Gospel Story Finder

Henry Machado tugged the top of his sleeping bag over his tousled hair, rolled over, and tried to rationalize a few more minutes of sleep. Somehow, though, the sun stole its way past the folds of fabric and pried his eyelids open.
It was cozy inside the bag, and his stiff muscles, still aching from 70 miles of pedaling the previous day, urged him to rest as long as he could.
Henry was just one of a group of Explorers from Post 263, sponsored by the San Jose Tenth Ward, San Jose California South Stake. The post members were waking up to the second day of a 480-mile bicycle trip, and even though they had trained for three months to prepare for the effort, they knew they had been through a workout.
“We would get pretty tired sometimes,” Kurk Bakow recalled later, reminiscing about the trip with others in the post. “Some of the big hills nearly wore us out, especially when they came at the end of the day. But the work was worth it for what we got to see and for the closeness it brought to us, working together and pulling for each other.”
Henry knew the struggle was worth it, too. But it was cold outside the covers. Rousing himself, he unzipped the bag and ran to join the others clustered around the supply van as a mildly chilling breeze tickled the tails of their T-shirts. It was time for the daily briefing, an agreed-upon-in-advance procedure for the 11-day trip. Each morning the riders would review the agenda for the day (including the route to be followed, the menu for meals, cooking and clean-up assignments, and locations for lunch), review safety tips (such as wearing helmets while riding), and pray. They would also inspect the mechanical condition of each bike before breaking camp.
On the day the Explorers left San Jose, a ham-and-egg breakfast was served by the Mia Maid and Laurel classes, and then Brother Jensen, a member of the bishopric, gathered the cyclists around him, thanked the Lord for his goodness, and asked him to bless them with a safe trip.
“Most of us work together as a teachers quorum as well as in Scouting. It was reassuring to have the bishopric ask the Lord for his blessing before we left,” Danny Case explained.
Besides briefings and morning and evening prayers, the rest of each day followed a tight timetable, too. Travel began by 8:00 each morning and ended upon arrival at a predetermined camp for the night around 3:00 in the afternoon. There was always time to just lounge around, swim, or play football on the beach, but there was also an evening meal to prepare, and it didn’t take much coaxing to get everyone to bed early. They knew they would need the rest to have energy for the next day.
Some days were scheduled as long rides, consecrated to covering territory so that other days could be spent casually, touring at will. “The neatest part was being able to see so much at one time,” Mike Powell said. “We were out in the open, traveling through mountains and fields, sleeping on beaches, and were able to take time just to enjoy nature. It didn’t rush by like it does in a car. We were part of it. It helped me appreciate the love Heavenly Father must have for us to give us such a beautiful place to live.”
The distance covered daily averaged 65 miles. A one-day rest stop was planned Sunday so the Sabbath could be observed at Arroyo-Grande Ward, Glendale California Stake, in Pismo Beach. Another day was planned for the train trip home (nobody wanted to turn around and pump his bike the same distance the other way), and a day and a half were set aside for Disneyland. This left eight days of pedaling to travel 480 miles.
“It’s important to remember we just didn’t start out cold,” David Sackett said. “Sixty-five miles is a lot of bicycling for one day. We worked for months getting in shape.” The training program required each Explorer to cycle 300 to 325 miles a month for the three months prior to the trip. Each participant had to ride at least four days a week. In addition, once each month the trainees pumped the pedals through a 75-mile practice run.
Squeezing in training around a summer job might seem like a burden, but Steve Fowler managed it well. “Kevin Jolley (the post president) and I would get up early, around 6:00 A.M., and go out on his paper route. When the route was done, we’d just keep on going. I had a late night job, so I could go home and rest before work. When it got hard practicing so much, I’d think that if I didn’t push myself, I’d run out of energy during the trip, or maybe I wouldn’t get to go. That made me work harder.”
Training sessions on bike maintenance (including instructions about which parts to carry in a seat or handlebar pack), safety and first aid (a first-aid kit was attached to each bike), and physical care during periods of strenuous exercise were also conducted throughout the summer. A local bicycle shop provided training and parts. The owner kept his shop open late for classes and worked with each boy individually. He wasn’t LDS, but he seemed eager to talk with the group members about their Church-related activities.
