Gospel Story Finder

Perhaps it is partly this aura of impossibility that draws Kent to eagles, just as it has drawn poets, prophets, and emperors for centuries.
Actually, it all started with snakes. From the day he was born, Kent seemed to delight in all wild creatures, but snakes were his first real love. As a very young boy, he turned his backyard into a reptile menagerie with cages full of crawling snakes, gila monsters, horned toads, lizards, and just about any other tail-twitching belly-crawler he could find. As soon as he learned to read, he went hunting for reptiles in the library too.
But a new love was waiting in the wings, and at 12 years of age, Kent was to have his eyes snatched from the delightful snake-harboring ground to the wide, blue, eagle-bearing sky.
One day on a camping trip Kent’s Scoutmaster pointed at a dead cottonwood tree and said, “Hey, guys, there are two eagles!” The two golden eagles perched on skeletal limbs burned their image into an unexposed surface of Kent’s brain and filled his life’s appointment book all in an instant. He came. He saw. He was conquered.
But finding eagles isn’t all that easy until you learn where to look, and it was two years before Kent was able to make a house call. One rainy afternoon in early May he stepped onto a tiny protruding ledge that overhung more than 150 feet of sheer emptiness. As he peered over the edge, the sun burst through the rain clouds, spotlighting the golden hackles of a female eagle on her nest about ten yards down. Seeing Kent, she soared silently away but left behind two eaglets who sat cheeping at him in a blaze of downy sunshine.
Kent says of that instant: “At that moment I was so inspired by the beauty and majesty of the eagles that I felt more alive myself. The air smelled fresher, and the stream far below sparkled more brightly than before. I had simply opened my eyes and had really seen and felt what was around me.”
From eagles Kent’s love spread to all raptors (birds of prey). The fierce independence and aristocratic bearing of these aerial hunters caught his imagination and sent him out during every spare moment to follow their flight and study their habits.
He went to the library too, hunting these feathered sky-riders among the quiet stacks of books. He learned, both from books and experience (he doesn’t believe a book until he has proved it in nature) about the different raptors—where they nested, where they hunted, how they hunted, what their prey was, how they mated, and even how they flew. Before long he could see a bird silhouetted gnat-small on the horizon and name it by its flight pattern. Every time he saw a bird or visited a nest, he took careful scientific notes of everything he observed. He has several PhD dissertations lying unwritten in his notebooks.
During his junior year in high school, Kent dropped out of football and basketball to allow more time for raptor study. He traveled miles and miles searching out nests and roosting areas. He developed the climbing ability of a mountain goat and the stamina of a mustang. Leaving home Friday night after school or well before dawn Saturday morning, getting home well after dark Saturday night, and spending much of the time in between climbing steep mountains at a brisk trot, he found many raptor nests and gradually became a legitimate expert in the field. Weekdays after school also found him in the hills as often as possible.
One of his most rewarding experiences came one winter after a month-long search when he found the winter roosting grounds of bald eagles from Canada and Alaska. “I stood alone in two feet of snow near the bottom of an isolated canyon in west-central Utah, my eyes searching the sky for signs of life. Suddenly, as if by magic, they came, one by one, in pairs, and in small groups. Bald eagles dropped from the tall pine trees to the south and were gradually caught up in thermal drafts of air. Slowly circling higher and higher, traveling on wings of up to eight feet in length, they drifted west in a steady stream of traffic across the sky.”
That summer he carried back-breaking loads of wood and canvas up a towering mountain in order to build a blind from which to observe these eagles during the coming winter. When the snows were deep on the mountain a few months later, he spent hours watching them up close. “I have often crawled out of a warm bed at 3:00 A.M. and hiked up tall mountains through three feet of snow in the dark. Then I have sat cramped and numbed in a dark blind until mid-afternoon. By that time I have begun to wonder what is wrong with me. Suddenly, only 30 feet away and halfway up a scraggly old pine tree, a beautiful bald eagle has landed, and I wonder no longer.”
Kent interrupted his eagle watching to accept a mission call to the Kentucky Louisville Mission, but on his return he was on the road again checking nests.
Kent, like other students of raptors, is especially interested in the predators’ nesting behavior because this is the cycle that stands between the species and extinction.
There is also the mystery of the eternal interplay between the flight and the nest, freedom and responsibility. “An eagle’s freedom is exciting. They can leave the ground any time they want and ride the wind, and yet, like people, they’re tied down with responsibilities. When an eagle has eggs, she’s on the nest for 45 days, and she may leave it for only an hour a day. Eagles must follow their food supply too. They have certain laws they have to live within, but when they get up there and ride that wind, there’s not much that can touch them.”
In Utah, golden eagles begin their courtship flights in January or February, lay eggs from late February through March, and then incubate them from 42 to 45 days, after which the eaglets stay in the nest for from eight to ten weeks before taking to their wings. Kent warns that anyone interested in eagles should simply stay away from the nests during egg laying and incubation because during that period adult eagles are most prone to abandon the nest. Whenever a human being approaches her nest, the female eagle will invariably leave it until he is gone, and even if she returns, exposure to heat or cold can easily destroy the eggs. After the eaglets have hatched, the nest can be safely visited for very short periods of time, but after the eaglets are about seven weeks old, there is serious danger of frightening them off the nest before they are able to fly.
First flight is as breathtaking an experience for eagles as it is for people, and the proud lords of the skyways start out as bumbling, incompetent aviators. They too often crash and break a wing on the first flight and become easy prey to starvation or some four-legged predator. Kent once saw a ten-week-old eagle make its first flight and remembers: “He hopped off the nest as if he knew what he was doing, but all of a sudden he was speeding down toward the opposite cliff and losing altitude fast. You could see the shock in his eyes. His wings were spread out, his primary and secondary feathers flapping back and forth in the breeze. His head was moving back and forth watching the ground and looking back up at the nest—looking everywhere at once. He looked as if he was wondering what he had gotten himself into, whether he had really blown it, but you could also feel his exhilaration and the thrill of his first flight. He dropped down to the mouth of the canyon and hit an updraft that just pushed him right up out of sight. I found him the next day sitting on a tree unhurt.”
Kent realized from day one that it would be unthinkable to put an eagle in a cage like his childhood pet lizards, so he found another way of capturing the wild, free beauty of these magnificent creatures—photography. He seldom goes anywhere without his camera and his 400, 150, and 50 mm lenses. Over the years he has accumulated a fine collection of raptor slides and has organized them into several slide shows guaranteed to make you sad you were not born an eagle. He presents these shows to many groups and enjoys sharing them with people in rest homes and with handicapped children. It is his way of giving wings to people who are the most earthbound.
“I love eagles,” he says, “but people are the most important part of that love. It wouldn’t mean a thing to me if I went out there and filmed all those great things and didn’t have anybody to share it with.”
In photographing raptors, Kent has developed a skill that few people share. If you don’t believe it, go out sometime and photograph a bird moving in and out of focus at eye-blurring speed across blue sky, white clouds, black mountainsides, and blazing patches of snow, all in a few seconds. You’ll be very lucky even to find the thing in your telephoto lens, much less focus it and get the right exposure.
Kent’s delight in all living things has never faded. He still can’t pass up a lizard without stopping and watching. A porcupine is still a miracle. A turtle is still a masterpiece. A raven or a meadowlark is still breathtaking, and snakes still make him shiver as good as they make most of us shiver bad. There are no commonplace animals for Kent; they all bring him joy just by being. It is significant that on the gun rack in his pickup he has hung only a pair of binoculars.
But in spite of his reverence for all things, those binoculars are filled mostly with raptors right now, and Kent has been repaid for his thousands of hours of work with some heart-thumping experiences—a squadron of bald eagles on a winter day, the soaring rise of a Swainson’s hawk, the screaming dive of a prairie falcon, the puppet-like unreality of baby owls. And speaking of owls, he had the privilege of being knocked backwards off a 30-foot cliff by a frightened great horned owl and of having his face bloodied by the fierce attack of another not-at-all frightened member of the species.
He especially remembers one top-of-the-world moment on a peak high in a remote canyon. The granite walls were so buffeted by a tree-toppling wind that day that he had to lie flat to avoid being blown away like a leaf. A golden eagle came floating down onto the highest point on the peak, sorting out the changing, punishing wind with his wings, and somehow keeping an even keel. He stood there a moment looking regally around at the whole world lying beneath his talons as if inspecting his kingdom. “He only touched down for a few seconds, and then he simply opened his wings and turned them back into the wind. He shot up and out of sight like a rocket without ever flapping a wing.”
No one but Kent can say how many hours of sleep or basketball games or TV shows that experience was worth to him, but he isn’t complaining.
There is another aspect to Kent’s studies beyond the intellectual and aesthetic. Living with these magnificent birds has strengthened his testimony of his Creator. One winter day he took an atheist friend to a canyon where he knew there would be eagles. As they stood in the snow watching some 50 bald eagles soar above them, Kent looked at his open-mouthed friend and said quietly, “That didn’t just happen by accident.”
“Boy, I know it!” his friend said, his voice small with awe.
If anybody wants to know why eagles are worth saving, maybe that’s why.

