Gospel Story Finder

You are looking at a FIRST. I’ve never been impressed to write a letter to the editor until today. I’ve just read the little article “Wonderful Pest” by Glenn Latham in the December 1983 New Era. It made me think of Marian Jackson. Marian was the Blazer B leader in the Edgemont 8th Ward here in Provo when she decided that our son had lounged long enough at that “almost an Eagle” stage. He was about 15 when she took him under her wing. Under the guise of “helping her” with the Blazer B’s, our son began his final assault on his Eagle. And thanks to Marian, he made it!
Marian has six sons of her own, and if I’m not mistaken all are Eagles. I can’t begin to count the sons of other people who can credit her with their similar achievements. Marian was never thought of as a “wonderful pest,” but as I tried to thank her for the inspiration and motivation and hours of service to our son, she laughingly replied, “Oh, behind every Eagle there’s an old buzzard.”
It’s a “dirty job,” but aren’t we glad someone—Jeff Sessions, Marian Jackson, and many, many others—are willing to do it! God bless those wonderful pests and old buzzards everywhere! P.S. Even parents are sometimes successful as old buzzards—and it’s not really such a dirty job. It’s really lots of fun, as we learned with our second Eagle.
Ann JamisonProvo, Utah

When President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, studied physics and mathematics in college, he felt overwhelmed. His discouragement led him to stop studying and to think about quitting school.

But one night, he recounted that “help came as a voice, an actual voice in my mind. It was not my voice. It was a soft and loving voice—but firm. The words voiced were these: ‘When you realize who you really are, you will be sorry that you didn’t try harder.’”1

This insight led President Eyring to finish college, pursue graduate school, and later become a teacher. We may be content with where we are in our education or career, but God can see a potential in us that even we can’t always see. We lose nothing and gain everything by engaging in lifelong learning.

It was a typical Saturday afternoon. I was super excited because after doing my chores, I was going to hang out with some of my new friends from my cheerleading squad. Being a new seventh-grade cheerleader had helped me make tons of friends at my new school.
I bounced up the sidewalk to Macy’s* house as I watched my mom drive away. “Ah, sweet freedom,” I thought. “I love being a teenager. I can finally go to the mall and movies with my friends.”
Macy opened the door, and I could see that my friend Lisa was already there. We started curling each other’s hair, laughing, and dancing and singing to music as we got ready. Macy explained that there would be several kids from school meeting us at the movie—not just girls but boys too. Even the cute boy at school I just met. I started to feel a little uneasy. I kept listening as she told me what movie they wanted to see. I got chills and knew instantly it was the Holy Ghost letting me know it was not a good movie. I asked to see the trailer for it. As I watched, I knew it was a movie I definitely didn’t want to watch.
What was I going to do? What would they say? I started thinking of plan B.
I began texting my mom privately. “What should I do, Mom?” I asked. She quickly texted back and said she didn’t feel good about the movie but she would let me decide. I knew I shouldn’t watch it; there was no doubt about that. I made up my mind. I was going to tell them I wasn’t comfortable with watching this movie. Surely they would understand, right? They were my friends. We could do something else instead.
“What? You don’t want to see the movie?” Lisa asked.
“Is it because your mom doesn’t want you to? Tell her that you saw something else.”
“What, are you too good for us?”
“Don’t be such a loser.”
My heart broke as I listened to my friends. My worst nightmares were coming true. For a moment I thought to myself, maybe I should just go. It won’t be that big of a deal. Mom said I could …
No. I knew I shouldn’t.
“Come on, guys,” I said. “My mom said she would pick us up and we could go back to my house and eat pizza and do a movie there. Or we could go get our nails done and hang out at the mall.” They weren’t interested. They wanted to go see this movie with all of our friends from school.
I texted my mom and told her I needed her to come pick me up. I was devastated. How could this happen? I thought they were my friends. I thought they wanted to hang out with me. All I wished for right then was my good friend Sandy from my Beehive class. She was a true friend. I knew she would’ve understood my decision.
I’d been so excited for this day and now it was turning out to be the worst day ever. When I saw my mom pull up, I quickly grabbed my stuff and headed out. As I walked to the car I felt a tear roll down my cheek. I’d just made one of the hardest decisions of my life, but I knew it was the right one.
I felt good knowing I had followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost. I know that I am a much stronger girl because I chose not to go.

It was when he turned 18 that Enoch faced a bigger challenge. Wanting to grow his knowledge and understanding of the gospel by learning what the world thought of his faith, he began to encounter ideas and philosophies that caused him to question his beliefs. He began to wrestle with his testimony, becoming more and more confused by what he was finding. He tried to find his own answers to resolve the growing confusion, but they were not forthcoming. He turned to others with his questions, but they couldn’t resolve his doubts. Finally, he approached the missionaries, challenging them to answer his questions, but they declined to give him easy and quick answers, which he found surprising. Instead, they returned the challenge and gave him a Book of Mormon with the promise that if he read with a sincere heart, asking God in faith, his confusion would be resolved. He accepted their challenge.

