioneers who helped transform the southern Utah deserts into farms and cattle ranges.
The mission call to Germany came just a few weeks after twenty-four-year-old Joseph was married to Elizabeth Jolley in the St. George (Utah) Temple. Like many others of his generation, Joseph left behind everything he knew and loved and set off on his long journey to Europe.
Unfortunately, tragedy was Elder Ott’s first and only missionary companion. While disembarking from the ship in Germany, he slipped and fell into the cold water. He became ill from exposure to the water and frigid winter weather. His condition worsened, and, within a month of his arrival in the mission field, Joseph died. He was buried at Dresden, a beautiful city now located in the German Democratic Republic. His only possession of value sent home by the local authorities was a gold watch that later was carried by my grandfather and then my father on their missions.
The news of Elder Ott’s death devastated the family. Joseph was dead, his life wasted, his body buried in a distant land. Elizabeth, who weeks before had danced gaily as a new bride, was a grief-stricken young widow. Joseph’s father mourned even as Jacob of old mourned when his Joseph was presumed dead at the hands of savage beasts.
Although time and their faith eventually softened the blow, the story of his ill-fated mission was passed from generation to generation.

A true story from the USA.
We started getting ready for Easter a week early! Dad said the week before Easter is called Holy Week. Mom said there would be a little surprise on the kitchen table each day. Each one would help us remember Jesus Christ. I’m going to write about it all here in my journal!
Mom and Dad read the story of Palm Sunday in the scriptures. When Jesus Christ went to Jerusalem, the people waved palm branches and cried, “Hosanna!”
My sister Lucy held a picture of Jesus riding a donkey. The rest of us waved our paper branches. I felt happy imagining I was welcoming Jesus.
Jesus was upset that people were selling things in the temple, so He threw them out. We picked trash out of the bushes around the church. I’m glad we could help care for God’s house!
Mom read stories that Jesus Christ had told to people. We listened and used the clay to make things from the stories. Lucy made a sheep because Jesus is the Good Shepherd. I made a little oil lamp. It helped me remember to keep my heart full of faith.
Dad told us about how Mary gave Jesus Christ a special oil for His feet. Its smell filled the whole house.
We didn’t have this special oil. Instead, we used cinnamon to make a treat. Mom said that when we smelled the cinnamon as the treat was baking, we should think of what we could give to Jesus.
We lit the candles and sang a song, just like Jesus Christ and His disciples sang at the Last Supper. We ate pita bread and drank grape juice to remember the first sacrament. We also had pomegranates to remind us of Jesus’s blood, and olives for the garden of Gethsemane.
As we ate, thunder rumbled outside. I felt safe and thankful knowing Jesus has already faced the darkest storm.
We read about how Jesus Christ died for us. Then we took the empty flowerpot into the garden and tipped it on its side, like a tomb. We put soil and rocks around it but left the opening uncovered. Mom gave us a figure to represent Jesus’s body. We reverently wrapped it in a white cloth and placed it inside the flowerpot.
Even though it was just a flowerpot, I still felt sad covering the door with a stone.
Mom said that after Jesus Christ died, He set up missionary work in the spirit world. That way people who hadn’t learned His gospel on earth could still learn about Him. In temples, we can be baptized for people who didn’t get baptized before they died.
Lucy and I aren’t old enough to go inside the temple yet, but we helped cut out the printed name cards. Mom and Dad took turns doing temple work for the people on the cards and walking around the grounds with us. Even from the outside, the temple felt a little like heaven.
On Easter morning the stone in front of the flowerpot was gone and the cloth was empty. There was a card that said, He is risen!
I already knew that Jesus Christ is the reason for Easter. After celebrating Holy Week, I feel like I know Him a little better too.

It was just a piece of paper on the ground. Geoff was on his nightly run and almost ran right past it, but something prompted him to stop and pick it up. Bending down, he saw the note, which read, “Pick me up. I’m yours!” When he opened the note, he found a big surprise. Inside was a $100 bill and a note that read, “This is for you. Hope you have a wonderful day!”
As Geoff finished his run, he thought of all the different things he could use the money for, such as new running shoes or a nice dinner. But by the time he got home, he had thought of a better idea. Instead of using the money for himself, he would use it to bring a little joy to others.
“I figured if I blew the money all at once on myself, I would forget about it the next day,” Geoff explains. “I realized what a great opportunity I had, and I wanted to make a real difference. Finding the $100 bill really made my day. I thought that if I could split the money up and help out 100 people, it would be making the day of 100 people. That would be 100 times better than just making my day once.”
So, Geoff started the 101 Happy People Project. The 101st person is Geoff, because of the joy he felt when he found the money, and Geoff is finding ways to bless 100 other people.
Geoff was able to double the 100 dollars by putting it in a bank that was having a special promotion. Because of the promotion, after tithing, he had two dollars to spend on almost every person he helped. But can two dollars really make a difference? Geoff says it can: “I am 100 percent confident that the money involved is irrelevant. Most of the time, knowing that you are just reaching out to comfort people or just thinking about them is exactly what people need. Two dollars is enough to get that message across. You can make someone else’s day no matter how much money you have.”
Trying to make 100 people happy through service isn’t just something to inspire others; it has inspired Geoff as well. “It has opened my eyes to see how easy it can be to make a difference. It has made me less selfish. I have learned a lot about what daily service means and how it can help.”