Andy Carlstrom described the orange T-shirts the group bought with funds raised for the trip: “We had them silk-screened with the name of our ward, post, and a map of our route on them. The color made us more visible to traffic and worked as a safety factor in our favor, and the shirts also identified the post as a group,” he said.
Nine post members made the trip, along with Herbert C. “Chuck” Carlstrom, post advisor, and Chet Harmer, a post committee man. They were joined at the third stop by the Young Men’s president, Dale Van Horn, and his wife, Beryl. In the “Sag Wagon,” as the supply van was nicknamed, rode Hank and Olga Machado and their two children, Mike and Andrea. Hank is another member of the post committee. Scott Mortensen, a recently returned missionary, accompanied them. Janine Van Horn joined the group in another truck along the route.
Brother Carlstrom, in his daily journal, narrates the contentment he reveled in one evening: “We made camp. Some of us wanted to sleep on the beach, but after a while we were forced to higher ground by the unusually high tide. … The day’s end caught most of us watching the beauty of the coast as wild fowl flew … before us. As the sun sank … , it filled the sky with all shades of reds and oranges, with slight traces of pink. … It was replaced by the moon, almost full, as it came over the mountains in back of us, painting the ocean’s surface with flickering light. It was soon joined by other heavenly bodies and God’s handiwork was displayed before us. We had just received our compensation for an afternoon of hard, uphill riding, and we all were thankful.”
Danny shared similar sentiments. “Being able to see nature and many of the things the Lord has created on the earth strengthened my testimony of the plan of salvation and the creation of the world. I never realized how much there was to see.” Bob Nelson said he felt the most impressive part of the trip was following the road along Pismo Beach. On the left mountains jutted up into the sky. On the right hundreds of feet below, ocean waves hurled themselves into the rocky shoreline, jetting streams of water high in the air. At the tops of hills, the view continued for 15 or 20 miles.
The trip’s itinerary, along with the distance covered each day, included: Monterey (70 miles), Kirk Creek south of Big Sur (65 miles), San Simeon State Beach (40 miles), Pismo Beach (51 miles), Gaviota State Beach (65 miles), McGrath State Beach (65 miles), Santa Monica (55 miles), and Anaheim (46 miles). The route from San Jose to Anaheim was part of a 1,000-mile Bicentennial bikeway that stretches from Oregon to Mexico. Many of the stops retraced—only backwards—the route taken by the founders of San Francisco, led by Juan Bautista de Anza from Mexico.
The journey offered glimpses into the past, reflecting the colonizing efforts of Spanish, Russian, and Mexican explorers. Forts, lighthouses, missions, and old mining and lumbering areas were passed on the road. The route also showcased the modern agricultural bustle of northern California.
The cyclists divided themselves into sub-groups of two or three. “It was the buddy system used all the time in Scouting,” Andy explained. “Each person is responsible for the others with him. That way no one gets lost or left alone.” Kevin noted that those who were fast or slow were paired together.
Brother Harmer said he felt the Lord had protected the group. “It’s interesting that we went about 6,500 man-miles with only one slight tumble as an accident,” he noted. Others chimed in their agreement, noting that all the flat tires occurred on level ground instead of on steep downhill grades, and most of them at the end of the day, just as the group pulled into camp.
Still, there were a few difficult moments along the way. One morning during the first part of the trip, the cyclists were enshrouded in a damp fog. They had to stop and dig deep in their gear to find jackets. One night they reached the scheduled campground and found it closed. A friendly ranger let them camp a mile away on the beach at a picnic ground.
Later, anticipating an easy trip on flat land, the riders were buffeted by strong headwinds, which slowed their progress almost as much as an uphill grade. Another time they battled two large hills, one 15 miles long and rising 1,500 feet, in temperatures that exceeded 100 degrees F. at 10:00 A.M. What was worse, the road veered inland, away from the cooling effect of the coastal waters.
“We learned to appreciate the ocean more after that,” Mike Powell said. “When we got back to the beach that night, just about everyone went swimming to cool off.”
The rough spots were worth enduring, though. “There’s not one person who went on the trip, including the leaders, with whom I don’t have something in common now,” Danny said.
The final Saturday, having put the bikes on the train the day before, the weary travelers boarded to return home. There was plenty of room to stretch out and relax, and soon they were snoozers, not bikers.
Somehow, though, when the train finally halted in San Jose and they had to remount their cycles for another seven-mile jaunt to the chapel, they seemed almost eager to be riding once again. Soon they would be home recuperating, sharing a slice of their saga with their families.