Enoch devoured the Book of Mormon in 10 days. Frequently, as he encountered stories of conversion such as those of Alma, King Lamoni, and others, the Spirit moved him to tears. In his reading he recognized the same Spirit he had felt in reading the New Testament in his youth. He felt a calming comfort that helped him remember and renew his relationship with his Savior, and his confusion began to fade. The answers to some of his questions never came, but he didn’t worry as he realized that his questions didn’t have to be answered. What mattered was his knowledge of the truthfulness of the plan of salvation and of the divinity and role of Jesus Christ, and especially of the Saviour’s love for him. He regained his footing on the covenant path with a newly strengthened relationship to God.

Learning from his parents, though, wasn’t always Ark’s preferred source for education. Like his love of spicy food, this discovery of a valued resource came a bit later in his life.
“I used to be very stubborn,” Ark admits. “I didn’t really care about learning from my parents.”
He’d try to go it alone or to learn from his friends and schoolteachers only. Then he read something in the Book of Mormon that made a big difference in how he viewed things.
In Alma chapters 36 and 37, Alma gives advice to his son Helaman. Alma teaches Helaman about everything, from Alma’s own remarkable conversion story (which included three days of being unconscious after an angel told him he wasn’t exactly making the best life choices [see Alma 36:6–10]) to the dangers of secret combinations.
In the middle of it all, a single verse jumped off the page to Ark: “O, remember, my son, and learn wisdom in thy youth; yea, learn in thy youth to keep the commandments of God” (Alma 37:35).
Something clicked in Ark’s mind at those words. “My parents can teach me wisdom too,” he says. All at once he realized he had a wealth of information right in front of him. “Now I care a lot about their wisdom. They love me and can help me prepare for my future.”
They love me and can help me prepare for my future.
And their wisdom goes a lot further than business tips shared during board games.
One valuable lesson Ark’s parents have taught him is to not allow bad influences around him to trip him up. “Here at my school, a lot of kids want me to try coffee, tea, cigarettes, and so forth.”
This is a regular conversation topic at home. “I’ve had a lot of conversations with my parents about this. They repeat themselves a lot,” he jokes.
Still, all that repetition has paid off. Each time he’s asked to do something against his beliefs, Ark draws strength from what his parents have taught him.
Another lesson he’s taken to heart is how to dress. No, Ark didn’t need fashion advice from his parents in order to fit in better at school. In fact, he was doing a little too well in that department. “I used to dress in all the cool clothes,” Ark said. “I was trying to impress girls.”
His parents helped him see, though, that there were also some unintended consequences to dressing that way. “The clothes we wear can influence how other people think about you,” Ark explains. As he paid closer attention, Ark realized he didn’t like some of the ways people seemed to think of him when he dressed like he did before.
Now he chooses more conservative, modest—or, as he likes to call them, “nerdy”—clothes. He likes his new look and feels better spiritually about how he dresses. (Besides, Ark, nerds are cool! Indisputable fact.)
Ark loves where he lives, he loves his family, and he loves learning from his parents.
He also loves learning the gospel.
“I believe that Jesus Christ lives,” Ark says. “I believe our living prophet is President Russell M. Nelson and that through Joseph Smith, Jesus Christ restored His Church. I believe the gospel can help us through our lives and through any obstacles or trials we experience.”
No matter what incredible things Ark is going to learn in the future, he’s already learned some of the most important of all. Near the top of that list is this: spending time with family adds a lot of spice to life!

