Gospel Story Finder

Because of my father’s experience, he was very anxious for me to have a good education. When I’d say, “But I don’t want to go to school,” he’d say, “Then I’ll go in your place. Do you think the teacher would mind? I wonder if I can fit into the seat at your desk?”

That always made me laugh because I think it would have frightened my teacher to see a grown man coming to school, and I knew he couldn’t fit into the small seat at my desk. So I would go to school.

Sometimes I’d complain, “My teacher makes me work too hard.” Then Dad would just smile and mess up my hair and say, “I doubt it.” (I’m not sure, but the way he smiled always made me feel as though he wanted that teacher to make me work hard. I never could understand why, for I thought the only good thing about school were the recesses.)

Later when I had graduated from high school, served a mission, and completed my courses in college, I went on to earn a Ph.D. from a school in New England. (Ph.D. just means you are a doctor that doesn’t give shots or fix broken legs. In fact, I’m not sure Ph.Ds can fix much of anything.)

When I received my diploma I wanted my father to have it. He had never received a graduation diploma from any school and I thought he deserved this one. I told him that although my name was on it, the diploma should really be awarded to him. I told him they probably just made a mistake in the printing. That made him laugh and then it made him cry. I wasn’t sure then why it made him cry—but I know now.

My father died last year, and now he is getting more of the education that he always wanted when he was a little boy. And me? Well, my wife and I have children of our own in school. And when they say, “But I don’t want to go to school,” I say, “Then I’ll go in your place. Do you think the teacher would mind? I wonder if I can fit into the seat at your desk?” And when they say, “My teacher makes me work too hard,” I just smile and mess up their hair and say, “I doubt it.”

Fathers, I guess, are like that. In His own special way, I think Heavenly Father is like that too.

Have a good year in school and learn all you can. It is going to be important to you for a long, long time. In fact, it will be important forever.

I remember as a child looking at my grandmother’s wrinkled cheeks. Lines creased the corners of her eyes, and tiny lines graced her upper lip. I asked her how I could keep from getting wrinkles.
“Don’t smile,” she said. “And don’t cry.”
I followed her advice—for one day. Then I gave up. How could anyone live without smiling or crying? I decided I’d rather have a face that shows the lines of laughter and tears.

In stark contrast, consider the example of another young man. Through the years I have watched how his parents have taught him from infancy to unwaveringly live the commandments of God. By example and precept, they nurtured him, together with their other children, in truth. They encouraged the development of discipline and sacrifice to obtain worthy goals. This young man chose swimming to instill in his character those qualities. Early-morning practice sessions required discipline and sacrifice. Over time he excelled in that sport.
Then came the challenges—for example, a championship swim meet on Sunday. Would he participate? Would he rationalize an exception to his rule of not swimming on Sunday to help his team win the championship? No, he would not yield, even under intense peer pressure. He was called names, even physically abused. But he would not yield. The rejection of friends, the loneliness, and the pressure brought times of sadness and tears. But he would not yield. He was learning firsthand what each of us must come to know, the reality of Paul’s counsel to Timothy, “All that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution” (2 Tim. 3:12). Over the years this consistent pattern of righteous living—woven from hundreds of correct decisions, some in the face of great challenge—has developed a character of strength and capacity. Now, as a missionary, he is appreciated by his peers for his ability to work, his knowledge of truth, his unwavering devotion, and his determination to share the gospel. One who earlier was rejected by his peers now has become a respected leader of his peers. Is there a message for you in these examples?

At the press conference, Elder Ballard stood among missionaries he said exemplified the missionary spirit. They included a native African couple from Kenya called to preside over a mission in Nigeria; a pair of young sister missionaries, one from South Korea and one from Mexico, serving on Temple Square in downtown Salt Lake City; a senior couple from Utah serving a humanitarian mission that takes them all over the world helping to provide clean water to many communities; and a pair of young men, one from Brazil and one from Idaho, who just entered the Missionary Training Center in preparation to serve in Japan.
The young men, Samuel Pelaquim and Brandon Soelberg, are both postponing college to spend the next two years of their lives without television, dating, and other teenage activities to preach the gospel. “Some people think I’m giving up a lot to serve a mission,” said Elder Soelberg. “But the reality is I feel I have a lot to give. I have always known I wanted to serve a mission, so it doesn’t really feel like a sacrifice to me. I need to do this; I want to do this.”
Elder Pelaquim agreed. “It is a wonderful opportunity to serve,” he said. “Since I was very young I have noticed a difference between my other friends and me. They had problems that I did not have to worry about, and I have always known that it was the gospel that made that difference.”