When working in the Student Honor office in the early years of my employment, I recall a young man who lived in the men's dorms, and was referred after many suspected he was engaged in several honor code violations. He vehemently denied the allegations, and commented how we lacked trust in our students with our "silly rules". In a short time a second report came to my office that he was witnessed violating the Word of Wisdom. This time he openly admitted to his disobedient behavior and began mocking the College and the Church. I recall having a feeling come over me of a love for this young man. I literally saw him as a Son of God and sensed our Father's love for him. In the midst of his mudslinging I interrupted him, and told him of my witness that he was God's son, He loved him, and he was supposed to be here at Ricks College. The young man responded with a vulgar response, stood up, walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

I recall sitting there feeling empathy for this young man and his heart-broken parents. Several years later, I received a letter from this young man's parents. It told of how this young man never returned home, and instead went to a large city basically living a life of sin. In a very sorry state, hungry and alone, he entered a public bus one night. The driver noticed the young man, and at one stop asked if he would be interested in a hot meal as he was ending his shift. He accepted the offer, and the bus driver took him to his home.

The bus driver just happened to be a member of the Church. He would later explain the Spirit came to him and told him to invite this young man to his home. This was the beginning of a long journey of repentance, and an honorable completion of a full-time mission. This repentant soul could proclaim, "Where I was blind, now I see."

On a windy Sunday morning the doors of our chicken shed blew open while we were at church. All nine of our chickens escaped. When we got home, we found three chickens in the garden and five in our yard. But we couldn’t find Ginger though we looked and looked. That night there was a terrible storm with wind, rain, and lightning. We were all worried that Ginger would not survive. All of us prayed that she would be safe.
The next morning a delivery man came to the front door with a package. When Mom opened the door, Ginger walked right into the house. I learned that if you need help, you can pray. Heavenly Father will answer your prayer, even if it is a small prayer for a pet chicken.Dallin P., age 9, Utah

Such hopes make our lives interesting and can often lead to unusual, even superstitious behavior. For example, my father-in-law is a huge sports fan, but he is convinced if he doesn’t watch his favorite basketball team on television, they are more likely to win. When I was 12 years old, I insisted on wearing the same pair of unwashed socks to every Little League baseball game in the hopes of winning. My mother made me keep them on the back porch.

Then, approximately two years later, on June 23, 1844, Joseph Smith turned himself in to the militia under the control and promised protection of Governor Ford. Joseph’s statement to his friends was: “If my life is of no value to my friends it is of none to myself” (HC 6:549). As he rode out of Nauvoo, the Prophet added, “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter” (D&C 135:4).

Here is Joseph’s last letter to Emma, started one day before his Martyrdom and dated June 27, 1844:
Dear Emma:
I am very much resigned to my lot, knowing I am justified and have done the best that could be done. Give my love to the children and all my friends, Mr. Brower, and all who inquire after me. And as for treason, I know that I have not committed any, and they cannot prove one appearance of anything of the kind. So you need not have any fears that any harm can happen to us on that score. May God bless you all, amen. [Personal Writings, 611; text modernized]

I remember a story about when President David O. McKay, ninth president of the Church, was a young lad. He received a new pocketknife on his eighth birthday, and he got on his horse and rode out into the valley, made a fire, ate his lunch, then got ready to return home.
As he began riding home, he realized that he had forgotten his new pocketknife. He quickly turned around and raced back to the spot where he had eaten his lunch and searched in vain for his knife. His father had taught him to pray when confronted with a problem, so because of his faith in his father, David got on his knees and began to talk simply and earnestly to the Lord. In the midst of his prayer, he saw a vision—a picture as clear as any TV picture—of his knife under a clump of weeds. He got up on his feet, looked around, walked directly to the scene he had just witnessed in his mind, and found his knife exactly as it had been revealed to him!