“Why should we even bother to put up the tree this year?” I muttered, pushing aside the packing boxes in the garage.
My sister, Mary, picked up a box of ornaments. “What’s Christmas without our tree?”
“What’s a Christmas tree without presents?” I countered.
Mary didn’t bother to answer. We all knew that the new house would be our only Christmas gift this year. Even the money we children would have spent on each other went into moving expenses. We lived on food storage and potatoes and looked forward to the raise Dad had been promised in January. We would each get a few small treats in our stockings but nothing under the tree.
When the tree was decorated, Mary and I stood back to admire our work. “I knew it would look great by that big window,” she said, smiling.
“There’s still a lot of empty space underneath it, though,” I pointed out gloomily.
I was still feeling gloomy as I prepared for bed that night. And to make matters worse, I couldn’t find my pajamas. Old and worn in the knees, they were nothing special to look at, but they were comfortable and warm, and I liked them. I looked in my dresser, under my bed, and in the hamper but couldn’t find them. Finally I gave up and put on a sweatsuit.
At school the next day, my new friend, Joan, was very excited. “Do you know what I want for Christmas this year?”
“What?” I asked without much enthusiasm.
“A new bike.”
“A new bike? What’s wrong with the one you have?” I had seen her bike. It had a bell on the handle and a big basket to carry her books in.
“It’s kind of bent from when I fell.” Joan frowned. “What’s wrong with you today, anyway?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.” Then I realized that nothing was exactly what was wrong with me. “I’m getting nothing for Christmas,” I explained.
“I’m sure you’ll get exactly what you want,” Joan said confidently.
When I came home from school that day, I was astonished to see a present under the tree. I blinked and looked closer, but it was still there. It was large and brightly wrapped—and it had my name on it!
I ran into the kitchen and found my mother looking through drawers and cupboards. “Mom,” I said breathlessly, “There’s a—” I stopped when I saw her troubled face.
“Have you seen my favorite paring knife?” she asked.
“The old one with the wooden handle? No.”
“I suppose I’ll have to use the newer knife,” Mom said with a sigh. “I like the old one because it fits my hand so well. I’ll be glad when I figure out a place for everything and everything stays in its place. By the way,” she continued, “did you know that there’s a present for you under the tree? I wonder where it came from.”
The next day at school, I told Joan about the present, and a girl named Barb overheard me. “Just one present?” she said. “There are dozens under our tree.”
Joan squeezed my hand and smiled. “I told you that you’d get exactly what you want,” she said.
A few days later, my brother, Mike, came home from ball practice looking discouraged.
“Hard practice?” Mom asked.
“No,” Mike said, “it isn’t that. I wanted to take my autographed basketball to show the team, and I couldn’t find it. I hope we didn’t lose it in the move.”
“I’m sure everything will show up when we finish unpacking the boxes,” Mom assured him.
I cheered up Mike by showing him the new present that had mysteriously appeared under the tree. This one had his name on it.
And so it went. Every few days another present appeared under the tree until there was something for everyone, even our dog. We could hardly wait for Christmas day to find out what was in those packages and who had given them to us.
Finally it was the last day of school before the holidays. My teacher was passing out candy canes, when Joan pulled me aside. “I got it!”
“Got what?”
“My new ten-speed. My parents hid something big in the attic, so it must be my bike.”
“That’s great!” I said. “You’re getting exactly what you want.”
“I hope so.” Joan suddenly looked worried. “Barb told me that she had a ten-speed once but didn’t like it very much. I think I’ll hang on to my old bike, just in case.”
On Christmas morning, my family hurried through breakfast. We could hardly wait to open our presents. We emptied our stockings first, oohing and aahing over each package of gum, candy bar, and dollar-store trinket. Each small gift was a lot more fun because of the large, bright packages still awaiting us.
When we had finished with our stockings and were seated around the tree, holding our mystery gifts, Dad gave the signal for the unwrapping to begin. Usually we took turns, but this time no one could wait. As I tore open the paper, I could hear cries of delight from all around.
“I’m so glad!” Mary said. “I really wanted this.”
“I’ve looked everywhere for this,” Mike said.
“This is perfect,” Dad said. “It’s just what I wanted.”
I opened my own gift box and glimpsed plaid flannel folded beneath tissue paper. Was it a new pair of pajamas to replace the pair I’d lost? I’d really like that. But as I lifted it from the box, I realized that it wasn’t a new pair of pajamas. It was something much better—my old pair!
I hugged the soft pajamas to me. I was so happy to see them again! Never before had I been so thrilled by a present.
“Who did this?” Mary asked.
I looked over and saw Mom smiling, her gift unopened on her lap. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” she said. “Did you all get exactly what you wanted this year?”
“You bet!” my brother said as he happily twirled his basketball on his finger.
“What did you get?” I asked Mom.
“Yes,” Dad said. “Show us what you wanted for Christmas.”
Mom opened her box and held it out so that we could see what was inside.
“It’s empty.” Mike’s voice was sad. “You got nothing for Christmas.”
“Not really,” Mom said. “Because what I want most is what I already have.”
I felt the same way. I got nothing for Christmas—nothing new, that is. But I still got exactly what I wanted. And more. With a gift of nothing, my Mom taught me gratitude for everything I already had.
At lunch, after Dad and we three children searched and unpacked a zillion boxes, we gave Mom her old paring knife, wrapped in the biggest box we could find.

Whilst my wife and I were serving as leaders of the Fiji Suva Mission, we would monitor the storm weather sites from November through April to be aware of any cyclones that may affect our missionaries serving throughout the islands.
In early-April 2018, tropical Cyclone Keni developed into a category 2 cyclone which, on its projected course, would track several hundred kilometers south of the island of Kadavu. As we drew closer to the 11th of April 2018, instead of staying on its predicted course, Cyclone Keni veered northward and increased in intensity to category 3 with winds gusting up to 215 kms per hour, which tore through the island of Kadavu.
Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen served on that island, and I was extremely concerned about their welfare and that of the community of Saints there. With the power knocked out, communication was impossible for many hours. Finally, the elders were able to get a call out. The first thing I heard was, “President we’re okay.” Oh, what relief and joy filled my heart along with humble prayers of gratitude.
They shared that their accommodation was destroyed, and they had to shelter in one of only a few concrete block homes on the island, this one owned by Brother Lal (a counselor in the branch presidency). They had lost most of their belongings but had scoured the forest and reclaimed some clothing.
With their welfare in mind, I started the arrangements to evacuate these elders off the island. When I called the next morning to give them more details, Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen asked without any thought for their own needs, “President, can we stay? The members and families on the island need our help to rebuild their homes.”
As they expressed this desire, my heart swelled with admiration for these humble servants of the Lord who put their own needs aside to offer much-needed help to others.
Over the next two weeks they laboured tirelessly to clean debris from damaged dwellings and assisted with the repairs to several homes. These young missionaries exemplified the scripture: “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).
After these two weeks, Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen returned to Suva to be assigned to a different area, until the mission quarters on Kadavu could be rebuilt. As they entered the mission home, they looked different. Yes, their clothes were a little untidy, because no washing machine or iron was available, they had all disappeared in the cyclone, but their countenances shone brightly as they recalled numerous experiences of assisting members and nonmembers alike.
Their service brought a great feeling of unity to the people in Kadavu and prepared many hearts to receive the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Indeed, these young missionaries exemplified this verse of scripture: “And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).
I will be forever grateful for the example of Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen. They exemplified so beautifully what it means to truly keep the second great commandment, to “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” (Matthew 22:39).