My younger brother, my dad, and I planned a camping trip that would begin the day before my 13th birthday. It was a great way to spend a birthday.
We went camping at Duck Fork Reservoir and had taken our two horses with us. Babe is white in color and extremely calm. Toast is brown and exactly the opposite in personality. We were all enjoying being in the mountains, except Toast. He would not settle down and kept Dad up all night.
We tied Toast to a log on a long rope to graze. We let Babe loose with a bell around her neck. Horses have strong herd instincts and usually stay close to each other. While we were cooking breakfast, Babe wandered where Toast couldn’t see her. He started running, dragging the log behind him. We caught a glimpse of Babe heading down the canyon. My dad and I went to catch her, hoping Toast was nearby. Half a mile later, Babe turned and was heading back to camp when the hail started. I was dressed in just jeans and a T-shirt and was soon drenched.
Dad beat me back to camp, and when I got there, he was saddling Babe to go look for Toast. As my brother, Allen, and I watched Dad ride away, I thought of the log Toast was dragging and how many ways he could kill or hurt himself. I had joined the Church two years before with my mother, sister, and brother. At that moment, I knew we needed God’s help. I stood in the rain and prayed that we would find Toast alive and well. Then I went into the tent, crawled into my sleeping bag, and tried to get warm.
Dad came back in an hour. He hadn’t found Toast. I was getting nervous sitting around, so Allen and I went for a walk. We looked up and saw Dad walking toward us. I could tell by his face that the news was bad.
“He’s dead,” Dad said, forlornly.
“Where?” I asked.
“Downstream.”
When we got to the place where Toast lay, tears made my eyes warm. He was soaking wet, lying on his side in the middle of the stream. Then a shiver shook his whole body, and he slowly raised his head. He was alive! A smile crept across my face.
Toast had been cut deeply by the rope and large patches of skin had been torn off his back legs. The cold stream water had stopped most of the bleeding, but he had hypothermia. We untangled Toast, but he couldn’t stand up. We tried to drag him out of the stream, but we were no match for a thousand-pound horse. I tied a rope to Babe, and Dad tied the other end to Toast’s halter. Dad pushed on Toast, and I dragged Babe. Finally, with much effort, Toast stood up.
We headed to camp where we put blankets on Toast. We gave him warm water and hot mash for the hypothermia. Even though he was hurt, Toast was alive. For a few moments, I hid behind the horse trailer and sobbed out a prayer of thanks.
We decided to wait until morning to try to get him down the canyon and to the vet. We were afraid he would collapse in the trailer, and we would not be able to get him up. Allen asked Dad if we should say a prayer. We bowed our heads and gave thanks for prayers already answered.
Toast is healing. The vet says he should heal completely, but it will take a long time. I learned that, although Heavenly Father did not answer our prayers in exactly the way we wanted him to, he did answer our prayers and is still answering them.

The Lord speaks of offerings in the plural. He expects us, as a condition of faithfulness, to pay our tithing and our fast offerings to help the poor and the needy. But we are privileged to make other offerings, not by way of assignment, assessment, or ecclesiastical direction. Among these are donations to the General Missionary Fund, Humanitarian Aid Fund, and the Book of Mormon Fund. We are also privileged to voluntarily contribute to building the new temples President Hinckley has announced.

Recently I received an anonymous letter from a person who made a substantial sacrifice for the General Temple Fund of the Church. She said: “I decided when I wanted to spend any money on myself I would forgo it and put the money into the temple fund. This meant no new clothes or shoes, books, hair appointments, necklaces, or anything of a personal nature until I reached my goal. I thought this would be a sacrifice, but instead I have found joy in it. It has been a rewarding and fulfilling experience.”

Mike Downey of the Arlington Texas First Ward, Fort Worth Texas Stake, smiled as he listened to his newfound 93-year-old friend talk about turn-of-the-century dating customs. Down the hall, Diane Honeycutt of the Second Ward, and Kelly Molen, a First Warder, listened with interest to anecdotes and memories shared with them by 71-year-old Grace Minor. Twenty-five other young men and women in the stake were elsewhere in the building taking notes and recording reminiscences of members of the local nursing home in Arlington. It was all part of a unique and very successful service project originated by stake clerk (and genealogy enthusiast) David Hedgpeth.
A few days later, each of the 16 nursing home residents was presented with family group sheets, pedigree charts, a cassette recording of his personal history, and a copy of the Book of Mormon. Inside each book was a photograph taken during the interview and the handwritten testimonies of the interviewers. In addition, 42 new genealogy sheets were sent to the Genealogy Department in Salt Lake City and the genealogical section of the Fort Worth Public Library.
The experience was a rewarding one for everyone involved. Said Second Ward member DeAnn Boyer, “It was exciting to see the joy in the older people’s faces when they saw that there were young people who cared about them.” Another added: “The experience made me feel good all over. I learned a lot about real values in life.”
About a month was spent in preparing the questions and interviews. Topics of discussion included such questions as “What have you learned from life that you feel would help others?” and “What special memories do you have of your grandparents and parents?”
“I want to do an interview with my own grandfather,” decided one of the young men after the completion of the project. “I’ll bet he has many exciting stories he could tell about our own family.”

