Gospel Story Finder

One such opportunity was a moment, a couple of years ago in Ladysmith, in KwaZulu Natal Province, in the Republic of South Africa with Elder Kevin S. Hamilton, then President of the Africa Southeast Area.
After a training session with Elder Hamilton, as a young returning missionary whose family does not share my faith, amidst my anxiety as to how to stay strong, I asked, “President, what should I do to retain my membership in the Church?”
Elder Hamilton looked at me in the eyes, placed his arm around my shoulder and said, “What do you usually tell your new converts?”
I responded, “President, I encourage them to continually come to Church to partake of the sacrament, to pray often, to prepare to go to the temple, to do home visiting (ministering), and to magnify their callings when given one.”
He replied, “Elder, then go home and do those things. Your faith will be strengthened as you continually do them”.

I saw a young man nearly overwhelmed by a new call not long ago. The Lord had inspired His servant to call him to be the president of a stake. The young man had never been a bishop. He had never served in a stake presidency. The stake had in it many men of greater maturity and experience.

He was humbled when he heard the call. His wife through tears said to the servant of the Lord who called him, “Are you sure?” Her husband said quietly that he would serve. His wife nodded her support, tears streaming down her face. As you might have done at such a time, he wanted to talk with his father, who was far away. He called him that afternoon on the telephone. His father has been a dairy farmer all his life. He raised the boy into a man through milking cows and letting his son observe him stop to talk with neighbors to see how they were doing. The next morning, in his first talk as a stake president, this is how he recounted the conversation with his father:

“Many of you that know me know I am a man of few words. I must have gotten that from my father. As I called him yesterday to let him know that I was being called as a stake president, his one response to me was, ‘Well, you better do a lot of praying.’ That was his counsel to me. What better counsel could he give?”

Years ago I served with a group of inner-city youth in Boston, Massachusetts, who were largely new to the gospel and to the expectations of the Church. It was tempting to confuse my empathy and concern for their situation with a desire to lower God’s standards. I eventually realized that the most powerful way to show my love was to never lower my expectations. With everything I knew to do, we focused together on their potential, and each of them began to elevate their slopes. Their growth in the gospel was gradual but steady. Today they have served missions, have graduated from college, have been married in the temple, and are leading remarkable personal and professional lives.

A couple of years ago a young brother came up to me after a concert and asked if I’d ever seen the kid in the back of the room watching the man up front play his guitar, wanting with all his might to just open up like that and let his feelings out. And then he told me that he was the kid, that it was destructive to his spirit and hurtful to his head to feel the constant pressure of those dammed-up feelings and emotions and ideas. I didn’t doubt his sincerity, but I thought it might be just one more case of never having really tried. I asked him what he was doing to develop his talent. “Well, I’m studying voice right now, and I’ve been playing classical guitar for five years.” Obviously the problem had to be something else.
I invited him to come out to my house in Alpine (a small town in Utah County) when he could, and we’d talk about it. (Incidentally, his desire to share his light so touched me that I wrote a song about him that night before I went to bed—a song that a lot of my artist friends relate to really well, because they, too, frequently feel those “dammed-up” pressures.)
Not long after, we spent the day together in Alpine. The main element in his problem turned out to be a fairly simple misunderstanding. He somehow had the idea that those phrases and images that roll so easily off the singer’s tongue roll just as easily from the writer’s mind. He had begun hundreds of verses on hundreds of days, but whenever a word or picture got stuck in the pen, he felt that he had failed and quit. I have a song about swimming in a river. I sang him the lines:
You can see the fishes dancin’
Dancin’ silver rings around you and me.
Then I told him how I spent an hour a day for about three days writing those two lines, singing the song over and over, getting to that empty place and trying to hear those two lines, filling that place with a dozen different images, finally finding that image and saying it a dozen different ways, then singing it again and again, testing it on my tongue, my ear, my sense of balance.
He asked what the green book on the piano was—a rhyming dictionary. The blue one—a Thesaurus. And the cassette recorder—a recorder to tape four or five notes at a time, playing them back, seeing if the structure sounded fresh and yet inevitable. What was written in the pile of music notebooks? Melodies that didn’t work. The other notebooks? Lyrics that didn’t work. The filing cabinet? Ideas for songs. He wrote me a letter recently from the mission field in South America. The letter was in rhyme—not a hit song lyric, but real feelings breathing on the page.