Because he is blind, when Richard Cowan plans to go anywhere he hasn’t been before, he usually makes a special map of the area. He calls them “raised-line maps,” and they are ingenious guides to everything. On his maps, highways are “drawn” with cord, streets with thin thread, bodies of water and parks with different kinds of fabrics. All points of interest are different to the touch.
Brother Cowan, a professor of Church history and doctrine at Brigham Young University, Provo, Utah, likes to share these creations. “When I went to Mexico City,” he explains, “I made a whole series of maps of the city and the country. I had several copies made, took them with me, and presented them to an organization for the blind with the hope that they would help someone.” Brother Cowan now has these maps reproduced in plastic that has the feel of the original fabrics and are much more durable.

“Will you please forgive me? I want to be honest,” she whispered after handing me the familiar old wallet that had been missing for nine years.
With head bowed she briefly explained that she had never stolen anything before or since. As she turned to walk away, I heard a sigh, as of relief, escape her lips.
Occasionally in a lifetime, one experiences, even with a stranger, the reverent feeling of being in the presence of the truly pure in heart, and it was this feeling that was present as I fingered the old worn wallet with the broken zipper. The memories of years gone by returned to my mind with the clarity of only yesterday. The snapshots of the special friends during that time, along with an activity card and other identification cards, gave evidence that it was indeed my old wallet. With assurance I instinctively glanced into the pocket for paper bills and was not surprised to find what appeared to be the very same ten dollar bill that had been there the day I lost my wallet.
It had been nine years since as a student at BYU I had used the telephone in the Joseph Smith Building and had carelessly left my wallet in the booth.
After futilely returning to the lost and found department regularly for several days, I finally gave up my desperate hope of ever getting my wallet and the much-needed money back. The money was all I had, and I was in the habit of measuring my expenditures with great care. The loss of $10 without an understanding landlady could have caused some real problems. But that incident, like many others, faded into the background as more important events crowded in.
Years had passed, and on a snowy afternoon the mailman delivered a rather fat letter, and no wonder, since there were two letters enclosed. The expected one from Mom included a few questions about the other letter which began, “To whom it may concern: Anyone knowing the whereabouts of Ardeth Greene please forward this letter. It is very important that contact be made as soon as possible to settle some unfinished business at BYU.” A name and address were given.
My first reaction was a bit indignant since I knew of no unfinished business for which I was responsible. And then my mind flashed back to my first experience with a bank account when I had written a check for groceries on the wrong bank. Then I became a little less indignant and wondered what unfinished business I needed to set in order.
With some anxiousness I found in the Salt Lake telephone directory the name of the person who had signed the letter. I quickly dialed the number and asked for the person by name. A very pleasant voice responded, “This is she.” I identified myself and began with some apologies for any unfinished business only to be interrupted by a clear and intense voice speaking rapidly as if to spill out all the words at once. She continued unloading her story until finally there was evidence of a heart burdened for a long time now relieved from foreign and contaminating elements too long contained.
As the words spilled out, I learned that this young woman, now a wife and mother, had been in nurses training at BYU. She had worked to put herself through school, but she needed an additional ten dollars for tuition, so she had turned to her boyfriend for help. She had promised to return the loan by the following Friday. When Friday arrived, in spite of her earnest prayers, she was still short ten dollars.
Seemingly without reason, she had walked into the telephone booth and found an old worn wallet. She explained how her heart started to pound since she’d never been tempted like this before. She held her breath as she opened it to find a single ten dollar bill. Then the question: Was this indeed an answer to her prayer?
She interrupted her steady flow of words to explain that since then she had learned that Satan knows when we are being tested and when under pressure we might weaken. We can be sure, she explained, that he will be there if there is a chance we might fall.
