Gospel Story Finder

I got an invitation to one of my friend’s birthday parties, and I couldn’t go because it was on Sunday. I made a choice to not go to the party, and instead of going to the party to go to church. One of the Ten Commandments is to keep the Sabbath day holy. I want to show Heavenly Father I love Him by obeying His commandments. It was hard to miss the party, but I feel good because I know I made the right choice.

Grandpa and Grandma were coming! To 15-year-old Holly Walker of Calgary, Alberta, Canada, this was front-page news, bigger than a visit from the queen or a phone call from E. T.

Holly and her grandfather are pen pals. She writes to him often, sharing her triumphs and traumas, her dreams and goals. He answers her with letters full of encouragement and counsel. The two share many things—a love of horses and gardening, a zest for learning, and, above all, a devotion to family and the gospel.

Holly’s grandmother symbolizes for her the ideal of strong, wise, gracious womanhood. Holly has grown up using her grandmother’s life as a model and cooking old family recipes first created by her ingenuity. On the horizon of Holly’s young life, these two people loom like giants.

Now the time for the visit had come at last. Holly waited impatiently at the Calgary International Airport with her mother; two of her sisters and their husbands; and assorted cousins, nieces, and nephews. They sat and watched the control tower gather in jets and sort them back into the sky like a mailman sorting mail. Soon one of the incoming specks would grow into the plane carrying Grandma and Grandpa.

Grandpa’s plane floated down across the southern edge of Calgary, tracing with its shadow the broad blue sweep of the Bow River. The plane banked, leaning hard on its northern wing, pointing the wing tip like a finger at the tall shafts of glass and metal that clustered in an elbow of the river. Just behind the wing tip Grandpa could see a splash of color punctuated with turning circles. He knew the circles were Ferris wheels at the stampede grounds. The plane flew north now, shedding altitude rapidly. Through the eastern windows Grandpa glimpsed a fringe of houses and then only a green and yellow distance to the horizon. Westward lay a broad rug of city, green with trees and parks. At the city’s western edge hills rose in gentle swells that grew mile by mile till they crested in a vertical tidal wave of stone—the eastern ramparts of the Rocky Mountains. From this distance they looked like an abrupt wrinkle on a relief map. Then the city rushed up, and the bump of wheels on runway told Grandpa and Grandma that their visit had begun.

Like all good Calgarians, Holly loves the Stampede, and every year she and her family attend. And Stampede 1983 was going to be something special. This year Grandpa and Grandma would go with them! It had been a long time since her grandparents’ last visit, because Grandpa is a very busy man.

When Holly’s grandfather and grandmother appeared through the airport gates, everyone rushed to greet them. You probably would have recognized them too. Holly’s grandfather is President Ezra Taft Benson, President of the Council of the Twelve. There were hugging and kissing and the happy chatter that accompanies a reunion. Then they were all off to the beautiful home where Holly lives with her mother, Barbara Benson Walker, and her father, Robert Harris Walker, who is president of the Calgary Alberta Stake.

As they drove homeward, they enjoyed the special gentility that governs life here. Drivers obeyed the speed limit, respected the rights of others and merged and yielded with courtesy. They saw cyclists pedaling out to one of the islands on the Bow River and caught a glimpse of men in immaculate white shirts and trousers playing cricket on a manicured swatch of grass.

That evening, Holly went to the LDS dance, which is one of the highlights of social life for young Latter-day Saints in Calgary. After the dance, she brought home many of her friends to meet her grandfather, who received them with graciousness and humor. He made them all feel like old and valued friends, and they also felt the powerful witness of the Spirit that they were in the presence of a beloved servant of God.

The Bensons were only able to be in town a few days, but the family made the most of the days they had. Holly treasured the opportunity more than any gift she could conceive of. Her family was the most important thing in her life, and her grandfather and grandmother were the honored patriarch and matriarch of the family. She loved to sit talking with them, enjoying the stories and counsel as much as a gourmet might enjoy a delicious meal. She listened spellbound as President Benson told her stories of his experiences as a Scoutmaster when he was a young man. It was obvious that he had taken that calling just as seriously as he does his present assignment.