One day during a deacons quorum meeting our adviser decided that we would have a testimony meeting. It wasn’t that I hadn’t shared my testimony before. In fact, I was one of those kids who thought that bearing testimony was what one was supposed to do at every testimony meeting. But it wasn’t the cool thing to do at age 12.

I suppose that we had about 8 or 10 deacons in our quorum, and slowly (although not slow enough, it seemed to me) one boy after another stood to share his testimony. I was almost panicky because I just didn’t know what I would say. I hoped that maybe the time would run out, and I wouldn’t feel obligated to stand, but it did not. A small group of 10 deacons sharing their testimonies doesn’t take long, so plenty of time still remained when all of the other boys had finished standing and sharing their testimonies. I stood awkwardly and recited the same basic things most of the others had said: “I love my mom and dad. I know the Church is true. I know Joseph Smith was a prophet. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

The thing was done, but for the first time in my life I realized that it was a lie. The only thing I had said that I knew to be true was that I loved my mom and dad. I really did not know if the Church was true or if Joseph Smith was a prophet, but I knew then that I had to find out. I had to know for myself.

I don’t remember exactly when I finally asked, but I do remember that one night I knelt by my bed and pleaded with my Father in Heaven to forgive me for my weaknesses and to let me know if this church I belonged to was truly His Church. I had never prayed with such intent before, and I am not sure I have ever prayed with more fervor since. I was only about 12 or 13 years old, and yet I can still feel to this day the power of the spiritual witness that came to me that night confirming that this was indeed the Church of Jesus Christ and that my Father in Heaven knew me and loved me. The test had worked, just as the scriptures promised.

It wasn’t long ago that I found myself asking the same question. I wasn’t getting good grades, and I rarely made it to class. High school just wasn’t for me, so I thought.
I soon realized, however, that there weren’t many opportunities for a dropout. The doors were closed, and the key was a diploma. I also knew that one day I wanted a wife and children. Minimum wage was not enough to support a family. It would barely support myself. I knew I had to stick it out.
I know people who did drop out so they could have their freedom. Today, they are still at the same jobs, not making much more than minimum wage. They are just now realizing that even freedom has its price.
David John Romrell, 20Rexburg, Idaho

My grandpa is my friend. Early one summer morning, he called me to see if I’d like to go catch minnows for my uncle’s large fishpond. Of course I wanted to!
Grandpa knew just the right spot at the park. We headed down the slope of the large ditch with our strainers and glass jars. I reached the water first and turned around to see him rolling down the steep slope. He had lost his footing and fallen.
I was afraid he was hurt, but Grandpa told me he’d be fine—he just needed to rest a few minutes. He said to go ahead and start catching minnows. But how could I do that when I could see that he needed help? I tried to help him up on his feet but couldn’t. I asked Heavenly Father to help me know what to do. I knew that He would help me and Grandpa.
Grandpa was finally able to get up on his knees, and with a little help, tried crawling to the top of the slope. We’d crawl up two feet and slide back one, but slowly we reached the top and peeked over the ridge. I saw a man not too far away and ran over to ask him to help Grandpa. Even with the two of us tugging, Grandpa couldn’t get up. A park worker saw us and came to help, too, and we finally got Grandpa up on the grass.
The park worker wanted to call an ambulance, but Grandpa thought that if he could just get to his car, everything would be fine. He drove us to the emergency entrance at the hospital and told me to go inside and ask someone to come with a wheelchair.
I found a wheelchair but no one who could help, so I took it out to the car myself. Grandpa twisted and turned until he was able to sit in the wheelchair. I pushed him across the parking lot and up a ramp into the emergency room. It turned out that his ankle was broken and needed surgery.
From that time on, I have been Grandpa’s hero. But I know that I didn’t do it alone. Heavenly Father was with me all the way to give me the courage and strength to help my grandpa.

The Sunday after my 17th birthday, I had my first epileptic seizure. It was terrifying to lose all control and slip into darkness. When I awoke, I struggled to remember basic things like where I was or what day it was. I was prescribed medication to help the physical condition, but the psychological terror remained. I constantly monitored myself, paranoid that I would have another seizure. I was afraid to fall asleep, and I lost some of the freedoms I’d had before. I even thought that I might leave this world soon.
But then I remembered who I am. I am a son of God. I remembered one of my favorite scriptures, Joshua 1:9, which says, “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.” This scripture brought me much-needed comfort. As I prayed for comfort each day, the terror was replaced by a stronger reliance on God and a stronger testimony that He is always watching over me and keeping me safe. I know I have a bright future ahead of me, because no matter what happens, God is always at my side.

On 28 February 1998 Judy Marie Guzmán Pérez was one of some 800 young athletes from 200 schools on the islands of Puerto Rico, St. Croix, and St. Thomas invited to a prestigious athletic competition at the University Inter-Americana. The athletes were divided into three groups and judged on personal characteristics such as effort and overall performance as well as on race times. The judges selected Judy Marie as the most outstanding athlete in her group. During her athletic career at Jardines de Ponce High School, she has collected 110 gold, silver, and bronze medals and 6 trophies; but, she says, her plaque from the University Inter-Americana is one of her most prized possessions.