And then picking up the story again, she told of paying her boyfriend, whom she later married, graduating in nursing, and now raising a beautiful family and rejoicing in the blessings of the gospel.
Her voice choked with emotion as she painfully related the details about the old wallet. She emphasized how she had been taught right from wrong and how she was well acquainted with the principle of honesty. Her conscience had prompted her, but she listened to the wrong voice and acted contrary to that which she knew was right. She explained how taking the money had seemed justified at the time and hardly seemed like a sin at all. But for nine years her faithful conscience had never been at peace in that particular matter.
“A wrong sum can be put right: but only by going back till you find the error and working it afresh from that point, never by simply going on.” (C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce, p. 6.)
She poured out her heart as she told of the suffering for what she acknowledged as sin—sin because she had known better.
“Sin is the transgression of divine law, as made known through the conscience or by revelation. A man sins when he violates his conscience, going contrary to light and knowledge—not the light and knowledge that has come to his neighbor, but that which has come to himself. He sins when he does the opposite of what he knows to be right.” (Orson F. Whitney, quoted by Bruce R. McConkie in Mormon Doctrine, Bookcraft, 1966, p. 735.)
For nine years, through many moves, the old burden had lain deeply tucked away in her top dresser drawer. It seemed impossible for her to throw away the wallet, though she’d considered it many times. There is no way you can throw away a wrong, and yet, there was no way, as far as she knew, to return the wallet.
One day while she was straightening the drawer, the old wallet surfaced again. This time she felt she must get rid of it, but only the right way. She had learned many valuable lessons over the years, and she had a quiet assurance that even this had served a purpose.
She thoughtfully opened the old wallet once again, and while examining it this time her fingers uncovered a small, orange card tucked away in a tiny compartment not previously noticed. This orange card would prove to be the key to unloading her burden. The card gave the address of the Calgary Clinic in Alberta, Canada, where the medical exam for a student’s visa had been given. She became excited with the thought that this time she might clean her top drawer in every detail.
With a prayer in her heart she took a chance and sent a letter “to whom it may concern” to the Calgary Clinic to be forwarded if possible. It was forwarded first to my parents in Canada, and then back to Utah where it finally reached its intended destination. Contact had been made, but the wallet was yet to be returned. During the telephone conversation she indicated the wallet would be mailed that very day.
When one sees in another a keen sense of right and wrong and a great virtue carefully tuned by the Spirit through struggle and final victory, there is a reaching out for association with that person, a desire to meet one so honest in heart, so I asked her if she would consider delivering the wallet in person. She seemed a little embarrassed at the thought, until I assured her it would be an honor and a privilege to meet a person possessing such honesty of character. She agreed that she would that afternoon bring the object of our common interest to the office where I was working.
At the appointed hour as I returned from lunch, I saw a young woman with her back toward me seated by my desk. Her shoulders were narrow but straight, and she sat erect on the edge of the chair with both feet squarely on the floor directly in front of her.
As I approached, she shifted nervously and then stood up.
As though she had rehearsed this experience in her mind a hundred times, she reached out her steady hand, looked me squarely in the eye, and handed me the wallet. Her steady gaze reflected the radiance of a good and honest life.
Then her eyes dropped as she whispered, “Will you please forgive me? I want to be honest.” Words would not come. I could only reach for her hand and nod affirmatively. From my office, I watched her walk away from my desk and out the front door.
“Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more.” (D&C 58:42.)
I went to the window to watch her with her shoulders square, head erect, and with a lilt in her step as she turned the corner out of sight. Returning to my desk I again heard her words, “Will you please forgive me? I want to be honest.”