It is entirely possible that 99 percent of the population of the United States dreads the jolting buzz of the alarm clock. But piano lessons make the alarm obsolete. For example, just the other morning while sleeping as soundly as Cinderella in a feather bed, my conscience began mumbling: “5:00 A.M. … piano lesson … self-discipline … out of bed … 5:00 A.M.”
“Quiet!” I yelled.
Hearing my own voice woke me. Since I was awake anyway, I decided to get out of bed and practice. I perched myself on the piano bench. First came the scales. C major. One-two-three-four—up and down the piano endlessly. The repetition tended to hypnotize me; my head dropped.
At breakfast, over strawberries and muffins, my little brother complained that he had been awakened at 5:00 A.M. by a C major scale. My mother told me she didn’t mind if I practiced, as long as I didn’t wake the family and then quit. I explained that I had merely dozed off in the middle of a scale. At this point my father added a gem of advice: “JoAnn,” he said, “discipline yourself to eat right and be in bed before 9:00, and you will be alert and awake at the piano.” I quickly ate another strawberry.

An experience that I had on my mission shows how Heavenly Father watches over us. My companion and I had just taught and baptized a family in Leeds, England. Then we were transferred to Bradford, about a half-hour bus trip away. One day, my companion and I were getting ready to visit some missionaries in our district, but it seemed like we just could not get out the door. Each time we left, we realized that we had forgotten something.

After returning three times, we thought, Maybe there’s some reason we should stay here. We sat down, and within a few minutes, the phone rang. It was the mother of the family we had baptized in Leeds. She was very ill, and she needed us to come give her a blessing. We immediately left for the bus stop, where the bus was just about to leave. When we changed buses, we again caught our bus very quickly. When we arrived, the woman was so sick that she was shivering badly, and we couldn’t even understand her words. My companion and I gave her a blessing, and as I said the words, we both felt so much strength leave us that we had to sit down for almost ten minutes. During that time, she was able to stand, go to her kitchen, and prepare something for the three of us to drink. When we left half an hour later, she was completely healed and waved to us at the door. Not all priesthood blessings are answered so quickly and happily, but we were overjoyed for it to happen to this good sister.

I was with President Tanner in the city of Cardston a few weeks ago and noted a clean city; and I mentioned it time and time again as we drove through the streets, a clean city. I noticed no backyards filled with trash and other waste, and I could not help but mention to him again, “Look at the row there, this whole row of homes, and as far as you see there are gardens, corn and beans and squash.” There were little fruit trees in between, and nearly every yard, as far as we could see, every backyard was cultivated; and I am sure the good people there were living considerably out of their yard, rather than out of the store. I was pleased indeed to see that there are many of our people who have not forgotten the lessons of yesterday, and are still listening to the words of the leaders.

As Ben and Lisa (names have been changed) approached age 60, they shared with me their fears about their financial future. Ben had a steady job, and Lisa worked part-time. However, they had failed to be realistic about retirement.
“We want to retire at age 62, go on a mission, and return to our same spending throughout retirement. Can we do it?” Because of my experience as a financial adviser, they asked for my help to see what could be done. After some analysis, I told them, “You can go on a mission, but you will still need to work until at least age 75 to maintain your lifestyle.” The feeling of despair set in.
While Ben and Lisa had always paid their tithes, they had disregarded other guiding principles. There are no shortcuts to financial freedom. Even after painfully adjusting their spending, Ben and Lisa needed to do more. One major way to free up resources, current and future, was to sell their home, moving into a smaller but comfortable home with lower upkeep expenses.
With their new focus turned toward serving the Lord rather than maintaining an affluent facade, they received new spiritual promptings. As a result, they were able to retire at age 65 and serve a mission.