When Student Association president Mike Peterson of Santa Maria, California, learned that the local library had only one book published by the Latter-day Saint Church and that it was a Book of Mormon, he knew something had to be done about it. Mike and Garry Moore consulted with William O. Bradford, stake president, and thirty volumes of books about the Church and a subscription to the New Era were presented to the library.

I was reminded of this beautiful concept of collective missionary work when I received an email one day. A brother who said he was the son of the mission president in Wichita, Kansas, wondered if I was the wife of Robert Monson. The brother went on to say he was looking for the Elder Monson who served in the Central States Mission in 1959. That was my husband.
He told me about two young elders, Elders Bennett and Thompson, who were inspired recently to enter an apartment building. They rapped on the first door and found an elderly lady who invited them to come back the next day. They set a time.
When they returned for the appointment, they learned that this elderly sister had an old triple combination (Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price) the missionaries had given her in 1959. She had read it many times and knew the teachings in it were true. She had not joined the Church then because her husband did not want her to attend church or be baptized. Her husband had passed away recently, and she prayed that she might find the missionaries again. In her triple combination were the names of the two missionaries from 1959: Robert Monson and Granade Curran, my husband and his companion.
Over the next several weeks, this woman learned about the plan of salvation and the blessings of the temple. Her son had passed away at age 22, and she was thrilled at the possibility of being reunited with him. When the missionaries invited her to be baptized, she joyfully accepted their invitation.
Both my husband and his companion, Elder Curran, have passed away, but I can imagine them attending this beautiful baptism from beyond the veil.
As the mission president’s son told me the story, I was reminded that the Savior does not forget any of us. He is always with us if we allow Him into our lives. The New Testament tells the story of Zacchaeus, who climbed a sycamore tree to see the Savior (see Luke 19:1–10). Even up in the tree, Zacchaeus was found by the Savior, who asked to dine at his home. Similarly, an elderly sister prayed and waited for the missionaries to knock on her door, and they did. The Savior knows all of us. “For the Son of man is come to seek and to save that which [is] lost” (Luke 19:10).
Two sets of missionaries—one over 60 years ago and then one more recently—brought this sister to Jesus Christ and in turn strengthened their own testimonies and found joy in the Lord. I am humbled that I could be a bystander in this story, feeling the joy of all involved in bringing this sister to the Savior (see Doctrine and Covenants 18:15).

One day Daniel’s cousin Tyler came over to play …
Don’t go near the thorn patch!
OK!
Hey, Tyler! Let’s kick the soccer ball around.
Oh, no! We’re not supposed to go near there.
I think I can reach it.
Ouch!
Hang on! I’m going to get some help!
Are you OK?
Yeah, but I wish I didn’t fall into the thorn patch!
Mom warned you about the thorn patch because we care about you and want you to be safe.
I know. Thanks for helping me.
What do you want to do now?
Let’s play in the treehouse—and stay away from the thorns!