Holly showed her grandfather her journal. This was almost the same as reviewing her whole life since she had last seen him, because she keeps a world-class journal. It included not only a written account of her experiences but also clippings and programs and articles and drawings and photographs and bits of fabric and many other artifacts of her life. Her descendants will be able to know their ancestor very well indeed. Through this journal President Benson was able to be a real participant in her life.

Music has always been an important part of family get-togethers, and Holly played the piano while President and Sister Benson sang. Later they walked and talked and relaxed in the well-tended yard which Holly’s green thumb had helped to prosper. Then Holly showed her proud grandpa a bedroom full of trophies and awards and shared her written goals for the coming year. For another girl, a girl with fewer trophies and fewer accomplishments, the list might have seemed pie-in-the-sky nonsense, but this young lady was up to the challenge. She has been student-body president of her junior high school, seminary president, and captain of the school basketball and volleyball teams. She is a very talented pianist, having won first place in her age group at the Calgary Kiwanis Music Festival several years in a row. She also accompanies her mother, who is a soprano soloist. Two years running Holly won the top academic and athletic award at her school. She has also won awards as a dancer, singer, and composer. These are only a few of her many accomplishments to date, and only a beginning of what she plans to achieve.

Her 1983 goals run several pages in length. They include an ambitious, capacity-stretching list of self-commitments in the areas of spirituality, academics, reading, journal keeping, photography, athletics, self-improvement, music, service, and missionary work. As an example, the sports goals include specific and challenging commitments in basketball, waterskiing, tennis, jogging, swimming, hiking, racquetball, windsurfing, trampoline, and golf.

Monday evening the family went to the chuck wagon races at the Calgary Stampede. President Benson watched with the keen eye of a lifelong horseman as the chuck wagon teams careened around the track in a cloud of dust and tangle of wagons, horses, and outriders. A constant stream of LDS Scouts who were visiting from the nearby international jamboree came to shake the Apostle’s hand, and he graciously turned away from the spectacle to greet them warmly. Afterward there was a stage show honoring Canada, and then the night became noon as fireworks blossomed in new constellations overhead. The family laughed and joked and cheered. The best part of the evening was just being together.

As with all happy events, the visit passed too quickly, but it was long enough to deepen Holly’s love for her grandparents even more. “It is great having my grandparents here. I love them and admire them both very much. They have always been and will always be great examples to me. I feel very blessed to be their granddaughter and to be so close to them. I hope that I will never let them down.

“I remember going down in the summers or at conference time to visit them. I always love to hear their stories of when they were my age or younger. Their experiences seem to really relate to me and the things I’m interested in. I love them so much. I think the greatest thing they’ve shown me is to have love in the family, and we certainly do. My family and my relatives are my closest friends. I’d much rather be with them than with anyone else.”

As her grandparents’ visit drew to a close, Holly was happy to know that every parting with those she loved would someday be followed by a reunion, and that someday there would be a reunion to be followed by no partings. Her grandfather and grandmother were hers eternally, and as beautiful as the summer is in Calgary, that knowledge was still more beautiful.

It was my experience as a small boy to come under the influence of such a teacher. In our Sunday School class, she taught us concerning the Creation of the world, the Fall of Adam, and the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ.
One Sunday morning she announced sadly to us the death of a classmate’s mother. We had missed Billy that morning but knew not the reason for his absence. The lesson featured the theme, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Midway through the lesson, our teacher closed the manual and asked, “How much money do we have in our class party fund?”
Depression days prompted a proud answer: “Four dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Then she suggested, “Billy’s family is hard-pressed and grief-stricken. What would you think of the possibility of visiting the family members this morning and giving to them your fund?”
Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Tears glistened in the eyes of all as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the hand of our teacher to the hand of a grief-stricken father. We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. A God-inspired teacher had taught her boys and girls an eternal lesson of divine truth: “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

In the Lodi (California) Third Ward, when the bishop asked ward members to increase their knowledge about food storage and preparedness, the young women of the ward decided to learn to bake their own bread. Together with their mothers, the girls made flat breads, yeast breads, croissants, cinnamon rolls, scones, round loaves, and Greek braided bread. Part of each girl’s bread was shared at an activity night, and part was donated to the Salvation Army.