Rhoeta M., age 15, from Idaho, USA, discovered that she needed good friends as she was investigating the Church. “When I began attending sacrament meeting, classes, and Young Women, I was instantly greeted by many friendly faces and a caring community. I was included in all the activities, and the new friends I made encouraged me to follow God’s plan. They helped me set and accomplish my spiritual goals.” After learning more from the missionaries and connecting with her friends at church, Rhoeta made the decision to be baptized. “I am so grateful to have found such good people,” she says, “and I’m blessed to have had such an excellent transition into the Church!”

Included in this program of self-discipline is a weekly half hour of torture. I walk into my piano teacher’s home. The piano teacher motions me to the piano, and I begin playing. In the middle of a stirring rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” I suddenly stop, staring wildly at the black-and-white page before me. Where is the next note? Where? Where? Vaguely, through the haze of pressure, I hear a faraway voice: “You are on the wrong note. Name the notes.”
“Oh … I don’t know … A, B, C, D, E, F, G.”
“That’s right. Which one is this note?”
Suddenly self-discipline emerges.
“A!” I cry.
The sun breaks; the piano teacher smiles; and I realize that with the discipline gained through piano lessons, I can now do anything. Well … almost.

When I was in junior high, my parents got divorced. Because of that, there was a lot of tension in my family, and my two oldest siblings moved away. My other brother was struggling a lot and often had trouble with the law, so it was usually just me and my younger siblings at home with my mom. During this time, I couldn’t help but sense that my family didn’t feel whole. We slowly stopped praying together, and we didn’t have family home evenings anymore. I felt lonely, and not just at home—at school I felt like I couldn’t fit in and didn’t have any friends.
When I got to high school, I started seminary. I immediately felt a difference. Seminary felt like a home with a family in it—my new source of spiritual strength.
In seminary, I learned how to study the scriptures and understand their teachings, which helped me to go home and teach my family about the gospel more clearly. I also learned the importance of prayer and was able to bring my family together to have family prayer. After a while, my experiences in seminary even gave me the courage to help out with family home evenings again. It had a great impact on us and made our spirits stronger. We felt like a family again.

When I was at my friend’s house, we put up a tent in the backyard. My friend brought out a small TV and put a movie in. There were some things in the show that I felt weren’t good. I said, “We should put on another movie.” My friend said that there weren’t any more bad parts, but I said we should watch something else just in case. We put in another movie that was better. I felt good that I made the right choice and that my friend listened to me.
Kaitlyn L., age 10, Yukon Territory, Canada

About one month ago, I got injured quite badly during a sports game. At times this injury prevented me from attending church. I would be lying at home, not being able to sit up for long. One Sunday I picked up the New Era. After I had read it, I picked up another and then another. After about two Sundays at home I had read all the copies of the New Era that we have in our living room. Even though I missed going to Young Women (and sometimes to Mutual activities), I felt as though I was still learning the Church’s principles.Jessica Evans, Lake Rotoroa Ward, Hamilton New Zealand Glenview Stake

My father would have us go out to the chicken coops and shoot the rats out of the feed troughs because they would eat the chickens’ food. On many occasions I would go out with a flashlight and a small gun to shoot the rats that were in the hoppers eating the chickens’ food.
I’ll never forget one night when I was out on that particular assignment. My father came home from a Church meeting and looked down at me and said, “Son, what flashlight do you have?” I looked down and realized it was the one my father took to work, and it had the name of the copper mine on the side. My father said, “Son, that flashlight is for me to use on the job. You should never take anything from your employer for personal use—not even a pencil, a flashlight, or anything else. Go back and get another flashlight.” I am so grateful for my father’s legacy of honesty.