Shannon from Utah, USA, shared how her neighbors helped her: “The day we buried our young son, we returned from the cemetery to find our neighborhood had come together in those hours while we were at his funeral to completely re-landscape our yard. They had planted beautiful shrubs, trees, and flowers, and even new sod. In the midst of our unimaginable sadness, their thoughtful demonstration of love and support began the healing process for us. We were reminded that love and life are eternal every year when our beautiful yard came back to life again. [It was] truly a sacred and symbolic experience that we will never forget.”

Recently I was impressed by a group of teenage Aaronic Priesthood holders who were assembled together with their bishops and advisers for an informal gospel discussion. It was a small, relaxed gathering, just to talk things over, to reason together. By the initial comments and greetings, it became obvious that each young man respected his bishop and had appreciation for the quorum advisers. It was also clear from their comments that they loved the Lord. But with all of this, there were still some who were struggling and wondering about a few things. Three main concerns came out of the discussion that morning. First, the question: “Why does life have to be so hard?”
A little later, a boy about fifteen years of age, obviously worried about some mounting peer pressure at school, commented, “I am not so sure it’s worth it all.”
And finally this—they all wanted to know, “How can I be certain that the Church is true?”
These questions are not new. They are as old as man. Nor are they reserved for just a few. I doubt that there is even one in this vast congregation that has not been faced with these same recurring questions through the years.
Let’s start with the first question about life being hard. I like what one of the seminary students said. He commented, “Life here in mortality is no different from the explanation we received in the premortal existence.” He went on, “According to our Sunday School teacher, we shouted for joy and not only agreed to come to earth but literally clamored for the opportunity.”
One of the advisers turned to a scripture to show how the Lord is always there to help us over the rough spots if we do our part.
He read: “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock,” said the Savior. “If any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me” (Rev. 3:20). Did you catch the point, young men, that it is up to us to open the door? I think the Savior gives us another vital key as He declares, “For without me ye can do nothing” (John 15:5). That’s powerful!
Remember the next comment? “I am not sure if it is worth it all.” One of the bishops was quick to ask this question: “Do you think it would be worth it to some day become eligible to receive all that the Father has?” He went on to remind us that to receive all that the Father has is the very essence of the oath and covenant of the priesthood. Let’s reread together those words given us in the eighty-fourth section of the Doctrine and Covenants with regard to that sacred obligation, an obligation that we all share alike. Please listen carefully. I’m going to start with the thirty-third verse:
“For whoso is faithful unto the obtaining these two priesthoods of which I have spoken, and the magnifying their calling, are sanctified.”
And then skipping down to the thirty-eighth verse:
“And he that receiveth my Father receiveth my Father’s kingdom; therefore all that my Father hath shall be given unto him.
“And this is according to the oath and covenant which belongeth to the priesthood” (vs. 33, 38–39).
My young friends, please realize that these conditions that we just read are set. They have all been affirmed. We have already had priesthood authority conferred upon us. The Lord has promised a guaranteed destiny for all who magnify that priesthood; and that destiny is eternal life, which, according to scripture, is the greatest of all the gifts (see D&C 14:7). Because we have been ordained, we are on our way. Not only are we on our way, but it looks like we have reached the point of no return, for the Savior assures us that this is an oath and covenant of the Father “which he cannot break, neither can it be moved” (D&C 84:40).
Let me interject an interesting little sidelight. As we read that last scripture concerning the oath and covenant that cannot be broken and neither can it be moved, one of the lads said, “Hey, where is my free agency in all of this?” A boy who had just been ordained a priest then spoke up: “We exercised our free agency in the premortal existence; people agree to baptism before they are baptized; we choose to renew the baptismal covenant each week during the sacrament service; we agreed to the conditions of the priesthood during the bishop’s interview. No,” he concluded, “I don’t think our free agency has been violated.”
He was right. There has not been a violation of our free agency.
I would hope that no one who has taken upon himself the sacred covenant of the priesthood would ever throw his hands up, walk away, and say, “I’m sorry, it’s just too difficult.” Nephi had problems galore: Laman, Lemuel, Laban, and so on down the list. But he realized in his hour of need that all the forces of heaven were available to him. Remember when he declared, “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Ne. 3:7).
At this point, one of the young deacons quipped, “Yeah, but Nephi didn’t have to go to my school.” He was telling us that his problem was just about as big as Nephi’s but in a little different way. And he may be right, but the point is this: the Lord didn’t forsake Nephi. He didn’t forsake the Prophet Joseph Smith in Liberty Jail. And he won’t forsake a boy with peer pressure at school or with any other problem.
All of us who are to stand prepared for the great blessings associated with this priesthood authority that is ours must be sanctified from time to time by whatever process the Lord has in mind. Just as surely as we are assembled here, whether a General Authority, a bishop, an elder, a deacon, the process is exactly the same. We must try to understand that when adversity comes, it is likely a means of preparing us for something ahead. Yes, it’s worth it. Believe me, young men, it’s worth it all.