We often don’t know the reach of a simple act of kindness. The Prophet Joseph Smith was a model of compassion and love. One day, a group of eight African Americans arrived at the Prophet’s home in Nauvoo. They had traveled from their home in Buffalo, New York, some 800 miles away, so they could be with the prophet of God and with the Saints. Although they were free, they were forced to hide from those who might mistake them for runaway slaves. They endured cold and hardship, wearing out shoes and then socks until they walked on bare feet all the way to the City of Joseph. When they arrived in Nauvoo, the Prophet welcomed them into his home and helped each of them find a place to stay.
But there was one, a girl named Jane, who did not have a place to go, and she wept, not knowing what to do.
“We won’t have tears here,” Joseph said to her. He turned to Emma and said, “Here’s a girl who says she [doesn’t have a] home. Don’t you think she has a home here?”
Emma agreed. From that day on, Jane lived as a member of the family.
Years after the Prophet’s Martyrdom and after she had joined the pioneers and made the long trek to Utah, Jane said that sometimes she would still “wake up in the middle of the night, and just think about Brother Joseph and Sister Emma and how good they [were] to me. Joseph Smith,” she said, “was the finest man I ever saw on Earth.”

While living in the Mongolia countryside, I was fascinated with the vastness of the rolling hills with no fences or barrier of any kind to keep their animals from wandering away. My wife and I both grew up on the farm with a love for animals. In my youth I spent much of my time trying to keep our animals fenced in. My father always had a band of sheep so I was especially interested how the Mongolian people kept track of their herds. I learned quickly that there is a difference between being a shepard and being a sheep herder. We were sheep herders, keeping our animals contained in fences and corrals. Our sheep had little agency as we herded them from fenced area to fenced area with force and a few sheep dogs. If ever our sheep escaped, they ran wildly through town. I remember one spring day while in Junior High we suited up in my PE class and headed out to the soccer field. I remember clearly trotting out with all of my friends only to stop, frozen in terror, as I recognized the women in a house dress and apron running across the playing field, with a broom, chasing four sheep. Yes, it was my mother trying to catch a few of our escaping critters. I didn’t know whether to help or hide. I followed along as the entire class joined in to help Mom get our sheep back home.

One sunny afternoon Cory slipped into the kitchen after finishing his daily chores. “Hi, Mom. What’s for dinner?”
“Hungry so soon?” Mom replied as she wiped flour from her elbows. “I’m making chicken potpie, but it won’t be ready for an hour or so. Think you can wait, big guy?”
“Sure,” Cory said. But instead of running to his room to grab his baseball and glove to practice pitching, Cory stayed in the kitchen and sat stiffly on a chair. “Can I help you, Mom?”
Mom put down the ball of dough she had been molding in the middle of the table and gave Cory a quick glance. “Isn’t it your turn to do the dishes tonight, Cory?”
“I think so.” Cory was staring out the large window over the sink into the bright blue sky. Mom could tell that something was bothering him.
“Hand me the rolling pin from the big drawer there, please.”
As he handed her the rolling pin, Cory asked, “Mom, how do you know when you have done something right”—he paused—“or wrong?”
Mom sat down, dusting off her apron. “Well, I look inside myself. I listen for the Holy Ghost to guide me. If I feel good, it’s usually a good thing. I feel warm all over.”
Cory was confused. “You look inside yourself?”
Mom began again. “Imagine yourself taking a bath. If the water’s warm, you’re comfortable, right?”
“Right.”
“What if it’s cold?” Mom asked.
“You want to get out.”
“Exactly. When something is right, you might never question it. It’s like taking a warm bath. But when something is wrong, it’s like a cold bath; you want to get out. Many times the Holy Ghost guides us by the way we feel.”
There was silence.
“Is something bothering you, Cory?”
“Yeah.” Cory hesitated. “A kid at school wanted me to give him the answers to our homework.” He glanced down to his shoes. “He said I would be a great friend if I did.”
Mom looked at Cory as he wriggled in his chair.
“I said no, Mom, but I didn’t feel warm.”
“Well, what if your friend had asked you for your help instead of just your answers?” Mom asked.
Cory’s eyes brightened. “I would have liked that. That’s not wrong.”
“See the difference?”
“I think so.”
Talking and laughing, they chopped vegetables and cut up chicken and got the pie ready for the oven.
“Thanks for your help, Cory,” Mom said.
“Thank you, too, Mom.”
After school the next day, Mom was in the kitchen, writing out checks for bills, Cory bounded in, followed by a shy, stocky boy. “Mom, this is John. Can we study together at the kitchen table this afternoon?”
“Of course,” Mom answered. She hid her smile as she slipped her checkbook into her purse. She winked at Cory. “I’ll be upstairs taking a warm bath.”