There were five of us on the trail crew that day. We were all new to the job, so when we gathered around to hear the assignment for the day, we were delighted to learn that we would start on a new trail—Clegg Canyon they called it.
“You mean Fly Canyon?” replied Verle, our fearless leader.
“Why Fly Canyon?” I asked.
With a sly smile, Verle looked down at me and said, “You’ll see.”
While we unloaded the Jeep, Verle filled us in on what work needed to be done. At last we were ready to start the trail. As we walked, Verle kept reminding us that this trail was considered one of the most miserable assignments because of the flies, but we couldn’t see any flies, so taking him seriously was a little hard. Verle had a way of pulling your leg at times, and I was usually a gullible victim. But today, he assured us, once the sun was out, the flies would be too.
As we hiked up farther into the canyon, we soon came to realize how right Verle was. At first the flies came in pairs, buzzing around my ears and making quick landings on my nose. Then they became bolder, so we were sure they had called out their battalions. I had considered myself a patient person until then. Every 30 minutes we had to stop and recoat ourselves with insect repellent. We especially had to drench our hair to keep the pests from getting entangled. When we began to realize that our efforts to avoid the flies were in vain, we began to lose our tempers.
It finally came to the point where we knew we were doomed. The newspaper headlines flashed through my mind, “Forest Service Employees Carried Away by Flies.” Something had to be done quickly. We tried to work faster, believing motion would shoo the flies away, but our sweat made a more delectable landing. As all good news travels fast, more flies came. In desperation we turned to our leader, who, surprisingly, was taking this all very coolly. He explained that we had to learn how to relax and laugh at annoying situations.
“What is so humorous about 50 million flies attacking us?” I asked.
“Look at it this way. They could carry us through the canyon and save us the trouble of hiking up the trail,” Verle replied.
While we sat eating our lunches (it was more like sharing them with the United Fly Nation), we began to relax and develop a humor of our own. At first the laughter was scarce, but one joke led to another, and we were soon lying back in laughter, oblivious to the millions of black specs around us.
That morning we had loaded the tools that were expected to be useful in completing our assignment. But as we headed down the trail that afternoon, we carried with us a new tool—humor.
On the way down to the Jeep, we were rewarded with a sudden cloudburst that finally rid us of our pests. Free at last, we skipped down the trail like children, grinning from ear to ear. We had survived! But, more important, we had laughed.