Now the third great question: “How can we be certain that the Church is true?” Can anyone gain a so-called perfect testimony here in mortality? I think all of us here are still in the never-ending process of a developing testimony. Youth of Zion, forget about receiving a miracle, or the so-called sure sign from heaven. There are no shortcuts to eternity. Thus, extreme patience becomes another key factor as we develop our testimony over a lifetime. It is simply “line upon line, precept upon precept; here a little, and there a little,” just as the scriptures say (D&C 128:21).
There are basic principles that never change in the development of a testimony.
Let’s use the Book of Mormon as an example. The great promise found in Moroni 10:4, with which we are all familiar, states that we must read the book—then ask Heavenly Father about it with a sincere heart, with faith in Christ. Then He says when we have done this, the truth will be manifest to us by the power of the Holy Ghost.
Now, whether it be a testimony about the Book of Mormon, tithing, the Word of Wisdom, the law of the fast, keeping the Sabbath day holy, or any other principle, the process is exactly the same. First we must understand it through the scriptures and then we live it to the best of our ability; then we ask Heavenly Father with a sincere heart, with faith in Christ; then the truth of that principle will be manifest to us by the power of the Holy Ghost.
If you want to know the truth, you become informed, you be willing, and you be available.
Be informed about truth by reading the scriptures and by listening to inspired leaders.
Be willing to live that truth to the best of your ability.
And then be available to the gifts of the Spirit through your personal worthiness that you may be directed and that you may recognize the answer when it comes.
O youth of the noble birthright, you young men of a royal priesthood, become a modern-day Nephi in your faith. Yes, we all agree, it’s hard at times, but the rewards are overwhelming. And never forget this: anyone who has been foreordained as you have been, anyone who has been given the gift of the Holy Ghost as you have, and anyone who has had priesthood authority conferred upon him as you have, will surely find within his grasp the ability to acquire a strong testimony—a testimony that should never stop growing. As with Joshua of old, “Choose you this day whom ye will serve; … but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” (Josh. 24:15). And just as surely as you do that, the “doctrine of the priesthood shall distil upon thy soul as the dews from heaven” (D&C 121:45). May it be so, I pray humbly, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“I have heard that only 2 percent of the population is born with extraordinary talent. Most people have to work to become good!
“Let me give an illustration: Half a century ago a boy of ten was working in Naples in a factory. He longed to be a singer, but his first teacher discouraged him.
“‘You can’t sing,’ he said. ‘You haven’t any voice at all. It sounds like shutters.’ But his mother, a poor peasant woman, put her arms around him and told him she knew he could sing. She could see an improvement already, and she went barefoot in order to save money to pay for his music lessons. That peasant mother’s praise and encouragement changed her boy’s life. He was to become one of the world’s greatest tenors. His name was Caruso.
“You mustn’t give false praise, but instead, be like this mother and find the good. Then give your sister the genuine praise that she seeks.”
Bruce Wendell BarkerJacksonville, North Carolina

A tender, sweet story about receiving peace from the scriptures appeared in the January 1991 Ensign, submitted by Sister Carole Seegmiller. Using a few excerpts, I quote from her article: “Dad decided that our family should begin an intensive study of the scriptures to help my brother Bruce prepare for his mission. Dad’s goal was to read the entire Book of Mormon before Bruce left, tape-recording our voices as we went along. … We would take turns reading a chapter [each]. …
“The family finished the Book of Mormon a few months later, … so Dad decided we should read and record the four Gospels from the New Testament. I complained this time, telling Dad that I didn’t see the point: we could buy audiotapes of professionals reading the scriptures—and they sounded a lot better than we did. Still Dad persisted. ‘Carole, one day these tapes will be a great blessing to us.’ …
“I began to enjoy these times together with the family. I especially liked to hear Dad share his personal insights about a passage. Soon I began to sense the peace that comes through studying the scriptures. We finished reading the four Gospels shortly before Bruce left for the Missionary Training Center. …
“After Bruce left, I noticed how comforting the tapes were to Dad. He often listened to them, partly just to hear Bruce’s voice, I thought, since they had been very close. Sometimes at night Dad would fall asleep listening, and I would smile to myself as I heard the familiar click-click-click of the recorder that had run to tape’s end. …
“When Bruce had been gone for more than a year, Dad died quietly of a heart attack. … All of our family members … gathered except Bruce, who had determined to finish his mission.
“That evening, after [the funeral], I was feeling low. I went upstairs to Dad’s room and dejectedly sat down at his desk. I noticed his well-used tape recorder lying nearby; inside was one of our tapes of the New Testament, which Dad must have listened to the night before he died. I began rewinding the tape, stopping it at random, hoping to find solace in hearing the gentle resonance of Dad’s voice. … I sat upright as my father spoke from the tape:
“‘Peace I leave with you, 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.’ …
“I listened to that passage over and over; the words reached out and wrapped a comforting arm around me. …
“Peace did come to us that night. … Since then, I have tasted the sweet peace of the New Testament time and time again. To me, that is its greatest message” (“Our Family’s Tape-recorded New Testament,” Ensign, Jan. 1991, p. 27).