Focusing on what’s most important has helped Bishop Waddell to live up to two family mottos, “Return with honor” and “Trust in the Lord.” That trust enabled him to put volleyball on hold to serve a mission. After he returned from his mission, it enabled him to continue a long-distance romance with a young woman at another university. Later, after they were married, trusting the Lord enabled them to listen to the Spirit when making decisions about moving.
“You do things the Lord’s way,” he says, “and things will work out fine.”

After two years, I was prompted to prepare to serve a mission together with Clint and two other friends. We were glad the announcement lowering the mission age to 18 was given two years ago, and we felt worthy and ready to serve.
I was motivated by one of my goals: to bring my family to the Church and someday be sealed in the temple with them. That is why I went ahead and served a mission despite the many educational opportunities I was getting. There were scholarship offers and family friends offering to sponsor my education, but I decided to put the Lord first and serve Him. Thank goodness my father was supportive of my decision although he has not been baptized yet.
I served in the Philippines Tacloban Mission and fell in love with the people of Tacloban and Samar. My friends and I all learned so much, and though we served in different missions, we supported each other and we all felt the Lord’s watchful gaze upon us.

While we were serving a mission in England, our 17-year-old son, Cory, was killed in a car accident. We were able to come home to Utah for his funeral, and then we immediately returned to England to finish our mission. It was a very tender time for our entire family.
One day, shortly after returning to England, I was walking down the street and an acquaintance who had heard of the death of our son said to me: “Well, what do you think of your God now? You are serving a full-time mission for Him, and He has taken your son.” I was both shocked and hurt. I felt so sorry for this person who did not understand Heavenly Father’s plan.
The difficult experience of my son’s death helped me identify and rejoice in the blessings of peace, hope, and direction—blessings that all who truly accept and live the gospel of Jesus Christ may enjoy. I can bear witness to the words of Elder Richard G. Scott: “Please learn that as you wrestle with a challenge and feel sadness because of it, you can simultaneously have peace and rejoicing” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1995, 20; or Ensign, Nov. 1995, 17).
What are some specific things we can do to have these blessings of peace, hope, and direction in our lives? May I share with you three things that have helped me.
First, we must have complete trust in our Father’s plan of happiness and our Savior’s part in that plan. Trusting in His plan gave me peace during the time following our son’s death. I knew where our son was, and I knew Heavenly Father loved him. I had a perfect hope that because of the Savior’s Atonement Cory lived and we would be together again as an eternal family. I also had direction. I knew what I needed to do and what our family needed to do to be together forever.

It was a unique service project for a unique Christmas season. Many families in the northern California bay area were still busy rebuilding their homes after last year’s tragic earthquake and hadn’t given Christmas decorations a thought. But the girls in the Hayward Fourth Ward, Hayward Stake, had. They decided to make Christmas decorations for earthquake victims in the surrounding areas.
The girls made napkin holders, Christmas tree decorations, and Christmas wall hangings. Each piece was one-of-a-kind, and the recipients were thrilled with them, since many of their own decorations had been destroyed by the quake. Their project spread the true Christmas spirit to both the givers and the receivers.