Ever since my Primary teacher gave each of us a picture of the Good Shepherd, I’ve wanted to be a real shepherd with a lamb of my own.
I tacked my picture on the wall by my bed in the loft so that I could look at it by lamplight and think about how it would be and remember to mention it in my prayers.
With leftover chicken wire, I built a sheep pen that I could move from grass spot to grass spot by myself. And I found an old baby bottle that I could use to feed my future lamb until it learned to eat grass. But being all ready to be a shepherd made the waiting to get one that much harder.
The day I sighted the dust drifting across the flat brushland below our farm, I figured that my prayers were going to be answered. I threw a saddle on Old Blue and grabbed the two grain sacks that I’d been saving.
“Mama, Woody is moving his sheep!” I yelled.
Lambing time was over, and Woody Morehouse was moving his sheep herd to the mountains, as he did every spring. He always moved them across the flat and up a nearby canyon to feed during the summer. Sometimes a newborn lamb would be too weak to keep up with the ewes and would be left behind in the brush. Woody usually gave these orphan lambs to the first one there to speak for them. This year I was going to be the first.
Mama came to the door with flour on her hands. But even the thought of warm biscuits couldn’t hold me back any. I slapped the stirrups against Old Blue and leaned over his neck. We went flying through our open gate, with the grain sacks flapping in my face and happiness singing inside me. I hollered at my dog. “Come on, Blackie!”
Blackie could sniff out any lambs left behind. He yipped and barked alongside Old Blue.
Even before I saw Woody, I saw Tim. I felt as if a cow had kicked me in the chest. I just stared at Tim, dumbfounded. Finally I said, “I guess you’ve already spoken for any abandoned lambs.”
He just grinned at me.
Woody rode up, knowing why I had come. “Maybe next year, Amos,” he told me.
Swallowing against the tightness in my throat, I whirled Old Blue toward the farm before I started crying right in front of them. When I heard Tim pounding up behind me on his brown mare, I swiped quickly at my eyes.
“Hey, Amos! Can I use your grain sacks? I didn’t stop to get anything to carry the lambs home in.”
I glared at Tim. “How do you know you’ll find any?” I asked. And I secretly hoped that there wouldn’t be any.
“Oh, I followed Woody’s herd clear from the lambing sheds,” he bragged. “I’ve spotted two.”
I wanted to kick Old Blue and ride away from the sight of Tim’s grinning. But Tim was my friend, and he didn’t know how much I longed for a lamb. I held out my grain sacks.
“Be sure you cut a hole big enough so that their heads can poke out, or else they’ll smother,” I warned. “And tie the two openings together so that a sacked-up lamb can hang down each side of the saddle.”
“I know how to do it,” Tim said. Then he whooped and whirled his horse and galloped back toward the sheep trail.
I could smell the warm biscuits when I rode into our yard, but I hoped Mama hadn’t noticed me ride up. I just wanted to slip up the outside stairs to my loft bedroom.
The picture of the Good Shepherd looked down at me as I lay on my bed. The lamb in the Shepherd’s arms looked soft and woolly and contented. My lamb would have been like that, I thought. And it would have nuzzled my face and followed me, just like Blackie. I turned over and buried my face in the pillow, wondering how Tim could have prayed any harder than I had.
The next morning Woody came down off the mountain and stopped at our farm. The first thing he mentioned was the pen that I had made. Then he said, “Amos, a cougar killed one of my ewes last night. She must have slipped away from the herd yesterday as we hazed the sheep up the canyon. I found her carcass near the trail this morning.”
Before I could open my mouth to say how sorry I was, he went on. “She had a lamb with her.” He paused and looked at me closely. “The cougar may have gotten the lamb too. You may want to hunt around in the bush and rocks along the trail. If it’s still alive, the lamb’s yours.”
My eyes widened, and my heart leaped, and the singing inside me began all over again. “If it’s alive, my dog, Blackie, can find it!” I declared. I was almost to the corral before I remembered to tell Ma.
I had ridden Old Blue halfway up the canyon with Blackie at his heels when I saw the cougar tracks. Right where the trail crisscrossed the little canyon stream, the cougar had left tracks in the wet sand!
Old Blue sensed that a cougar was near. He didn’t much like going up the trail, especially when it narrowed and sheer cliff walls hemmed it in. After Old Blue settled down, I sent Blackie on ahead to sniff out any danger. Blackie found the ewe’s carcass, and when I rode up, I saw that that old cougar had torn off a whole hind quarter and packed it away. Little chills crept along my neck. I had to think about the picture back in my bedroom to keep from hightailing it back down the canyon. I didn’t want to meet up with any old cougar!
“Find the lamb, Blackie,” I said softly. And Blackie set off through the rocks and brush.
I rode Old Blue slowly along behind Blackie. And I prayed. I never wanted anything so much as I wanted that little lamb to still be alive.
Just as the trail left the cliff walls and opened out onto an old rockslide, I heard Blackie bark. I got a glimpse of something woolly and cream-colored breaking out of the brush and running toward the rocks.
I slid out of the saddle, yelling, “Catch it, Blackie!” And I started climbing the rocks and boulders after them. “Don’t hurt it, Blackie. Don’t hurt it!”
I could have hugged that old dog when I saw that he’d driven the lamb into a niche between two big rocks and was just standing there, blocking its escape and wagging his tail. Right then I loved that dog more than I ever had before.
The lamb struggled and began to bleat. Its little sides heaved in and out, and there was wild fear in its eyes. I reached into the niche and pulled it out. It struggled to get out of my arms, and I wondered, What did Jesus do when He found His lost lamb? How did He calm His lost lamb’s pounding heart?
I walked Old Blue to a big rock so that I could hang on to my lamb and still climb into the saddle. Blackie ran ahead on the trail, stopping to sniff at the carcass of the dead ewe. It choked me some when I passed it, thinking about how my lamb had stayed close by, fearing to move yet fearing to stay.
Old Blue seemed anxious to get down out of the canyon, so I let him lope past the sheer cliff walls, past the tracks in the wet sand. And all the time I had my arm tightly about the little woolly body, hoping that it could tell how I meant to care for it. And how I meant to be a real shepherd.