For instance, a busy young mother in Arizona, USA, wondered what she could do to help a newly arrived refugee family in her community. She soon learned that she could give them a few things for their empty apartment. When she and her children visited the family to bring the items, she realized that the mother had no purse to carry her personal belongings. She knew that she and many of her friends had extra purses, so she posted a request on social media. That simple beginning has blossomed into a warehouse full of items needed by just-arriving families and helped create a sweet bond between these women of different faiths.

Sam’s head felt hot. He had a runny nose. His sister Martha was sick too. Mom said Sam and Martha were too sick to go to church.
“Can we play with trucks?” Sam asked.
“Not right now,” Mom said. “We are going to have our own Primary!”
“How can I have Primary without my teacher?” Sam asked.
“Who will give a talk?” Martha asked.
“I have a plan.” Mom winked at them. “I can be the teacher. And I know someone very special who can give the talk.”
“Who?” Sam asked.
“You’ll see!” Mom said.
Sam and Martha went to Martha’s room. They set up three chairs.
“Welcome to our pretend Primary,” Mom said. Then they sang “I Am a Child of God” and said a prayer.
Martha chose more songs to sing. Mom told a story about Jesus. Sam and Martha colored pictures.
Sam liked their pretend Primary! But who was going to give the talk? There was nobody there except Sam, Martha, and Mom.
Finally Mom got her laptop. She put it on Martha’s bed.
“Now we have a special guest. President Thomas S. Monson is here to talk to us!” Mom clicked on a video on the computer screen. President Monson started telling them a story.
Sam smiled. He liked his special Primary with the prophet!

“Did you really make a pro-and-con list?” The question my teenage son asked in an amazed tone referred to a list he found in one of my journals. It wasn’t just any old pro-and-con list; it was the list I had made 30 years ago, before I proposed to his mother. I don’t know how many men make a list like mine, but when I pondered the idea of marriage as a 24-year-old college student, it just seemed the right thing to do.
I don’t remember any other questions that day from my son about our courtship; he was too fixated on the list. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, yelling to his siblings, “Dad made a list about Mom! Come see it!” However, as I look back, I can think of many questions he could have asked.
Didn’t you love her? This question should have been his first. My answer would have been yes; that is why I made the list. I really did love her, and I desired more than anything for her to be happy. The list was more about seeing if I could make her happy than it was about whether or not I loved her.
Didn’t you have fun together? Again, my answer would have been yes; that is why I made the list. It was a way to see if my hope that she would always have fun with me could become reality.
Didn’t you think she was the right one? Perhaps this is the most intriguing question of all. I would have answered yes; I did believe she was “the one,” but I wanted to make sure my belief would inspire action on my part to make things work.
I don’t think I fully realized at the time the impact my mission president’s teachings on faith and its components of desire, belief, and hope were having on my courtship. With a clearer view from the passage of time, I am very grateful to President F. Ray Hawkins for his influence on me. I still have the notes I took as a 20-year-old missionary as my young mission president opened the scriptures and explained the elements of faith that would later figure into making the most important decision of my life.
Having the desire particle of faith, I needed belief and hope to complete my faith, and I needed to take action by asking Rosalie to marry me. The list—my manifestation of desire, belief, and hope—was important in giving me the courage to take the action necessary to complete my faith. James taught that faith without works is dead (see James 2:17). No amount of desire, belief, or hope would have helped me find the greater happiness and peace I have found in marriage if those particles hadn’t led me to ask the big question. (Sadly, the first time I proposed, Rosalie’s answer was no, but that is a story for another time. In such circumstances—when things don’t go according to our plan or timing—faith still plays an integral role in our lives.) It took some perseverance and patience for both of us, and we did later marry on a snowy day in December 1982.

I recall a conference where the patriarch was very old. While his ordination would remain in force, it was time that he be excused from giving blessings.
The stake president recommended a man with much leadership experience. However, I did not get the feeling that he should be the patriarch.
I knew that the First Presidency had said to stake presidents: “Because a man has filled with credit a presiding office and has attained a good age is no reason why he should or should not make a good patriarch. … [He should be one who has] developed within [him] the spirit of the patriarchs; in fact, this should be [his] leading characteristic, and [he] should be [a man] of wisdom, possessed of the gift and spirit of blessing as well.”
As the evening meeting was about to begin, an older man came partway down the aisle and, unable to find a seat, went to the back of the chapel. He was not quite as well dressed as most of the others and obviously had spent much time out-of-doors.
I whispered to the stake president, “Who is that man?”
Sensing what was on my mind, he said, “Oh, I don’t think he could be our patriarch. He lives at the far edge of an outlying ward and has never held any leadership in a bishopric or high council.”
He was invited to give the opening prayer, and he had said but a few words when that confirmation came, as it does by revelation, “This is the patriarch.”
As I recall, he had six sons and one daughter. The youngest was then serving a mission, as had his older brothers, who were married and scattered about the country, all serving faithfully in the Church.
“What about your daughter?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, “you have met her. She is the wife of a counselor in the stake presidency.”
I thought, “A patriarch—this man is a patriarch indeed!”
Before the general session, I met the aging patriarch in the foyer and said, “We are going to give you some help today.”
He said, “Oh, thank you! I would appreciate that very, very much.”
I said, “Let me give you the name of the new patriarch; then you and I and the stake president will be the only ones who know.”
When I named the man, he was startled and said, “Isn’t that interesting! I saw him among the people, coming into the building, and said to myself, ‘Wouldn’t he make a wonderful patriarch?’” It was an inspiring confirmation from the old patriarch.