Annie frowned, seeing what was on the table for supper. She stamped her foot and declared, “Again, Mama!”
“Yes, Annie. Mush again. Come now, sit down and be glad for it. Our stomach walls would touch were it not for the mush.”
Annie pinched her lips together and sat down next to her older sister, Marian.
After supper the mush felt like a cold stone in Annie’s stomach as they gathered around Pa. Annie usually loved Pa’s quiet, deep tones as he read from the Bible or the Book of Mormon. But tonight’s chosen scripture, the third chapter of Habakkuk, bothered her when Pa reached verses seventeen and eighteen:
“Although … the fields shall yield no meat [fruit]; …
“Yet I will rejoice …”
Annie just had to blurt out, “Pa, does that mean that we should be glad even if there’s nothing but mush to eat?”
“That’s right, Annie.” Pa smiled gently at her.
“Well, I like what David said better.” Annie found the place in the old family Bible and pointed.
“Let’s see, Psalm Eighty-One, verse ten.” A slow smile spread across Pa’s face as he read, “Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it.”
With a little laugh, Marian said, “He’s done that, hasn’t He—filled our mouths with mush!”
“David didn’t mean mush, Marian!” Annie objected. “I just know that he didn’t!”
Later, in bed, Annie couldn’t sleep. She turned onto her side, thinking about Heavenly Father and mush. Surely Heavenly Father loves us enough to give us more than just mush, doesn’t He? Pa had talked about a mysterious stock market crash. He had said that the crash and now the long drought were why there wasn’t enough food or jobs. But, Annie wondered, why did Heavenly Father let it be so?
Restless, she got up and looked out the window. Her tiny bedroom above the kitchen looked out on flat, dry eastern Oregon ranchlands that seemed to stretch forever. Above, the sky was alive with twinkles. Annie stared up at the silver-spangled blackness, mulling over what Mama repeated often these days:
“Trust grows in sunshine, but—what’s best—
It blooms in darkness when at rest.”
“OK, Heavenly Father,” Annie said resignedly as she knelt by her bed, “I’ll go along with Mama and Pa and Marian. Maybe You know something that I don’t, so I’ll try to trust You more. I’ll even try to like mush a little bit.” When Annie finished her prayer, she stretched out under the quilts and drifted into a deep sleep.
Scraaaape! Scraaaatch!
The strange scraping sound wakened Annie. Drowsily she heard the screen door slam and Pa’s voice, “Git, Bossie! Go along now.”
Wondering whom Pa was talking to, Annie jumped up and pushed aside the curtains. “A cow!” she cried.
Trotting away toward the road was a jersey cow. Larger than most jerseys, she was yellowish brown, and one side was splashed with a darker brown, as though someone had splattered her with paint.
Annie stretched, then pulled on her clothes. As she slipped on her dress, she again heard the strange scraping sound. Looking down, she saw the same cow scraping her horns against the back porch post. The screen door slammed as Pa came out again, this time briskly slapping his pants with his hand. With a startled swing of her head, the cow took off down the path. Annie rested her hands on the sill and leaned out, watching the cow trot off. Her udder was swollen with milk and swung back and forth as she trotted.
Minutes later, Annie joined Marian and her parents in the kitchen. “Where’d that cow come from, Pa?”
“I imagine she belongs to some rancher. Because of the drought, they’ve had to turn their stock loose to forage for themselves. Poor critters.” As he shook his head sympathetically, the familiar scraping sound came again.
They all went out onto the porch and stared at the big cow. She stared back dully. Then, lifting her head, she drew out a long, sad Moooo.