“Don’t scuff your new school shoes, Richy,” said Mother as the family left the meetinghouse. “Remember, they must last until spring.”
Richy liked to walk home from Sunday School alone. He enjoyed strolling across the green meadow and by the majestic cottonwood trees that grew beside the river. The wide cottonwood leaves reminded him of flakes of gold in the autumn sunlight.
Richy walked along the bank beside the whispering water, thinking how refreshing it would feel to his burning feet jammed inside the stiff leather shoes.
However, Father had often told Richy not to go wading on the Sabbath. “It isn’t a day for pleasure. The Lord gave us this day to rest and to count our blessings,” he would say.
Cold water on my hot feet would certainly be a blessing, Richy reasoned. But even as he sat down to remove his shoes and stockings, the boy was sure that his father would not approve of him cooling his feet in the water on the Sabbath.
Still, he rolled up his trousers and put his socks inside the new shoes before placing them carefully beneath some willows in a thicket. Then he ran down to the riverbank and splashed into the water.
Richy enjoyed the grainy feel of wet sand squishing between his toes and the push of chilly water against his ankles. But finally the lowering sun warned him that he had waded too long and would surely be late for dinner.
Out of the river, Richy ran back to the meadow. The summery feel of green grass under his feet was a delight, but he knew that he had to put on his new shoes again and hurry home.
“But where are my shoes?” Richy asked himself in panic. The willows all looked alike. He searched everywhere, but his shoes were nowhere to be found. Finally, he gave up and slowly started home, feeling more worried with every step. He decided that early the next morning he would carefully search for his new shoes in all the willows along the riverbank.
When I get home, Richy thought, I’ll walk quietly through the kitchen and into my bedroom. If I put on my old shoes, Father might not notice.
But later when the screen door slipped out of his hand and banged shut, the sound brought Richy’s parents into the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” his mother asked. “We’ve been so worried about you.”
His father started to talk but stopped when he looked down at Richy’s bare feet. “Young man, where are your shoes?” he demanded.
Richy’s heart was pounding, but he just couldn’t tell his parents that he had carelessly lost the shoes, bought with money saved a few coins at a time in Mother’s cedar handkerchief box. Without stopping to think, he blurted out, “Some boy stole them.”
Father looked upset. “You mean to tell me that a boy knocked you down and took your shoes?”
“Oh, no,” Richy said quickly. “My feet were so hot that I took my shoes off while I rested under a tree. I guess I feel asleep. When I woke up the shoes were gone.”
His father asked, “Do you have any idea who took them?”
Richy felt a painful tightness in his chest. Never before had he told his parents a lie. But if I say I waded in the river and that I couldn’t find my shoes, he thought, Father will be furious with me for breaking the Sabbath, and Mother will be upset because I was careless.
So Richy’s answer was, “No, I don’t know who it could be.”
Mother was puzzled. “But who in this town would steal your new shoes?” she asked.
“We must find out. We can’t afford another pair. Besides, whoever took them should be punished,” Father declared.
“Well,” Mother said, “you must eat your dinner now. Afterward we’ll talk about what to do.”
Richy was too upset to eat. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’ll just go in and put on my old shoes.”
Because Richy had disobeyed his father, lost his shoes, and then lied about it, he experienced a feeling far more painful than the pinching new shoes had ever caused.
Later, sitting quietly with his family before sacrament meeting began, Richy saw a new family from Denmark, looking lonely and shy, enter the meetinghouse. Richy thought, It must be very hard to come to a strange country. I’m sure life here is much different than it is in their homeland when they don’t know our language very well.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard his mother whisper to his father, “Look!”
Richy looked too. A tall boy came down the aisle with his parents. He wore a brown shirt, trousers too short for his long legs, and Richy’s new shoes!
Richy felt as though he were being held tightly by the throat because he couldn’t swallow. All through the meeting he kept his eyes lowered, too miserable to listen to the speakers.
After the closing prayer, when everyone stood up to leave, Richy’s father said sternly, “Son, come with me.”
Together they went to Bishop Feldon. “Bishop, I’m afraid a problem has come up,” Father said gravely. “We must ask you to speak to Brother Pedersen before he goes home. Richy’s shoes were stolen this morning and the Pedersen boy is wearing them.”
Richy’s legs felt like quivering twigs as he followed his father and the bishop outside. They waited beside the steps where he looked up at the sky. He thought it should be a shimmering, cheerful blue, but it only looked empty. Crimson leaves on the trees were just leaves. Richy discovered that nothing in the world outside looked right when he felt so wrong inside.
Richy glanced quickly at Lars and his family, who were stopped by Bishop Feldon. The tall boy smiled timidly as though he were saying, “I am very lonely in this strange country. Will you be my friend?”
Richy tried to smile back, but he couldn’t. Instead, tears came to his eyes.
“Richy,” his father said, “I want you to tell the bishop and Brother Pedersen and Lars about your shoes being stolen.”
Richy took a deep breath. He had never felt so awful in his life. Finally he swallowed what seemed like a big lump in his throat and then in a steady voice he said, “My shoes weren’t stolen, Father. Lars just found them.”
Surprised and confused, Father asked, “What do you mean, son? How could he just find them?”
In a trembling voice Richy explained, “My feet hurt so I took off the shoes to wade in the river. I hid them in some willows. But I couldn’t remember where and Lars must have come along and found them.”
Father sighed deeply. “Richy, you broke the Sabbath and that is a sorrow to me, but the lie you told has made other people worried and unhappy too.”
Richy lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t know a lie could make me feel so miserable and cause other people so much trouble.”
His father nodded. “I guess you didn’t, however a lie always causes trouble.” Then he turned to Brother Pedersen and said, “I’m very sorry that this whole thing happened.” But the pain inside Richy grew worse as he saw the disappointment on Lars’ face when he realized that the sturdy shoes he was wearing so proudly must be given back to Richy.
The older men continued to talk, but Lars walked over and sat down on the grass. He gestured for Richy to sit beside him. Sadly he unlaced the shoes, took them off, and held them out to Richy. Then Lars pointed to his right foot. His big toe stuck through a hole in his stocking.
Lars began to laugh. The sound was so bright and happy that Richy laughed, too, and the hurt inside him melted a little.
Father will punish me, he thought, and he should. To tell a lie is very bad and I will try never to do it again.
Gradually the hurt inside Richy was lessened when he remembered that even though he had done wrong, he could be forgiven.
Again Lars laughed, wiggling his big toe, and Richy laughed with him because the sky was blue again, the leaves were golden red in the sunlight, and he had a new friend.