They were the last two on the bus, and with luck there were two seats left. One was by a middle-aged Latin. His suit suggested a businessman. But Elder O’Neal stared at the man’s obvious mismatch of green pants and a blue striped jacket. The other seat, much farther back, was by a teenage girl in her school uniform, a wrinkled, white blouse and a green and red plaid skirt.
“I’ll take that one,” Elder Everritt said, pointing to the seat by the businessman. “You take the other one, elder. And remember, arm’s length.” Elder O’Neal stared at him for a moment and then started down the aisle, wending his way through the obstacle course of sacks, boxes, and chickens.
Kevin sat down beside the girl who watched him until their eyes met. Then blushing, she quickly turned away to stare out the window. The seat in front of them was so close that it didn’t leave room for Kevin’s legs. So he sat with his feet out in the aisle.
“What is your name?” The girl next to him had touched him on the shoulder.
“What?” he asked, not sure if he should look at her.
“What is your name?” she asked again.
She spoke with a strong Spanish accent. He smiled.
“No,” he said in English, “you have to accent the next to last word. Like this. What is your name?”
“A-lane,” she said answering him. He didn’t understand until she wrote Helen with her finger on the back of the seat in front of them. “What is your name?” she asked once again.
“Kevin O’Neal, Elder Kevin O’Neal,” he said correcting himself. “How’d you get an English name like Helen?” he asked her.
She stared back at him with the same look he’d given the man at the bus station. He realized that, like the shoeshine boy, she only knew one phrase in English.
“Speak to the Latins in their own language,” his Missionary Training Center teacher had said. “You can’t imagine how much they love it when a North American takes the time and effort to learn their language.”
“Okay,” Kevin thought. “I’ll try speaking to her in Spanish.” The girl had already turned to look out the window when he tapped on her shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he said in Spanish. “I speak a little bit of Spanish.” The girl turned back to him with a smile. Kevin quickly turned to see if Elder Everritt was watching. But Elder Everritt was busy talking to two women in front of him. One was a middle-aged woman who could be the businessman’s wife. The other was much older, with steel-gray hair and deep wrinkles in her dark brown face. If Elder Everritt was talking to those women, it should be okay to talk to the girl. “How did you get an English name like Helen?” he asked in his best Spanish.
“Oh, my name isn’t Helen,” she said pronouncing Helen wrong again. “It’s Elena. That’s Spanish for Helen, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. Her Spanish was spoken at a normal rate, which seemed rapid to him, hard to understand.
“What’s your name again?” Elena asked. “I didn’t understand you when you spoke in English.” Seeing his difficulty in understanding, she had slowed down, pronouncing each word more clearly.
“Elder Kevin O’Neal,” he said answering her question.
“Aldare, that’s a funny name.”
“It’s not a name. It’s a …” He couldn’t think of the word so he said, “My name is Kevin, really.”
“Kaybeen. I like your name. Do you like mine?”
He wasn’t sure if he should answer that. “Yes,” he said out of habit.
“What are you doing in my country?”
“I don’t know,” he said, amazed at his inability to say anything intelligent. Elena looked at him puzzled.
“Why don’t you know? I don’t understand.”
“Really, I’m a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” he said, repeating the line he’d memorized at the Missionary Training Center. “He is my companion,” he said pointing at Elder Everritt who was busy talking to the businessman again.
“That’s neat,” she said. “What do missionaries do?”
He didn’t know how to answer that.
Seeing that he wasn’t going to answer, she asked, “Do you like my country?”
“No,” he said and was sorry.
“Why not?” Elena asked with a frown.
“It is so … it is very …” How do you say strange in Spanish? he asked himself. “It is very different,” he said at last.
“What’s so different about it?” Elena asked.
Kevin knew he’d never be able to explain that. “I don’t know,” he said staring down the aisle. Elder Everritt turned around and waved. He was mouthing something, but O’Neal didn’t understand. Elder Everritt pointed at the businessman and then at Kevin. Kevin shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know what Elder Everritt wanted. Elder Everritt gave up and turned back to the businessman.
“I’ll bet your father sent you,” Elena said staring at the businessman. “To get rid of you. All fathers are alike. Mine doesn’t like me.”
“That’s not true,” Kevin said.
“How do you know? You don’t know my father.”
“I know my father.”
“What’s your father like?” Elena asked.
“He saved my life once.”
“How? Did he do a brave thing?”
“Yes,” Kevin said. “He did a brave thing. He told me I couldn’t go to a party.”
Elena was confused. “But that’s mean,” she said. “Tell me how he saved your life.”
“Let me tell you something else first,” Kevin said. “He asked me not to have certain friends, not to say profane words, not to rebel, not to do this or that. Is that like your father?”
“Yes,” Elena said. “He’s very mean to me.”
“He told me not to go to a party with my friends. He said he loved me, but I didn’t believe him. And I hated him.”
“You were right to hate him,” Elena said. “That was very mean.”
“No, I was wrong. Very wrong,” Kevin said strongly. “He really did love me.”
“I don’t understand,” Elena said. “He didn’t let you go to a party. How is that love?”
“At the party somebody put … put something in the drink. What do you call it?”
“¿Alcohol?” she asked.
“No, that was the drink,” he said feeling ashamed.
“¿Veneno?” she asked.
He didn’t understand that word, so he said, “No, it makes you crazy.” Then in English he said, “Drugs.”
“Oh, drogas,” Elena said starting to understand.
“Three of my friends died in a car,” he told her. “If my father had let me go, I would be dead also. Now do you understand how I know he loves me?”
“Yes,” Elena said. “He let you hate him in order to save you.”
“If my father asks me not to do certain things because he loves me, then why do you think your father asks you not to do them?” Kevin was amazed; the words were coming much more easily now. It was as if he were speaking in his own language.
“Maybe because he loves me,” Elena said answering his question. “Are you really sure?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Kevin said. “And at the same time, tell him you love him.”
The bus stopped. It had reached its destination and was backing into its stall. The passengers began to stand up and get off the bus. Elena stood up and slid past him.
“I don’t know if what you say will work,” she said, “but I’ll try it anyway.” She smiled at him. “You know? Now I know what you missionaries are doing in my country.” Then she was gone.
As Elena left, Kevin said to himself, “So do I now. So do I.”