“Pa, she wants to be milked,” Marian said. “Look at her full udder.” She took a step toward the jersey, then stopped as the animal swung her head, brandishing sharp horns. A hoofed foot stamped in the dust, raising dust swirls in the already hot morning sun.
“I’ll milk her! Then we’ll have cream on our mush. Won’t that be good?” Annie’s voice was excited. She looked appealingly at Pa. “Can I, Pa? Please. She’s come here, asking.”
“Annie, part of her looks like she wants to be milked, all right. But her horns and that look in her eyes say, ‘No one better bother me.’”
“Let me try, Pa. Please. If she doesn’t want me to, she’ll just leave.”
“All right, Annie. Go ahead and try, but I don’t think she’ll even let you near her.”
Annie slipped into the kitchen and grabbed a large pot and a stool. Carrying them cautiously, she walked slowly toward the cow, who stood watching her. The cow’s front hoof pawed at the dusty ground, and her tail switched away a fly. Annie hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. The cow really didn’t look too friendly. Then she thought, Cream on ourmush! I’ll bet this cow is from Heavenly Father.
Annie took another slow step. “There now, little mama,” she crooned. “We’ll soon have you feeling better.” With slow, steady movements, Annie positioned the pot under the cow. Soon steady streams of rich, warm milk were filling it to the brim.
Just as Annie finished, the cow flung her head and took off, her sharp hoofs barely missing the pot of foaming milk.
“Wow!” Marian breathed. “Annie, you sure were brave. She really isn’t too tame.”
“Let’s go have our mush with cream, Marian!” Annie exulted.
After Pa said the blessing, Annie added her own silent thank-you to Heavenly Father.
Early the next morning, Annie was again awakened by the scraping sound.
Oh! You’ve sent her again, Heavenly Father! Annie thought as she drew in a quick breath. She flew down the stairs, snatched up the stool and pot, and raced outdoors.
“Oh, Bossie dear, I’m so glad that you came back. We loved the milk you gave us yesterday. Do you belong to Heavenly Father, Bossie?” Talking gently, Annie was soon filling the pot again with Bossie’s creamy milk.
Each morning, all through the hot, dry summer, the cow returned. And each morning Annie’s young, strong fingers milked her. Mama gave the cow some of their precious water to drink each morning as partial payment for her cream and milk.
The days grew shorter and cooler. One day a long downpour sank deeply into the thirsty ground. Soon Pa found work, and once again they were able to buy a variety of foods to eat.
One afternoon a rancher rode up to the door. “Good morning, Ma’am,” he said to Mama. “I’m rounding up the cattle that I had to turn loose a while back. I’m missing one—a big jersey with a splash of dark brown on one side. I wonder if you’ve seen her?”
“Oh my, yes!” Mama said. “Is she yours? We’ve wondered whom she belonged to. She’s been coming every morning for months. My Annie’s been milking her, and—”
“Nope, can’t be her, then, Ma’am,” he interrupted. “This cow will hardly let a husky man milk her, let alone a tad of a girl. She’s a mean critter.”
“Well, this cow’s skittish, all right. But she apparently lost her calf and was heavy with milk, so each morning Annie has been milking her. We don’t know who has been milking her at night.”
“Well, I just can’t imagine her being milked by a little girl. But maybe I’ll drop by and have a look, anyway.”
The next morning the rancher came as Annie was still milking the cow.
“Well, I’ll be switched!” he declared. “That jersey’s one and the same, as sure as can be.” He walked slowly around the cow as Annie finished milking her. “Yep, there’s my brand, all right. But say, little girl, you’ve been doing something few have ever done.” With that, he led the cow away down the road.
Annie watched the cow go and smiled at the thought of Heavenly Father’s goodness. Thanks, Heavenly Father, for filling our mouths with more than just mush.