During this time last year, Jessica had a testimony-building experience as she faced a personal challenge. After agreeing to be in charge of organizing the Christmas service project, she learned that her father had been diagnosed with cancer. She wondered if she ought to back out of the event, but she went ahead, she says, because “I had received a confirmation from the Spirit that this service was what I was supposed to do. This experience has taught me about serving others and relying on the Lord in your trials. I’ve gained a stronger testimony of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and that He suffered for my pains. When I was having a hard time, I was able to find thoughts of peace through the gospel.”

The old pickup truck sat hunched like a tired soldier in the tall yellow weeds by the side of the house as if waiting dutifully for its next order to spring into action. It had seen a lot of service in its long association with Grandpa Virgil. As he gazed out at the old vehicle from his bedroom window, Nathan Daniels was remembering Grandpa Virgil. In fact, Nathan rarely thought of his grandfather without thinking of the battered green pickup. Why, it was as much a part of Grandpa Virgil as his worn, weathered smile.

Nathan rubbed the sleep from his eyes and gazed harder out his window at the truck that sparked so many joyous memories of his grandfather, who had died in his sleep the week before. He had been eighty-seven years old.

To Nathan, the old pickup was like a part of his grandpa’s journal—filled with stories, happy times, sad times. All those times that come out of being alive.

The night before, Nathan had overheard his father talking about selling the truck to Thomas Finch up the road. Mr. Finch had long expressed an interest in it. Nathan’s father already had a big, new ’57 pickup—and a dependable family car. The money Mr. Finch offered father for Grandpa Virgil’s pickup would buy two more milk cows to add to the eight that Nathan’s family already had.

Later that morning as everyone gathered around the breakfast table, Nathan’s father asked Frank, Nathan, and Ashley what one thing they would each like to have that had belonged to Grandpa Virgil, as a remembrance of him. Frank chose Grandpa’s fishing pole. “It’s yours,” Father agreed with a kindly smile. “And all his tackle. I know how you cherished your time with him under that old willow by the fishing hole.” He turned his smile toward Nathan’s sister. “What about you, Ash?”

“Grandpa’s scriptures,” she said after a moment’s thought, “the ones he always took to church.”

Father patted the small girl’s hand and nodded. “I think Grandpa especially wanted you to have them because he knew you’d really study them like he did.” He then turned toward his firstborn. “And you, Nathan? What would you like, son?”

Nathan hesitated, knowing how much his father needed the extra milk cows. His eyes fell, and he poked at his food. Then, mustering a smile, he looked up and said, “I really can’t think of anything, Dad.”