Let me conclude with an account of two men who are heroes to me. Their acts of courage were not performed on a national scale, but rather in a peaceful valley known as Midway, Utah.

Long years ago, Roy Kohler and Grant Remund served together in Church capacities. They were the best of friends. They were tillers of the soil and dairymen. Then a misunderstanding arose which became somewhat of a rift between them.

Later, when Roy Kohler became grievously ill with cancer and had but a limited time to live, my wife, Frances, and I visited Roy and his wife, and I gave him a blessing. As we talked afterward, Brother Kohler said, “Let me tell you about one of the sweetest experiences I have had during my life.” He then recounted to me his misunderstanding with Grant Remund and the ensuing estrangement. His comment was, “We were sort of on the outs with each other.”

“Then,” continued Roy, “I had just put up our hay for the winter to come, when one night, as a result of spontaneous combustion, the hay caught fire, burning the hay, the barn, and everything in it right to the ground. I was devastated,” said Roy. “I didn’t know what in the world I would do. The night was dark, except for the dying embers of the fire. Then I saw coming toward me from the road, in the direction of Grant Remund’s place, the lights of tractors and heavy equipment. As the ‘rescue party’ turned in our drive and met me amidst my tears, Grant said, ‘Roy, you’ve got quite a mess to clean up. My boys and I are here. Let’s get to it.’” Together they plunged to the task at hand. Gone forever was the hidden wedge which had separated them for a short time. They worked throughout the night and into the next day, with many others in the community joining in.

Roy Kohler has passed away, and Grant Remund is getting older. Their sons have served together in the same ward bishopric. I truly treasure the friendship of these two wonderful families.