Brigham Young Academy experienced one financial crisis after another following the Lewis building fire. By the mid-1880s, the school was in dire straits. The faculty and staff received only one-third of their salary in 1885.9 Conditions became so desperate that Zina Young Williams appealed to President John Taylor for help. You may remember my retelling of her story at last year’s annual university conference and President Taylor’s response that her father, Brigham Young, had appeared to him in the night and had assured President Taylor that all would be well, “that Christ himself was directing, and had a care over [the] school.”10 At the time, everyone, including Karl Maeser and Abraham O. Smoot, was buried with debt. Brother Maeser became so discouraged that he decided to leave the academy and join the faculty of the University of Deseret. As Elder Perry mentioned last evening, Brother Maeser told his wife and daughter to pack the household goods and personal belongings. For two days Sister Maeser and Eva sat on the trunks waiting to move. On the third day the daughter finally asked when they would be leaving for Salt Lake City. Brother Maeser replied: “I have changed my mind. I have had a dream—I have seen Temple Hill filled with buildings—great temples of learning, and I have decided to remain and do my part in contributing to the fulfillment of that dream.”11

Karl Maeser stayed for another six or seven years until the new building was completed. He was the intellectual and spiritual architect who laid the foundation for today’s magnificent institution. George Brimhall, a student of both Dusenberry and Maeser, described the impact that Karl Maeser had on him in the following words: “Judge Dusenberry showed me the road to higher education, but Karl G. Maeser showed me the way to a higher life.”12

Many households raised their own sheep, clipped the wool, prepared it for spinning, spun it, and then took it to a neighbor with a loom to weave it into linsey. The linsey was then cut and made into skirts, blouses, shirts, dresses, and men’s suits. Mary Julia Johnson stated that a young man who was leaving in one week on a mission had no suit to wear. When the women of the ward heard this, they went to work with the result that “one Sunday the wool was the sheep’s back, but by the next Sunday it had been clipped, cleansed, carded, spun, woven, and made into a splendid suit and was on the back of the missionary as he delivered his farewell address in our little church house.”

Screams of terrified Laurels echoed through the Santa Cruz Mountains. A big, black, hairy “gorilla” had just come charging out of the darkness! The surprise appearance of this unusual creature was just part of the excitement at the San Jose 14th Ward’s first annual Laurel and priest high school graduation party.
The party was planned by the first-year Laurels and priests, and the only information they gave to the “guests of honor” was that they should be at their homes in their Sunday best at 5:30 P.M. on Friday, June 16.
Chauffeurs picked up the graduates and escorted them to a mountain retreat in the heavily forested Santa Cruz Mountains. As they arrived, many wondered what they were doing at a Boy Scout camp in suits and long dresses! Their curiosity was soon satisfied, however, when they were escorted into the beautifully decorated A-frame building. Pictures of the graduates at various ages had been hung on the walls, and classical music created a pleasant atmosphere for the delicious lasagne dinner that was served.
Then came more surprises. The parents of each of the graduates had furnished stories, home movies, and slides of their children, and this provided the first portion of the evening’s entertainment. Afterwards, funny awards were presented to each of the graduates by the above-mentioned “gorilla,” Mr. Chimpchump. (Mr. Chimpchump was a great scientist, explained the emcee, but had somehow been turned into an ape.) Following this, the final event of the evening was an elegant dance.
Everyone seemed to have a great time and to feel the joy that comes from participating in good, wholesome activities. Without a question, a tradition had been starred in San Jose!

When the question of going out with nonmembers arose, Heidi Grey, 17, had this to say, “Having tried it, I can look at both sides of the issue. It is hard to keep your standards when you’re going with boys oblivious to those ideals. They don’t know and can’t accept the high principles we have, and it makes life tough many times. But now I’m dating someone who is very strong in the Church and at last my head is above water. I can see where I want to be going.”

Before I got my patriarchal blessing, I prayed to know if it was the right time for me to receive my blessing. Then I prepared myself by becoming more spiritually in tune. When the day came I was so excited! While my patriarchal blessing was being pronounced upon me, I imagined that my Heavenly Father was there with his hands on my head saying the words himself. In that way my patriarchal blessing was much more personal to me.
Colleen Peterson, 15Salem, Oregon

I suffered a tremendous collapse in my own life. Before my eyes, my beautiful, funny, full-of-life eight-year-old son was killed in an automobile-pedestrian accident. I held his body as his blood spilled out on the roadway and his spirit slipped away and returned to his heavenly home. I pleaded with my Heavenly Father to let him stay, but that wasn’t in my son’s life plan.
I was lost in the dark, overwhelmed with the burden of my grief. I was weary, unable to rest, as the problem of mortality clouded my eyes. I came to know that a broken heart is a true physical feeling. Where once I had a heart, there was now only a dark hole that was raw and painful.
I believed that I should just be strong enough to get over it. Many people had suffered more. But like the miners, trapped by the unmovable rock that held them captive, I could not lift the burden of my grief.
My rescue came when I was on my knees in the depths of grief over my son’s death. Like the miners as they entered the capsule, I was at a pivotal point: should I try to overcome my challenges with my own strength and knowledge, or should I reach out to my Heavenly Father and ask for help?
Oppressed by the weight of my grief, I decided to turn to God. As I appealed to my Father in Heaven, I told Him how weary I was and asked Him to please lift the burden of my grief. Before I stood again, the weight of my sorrows was lifted from my shoulders. I still had to work through the pain and loss, but the unbearable load was gone.
It was there that I came to know that the Savior stands by our side, waiting to lift us, waiting only for us to ask Him, waiting for us to lay our burdens upon His shoulders, waiting for us to put our hand in His so that He can rescue us.