A little red truck slowed to make the turn into the school yard of the Wyoming Indian High School on the Wind River Reservation. It kicked up a trail of dust as it crossed the parking lot. A young girl was driving.
Could she be the one I was waiting to meet?
All I knew was her name—Ann Abeita.
Ann’s brother James had called to tell me what great things she was doing her last year in high school—elected president of the student council; chosen by her teachers as Student of the Year; selected as Eastern Shoshone Powwow Queen and Ethete Powwow Queen; invited to testify before Congress; named by the other contestants as Miss Congeniality in the Miss Indian World competition; plus the usuals like playing varsity basketball and volleyball, attending seminary, and participating in most of the clubs at school.
The little truck pulled up beside me and the girl glanced over. She was very pretty with black hair cut in a style that enhanced the wave in her hair. Then came a smile. It was a smile fit for a Miss Congeniality. It was Ann.
Ann Abeita and her brother George are the two youngest in their family and live with their mother and stepfather in Fort Washakie on the Wind River Reservation in central Wyoming. Their brother James is serving a mission in the California Ventura Mission, and their sister Cornessa is attending Ricks College. Other older brothers and sister are married and living nearby.
Ann and her brothers and sisters are descendants of Chief Washakie, a great Shoshone chief who knew Brigham Young, joined the Church, and introduced the gospel to his people. Ann says, “A lot of our people still talk about him and how he led the Shoshone people, especially in the Church, because a lot of people were baptized.”
After we talked for a moment, Ann suggested that I follow her home, where we could talk. She jumped into the little red truck and drove out onto the long, straight road that traverses the valley. The Wind River Reservation is in a beautiful location. It is a valley ringed by purple mountains with a fringe of snow. There are fields of hay and horse pastures. Among the neat ranch houses, I saw one lodge, or teepee, set up in someone’s backyard. I had to smile. There was a satellite dish right next to it.
The little red truck slowed down and turned through the gates of a small cemetery. Ann pointed to a large headstone with the name Chief Washakie carved prominently in the granite. An additional phrase simply said, “Chief of the Shoshone.” This was Ann’s great-great-grandfather.
In addition to Chief Washakie, Ann’s family is also related to one of the most famous Indian women in history, Sacajawea, who helped guide Lewis and Clark in their explorations of the American Northwest.
Even with such illustrious ancestors, Ann and George are much like teenagers anywhere in the Church. They are concerned about doing well in school, staying close to Church teachings, and being with their friends.
But Ann, because of her school leadership responsibilities, has had to juggle her schedule to accommodate the demands on her time. She even has to find a way to turn down a date to go to the movies without hurting any feelings because she’s got a previous commitment to talk to a reporter—me. Whenever the phone rings, she races to answer it, and it is usually for her.
When George walked in with earphones on, I asked what he was listening to. He said, “Michael Jackson.” He has a set of barbells that he uses to try to build his muscles, and early in the morning the rhythmic thump, thump of the basketball on the driveway announces that George is taking a few shots before catching the bus for school.
Ann has learned the value of education from her older brother James and from her mother, Zedora. She maintains high grades and has been awarded a leadership scholarship to Brigham Young University, where she plans to major in business management. Great-great-grandfather Washakie would have been pleased.
In many ways, Ann and George are like most teenagers, but when they get dressed in their native costumes and participate in Indian dancing contests at local powwows, it’s like going back in time. Both Ann and George are skilled and often win or place in the dancing competitions. They move to the rhythm of the drums just as their ancestors did. They respect the old ways and are sensitive to the beauty of the land and the feeling of their people.
Ann loves her home valley. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.” The valley is a legacy given to the Shoshones by Chief Washakie. He has the distinction of being one of the few Indian chiefs that were allowed to choose the location of the reservation set aside for his tribe. He would like the fact that his great-great-granddaughter feels the same love for the valley as he did.
Even though the Wind River Reservation is beautiful, there are problems. One of the big problems facing Indian youth is a lack of summer jobs, but Ann has found a solution for herself. She gets involved and stays busy with worthwhile activities. “I really like summers. They are fun for me. I like going to the rodeos and the powwows where there is Indian dancing. But for those that don’t have an outfit or who aren’t interested in Indian dancing, there isn’t very much to do.”
Dressed in her traditional beaded buckskin dress, with its knee-length necklace and colorful shawl, her hair braided with fur strips, Ann tries to maintain a dignified, perhaps even somber expression that seems in keeping with the way she is dressed, but her natural exuberance is more than she can control. She can’t help but smile.
Yet there is nothing frivolous about Ann. She has faced some of the most powerful men in the country in a congressional hearing, has spoken freely about the problems youth on the reservations face, and has impressed many with her clear thinking and eloquent speech. Great-great-grandfather Washakie would have been proud.
Ann was chosen to go to Washington, D.C. to testify in a congressional hearing on the merits of an Indian Alcohol and Drug Prevention Act. She and another boy from the Wind River Reservation were asked to speak to the senators and congressmen. Ann said about that experience, “When I was in Washington, I was sitting there listening to the other representatives, who were all my age. They were prepared, but they didn’t really speak up. It was hard to hear them. When I got up there, I made sure I spoke up. I was honest, and I spoke from my heart. When they asked me if I had any more to say, I had a lot more. I was really honest. It was on television and on the news. A lot of the people saw it, and they were upset by some of the things I said. I think the parents know how bad the problems with drinking in my high school are, but they don’t want to face the truth.”
For Ann the problems faced by some of her fellow students are very real. “I bet if I wasn’t Mormon, it would be really hard. There is so much peer pressure. Sometimes they try to make the parties with drinking sound real fun, but to me it sounds childish. Being a member of the branch helps because we always have activities. With that and with student council and with other clubs, I really keep myself busy. I just wish other students would get involved because they always say it’s so boring, but they don’t get involved.”
As I sat talking with Ann about the things that mean the most to her, I sensed her strength of conviction. This girl really means what she says and has her mind made up to live what she believes. Ann is becoming the kind of leader her great-great-grandfather was. She sees clearly what is good for herself, her family, and her people.
Ann was a little worried about her graduation night. She and George and two of their friends were the only ones she knew of who were not going to a graduation party. They had chosen not to go because they were quite sure that there would be drinking at the parties. Even though Ann is president of the student body, she would not give up her principles for that night or any other.
Ann tries to teach her friends more about the Church. “My friends admire me for not drinking and would like to do the same, but they are afraid of being different. I’m not afraid of being different. When I try to teach my friends about the Book of Mormon, they know that it’s true. But when I ask if they want to be baptized, they say they would if there wasn’t the Word of Wisdom. It makes me mad.”
As I was leaving Fort Washakie, I stopped at the trading post to look at some of the beautiful beadwork that the Shoshones are known for. As I was trying to decide which of the colorful strings of beads I wanted to buy, the saleslady came over and asked if she could help me find something. I asked her if she knew Ann Abeita.
Her face lit up when she said what everyone I talked to on my visit seemed to say, “Oh, yes, I know Ann. She’s a wonderful girl.”