The ability to receive a patriarchal blessing was a profound opportunity for the British Saints, to strengthen their testimonies and better understand what it was the Lord would have them do. At a London district conference in 1932, Samuel Bantock, a seventy-three-year-old member, was filled with excitement. With tears in his eyes and a glowing face, he rushed up to President John Widstoe and whispered, “The Patriarch told me that my life’s offering was acceptable to the Lord. Think of it. The Lord is pleased with my humble efforts! I would rather know that than… possess all the riches or honour of earth.”10
With hands clasped together, the two men stood facing each other with tears in their eyes. Samuel had truly learned how to measure the values of life. Recalling the event, President Widstoe stated, “How many of the hundreds who in this land have received their patriarchal blessings during the last six months, place the true value upon them, as did this veteran soldier in the army of the Lord?”

Heber J. Grant was the first President of the Church I had the privilege of meeting. He was truly a great man. We admired him because part of his strength was his great determination for self-mastery. His father died when he was only a year old, and his widowed mother struggled to raise him. He was conscientious in helping her and trying to take care of her.
“When he was older and wanted to join a baseball team, … the other [boys laughed] at him, … calling him a ‘sissy’ because he could not throw the ball between the bases. His teammates teased him so much that … he … made up his mind that he was going to play with the nine who would win the championship of the Territory of Utah. He purchased a baseball and practiced hour after hour, throwing at a neighbor’s old barn. Often his arm would ache so much he could hardly … sleep at night. He kept on practicing and … improving and advancing from one team to another until he finally [succeeded] in playing [on] the team that won the territorial championship!”

Remember my great-grandfather, Samuel Bennett? His call to abandon other plans and serve a mission working on the St. George Temple was not the only time he was available to sacrifice at the call of the Lord. In 1902, when Samuel was 49 years old, married with 11 children, the youngest of whom was 4 years old, he was surprised to receive a letter from the President of the Church calling him to serve another mission. Without any advance warning, Samuel was asked to leave his farm and family and serve as a missionary for two years in Great Britain. Can you imagine? The letter calling Samuel to serve has not survived, but we do have Samuel’s letter of response. I think you will find it interesting and a little amusing. Here it is in full:

Holden City UtahJune 23, 1902Dear Br[ethre]n,
In your letter Dated June 20, Inquiring as to my feelings in regard to being called on a mission to Great Britain to preach the Gospel, I feel to try and comply with any and every call under the direction of the Holy Priesthood.
I have no money on hand at Present. But with the Blessings of the Lord, I believe I will be able to raise the necessary amount that it will require. I would rather my Brethren Set the date and I will try to work to that end or to that Date.
My Health at Present is Pretty fare. And I believe as my Day my Strength Shall be.
I do not keep the word of wisdom in every Particular. But believe I can live nearer to that principle from time to time.
I am unacquainted with any other Language. I hope that this letter will meet the approval of my Brethren.
I am your Bro[ther] in the Gospel.Samuel Bennett

My heart swells with joy when I read this letter. My gratitude for my grgreat-grandfatherills the cup of my heart and runs over. As you heard, Samuel developed a little problem with the Word of Wisdom, which he resolved through repentance. But the overriding truth of Samuel’s life is that he was available to the Lord.

Samuel served for two years. This caused great hardship to his wife and family, but never did they falter and never did their faith fail. On one occasion, a well-meaning bishop, recognizing the financial hardship which had come to the family as a result of Samuel’s service, offered to relieve her temporarily of the obligation to pay tithing. “Aunt Martha,” he said, I don’t believe the Lord expects you to pay tithing while Sam is in the mission field.” In response, she was a bit indignant in refusing the bishop’s offer. She said, “Bishop, nobody must keep me from receiving that blessing.” Like the widow woman of Zarephath, who in faith gave her last morsel of bread to the prophet Elijah, the Lord kept the promise of His prophet that the “barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall the cruse of oil fail.” [47]

Such are the eternal blessings that come to those who make themselves available to the Lord, who say when the Spirit calls, “Here am I, send me.”

Tim frowned as he lay in bed. It had been an awful day. First he had to help take care of his sister, and she had spilled [color] [food] on the floor! Then, at school his class studied [adjective] [animals] all day. When he got home, he found out his favorite toy [noun] was broken. Tim’s grumpy thoughts stayed with him as he fell asleep that night.
Suddenly, Tim was taking care of his sister, only now she was [big number] feet tall! It was much harder to help her, and they couldn’t play peek-a-boo the way they usually did. When Tim walked to school, he found out that his teacher had been replaced by a [adjective] [noun]! Instead of learning, he had to clean [nouns] all day. And at home, all of Tim’s toys had turned into [nouns]!
Just then, Tim’s alarm went off with a loud [animal sound]. Tim sat up and rubbed his eyes. It had been a dream! He laughed while playing peek-a-boo with his sister. He smiled while giving his book report at school. Even though his favorite toy was broken, he was happy there were other things he could play with. Tim was glad he could feel grateful instead of grumpy!