The first time Alan had come hunting was when he was 11. Before then he was forced to stay behind “with the women” while the men and the older boys in the family went up to the mountains for three or four days.
Uncle Ed had taken a special interest in him. His uncle, now dead, had been a weather-beaten rancher, a widower at 25. His ranch, snuggled against the mountains near Bozeman, had been one of Alan’s favorite places as a boy. Being alone had produced a simplicity in his uncle’s life that Alan envied. When they were there, Alan didn’t have to wash much.
The first day that they hunted, Alan went out with his father. They didn’t see anything. The second day Uncle Ed talked Alan’s father into letting Alan go with him so, as his uncle said, “He’ll learn that hunting is more than sitting around watching the robins.”
His uncle and Alan left early in the morning and hiked along a ridge for two hours before they sat down away from the trail, waiting for the hunters below to scare some deer their way.
As Alan had waited with his uncle that morning, nervous and excited, it was as if he was recording each sensory impression to the smallest detail so that years later he could still remember: his body smelling like a work horse after the long hike; the decaying beauty of a forest preparing for the snows of winter; the smooth reassuring feel of the stock of his 30-30 rifle; and the anticipation that turned every wind into the sound of an approaching deer.
Then the deer came. Alan’s heart pounded inside him until it seemed that the noise would scare away the deer.
It was a six-point buck. His uncle motioned for Alan to make the shot. As he took the gun off safety, a shift in his weight caused a twig to snap. The deer heard the sound and looked over at him the same instant Alan squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot roared in Alan’s ears.
It had been a good shot, and the deer had not gone very far before he fell down. When they reached him, his uncle reached down and, taking a knife, slit the deer’s throat so the blood would be pumped out, leaving the meat good.
His uncle stood up and, walking over to Alan, placed both of his large hands on Alan’s shoulders. Like some ancient ritual, he said, “You’re a man now.”
That night over a large campfire, the others told Alan stories about hunting. They seemed strangely happy as if they were welcoming him into some ancient brotherhood.
Each year after that Alan went hunting. He became a good hunter and enjoyed the challenge of pitting himself against the mountains.
But one day several years later as he methodically sighted in on his scope an eight-point buck 100 yards away, he thought to himself, “I’m just grocery shopping. That’s all it amounts to anymore.” He squeezed the trigger, and the deer recoiled backwards.
He still hunted after that because they needed the meat. But although he still enjoyed the chance to be outdoors, the sense of excitement was gone for him.

Despite this experience, I fought an internal battle that was continually fueled by commonly asked questions about when I would submit mission papers and what my plans were. The mission decision was constantly on my mind. After graduating in 2021, I knew I had to make a choice, so I prayed, already sensing what the Lord wanted. I wanted a sign to give me a special pardon that I didn’t have to go. I did not expect what happened next.
The next day as usual, I picked up the others on my crew and headed to a jobsite, when a car came flying through a stop sign and crashed into us. Our truck was totaled and the car that hit us flew about 30 yards down the road. We had just pulled out of a gas station before the crash and none of us had put our seat belts yet. Miraculously, none of us were badly injured. Later, talking with the police officers, they told me that my coworker and I sitting in the front seat could easily have been thrown through the windshield without our seat belts on. Things started to settle in for me later that night, when I heard a familiar voice in my head saying “Travis, you could be dead right now. But you’re not.”
This changed my life. I realized I was protected because the Lord had something in store for me. Finally, I knew I truly was called to serve. Months later, I received my mission assignment: the Dominican Republic Santo Domingo West Mission.