To those who faithfully and honestly live the law of tithing, the Lord promises an abundance of blessings. Some of these blessings are temporal, just as tithes are temporal. But like the outward physical ordinances of baptism and the sacrament, the commandment to pay tithing requires temporal sacrifice, which ultimately yields great spiritual blessings.
I know of a couple who lived thousands of miles from the nearest temple. Although they earned little, they faithfully paid their tithing and saved all that they could to journey to the house of the Lord. After a year, the husband’s brother—not a member of the Church—unexpectedly came forward and offered them two airplane tickets. This temporal blessing made possible the spiritual blessings of their temple endowments and sealing. An additional spiritual blessing came later as the brother, touched by the couple’s humble faithfulness, joined the Church.

Last year, our very first nephew, Nathan, left to serve a mission in Mexico. We explained to our children that Nathan was in the MTC to learn Spanish. One evening we decided to devote a family home evening night to writing letters to him. Although we were helping the youngest, all of the other children were writing independently. At one point, Stephen, age 7, asked, “How do you spell ‘empty?’” We thought nothing of it at the time, but later as we were reviewing what the kids had written, we saw this question in Stephen’s letter: “Dear Nathan, what do you do in the empty sea?”—Meredith J., Colorado

In 1940, the Kimballs began construction of their dream house, a pueblo-style home they designed themselves. The business was going well. Prosperity beckoned. They looked forward to a long, comfortable, and happy life in Safford.
Then, on July 8, 1943, the phone rang, a phone call that would change the Kimball’s lives.
“It must have taken only a few seconds for me to cross the room to the phone, grasp the receiver and say, ‘Hello,’ but it seemed that an hour’s thinking and retrospection coursed through my mind.”
Then came the voice of President J. Reuben Clark, a counselor to President Heber J. Grant, and a call to the Quorum of the Twelve. There followed six days and nights of weeping, confusion, and prayer. He yearned for a confirmation from the Lord. Finally on a hilltop in Boulder, Colorado, where he and his wife had been visiting their son, he received the calm assurance and peace that his call was indeed inspired. “My tears were dry, my soul was at peace. A calm feeling of assurance came over me, doubt and questionings subdued. It was as though a great burden had been lifted. I sat in tranquil silence surveying the beautiful valley, thanking the Lord for the satisfaction and the reassuring answer to my prayers.”

Costs of the conference, traditionally held at the Naramata Center in the beautiful, orchard-filled Okanogan Valley, were slightly higher than the year before, and the young leaders worried about those who had greater distances to travel.

“We started thinking one night in our central committee meeting,” said Donn Mason, youth chairman, “about the conference and the gospel and everything, and what it all really means to each one of us. And we felt we wanted everyone to come to conference and to have a great experience. Then Kirk Leaberry brought up the fact that some of our youth have to travel 300 miles over dirt roads and then another 600 miles on pavement to come to conference. We knew it would be difficult for them to raise the registration fee. So we tried to find a way for every youth to be able to come.”

“I figured,” said Kirk, youth vice-chairman, “that sometime we’ve got to learn to live the law of consecration, and I thought now is a good time to start. You can’t just dive in on a law like that. You have to start gradually. Now seemed as good a time as any.”

The youth of the Kalowna and Vernon branches, the groups nearest the conference site who made up the planning committee, sent letters to the other branches in the mission. They said that they knew the cost of the conference was higher than before, but they had been able, through various fund-raising activities, to earn most of the money they needed for themselves, and they would work to earn as much extra as possible to help any of the distant branches meet their expenses.

The results of this spirit of service and sacrifice were electrifying. Branches that had earlier claimed they were unable to send their youth because of the cost wrote and said that not only would they raise enough for themselves, but they too would try to raise more than was needed. Even those branches that the committee thought would have the most difficulty wrote in to say that though they probably wouldn’t be able to help other branches, they would be able to raise enough for their own youth.

“The plan was accepted, and it spread fast,” said Donn. “I think it got around faster than the dates of the conference. When we went to a promotional meeting in one of the branches, the kids knew two things—they knew how much the conference was going to cost, and they knew that we were planning to raise extra money. It caught on everywhere.”