Father and Mother exchanged glances. They knew different. “It’s Grandpa Virgil’s old pickup, isn’t it, Nathan?”

He nodded. “But the extra milk cows—you need the money you’ll get from Mr. Finch for Grandpa’s truck to buy them.”

“I made all of you kids an offer, Nathan,” Father reminded him. “You’d like to have his old pickup, and we want you to have it. Besides—” he glanced away quickly to blink back a tear— “I saw you outside, sitting in Grandpa’s truck, and I could tell that to you that old pickup is as priceless an earthly treasure as a boy or man could ever hope for.” He leaned forward and spoke with warm finality: “The old pickup is yours.”

Before Nathan could protest, Father added, “The extra cows can wait, Nathan. We have managed without them this long, haven’t we? And if this year’s harvest is good, I just might be able to buy them then—OK?”

That night Nathan sat by his bedroom window, staring out at the green pickup in the tall weeds. It was as alive in his mind as it was in the yard—as alive as Grandpa Virgil would always be, for memories were eternal, his grandfather once said, “and things eternal never die.” Nathan had been wrestling in his mind with something ever since supper. Now a look of peace and contentment washed over him. He regarded the battered machine in the soft glow of moonlight a final moment, then went to bed.

Early the next morning, he approached his father with a determined look on his face. “I have something to say, Dad.”

“Sure,” his father answered. “What is it, son?”

“It’s something I want to do. I just feel it. It’s what Grandpa would do if he were here.”

“OK,” Father said slowly, waiting to hear his son out.

“I called Mr. Finch about the pickup—I’m selling it to him.”

“You’re what?”

“I want to be like Grandpa, Dad. I want to help.”

“I told you, Nathan, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, Dad,” Nathan interrupted. “I really want to.”

Nathan went with his father for the last ride in the pickup. Mother drove the other family truck, Frank and Ashley riding with her. After they dropped off Grandpa Virgil’s pickup at Mr. Finch’s, they would head for Mr. Anderson’s farm to purchase two more milk cows. It was hot enough that Nathan could roll down the truck window and let the wind rush across his face. He seemed to hear in his mind Grandpa Virgil saying that maybe it was the same easy wind that had cooled the brows of the early handcart pioneers as they trudged across the plains.

Nathan smiled and gazed affectionately around the old truck, which was still alive with memories—the kind of memories that go on forever. Just like Grandpa Virgil.

My mother’s mission taught her a great lesson on faith. Her bishop and stake president told her that it would be difficult for her to serve a mission because she had a speech impediment, which made it hard for her to be understood. But she felt impressed to go and had the overwhelming feeling that if she would be faithful, the Lord would correct her problem and she would be able to serve.
At age 14 she had received a blessing regarding a mission. Some time later she went to the secluded upper rooms of the meetinghouse and poured her soul out to her Heavenly Father regarding her desire to serve a mission. She felt inspired to call her uncle, who was a mission president in Missouri, and ask him if she could be his secretary. (Back then they didn’t have all the formalities concerning mission calls that we do now.) He said yes, and she was set apart by a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, who promised her she would bring many people into the Church. She was surprised at this, knowing that she had difficulty speaking.
However, after she began to serve, one of the sister missionaries became very ill. The mission president asked my mother to work with this sister’s companion so that the sister could come to the mission home to recover and her companion could keep working. My mother took a train to the area where she would be working. When she stepped off the train, she was met by a couple of elders, one of whom remarked when he saw her, “Why have they sent Sister Bennion? She can’t even talk.” She turned to that missionary and said indignantly, “Yes, I can talk.” And in that moment her problem was gone, and it never returned.