Two years before I was born in 1942, my mother gave birth to my older brother, Gary. Gary is a very special person. When he was born, his brain was damaged by a lack of oxygen. His mind never grew above the level of a six- or seven-year-old.
For more than 60 years, I watched my parents take care of Gary. They helped brush his teeth, comb his hair, and tie his tie on Sunday. Because he loved horses and cowboys, they took him to rodeos and Western movies. They performed countless acts of love and kindness for him.
Unfortunately, people aren’t always so kind to those who are different. I’m sorry to say that some children—even children from active Latter-day Saint families—were unkind to my brother. They shut him out of games, called him ugly names, and teased him unmercifully.
Gary was a childlike person who was always quick to forgive. He loved and accepted everybody. I think that aside from my parents, this special brother did more during my childhood to shape my outlook on life than anyone else. I sometimes think how it will be after the Resurrection, when as Alma describes, “all things shall be restored to their proper and perfect frame” (Alma 40:23). Then we’ll know the real Gary, and I think we’ll be very grateful for all the good things we’ve done for him and very sad about those times when we might have been more loving and understanding of his special circumstances.

I can attest to the truth of President Snow’s statement. Relief Society has always been comprised of those who put others first and self last. I remember that when I was a small boy during the Depression, my mother was the secretary-treasurer of the ward Relief Society. Back then dues were paid to assist those in need. Mother was not really a bookkeeper, so Dad would help her. The individual contributions were never so much as a dollar, but rather would be a quarter, a dime, a nickel, a few pennies.

I learned many lessons from my mother. I must have been a very active boy, for Mother was always telling me, “Slow down, Tommy, slow down. You’re on the verge of Saint Vitus’ dance!” You know, I never did know what Saint Vitus’ dance was. All I knew was that Mother said I was on the verge of it—and the way she spoke the words, I assumed it was a drastic ailment.

Since we lived just a block or two from the railroad tracks, frequently men, unemployed, without funds for food, would leave the train and come to our house for something to eat. Such men were always polite. They offered to do some work for the food. Indelibly imprinted on my mind is the picture of a gaunt and hungry man standing at our kitchen door, hat in hand, pleading for food. Mother would welcome such a visitor and would direct him to the kitchen sink to wash up while she prepared food for him to eat. She never skimped on quality or quantity; the visitor ate exactly the same lunch as did my father. As he wolfed down the food, Mother took the opportunity to counsel him to return to his home and his family. When he left the table, he had been nourished physically and spiritually. These men never failed to say thank you. Tears in their eyes revealed ever so silently the gratitude of their hearts.

One is humbled by the spiritual submissiveness of the dying young mother of twenty-six, understandably anguished at the prospect of not rearing her two children, one of whom she so recently made ready to lay down her life for, if necessary. The baby arrived safely, but, alas, the gallant mother could not tarry. With childlike faith this young sister touchingly inquired, “If I am to die, then how can I help my husband and my parents as they watch me die?” Surely she (and others similarly situated) faithfully conforms to King Benjamin’s portrait of a Saint as one being “willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father.” (Mosiah 3:19.)