Finally all the plans and arrangements were made, and every youth who wished to was able to attend. From all over British Columbia they came—from Bella Coola, Kamloops, Cranbrook, Penticton, Prince Rupert, Kalowna, Vernon, Terrace, Kitimat. They brought brothers, sisters, and nonmember friends. One even brought her mother. In addition the entire mission presidency and their wives attended, the district president came, and many excited adult leaders were there to serve as chaperons. Even the Regional Representative was able to take part in the activities. All were welcomed; all were cared for; all fell within the “midst of the miracle of serving.”

A few months later, during Christmas time, Radmila began to hear more about Jesus Christ. There were shows on television about his life, and people talked about him more. She wanted to learn about him, and she remembered the Book of Mormon. She began to read it. “I couldn’t understand a thing,” she recalls. “It wasn’t that the German was too difficult for me, it was just that I didn’t understand words like repentance because I had never heard of them before.”
She decided she would call the missionaries for help. At the same time, two new missionaries were praying for inspiration about which investigators on their list to visit. They both felt that Radmila needed them. When they knocked, she opened the door and said, once again, “Oh, come in—I’ve been waiting for you.”
She still didn’t want to hear the missionary discussions, but she set up a study schedule with them. Each week she would read ten chapters in the Book of Mormon, write down her thoughts, and then discuss them with the missionaries.
“They were so patient with my sometimes provoking and unimportant questions,” she says. “One time I told them not to come in because I hadn’t read that week. They suggested that we read together. We started reading about Ammon, and then they said they had to leave. I couldn’t believe it. For the first time, I was beginning to feel the Spirit and get excited about the book. As soon as they left, I went to my room and finished the story.”

How do you get back to feeling good again? I have a young grandson named Adam. When he was three, we were having a family gathering at our house. It had snowed, and we looked out and saw Adam in the front yard in his Sunday clothes, making designs in the snow with his feet. His mother went out and asked him to come in, but he refused. She reminded him that he was getting cold and that he was ruining his Sunday clothes. Still he was defiant and not feeling the Spirit at all.
Next I went out. He was walking up the street, blue with cold, and crying. “Adam,” I said, “would you like to hold Grandpa’s hand and walk back to the house with me?” He stuck his tongue out at me. Finally, his Aunt Becky went out and picked up Adam screaming and kicking and carried him back into the house.
A while later, Adam was wrapped in a blanket and was a cheerful little boy. I asked him, “Adam, what did you do to feel better?” Adam said, “I prayed.”

Pa had always set great store in fasting and prayer. He never doubted that the Lord would answer a righteous prayer of faith. And my pa was a righteous man, so I never saw his faith go unanswered. But in the summer of 1876, during my twelfth year, his fasting and prayer brought about the most curious answer I’ve ever seen.
Whenever Pa was thinking hard about something, he would tug his left ear. He had been tugging that ear for three or four days, so I knew something important was on his mind.
He mentioned it to Ma that night at supper. “Emily, that upper five acres could mean the difference between meeting the payments at the bank and losing the farm.”
Ma stopped pouring the thick, frothy milk and looked at him. “What do you mean, Edward? You haven’t said anything before.”
“I can’t keep water on it, Em. No matter how I plot a course, the water either won’t flow across the field or it backs up and floods half the crop and leaves the other half dry. I don’t know what to do.”
Ma sat down heavily. “We could really lose the farm?”
“If we don’t get a good crop. And we won’t get a good crop unless I can figure out some way to irrigate that land.”
The next couple of days were really low ones for us. Pa would stand each morning, staring across those five acres, then tug his ear and walk off, glum-faced. Usually after supper he’d play with me and Baby Sam, read out loud from the big family Bible, or pick on his banjo. Now he just sat at the kitchen table, drawing figure after figure on pieces of paper—diagrams of an irrigation system.
It took me a minute to realize what was different that morning. There was no sound of sizzling bacon, no mouthwatering aroma almost lifting me out of bed. Then I remembered—we were going to fast today. I swallowed hard, wishing I had drunk one final glass of water before we had had prayer last night to start our fast.
The loft door lifted up, and Pa came in smiling and wrestled me out of bed. That kind of surprised me because Pa had been so quiet and preoccupied lately. I thought maybe he’d found a way to irrigate the cornfield, so I asked him.
“No,” he said, becoming serious again. “But we’re going to put it to Heavenly Father today during our fast. He knows how to get water to the crops. We just have to ask Him and have faith that He’ll give us the answer. I’ve done all I can.”
We knelt around the kitchen table for morning prayer, and I settled myself into a comfortable half-sleeping position, because Pa’s prayers can get pretty long sometimes. Suddenly my ears pricked up. Pa’s tone was different this morning, and his prayer was short and direct:
“Father, our crops are dying. I’ve tried everything I know to irrigate the land, but the water won’t flow on that hilly ground. We turn to Thee for help. We dedicate this fast to finding the answer we need. Please help us.”
After Pa finished, we knelt there quietly for a minute or two, then got up together. Pa looked relieved and ruffled my hair. I asked if he’d gotten an answer already. He smiled. “No, Son, not yet. But I will.” And much of that day he spent off by himself, praying.
The next morning Pa picked up a long stick as we walked out to the cornfield. Then he walked across the field, dragging that stick behind him! He didn’t turn to look until he was at the other end. And when he did turn to see that crazy wavy line, he stood a long time, tugging on his ear.
“Well, Son,” he said finally. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, and this has to be one of His most mysterious.”
I couldn’t believe he meant what I thought he was saying! “You’re not going to follow that line to make the irrigation channel are you?” I asked.
Pa grinned. “If that’s what He wants me to do, then yes, I guess I am.” And he pulled the hand plow to the edge of the field. I stood at the side, watching his muscles bulge against his shirt as he plowed a deep, crooked furrow that looked more like a sidewinder’s track than an irrigation ditch.
This is one time, I thought, when Heavenly Father just hasn’t come through.
When Pa had finished plowing the furrows, he removed the board that held back the branch of the creek next to the field. The water rushed along his newly dug furrow, then slowed and found natural furrows that flowed throughout the corn patch and carried the life-giving water to every stalk of corn.
We had a successful crop that year, and I never again doubted the power of fasting and prayer. If ever my faith began to waver, all I had to do was remember my pa and the day that he plowed the crooked furrow.