When I was in nursing school we completed our study of death and dying by spending time with terminally ill patients in hospital. The assignment consisted of an entire eight-hour shift with that patient filling their psychological as well as physical needs. I can’t express how reluctant I was to face such a patient. I really felt I wouldn’t be able to do it. I even thought of telephoning the school to say I was sick, but my class grade depended upon completion of this assignment.
I felt very inadequate that day as I stepped onto the elevator of the hospital. A constant prayer had been in my heart and mind all through the night and was answered in part as the elevator ascended.
“Don’t be afraid,” the voice whispered.
I doubted back, “But what will I say? How do I talk of death to someone who isn’t a Latter-day Saint?” My mind continued, “I’m the only Latter-day Saint in my whole class … in the whole school. Some of the hospitals I work in don’t have a Latter-day Saint in them on the staff or as a patient.”
Once on the fourth floor, I looked at my patient’s medical chart. This was not our usual routine as we were to assess our patient personally before we ever went to their chart; it was part of the learning exercise. However, something told me to look at her chart before I entered the room. Everything checked out. “Eve Crisp. Terminal cancer—final phase.” But there in the corner under religious affiliation were the letters “LDS.”
Quickly I slipped into her darkened room. Her eyes dimmed by months of suffering brightened a bit as I took her hand in mine and introduced myself as Sister Cain.
We visited easily as I met her physical needs. I learned that my patient still had several children at home. She was only forty-seven years old. She spoke of the Church and a time that she had traveled to attend a general conference. It was one of her fondest memories. I mentioned the upcoming April conference broadcast that would be broadcast the following Sunday morning. She smiled.
Often during the day she would respond to the cries of a little boy down the hall who had been badly burned by saying, “Poor thing, he must be suffering so.” Her sympathy and compassion seemed overwhelming for one suffering so much herself. I marveled at her. The time came all too soon for me to leave. Before I left, I straightened her pillow and reached for her signal light on the bed sheet. As I placed it in her hand she held on to mine and answered the question I was unable to ask.
“The Lord is perfect. His plan for me is perfect and I know he loves me.”
I embraced her and moved silently out into the corridor. I took a deep breath before returning to the main desk to write a note on her chart. The note read: “Please see to it that Mrs. Crisp’s television is tuned to the LDS general conference on Sunday morning at six o’clock.” I then went to a report meeting and bore my testimony to a class of nonmembers that I could only hope would appreciate my remarks.
The following Monday, my supervising instructor called me from my class work into her office. Sister Crisp I was told had died that Sunday morning shortly after the television show she had been watching had ended. I shed tears for her that I would shed for no one else. She had taught me so much—“The Lord is perfect; his plan is perfect and I know he loves me.”

Many years ago, on an assignment to the beautiful islands of Tonga, I was privileged to visit our Church school, the Liahona High School, where our youth are taught by teachers with a common bond of faith—providing training for the mind and preparation for life. On that occasion, entering one classroom, I noticed the rapt attention the children gave their native instructor. His textbook and theirs lay closed upon the desks. In his hand he held a strange-appearing fishing lure fashioned from a round stone and large seashells. This, I learned, was a maka-feke, an octopus lure. In Tonga, octopus meat is a delicacy.
The teacher explained that Tongan fishermen glide over a reef, paddling their outrigger canoes with one hand and dangling the maka-feke over the side with the other. An octopus dashes out from its rocky lair and seizes the lure, mistaking it for a much-desired meal. So tenacious is the grasp of the octopus and so firm is its instinct not to relinquish the precious prize that fishermen can flip it right into the canoe.
It was an easy transition for the teacher to point out to the eager and wide-eyed youth that the evil one—even Satan—has fashioned so-called maka-fekes with which to ensnare unsuspecting persons and take possession of their destinies.

A couple of years ago a humor columnist for a local newspaper wrote on a serious and thought-provoking subject. I quote from this article: “Being a go-to-church Mormon in Utah means living so close to fellow ward members that not much happens that the entire congregation doesn’t know about in five minutes tops.”
He continues: “This kind of cheek-to-jowl living can be intrusive. … It also happens to be one of our greatest strengths.”
The author goes on to say: “At work on Tuesday, I caught the noon news broadcast on television. A van had been obliterated in a traffic crash. A young mother and two small children were being rushed to emergency rooms by helicopter and ambulance. … Hours later I learned that the van belonged to the young couple living across the street from me in Herriman, Eric and Jeana Quigley.
“Not only do I see the Quigleys in church, … we ate dinner with them at a neighborhood party the night before the crash. Our grandkids played with daughters Bianca and Miranda. …
“Fourteen-month-old Miranda suffered serious head injuries and died three days later at Primary Children’s Hospital.
“Here’s where all that nosiness … pays off. Although the accident occurred several miles from home, the dust literally had not settled before someone from the ward stopped and was pulling through the wreckage. The rest of the ward knew about it before the cops and paramedics showed up.
“Ward members went to all three hospitals, contacted Eric at work and organized into labor squads. People who didn’t get in on the immediate-need level were frantic for some way to help.
“In 48 hours, the Quigley yard was mowed, home cleaned, laundry done, refrigerator stocked, relatives fed and a trust fund set up at a local bank. We would have given their dog a bath if they had one.”
The author concludes with this insightful comment: “There is a positive side to the congregational microscope my ward lives under. … What happens to a few happens to all” (Robert Kirby, “Well-Being of Others Is Our Business,” Salt Lake Tribune, July 30, 2005, p. C1).