It’s a bright, sunny morning on June 26, 1999. The green grass at the Indiana State Capitol building is looking a little shabby. A trailer pulls up, and as 14-year-old Ryan Tripp unloads a lawn mower, it becomes obvious this is no ordinary lawn job.
There are green balloons on the lawn in the shape of a big ribbon—the symbol for organ donation—and Ryan is thronged by Indiana state officials and a large crowd. Flashing a smile, he talks from the podium about the importance of people becoming organ donors.
The idea for what turned out to be a two-year mission began on a spring day in 1997 when Ryan and his dad, Todd, were returning home after mowing church lawns around Parowan, Utah, his hometown. When their truck broke down, Ryan suggested they ride a lawn mower back to town. During the ride Ryan said, “Dad, why don’t we ride this lawn mower all the way to Salt Lake and mow the state capitol lawn?”
His dad replied, “Why don’t you ride it all the way to Washington, D.C., and mow the White House lawn!” Ryan began dreaming about his name appearing in the Guiness Book of World Records for the longest lawn mower ride in history.
But something was missing. Ryan and his family felt they needed a greater purpose for such an undertaking.
Shortly after, while Ryan’s father was getting his truck repaired, his mechanic, a neighbor, confided that their three-month-old daughter, Whitnie, had a rare disease requiring a liver transplant. The cost would be enormous, and the Penders had limited insurance and funds.
Ryan’s heart went out to the Penders. He wanted to help, but what could he do? Perhaps his goal to mow the White House lawn could work together with a fundraising project for Whitnie! Why not hand out cards to the people he met along the way asking for donations to be sent to a special fund? People could pledge money for each mile he drove.
The Tripp family members all wanted to help, and wheels were set in motion. They charted a course from Parowan to Washington, D.C.; they obtained local police permission for Ryan to drive the lawn mower along state and city roadways, and a large lawn mower manufacturer generously donated a machine. Ryan’s mom, Diane, his two sisters, Tiffany and Chantel, and his brother, Robbie, agreed to temporarily take over the lawn-mowing business.
On August 15, 1997, Ryan began his 3,116-mile cross-country lawn mower drive, with Grandpa and Grandma Meidlinger leading the procession by car and his dad following Ryan in their truck.
Sound like fun? Picture yourself driving a lawn mower at 10 mph, 10 to 12 hours a day, for 42 days through blistering heat, rain, and wind. For the first few weeks, Ryan had lots of fun. He signaled his dad on their walkie-talkies, waved to passing cars, listened to music on his CD player, looked at the scenery, and made all kinds of noises as he drove along.
Then he ran into a problem. One day he was particularly tired from their early morning starts and dozed off listening to his music. He awoke to the blasting horn of his father’s truck behind him, just as his lawn mower was careening off the side of the road. His CD days were over.
After that, the hours became long, and it seemed the cornfield-lined roads would never end. “Sometimes I got a little antsy and wanted to get off my lawn mower and go do things a normal boy would, especially when it rained. It got kind of hard to just sit there and drive along the road,” he recalls. The trek became a challenge to Ryan.
However, each challenge brings its own reward, and Ryan’s was time for serious thinking. He thought about his plans for the future; he thought about the importance of never giving up, of keeping promises and commitments; and he thought about how nice it was to have his dad so close. Reaching his father on his walkie-talkie at any time reminded him of talking to another Father: “It was kind of a lesson to me about how close my Heavenly Father is and how I can reach Him through prayer whenever I need something,” Ryan says.
Thinking about his own supportive family, Ryan’s thoughts often turned to little Whitnie. He understood her family’s love for her and knew he must do whatever was needed to help.
Ryan began to see a much greater purpose in this trip. Breaking records took a distant second to helping Whitnie. And as he thought about her, and others he learned about along the way, Ryan’s prayers took on new meaning. “My dad and I would pray every morning before we started and again when we got back to the hotel,” he says. They prayed for safety, for Whitnie, and for all the people needing transplants.
Finally, Ryan’s quest ended at the U.S. Capitol. Senator Orrin Hatch of Utah, other government officials, press members, and TV viewers watched as he mowed the Capitol Hill lawn. The trip was successful—Ryan broke the record and, more importantly, raised $15,000 for little Whitnie, who received her transplant that same year.
But Ryan didn’t see this as the end of his goal. Throughout his trip he had become increasingly concerned about the 63,500 people in America waiting for organ donors. So, even before he and his dad left Washington, D.C., they formulated a plan to further raise awareness for organ and tissue donation: they would mow every state capitol building lawn in the country, including those in Juneau, Alaska, and Honolulu, Hawaii.
Two summers later, on June 1, 1999, Ryan set out on his second mission. This time he had a lot more company—his mother, his sisters, his brother, his Grandpa and Grandma Tripp, and his Grandpa Meidlinger.
The next 72 days were a whirlwind of state capitol buildings, governors, news reporters, talk-show hosts, and families involved in organ donation. The stories they heard from the many recipients, donors, and donor-hopefuls, buoyed them up at each stop.
“One of the coolest stories was about a family in Kansas,” Ryan says. “I had been on local TV speaking about the importance of organ and tissue donation a few days before their daughter died. They told us because they were so touched by what I was doing, they decided to donate their daughter’s organs.”
Ryan encourages everyone he sees to set their goals high and work hard. “With Heavenly Father’s help, you can do anything,” he says, especially if it includes serving others. “It makes you feel so good inside, and you never know how many people you helped.”
Although Ryan met many good people and celebrities along the way, when asked who his hero is, Ryan replies, “There are a lot of role models out there, but my hero is my dad because he’s a good example to me, and he believes in my dreams. I’d like to be just like him when I grow up.”