Several years ago my family was going through a difficult time. My parents had separated, and our family began to forget God’s love.
To our great fortune, one of my mother’s friends saw our need to draw closer to God and introduced us to the full-time missionaries. As they taught us the gospel, we realized that God had a plan for us, and despite our many challenges, He had not abandoned us. After we had come to understand these principles, my mother, sisters, and I decided to be baptized.
As we attended our Sunday meetings, our testimonies of the gospel grew. I soon desired to serve a full-time mission. It was not an easy decision, however, because I was the man of the house. My mother needed my help. Moreover, I began to receive many job offers and was accepted by several universities. I concluded to ask God for help and direction.
After praying, I turned to my scriptures and came upon the following verses:
“Wherefore, your family shall live.
“Behold, verily I say unto you, go from them only for a little time, and declare my word, and I will prepare a place for them” (D&C 31:5–6).
In that instant I strongly felt the Spirit and knew that what I had read was Heavenly Father’s word to me.
Not long after that experience, I received my mission call. Before being set apart as a full-time missionary, I made a promise to my Heavenly Father that I would do His will as a missionary—that I would work diligently and sacrifice my all for Him. The only blessing I prayed for was to see my family together again someday.
My first year as a missionary was challenging, but my companions and I worked with all our hearts. About this time I received a marvelous letter from my mother telling me that my father had returned home! At that moment I remembered the promise I had made to God, and I recalled His promise in the Doctrine and Covenants: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise” (D&C 82:10).
Several years have passed since my mission. Today my family and I still find joy in the gospel and through our covenants with God. I know that He lives. I know that He loves us. I know that He sent His Son to save us. I also know that when we make promises to Him and are faithful to those promises, He is faithful to us.

Meanwhile, Brother Coppin had also contacted the mission headquarters in Geneva. In May I received a telephone call from a full-time missionary, Elder Bishop, who told me that there was a chapel nearby in Clermont and gave me the telephone number of the missionaries there. I called the missionaries that very evening, and we met the next day at the chapel. The door to the gospel was opening for me.
The following Sunday, I attended meetings at the chapel and arranged to receive the missionary discussions from a missionary couple, Brother and Sister Bair of Provo, Utah. I was baptized on 24 July 1990.
My joy in becoming a member of the Church grew as I attended the Swiss Temple and worked in the family history center in my branch. Then, in September 1994, on a trip to the United States and Canada, I met Elder Card and his wife, who served as proxies as I was sealed to my parents in the Alberta Temple. The eternal union of my parents’ family had begun.
For many years I had searched for the church that would fulfill my spiritual needs and unite me with my loved ones who had passed on. Now, in a miraculous way, I had received the blessings of the temple and was able to share those blessings with my loved ones.

Sister Linda K. Burton told the story of a family who moved into a new house. The yard didn’t have a fence around it. The father put stakes in the corners of the yard and tied strings around the stakes to mark the edge of the yard. He told his five children that if they stayed inside the boundaries, they would be safe. The children listened to their dad, even when a ball rolled past the string! They were safe and happy.