Spiritual healing is illustrated in the story of Warren M. Johnson, pioneer ferryman at Lee’s Ferry, Arizona. As a young man, Warren Johnson came west seeking his fortune in gold in the summer of 1866. He became very ill, and his companions left him under a tree in the yard of a family in Bountiful. One of the daughters found him and reported there was a dead man out in the yard. Although he was a complete stranger, this kind family took him in and nursed him back to health. They taught him the gospel, and he was baptized. He eventually ended up as the ferryman at Lee’s Ferry.
In 1891 the Warren Johnson family suffered a great tragedy. Within a period of a short time, they lost four children to diphtheria. All four were buried in a row next to each other. In a letter to President Wilford Woodruff, dated July 29, 1891, Warren told the story:
“Dear Brother …
“In May 1891 a family residing in Tuba City, came here from Richfield Utah, where they … spent the winter visiting friends. At Panguitch they buried a child, … without disinfecting the wagon or themselves, [and] not even stopping to wash the dead child’s clothes, they came to our house, and remained overnight, mingling with my little children. …
“We knew nothing of the nature of the disease, but had faith in God, as we were here on a very hard mission, and had tried as hard as we knew how to obey the word of Wisdom, [to] attend to the other duties of our religion, such as paying [our] tithing, family prayers, etc. etc., that our children would be spared. But alas, in four and a half days [the oldest boy] choked to death in my arms. Two more were taken down with the disease and we fasted and prayed as much as we thought it wisdom as we had many duties to perform here. We fasted [for] twenty-four hours and once I fasted [for] forty hours, but [to] no avail for both my little girls died also. About a week after their death my fifteen year old daughter Melinda was [also] stricken down and we did all we could for her but she [soon] followed the others. … Three of my dear girls and one boy [have] been taken from us, and the end is not yet. My oldest girl nineteen years old is now prostrate [from] the disease, and we are fasting and praying in her behalf today. … I would ask for your faith and prayers in our behalf however. What have we done that the Lord has left us, and what can we do to gain his favor again[?]
“Yours in the gospel
“Warren M. Johnson” (in P. T. Riely, “Warren Marshall Johnson, Forgotten Saint,” Utah Historical Quarterly, Winter 1971, p. 19; spelling modernized).
In a subsequent letter dated August 16, 1891, to his friend Warren Foote, Brother Johnson testified that he had found a spiritual peace:
“I can assure you, however, that it is the hardest trial of my life, but I set out for salvation and am determined that … through the help of Heavenly Father that I [would] hold fast to the iron rod no matter what troubles [came] upon me. I have not slackened in the performance of my duties, and hope and trust that I shall have the faith and prayers of my brethren, that I can live so as to receive the blessings you having authority … placed on my head” (“Autobiography of Warren Foote of Glendale, Kane County, Utah,” vol. 2, 16 Aug. 1891; in LDS Church archives).

To illustrate an element of my topic today, I would like to share an experience that I had many years ago as a young man serving in the military. I enlisted when I was 17 years old, right out of high school. I was so young I only had to shave maybe once a week. Looking back 30 years I can say that during that time, I had many experiences that were formative in shaping my future. One such experience took place while I served as a crew member on an M109 self-propelled howitzer. Essentially, it is a large cannon on tracks. The primary purpose for that piece of equipment is meant to be very destructive, and it is.[2] Perhaps there are those of you who have served in field artillery who can relate to this experience. I was used to being on the sending end of an unforgiving kind of business, where we would fire high-explosive rounds that weighed approximately 100 pounds to the distance of anywhere from only a few hundred yards to many miles away. The distance the shell was sent was determined by many factors. The first factor consisted of the amount of gunpowder that was placed behind the shell in the barrel, or the "tube," as we called it. The powder would come premeasured and in large bags that were placed in canisters. Each canister had the same number of bags in it, but we were instructed as to how many we should use for a particular firing mission. The angle of the tube had a major effect on the distance. Those of you who may be physics majors would likely know something about this. We had to consider factors relating to the weather, such as wind, rain, as well as how smoothly the shell would fly through the air (whether it would catch and tumble or spin). Any type of friction could throw it off target. Again, mistakes could be very unforgiving. When we were given the order to fire a round someplace, we were also instructed to adjust the "gun," as it was called, either right or left or up and down a certain number of millimeters; and then, when told to do so, we simply pulled a string called a lanyard, there would be a loud boom, the ground would become unstable under our feet, and we would wait for further orders. What's the harm in pulling a little string, one might ask, or being off target one millimeter? One day I had the opportunity to observe where the rounds would hit. We drove to the side of a mountain where the forward observers were located. They were the soldiers whose job it was to observe where the explosives hit and then relay information back to the gun line and instruct us how and where to adjust our firing. Interestingly, we were far more accurate at hitting the targets that we could not see as opposed to those that we could see, because of the help of the observers who would direct our fire. Brothers and sisters, I had never seen the "other end" of what we were doing back at the gun line. That was my first exposure to that part of the experience. We have all seen similar things on television, movies, and in pictures, but nothing can describe the sights, sounds, and smells. The unique burning-sulfur aroma of the gunpowder is something I will never forget. The destructive power is difficult to describe, especially if you can imagine as many as 24 rounds being shot simultaneously into an area. We needed to do our job correctly, paying attention to detail and listening for proper feedback. Another vantage point gave me a very different perspective about the work that we were involved in, and it intensified my own efforts to improve.

“Gracie,” Mom whispered. “Wake up. It’s time for family prayer.”
Grace groaned and pulled the covers over her head. She was so warm and cozy in her bed. She heard her sister Charlotte get up and go into the living room. Grace stayed in bed, hoping her family would forget about her and just say the prayer. Dad had to leave for work early every morning, so everyone got up then to say good-bye and have a prayer.
“Grace, time to get up,” Mom called. Grace sighed and dragged herself out of bed. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she mumbled to herself, “What’s the point? We pray for the same things every day.”
“Hello, sleepyhead,” Dad said with a smile. Grace scowled at him. She knelt on the floor next to Charlotte and bowed her head.
“Help us to be like Jesus and to love one another. Please help us have a good day and bless us with health and safety. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen,” Charlotte said. “Amen,” chorused the family.
“Good-bye, everyone,” Dad said, “I love you.” Dad spied Grace, who was still scowling, and asked, “Where’s my good-bye smile?” Grace couldn’t help but smile as Dad reached out to tickle her, but she still felt grumpy.
Grace felt tired all morning at school. She was sure it was because she had to get up so early for family prayer. “If only I could sleep half an hour longer, I’m sure I wouldn’t feel so sleepy,” she thought.
Later that afternoon at home, Grace was eating a snack while Charlotte watched cartoons. Suddenly they heard pounding on the front door. Grace stood up and walked toward the door, but before she could open it, a man burst through it, yelling, “Fire! Fire! Hurry and get out! Your house is on fire!” Hearing the noise, Mom came rushing from the kitchen, a frightened look on her face. She grabbed the girls and rushed them out the front door. The man pointed to the flames coming from their roof. Smoke billowed into the sky as the flames climbed higher and higher. Mom led the girls to the neighbors’ porch across the street. “Stay here while I go call 911,” she said before running into the neighbors’ house. After Mom disappeared, Charlotte began to cry. “I want my mommy.” Grace hugged her, saying, “It’s OK, Mommy just went inside to call the fire department.”
By the time Mom came back, they could already hear sirens blaring. A big red fire truck roared up the street, screeching to a halt in front of their house. The firefighters leaped from the fire engine and began spraying Grace’s house with a big hose. Once the blaze died down, they went inside to check the house for any lingering flames. Mom hugged the girls as they watched the firefighters work.
Dad’s car pulled into the neighbors’ driveway. He jumped out.
“What happened?” Dad cried.
Shaking her head, Mom said, “I was starting dinner in the kitchen when a man came in and shouted that our house was on fire. He was working on the electrical lines and saw the smoke. I had no idea what was going on. …” She paused. “He saved our lives.”
Grace said in a trembling voice, “It was lucky that he was working up on the power poles and saw the smoke, or we might have been inside when the fire got worse.” Grace didn’t want to think of what might have happened.
Dad hugged everyone and said with tears in his eyes, “Let’s kneel right now and thank Heavenly Father for His protection.”
“What about the house, Dad?” Grace cried.
Dad said quietly, “I don’t care about the house. I’m just grateful you are all safe.”
Grace had never felt so much love and happiness as she knelt with her family. Then she remembered their family prayer that morning for health and safety. Shame washed over her as she recalled how she had acted.
“I’m sorry, Heavenly Father,” she prayed silently. The warm feeling returned to her heart. She knew that Heavenly Father had protected her and her family, and she was grateful that He had heard and answered her family’s prayer.