Perhaps I can illustrate how understanding the Father’s plan and the Savior’s divine mission empowers us to face life’s challenges.
In the summer of 2020, I started feeling pain in my left shoulder, and I could not figure out why. The pain wouldn’t go away, so finally, in late October, I visited with a doctor. He looked at an X-ray and suggested a CT scan. The next evening, the doctor called me at home—likely not a good sign—and told me that the CT scan had identified metastatic disease in my shoulder. In other words, he said I had cancer. He also said it appeared to have traveled to my shoulder from somewhere else in my body.
I got up from my chair, walked into the other room, and told Anne Marie I had cancer. That evening, our lives changed. Everything seemed to change.
I reached out to my father and asked if he would give me a blessing. He is 95 years old. We gathered as a family at my parents’ home. All our children joined us. It was a miracle that they were all in town. We were careful to wear our masks, except for in this picture.
Photograph by Busath Photography
I had hoped that, in the blessing, my father would strike the spot and command the cancer to be gone. But that is not the blessing he provided. He blessed me that the cancer would be identified, that there would be a course of treatment, that I would follow the course of treatment, and that I would be made whole.
From the moment he and my sons took their hands off my head, a feeling of peace settled on me. I knew that peaceful feeling came by the influence of the Holy Ghost.
For the next month, medically speaking, I could not see past the end of my feet. I knew I had cancer in my shoulder and in at least one other place in my body. I did not know what kind of cancer it was or how pervasive it was. I just did not know very much at all.
But this I did know: my father, accompanied by my four sons, had pronounced a blessing upon me by the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood. I had great faith in the power of that blessing. I also had faith that the blessing was in keeping with the Lord’s will.
Throughout the month of November, the medical tests continued. As we waited for the results, Anne Marie and I talked a lot about the future and our faith in our Heavenly Father’s plan. We discussed the possibility that perhaps my stay in mortality would be a bit shorter than anticipated. But regardless of which side of the veil I would be on, it did not change our love for each other or our marriage or our family. It did not change our gratitude to Heavenly Father for the gift of His Son, Jesus Christ, and for the blessing of participating in this wonderful mortal experience.
In our prayers as a couple, we prayed that my life would be spared. But if the plan was that I be called home at this time, we would accept that as well. I also prayed that I could learn what the Lord wanted me to learn from this experience. I remembered Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles saying on one occasion that the Lord gave him cancer so he could teach the people with authenticity. 1 I continue to ponder that.
As we waited for the diagnosis, I continued to feel at peace. I was very grateful for my father’s blessing. Spiritually speaking, he did strike the spot and make me whole. He healed me spiritually.
During all this, I felt the faith and prayers of friends, family, and loved ones. It is quite something to realize that your children, their spouses, and your grandchildren are praying for you with great faith. The missionaries and the Saints with whom we served in the Spain Barcelona Mission are also exercising their faith and prayers in my behalf. What greater blessings could there be? These prayers of faith and support from so many have created a giant tsunami of love that has been overwhelming to me.
At last, the diagnosis came. I have cancer in my right kidney, which has metastasized to my left shoulder. The cancer had already been in my shoulder for a year or so and therefore even longer in my kidney. For some reason, unknown to me, there is no cancer in my brain or lungs. The Lord is very kind. There is a course of treatment, I am following it, and I trust that in a year or so I will be made whole. “But if not” (Daniel 3:18), I am willing to accept the Lord’s will for me.
Now, I am not the only one with health challenges or worries or heartaches of different kinds. Like you, I have faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Like you, I have faith in Heavenly Father’s plan. And like you, I have faith that “all things shall work together for your good, if ye walk uprightly and remember the covenant wherewith ye have covenanted one with another” (Doctrine and Covenants 90:24).
Our faith does not necessarily remove our trials. But it does give us the power and perspective to navigate those trials successfully.
Our Savior, who is our example in all things, has taught us how to endure adversity faithfully. Most poignant is His experience in Gethsemane:
“And he was withdrawn from them about a stone’s cast, and kneeled down, and prayed,
“Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.
“And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him” (Luke 22:41–43; emphasis added).
The Father didn’t remove this cup of suffering, but He also didn’t forsake His Beloved Son. He sent an angel to strengthen Him, and with that strength the Savior was able to carry out the infinite Atonement.
Likewise, when we face challenges, the Father does not always remove the burden, but when we submit to His will, we can count on Him to give us strength equal to the challenge.
I testify of Jesus Christ, the true source of lasting peace (see John 16:33). Because He overcame the world, He provides the strength for us to meet every trial the world can give us. He provides eternal perspective through His restored gospel and comfort through the influence of the Holy Ghost. Indeed, the gospel of Jesus Christ is the answer to every issue we face in life.
“Peace I leave with you,” the Savior said, “my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27).
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Ruth’s family is important to her—every member, including her widowed mother-in-law. She recalls many learning experiences at the hands of the elderly Mother Funk, even a lesson in more earnest prayer. Her mother-in-law, who was hard of hearing, would often speak in loud tones, almost as if no one could hear her any better than she could hear them. Ruth would visit her frequently to check on her welfare, for Mother Funk was aging and alone.

“Many were the times,” Ruth remembers, “when I found her on her knees in her bedroom in supplication—rather loud supplication—to the Lord. She never heard me come in, so I would wait patiently and quietly, learning anew how to truly pray. That grand lady would speak to the Lord with such a fervent soul and real intent—it was beautiful.”

During the sixty years that Mary was with the Salt Lake Tabernacle Choir and the fifty-eight years she was pouring out her love for children and Primary workers through the pages of The Children’s Friend, she was also spending part of her time with crippled and ill boys and girls who were being cared for in the Primary Children’s Hospital.
Mary helped in the planning with Sister Felt and Sister Anderson when the original hospital was opened in 1922. It was housed in an old home on North Temple Street that was given to the Primary for a convalescent home and equipped by the Church. There they welcomed boys and girls who needed only limited medical help, but their dream was to be able to provide a shining new fireproof hospital where all medical services could be given.
A project was launched to secure funds for such a building. While the Church, friends of the Primary, and others who loved children contributed amounts both large and small for a new building, much of the money for it was given through the efforts of Primary children. Each boy and girl was asked to buy one brick for a dime, and the children contributed more than $18,000 to the brick project. Many children, excited by the joy that comes through sharing, asked friends and family to give money for the hospital instead of buying birthday and Christmas gifts. The smallest contribution received from a child was two pennies, but that, too, was accepted with gratitude.
In order to properly handle all the funds, the Primary sisters were advised to select a board of trustees and incorporate the Primary Children’s Hospital. It was Mary R. Jack who signed those articles of incorporation and remained as secretary of the board until her release in 1970.