“There is enough food for only one more day,” the captain said. “Would you like to eat it all or divide it into smaller portions to last three days?”
The company agreed to divide the food. Louisa’s stomach growled as she and her family accepted their tiny portions. As a member of the Martin Handcart Company, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had enough to eat.
That night, the company gathered around the fire to sing. “And should we die before our journey’s through, happy day! All is well!”*
Louisa’s sister Elizabeth wiped away a tear.
“Are you worried about Mother?” Louisa whispered.
Elizabeth tried to smile. “A little. But remember Mother’s blessing?”
Louisa nodded. “Yes. It comforts me too.”
Mother had been sick before leaving England, and Father had helped carry her onto the ship. Mother had been given a blessing that promised she would live to see her children reach Zion. Though she improved during the sea voyage, pulling a handcart through the early winter snow and surviving on such little food had weakened her again. Every day she grew worse.
Staring into the dying fire, Louisa tried not to think about the snowy graves that had been dug for so many of her friends along the trail. Instead she thought about Mother’s blessing and the warm feeling of assurance she had felt. Mother, Father, and all six of her siblings—even the two-year-old twins—would make it to Zion safely. Louisa was sure of it!
The next morning, as they plodded through the snow, Louisa’s mother began to stumble.
“Go on without me,” she called to Louisa’s father. “I can’t go any further!”
“You have to keep trying,” Elizabeth pleaded.
It was no use—Mother’s strength was gone. She kissed each family member good-bye. Then she hobbled over to a boulder, sat down, and cried.
“The company can’t wait for us,” Louisa’s father said, his eyes filled with sadness.
Louisa tried to keep her voice steady. “Elizabeth, will you help Father take care of the others?”
Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide. “Louisa—”
“We can’t all stay here, and we can’t leave Mother alone to die,” Louisa insisted. “I’ll stay here. Don’t worry.” She tried to sound brave. “Heavenly Father will help us.”
As the weary company struggled past, tugging their sagging handcarts, Louisa sat next to Mother and watched them disappear over the ridge. Soon Louisa and her mother were alone, listening to the howling wind. Louisa’s skin prickled at the thought of howling wolves.
“I’ll be right back, Mother,” Louisa said. She walked down the trail a short distance and knelt in the snow. “Please, Heavenly Father, wilt Thou protect us from the devouring wolves? Wilt Thou grant Mother the strength to continue so we can reach camp tonight?”
Louisa remained on her knees, waiting. She thought of camp, its welcoming bonfire and loving family members huddled around it. She thought of Zion, still hundreds of miles away.
Even though the chilling wind blew, she felt a warm spot growing in her heart. Yes. Heavenly Father would answer her prayer.
Louisa hopped onto her sore feet and started back up the trail, but something lay in her path. She blinked in surprise. She squinted and crouched down for a better look.
There, in the middle of the road, was a perfectly made pie.
“Oh my goodness,” Louisa cried. “Manna from heaven!” Laughing, she snatched it up. It looked and smelled delicious, like the pies Mother used to make back home in England.
“Mother, I’ve found something!” Louisa called.
“What is it?”
Louisa’s eyes glittered above her rosy cheeks as she placed the pie in Mother’s hands.
She gasped. “Louisa, where did you get this?”
“I prayed for you, and Heavenly Father sent me a pie. I found it on the road.”
Tearfully, Louisa’s mother thanked Heavenly Father for the miraculous gift. She ate the pie and rested awhile.
“I’m feeling much better,” Mother finally said, pulling herself onto her feet. “The Lord doesn’t want us to give up, and I won’t—not ever again.”
Louisa grinned. “Let’s catch up with the others. We can still make it to camp tonight.”
After darkness fell, they met Louisa’s father coming back to look for them. He rejoiced that Mother had regained her strength.
For the rest of the journey, whenever Louisa’s mother felt like quitting, she remembered the gift of the pie and offered a prayer of thanks instead.
Louisa and her family prayed with gratitude all the way to the Salt Lake Valley, where they arrived together safely on November 30, 1856. Mother’s blessing was fulfilled, just as Louisa had always known it would be.

For yet others, a testimony of the Book of Mormon comes more slowly, after much study and prayer. I have a friend who read the Book of Mormon searching to know if it was true. He applied the invitation in Moroni to ask God with a sincere heart, with real intent and faith in Christ, if the Book of Mormon is true. But he did not immediately get the promised spiritual answer. However, one day as he was deep in thought, driving down the road, the Spirit testified to him of the truth of the Book of Mormon. So happy and overwhelmed was he that he rolled down the car window and yelled, to no one in particular and yet to all the world, “It’s true!”