This terror of performing would follow me into adulthood. When I was still in the early years of my public accounting career and had two small children at home, I was called as the Relief Society pianist.

The first week was a disaster. I lurched through some prelude music from the back of the Children’s Songbook (chosen for its simplicity) and then practiced a little deep breathing to calm down during the announcements. Then it was go time. I began playing the first chords of the opening song, but before I could make it through the intro, I plunked a sour note, and, unsurprisingly, my hands rapidly retreated from the keys. Panicked for a measure or two, I desperately tried to get back into the groove. As usual, the chorister led everyone through all of the verses. The longer they sang, the worse I played, until I was reduced to picking out just the melody line for the last verse.

This little episode played out like an old rerun each week until, fatefully, someone in the presidency asked if I would like a key to the church so I could practice. I politely declined, explaining that I actually had a piano at home. I was released within the month.

To this day, even when I am home alone practicing in complete solitude, I cannot play “Sweet Hour of Prayer” (Hymns, no. 142)—the simplest of hymns—without stopping, unless I have the unlikely good fortune to get through it with no mistakes. For this reason I try not to call attention to my piano training (cat’s out of the bag now, I guess). I am so paralyzed by my mistakes that I am of no practical use at the piano.

Throughout my life, even before joining the Church, I always tried to hold high standards, and above all I wanted to keep my integrity pure and stay true to myself. As a teenager, I often felt alone and disillusioned by the fact that I seemed to be part of a small minority who strove for purity and high moral standards.
For instance, when I did not reciprocate the interest some boys showed me, some people I knew were dismayed. They told me I should have gone on a date with those boys simply to be able to tell people I was dating someone. (Of course, it was understood that “dating” meant something much more serious than going out for ice cream.) Regarding one boy, a girl I knew said, “He’s a drummer and looks like a surfer, so why wouldn’t you want to date him?” These arguments didn’t resonate with me, and I withstood these temptations. I do not regret my decisions, but it was often a difficult and lonely path.
However, in some respects, I treasure these experiences, because they caused me to inquire into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to find others with standards that were aligned with mine.

The deacons in the Church have a sacred obligation to visit the home of every member to collect fast offerings for the poor. President Thomas S. Monson once related to me how he, as a young bishop, began to sense that the young deacons in his ward were complaining about having to get up so early to collect fast offerings. Instead of calling the young men to task, this wise bishop took them to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City.
There the boys met a disabled woman operating the switchboard. They saw a blind man placing labels on cans, and an elderly brother stocking shelves. As a result of what they saw, President Monson said, a penetrating silence came over the boys as they witnessed the end result of their efforts to collect the sacred funds that aided the needy and provided employment for those who otherwise would be idle.

Fifteen years ago I, like Alma and the sons of Mosiah, experienced “a joyful meeting” (Alma 27:16). I had traveled from my home in Argentina to Salt Lake City to attend general conference and to perform temple ordinances there for my deceased relatives. To my surprise, in the corridors of the Salt Lake Temple, I ran into Brother Evans Jones, the missionary who baptized me 40 years before. Despite the passage of time, we joyfully recognized each other.

We had met previously in 1942, when I was 12 years old and living in Córdoba, Argentina. On 5 February of that year, a small group of us gathered at an irrigation canal for my baptismal service. I still remember the feeling I had when I stepped into the water and felt the muddy bottom under my naked feet. I walked carefully, knowing I was doing something very important. My heart beat loudly in my chest as I made sacred promises to the Lord.

Since then, I have been privileged to see the work of the Lord grow in Argentina as thousands have entered the waters of baptism. In those early days, we considered 10 people at church meetings good attendance. Today Argentina is home to 10 missions and 46 stakes, and we are blessed to have a temple in Buenos Aires.

Fifty-two years after my baptism, my assignment as a counselor in the Argentina Córdoba Mission presidency took me back by that canal. I was able to observe that the waters of the old canal are still running, still giving life to the plants growing there—just as my baptism in that water gave a new life to me, my family, and my posterity. Thank you, Elder Jones, and thank you to everyone who shares the precious treasure of the restored gospel.

I have seen such experiences happen over and over again. When a child or an adult prays in simple faith, his prayer is answered. Two years ago, my granddaughter Sarah started first grade. At first, she appeared to love it. But within only a couple of weeks, she started to cry every morning and beg her parents to let her stay home. They asked what was wrong, but she either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell them. They talked to her teacher, who had no idea what the problem might be. Sarah was well liked, she had friends, and she was doing well in her schoolwork.
One day after Sarah returned from school particularly upset, her father asked if she thought it would help if they knelt in prayer as a family the next morning and asked for Heavenly Father’s help. “Oh, yes, Dad,” Sarah replied. “I think that would help.”
The next morning, the family went through their regular routine, Sarah crying and protesting but eventually ending up in the car, ready to go to school. “Wait, Dad,” Sarah said just before they left. “We forgot to pray.”
Sarah and her father went back inside and knelt in prayer with her mother and little sister. They prayed specifically that Sarah would have a happy day and a good time at school. That afternoon, when her father picked her up, Sarah left the building with her arms raised in victory. “Prayer works, Dad!” she exclaimed. “Prayer works!”