When we could find one, we set up camp next to a stream. One time when we did, Ed and I took off with the fishing pole to look for a deep hole in the nearly dry creek. We found a beautiful spot out of sight of camp but close enough that we could still hear the cries of Annie-I-over. There was a strict rule that no one got so far away that he couldn’t see or hear the camp.
When we got off alone together like this Ed tried to show me how to talk, and I learned to say a few new words. “Look at that frog,” he shouted and bounded across the mossy stones to grab it.
“Frog,” I said. “Frog.”
“What a beauty! Look how big he is. I wonder how far he can jump.”
We stayed until nearly dark testing his ability. By the time we heard Papa coming to get us, the frog’s record was six feet, measured with Ed’s feet.
“Papa, look at my pet,” Ed called as he came closer. “Can I keep him? Can I?”
“That’s a fine frog all right,” Papa said. “But you’d better leave him here. He’d only die if we took him with us.”
“I can take him in a bucket of water. He won’t die.”
“A bucket of water is not the same as a stream. This is his home.”
“Please, Papa.”
“No, Ed. Now put him down, and I’ll tell you a story on the way back.”
“What about?” Ed asked.
“About a frog.”
“A true story?”
“Absolutely.”
Papa’s stories were always worth whatever we had to give up to hear them. Ed put his pet down carefully in a sheltered spot by the stream and took hold of Papa’s other hand. Then the three of us began to walk toward camp.
“What’s the story?” Ed asked.
“How butter was discovered.”
“You said it was about a frog.”
“So it is. You see, a long time ago, a frog jumped into a bowl of cream that was left by a dairymaid to keep cool at the edge of a stream. All night long he paddled around trying to get out, and when the girl came the next morning to get the cream, it had turned to butter.”
“Was the frog still alive?”
“I don’t remember that, but since there was no cream to spread on the bread, the dairymaid used the butter. She was afraid she’d be scolded for being careless enough to leave the lid off the cream, but everyone said the new spread was better. ‘Betty’s better spread’ they called it and wanted her to make more.”
When we got back to the wagon Mama had a good hot supper ready. Afterward we had a campfire program and evening prayer. Then the children were put to bed, and soon the fiddle began its tune and the grown-ups were moving their feet in time to the music. We happily watched them from the place where we slept beneath the wagon.
The next morning was washday, which meant the clothes were put into a half-full water barrel with a bar of homemade lye soap and jostled clean as we rode along. When we stopped, they’d be rinsed, wrung out, and hung on ropes stretched between trees. It wouldn’t take long to dry them if there were a little breeze.
Washdays were always planned between two stops where there was plenty of water so we wouldn’t run short. And since it was an extra busy day for Mama we had to help more than usual. Before camp broke up she assigned the chores.
“Caroline, you take care of the chickens,” she said. “Make sure they get fed and watered and don’t let any of them get lost when you turn them out to run.
“Dora, I’ll need you to watch Frank and Georgie while I do the washing. And Ed, you can churn the butter.”
Just then I saw the look come into Ed’s eyes that meant he had an idea, and I knew what it was because I had it too. Although he didn’t need to, he jerked his head at me in a way that said come on. Grabbing a bar of soap and a towel, we ran off in the direction of the stream.
“Where are you two going?” Mama called, and Ed shouted, “To wash our hands.”
“You told a lie,” I accused.
“No, I didn’t. We’ll wash our hands.”
The frog hadn’t got warmed up enough to move around yet so he was still where we had left him.
Ed started to lather him with the soap, and he slipped away. He picked up the slick frog again and said, “Have to get him clean enough.”
After he’d washed and dried the frog, he put him inside his shirt. We stayed by the stream cutting willows until the camp was ready to leave and then ran and jumped in the back of the wagon.
Mama was riding up front with Papa, holding Frank on her lap, and Georgie was asleep in his wash-basket bed. Caroline was walking with her friends.
Ed plopped the frog into the butter churn, and we settled into the back of the wagon for a leisurely ride. We reached over the tailgate, dragging our willows in the dust to make patterned trails behind us.
Several times we peeked into the churn where the frog was still swimming around, but there was no sign of butter. Ed started to work on teaching me some new words, and we forgot about everything else.
At lunchtime Mama asked, “Did the butter come yet?”
“Not yet,” Ed said.
“Well, it will pretty soon,” she encouraged. “Even the bouncing wagon helps it along.”
Then Papa told her the frog story. “Now don’t go giving these children any crazy ideas. It would be just like Ed and Dora to try that out.” She looked at us. “AND DON’T YOU DARE!” she warned.
We were glad she didn’t check out the butter churn before the wagons started up again. We decided that as soon as it was safe, we’d get the frog out of the cream and churn the way we were supposed to. When we lifted the lid, there sat the frog on an island of butter it had made. We laughed and laughed, and Ed put the frog inside his shirt to keep him safe until later. He wasn’t going to turn him loose here where there was no water.
As soon as we stopped, we took off for the stream to release the frog, and no one but us ever did know how the butter was churned that day.

The children shuffled in as usual, the timid ones clinging to their mothers’ skirts, the bold ones smiling happily on the front rows. Everything seemed normal—except who is that playing the music? Someone different is conducting, and look at all those teenagers scattered among the children.
In the Vancouver 9th Ward, Vancouver Washington Stake, the Young Men and Young Women took over the Primary for one day. The adult members of the ward had been called to attend a special meeting with the bishop. The young people gladly accepted the assignment as substitute teachers and music leaders. Both the children and the youth loved the experience as they learned from each other.