As a mission leader in Brazil, I spent a week near the end of 2023 interviewing 60 of our 160 missionaries. One of them, a zone leader, asked to speak to me privately. When we met, he handed me a shoebox and told me his parents had bought an extra pair of shoes for someone in the mission who might need them.
Touched, I thanked him for his parents’ generosity and thoughtfulness. I silently wished, however, that the small shoes, size 8.5, had been a larger, common size worn by most of our missionaries. I was grateful nonetheless and put the shoes in my car.
Two days later, I was interviewing more missionaries, when I invited a smiling missionary into my office. He had arrived just four weeks earlier from Guatemala. When I asked him how he was doing, his smile turned into sobs.
He tearfully spoke of his embarrassment when another missionary had innocently teased him for not buttoning the top button of his shirt. He was a recent convert and had grown up in a single-parent home. His mother barely made enough money to support him and his two siblings. His donated shirts were too small, so he used the knot of his well-worn tie to hide the unbuttoned top button.
I gave him some money a Church member had donated for missionaries who needed clothing and told him to buy new shirts. Then I noticed that his shoes were falling apart. Suddenly, I remembered the shoes in my car! I asked him what size shoe he wore, realizing he had small feet.
“I wear a size 8.5,” he replied.
Tears filled my eyes as I explained that another missionary’s parents had just donated a pair of shoes in his size. We took a picture together and sent it to the zone leader. His father, who coincidentally was also Guatemalan, felt touched that he had helped a missionary from his native country.

For Spencer, dogsledding came about in an unexpected way. “I was born with a birth defect in my left leg that causes the veins in my leg to be atrophied, so not enough blood goes to that leg,” he explains. “There’s not a lot of growth and muscle mass, so my left leg is shorter and skinnier than the right.”
Growing up, he could walk and run, but some things were still difficult for him. “I grew up in a family and community of athletes. My two older brothers, Chase and Brandon, are both big football players, which led me to want to pursue football too.”
However, after playing football for two years in elementary school, Spencer soon realized the other kids were just too fast and it was too difficult for him to keep up. “I was sad. I struggled because I felt like I couldn’t have something to work toward.”
Then one day as he was reading The Call of the Wild by Jack London, an idea popped into his mind—what about dogsledding? “I was fascinated by the idea of dogsledding. I was with my mom after school one day when I piped up and said, ‘We should start dogsledding!’ My mom stopped dead in her tracks and retorted, ‘You’ve been talking to your dad!’ It turned out that my dad had been thinking about getting a dogsled team too! It was destiny.”
Spencer’s family held a meeting and agreed that dogsledding would be the perfect sport for Spencer. He says, “I figured it would be good for me because it doesn’t involve a lot of leg strength and speed, but it does require endurance, both physically and mentally.”
Pulling everything together for a team took a lot of work, though. “My dad and I researched the sport and talked to several mushers who helped us get started,” Spencer says. “We got our Alaskan Huskies a few at a time until we had enough for two teams—one for me and one for my dad.” They affectionately named their team of dogs the “Skinny Leg Sled Dogs,” after Spencer’s skinny leg.
Spencer’s dad supports him and races with his team of dogs.
Of course, the work didn’t stop there. Spencer and his family now take care of 51 dogs at their home in Montana, USA, not to mention their other pets (two falcons, two cats, and some canaries).
Spencer works hard to take care of his dogs.
“We spend an hour each day feeding the dogs, giving them water, and scooping up poop,” Spencer says. “In the winter, we make 70 pounds of meat stew each day to feed them enough calories. We also do our own veterinary work, like vaccines and stitches. We train them for two to three hours every day during fall and winter. And during the winter weekends, we’ll run about 100 miles. Then, of course, all of that culminates in the races, which are a lot of work.”
Obviously, dogsledding is challenging and time-consuming. But Spencer says it has blessed his life in many ways, especially when it comes to his family. “Everything involved in dogsledding has taught me and my family to work hard. It has united us. It takes all of us to care for our dogs and run long races. My mom and my brothers are like my pit crew. They handle all the dogs during my races. And my dad and I work together to run it all.”
More than that, Spencer has realized why it is important for families to work hard. He says, “If you don’t put in the effort and nurture your relationships with your family members, you won’t be a real family—you’ll just passively be a family. You’ll miss out on the blessings of being a family.”
Spencer with his brothers, Brandon (middle) and Chase (right).
Dogsledding also gives Spencer the motivation to move forward and achieve more. “I’ve learned to push myself mentally and physically through bitter cold, darkness, fear, and sleep deprivation to achieve my goals. It’s given me the skills to stay alert and strong.”
Similarly, he thinks it’s important to learn how to endure spiritually in the gospel. “When the going gets tough, you’ve got to be tough. In dogsledding, you can’t stop trying or the dogs will stop trying, and then you won’t do as well. It’s the same in the gospel. To endure well, you must always be diligent by reading the scriptures, praying, and turning to family and Church leaders.”
Spencer also notes that progression and enduring well require effort. “You can’t just passively believe in the gospel. You have to work at it. All the best things in life come from work. To get a testimony, you have to show your dedication by doing things like praying and studying the scriptures. You have to show dedication in your calling and your family.” Though it may sound tiring, Spencer says, “Everything goes more smoothly with work.”
In the end, Spencer keeps coming back to dogsledding because he’s being strengthened—physically, intellectually, and spiritually. “Dogsledding is the coolest sport in the world. It has given me the motivation to achieve my goals. I have learned to push myself and be mentally engaged in what I do.”
And the remarkable thing is, Spencer is where he is today because of a supposed weakness. Who would have guessed a skinny leg would lead to training dogs and racing them hundreds of miles through the snow? “If it weren’t for my skinny leg, I wouldn’t be a musher. I think it was the Lord helping me turn my weakness into a strength [see Ether 12:27]. Not only has dogsledding made my body stronger, but because of my birth defect, I have developed a strong work ethic. The Lord has turned my weakness into something amazing.”

Kate has always tried to stay on her covenant path by seeking holy places. She was raised in a home where having family home evening, praying together, and studying the scriptures made her home a holy place. As a child, she learned about the temple, and the song “I Love to See the Temple” was a favorite for family home evening. As a little girl, she watched her parents set an example of seeking a holy place as they went to the temple on a weekend evening instead of going to a movie or to dinner.

She loved her father dearly, and he used his priesthood authority to help her make her first covenant of baptism. She then had hands laid on her head and received the Holy Ghost. Kate said, “I was excited to receive the Holy Ghost, and I knew that it would help me stay on the path to eternal life.”

Life continued on for Kate in a very blessed and happy way. When she was 14, she started high school and loved seminary, another holy place to learn about the gospel. One day her teacher started to talk about trials and guaranteed that we would all face them. She said to herself, “I don’t want trials; I don’t want to hear this.”

It was just a few weeks later that her father woke up on Easter Sunday extremely ill. Kate said: “My father was a very healthy person; he was a marathon runner. My mother was so alarmed by how sick he was that she took him to the hospital. Within 36 hours he had a massive stroke that shut down most of his body. He could blink, but the rest of his body was not working. I remember seeing him and thinking, ‘Oh no, it’s happening. My seminary teacher was right. I am having a trial.’” Within a few days Kate’s father passed away.

Continuing, Kate said: “It was so hard. You never want to lose the hero of your life. I knew I could make it a springboard for growth or allow it to be a roadblock. I didn’t want to let it ruin my life, because I was only 14 years old. I tried to be as close to the Lord as possible. I read my scriptures a lot. Alma chapter 40 assured me that the resurrection is real and through Christ’s Atonement, I could be with my father again. I prayed a lot. I wrote in my journal as often as I could. I kept my testimony vibrant by writing it down. I went to church and to Young Women every week. I surrounded myself with good friends. I kept close to caring relatives and especially to my mom, who was the anchor in our family. I sought out priesthood blessings from my grandfather and other priesthood holders.”

These consistent choices, like those of the wise virgin, added oil to Kate’s lamp. She was motivated by her desire to be with her father again. Kate knew her father was aware of her choices, and she did not want to disappoint him. She wanted an eternal relationship with him, and she understood that staying on her covenant path would keep her life woven tightly with his.

Patience Fletcher carefully snapped the cover open on her father’s large gold pocket watch that hung on a chain from the wooden bedpost. She gazed curiously at the faded face in the small brown-tinted photograph on the inside of the cover.
Less than sixty seconds had ticked away on the shiny timepiece when Niles, Patience’s lanky fourteen-year-old brother, passed their parents’ open bedroom door and spied his six-year-old sister standing barefoot in a rumpled nightgown against a misty patch of dawning window light.
Life along the river started as early as first light—sometimes sooner. The children’s father ran a ferryboat across the Fox River. It was an uncommonly beautiful sight to see the first sign of day break over Crazy Water Canyon before the ear caught the sound of somebody’s wagon creaking down the little rutted dirt road toward the buckled landing and Fletcher’s Ferry.
It had been Niles’s responsibility since Grandpa Ely died to collect the tolls while his father readied the passengers, wagons, and animals on the flatboat.
Now as Niles stepped quietly into the room, he said, “That’s Grandpa Ely.” He pulled a suspender up over his shoulders and pushed a shock of long yellow hair out of his eyes, eyes that warmly observed his sister’s undisturbed interest in the picture. “You were too little to remember,” he continued, “but he used to call you his ‘little bit of lace.’”
Patience’s large dark eyes shifted from the sunlit photograph to her brother. “Could you tell me about him, Niles? Every time Pa starts to, his eyes get all shiny and wet. He says it’s just road dust in his eyes. Then all of a sudden he remembers something he has to do and leaves.”
Niles smiled understandingly and crossed to the window. He faced the deep, wide river, glistening in the daybreak light. Then his gaze settled on a small grave beside the gently rolling water that was barely visible beneath the dew-sparkling branches of a willow tree. “It’s still hard for Pa to talk about him, little Sis. He misses him something fierce, even after five years.”
Patience looked again with growing curiosity at the photograph beside the steadily ticking watch, then joined her brother at the window.
Niles stood there a moment in silence. Then he began to speak softly. “I remember Grandpa’s hands. Yes, it’s his hands that I remember best. They were big and strong. I seldom saw them idle in his lap. They were busy clearing the land from here to the river while Pa was laid up with a broken leg. I remember the trees and brush were so thick around here, Pa said it put the wind into a regular fit just trying to find a place to go around. Grandpa’s hands were lined and worn from a lifetime of use. ‘His heart was in his hands,’ Ma always said, ‘because he was always reaching out to help someone.’ If they weren’t busy doing things like lifting me up to this window so I could see you the minute you were born or pulling me out of that river down there the time I fell in and almost drowned, they were helping Pa rig the ferry or some stranger mend a wagon wheel or else picking wild flowers for Grandma.
“His hands were gentle and soft, too, as soft as the river at its quietest, like the time he worked his fingers through my hair for a day and a night when I was near out of my head with fever. And they were happy too. They’d slap his knees to beat the band everytime Pa played his fiddle. And there were times I’d see them folded together in prayer or resting atop the heads of those in need of a blessing. Once a wagonload of people sick with cholera came through here. They’d been turned out by the rest of their train. Grandpa’s hands bid them welcome and worked miracles, and not a one of those folks died.
“I remember how I liked to hold his hand when we went for walks, because it felt safe. And I remember how it felt when his hand squeezed mine. It took the sting out of the day my dog, Banjo, ran off and never came back. And his hand on my shoulder filled me with pride the morning I gave my first Sunday School talk.
“Those hands held the scriptures too. They dug into fields and planted seeds or went deep into his pocket to give some poor traveler a dime. And sometimes they held Grandma tenderly, but with a sure strength. They could become excited when Grandpa was caught up in telling us tales of desert storms and flatland fires and thundering prairie herds. And they were as peaceable as an amen when they bandaged a hurt or tucked me into bed.”
Patience looked up at her brother in the patched, faded trousers. “Grandpa was a good man, wasn’t he, Niles?”
Niles smiled, his eyes misting. “One of the best, little Sis. One of the very best.”
The rattling sound of a flatbed wagon, piled high with barbwire on the road outside, pulled Niles’s attention back to the window. He could see his father on the jetty, setting aside a long hooked pole he had been using to clear away debris the water had deposited against the upriver side of the landing. Then he started up the pier toward the approaching wagon.
“Well,” Niles remarked to his sister, “it looks like there’s a wagon that wants to cross. I better get out there and help Pa.” He started out the open door, jerking his second suspender up over his shoulder and adding, “As hot as it feels already, you’d best fetch some of Ma’s lemonade for those folks coming in.”
“OK, Niles,” Patience assured him. She walked back to the bed and returned the pocket watch to its place on the bedpost. She lingered a bit in the warm silence of the little room, staring at the face of Grandpa Ely. Finally she whispered, “I hope my hands grow up to be just like yours, Grandpa. I truly do!” Then she turned and whisked out of the room.