Trusted friends who are older than yourself are always invaluable, especially when you are a teenager. Such friends include parents. I am grateful for the close companionship and association I had with my musician-father, George Henry Durham. It began in early boyhood. Its basis was family life, but extensive activity carried beyond the family. I learned to share much of his specialty, music, by attending concerts and participating in choral groups which he led. For five years of my boyhood, during the period of my father’s advanced study, there were concerts of the Boston Symphony. There were notable times each spring when the Metropolitan Opera of New York played a short season in the Boston Opera House. I shall never forget Verdi’s Aida. Later, in high school, I could join in singing choruses from the “Triumph” scene in the second act with the high school chorus my father led.
The old LDS College was a two-year college and a three-year high school with a business college attached. It occupied the space behind the Hotel Utah and the Church Administration Building where the beautiful plaza and highrise Church Office Building now stand. High school classes began at 8:30. Father wanted a school choir. There was not room for such a class in the regular schedule of classes, so he met the choir daily at 7:45 A.M. in Barratt Hall. The first number I remember rehearsing was Beethoven’s “The Heavens Resound.” There followed selections from Handel’s Messiah, Mendelssohn’s St. Paul, especially “How Lovely Are the Messengers.” We had a wonderful songbook called the Corona Songbook, filled with classical music and songs from various nations. It was a rich experience. It formed a special bond with my father. We had mutual interests to talk about.
The bonds extended into Church activity. Father invited me to join the 31st Ward Choir to sing alto. This was before my voice changed! He kindly let me sit between the sisters who sang alto and the men who sang tenor. This removed any sense of embarrassment and gave me a sense of security. When I shifted from alto to tenor, the transition was simple and easy. As the years went by the ward choir undertook performance of Handel’s Messiah one Sunday evening in December.
Choir practice was every Wednesday night in the chapel at 7:30 P.M. By that time I was also a forward on the ward M Men basketball team, athletic manager, and captain of the team. Choir rehearsals and league games were often scheduled on the same Wednesday night. This produced conflicts. One night father insisted I attend choir practice and miss a game. Usually, in such cases, I was excused from choir practice. As I look back, the bitter taste I felt during that particular rehearsal has long since vanished. The glorious sounds of Handel resonate through my soul while my basketball prowess has somewhat diminished!
Talking things over with Mother was always easy. She was an energetic woman, mother of eight. I was the eldest. We enjoyed an unusual relationship. She was my counselor. I was her confidant. With such a large family it was important to get part-time work as I approached high school. We talked it over. She had a great deal of initiative and management ability. We had engaged in a contest to secure subscriptions for the Deseret News. We didn’t win the prize, but my name received “Honorable Mention,” with mother doing most of the work behind the scenes. When it was time to get a paper route, without my knowledge, she called Ralph Whitney, the circulation manager of the Deseret News, and opened the door. The first thing I knew, my solicitations bore fruit and I received Route 11 in downtown Salt Lake City. I could leave the LDS campus on North Main, go to the Deseret News printing press on Richards Street, get my “sheets” as we called them, then proceed down Main Street to 300 South, back up State Street, crisscrossing 200 and 100 South to deliver papers in the various hotels, cafes, and shops that were subscribers.
Mother and father expected dependability from their sons. This led to an opportunity to get a larger route with more subscribers, Route 69. This extended from 800 South to 1300 South in Salt Lake City between 800 and 900 East. Windsor Street intersected and ran parallel to 900 and 800 East. I had nearly 100 papers. Our earnings were one cent for every paper delivered. Subscriptions were fifteen cents a week, or sixty-five cents a month. We were billed for the number of papers sent to us. I did collecting on Saturday mornings when school was out and always tried to pay the bill to Mr. Knight at the Deseret News office on the southwest corner of Main and South Temple by Monday. The bill amounted to nine cents a week for every paper delivered. With six deliveries a week, that meant six cents on each paper, or the magnificent income of about six dollars a week, provided everybody paid his bill! In collecting I met many older friends, principally the mothers and grandmothers who were home on Saturday mornings. They would respond to my knock at the door, come forward with their fifteen cents for the week’s papers, and we would talk. These friends provided much stability for the social environment of a teenager. I learned early in my teens of the value of communicating, receiving counsel, respecting older people, and responding obediently to my parents. It was a great blessing. It provided me with marvelous lessons at home, such as the injunction in one of my father’s songs: “A friend is a present you give yourself.”
Adult leadership is available to all of us. I shall never forget our ward M Men leader, Leo B. Sharp. He taught our class at Mutual every Tuesday evening at 7:30. He was one of my newspaper customers. He never missed our basketball games and would usually sit on the bench with the coach and the “subs.” We played our games usually at Westminster gym, nearby and easy to rent. It meant much to us on the floor to have Leo watching us and being our friend. He loved us. He knew us. We respected him.
Then there was our bishop, Leo’s older brother, Bishop June B. Sharp, also one of my early subscribers. Bishop Sharp was our priests quorum president. We saw him Sunday mornings. He was our friend. He knew us. We could approach him on any matter. At a ward dance, and they were frequent in those days, you could always see Bishop Sharp dancing with his wife, Ida, bobbing up and down over the floor to a fox-trot or gliding to a waltz. And they would smile and greet us. They were our friends. As I write this, he is still alive and active at age 91, having served as a temple worker for many years and, after serving as bishop, presiding over the South African Mission. Like my parents, his smiling face and figure have always been a visible presence in my consciousness.
Then there was our stake patriarch, Christopher E. Layton, a son of the great pioneer Christopher Layton. He was also the custodian of our ward meetinghouse. He was our friend. He knew us. What a privilege it was to be greeted by him, respond in turn, and shake his hand. Later, when we went to him to receive a patriarchal blessing it was a crowning experience. He was available to us in a different way than Bishop Sharp but stood high in the galaxy of senior friends whose experience, wisdom, and judgment were available.
There were many, many more, too numerous to name. I hope that each of you takes advantage of reaching out, cultivating, and becoming better acquainted with many senior friends in your ward and in your community. They will be complimented and appreciative.
There were many senior friends among the great women of my circles. They were examples during my growing-up years. There was Verna W. Goddard, neighbor, wife of one of our stake presidents. She was the Gleaner leader in the ward (young women 17 to 25). Her home was open to us, and we took advantage of it. By the time we were adults she was a member of the General Presidency of the YWMIA. We were grateful that her leadership was now extending throughout the Church. There was our ward Relief Society presidency: Sister Brinton, the president; her counselors, Sister Michelson and Sister Josephine Matheson. These were beautiful, stately, dignified, cultured women. Although the ward was large, 2,000 members, it was good to get acquainted with such senior friends and feel their influence. Of course, there were always the returned missionaries, a younger group of “seniors” that we looked up to. None of them disappointed us. Although they were several years older when we were 17 or 18, they never approached us as anything less than equals and friends. What a thrill it was to have their friendship, be greeted by them, and sometimes be invited to accompany them in their automobile, or even as one grew a little older, on a date.
Friendship extends horizontally and vertically, up and down the age ladder. Neither dimension should be ignored. One soon finds that some of those “young kids” become very important in one’s own life. It is wonderful to have not ignored them as being “too young” or unimportant when they are 12 or 13 and you have reached the “advanced” age of 16 or 17. The same applies to those who are seven, eight, or nine! And so it goes.
The purpose of this little essay has been to point out the special value of senior friends. I hope that every reader will make it a point to get acquainted with available senior friends, beginning with father, mother, aunts, uncles, and the adult leaders in your ward. It will help stabilize your life. It will add significant dimensions to your social education. It will help open doors of opportunity for your future service. Do not ignore them! Be grateful for the opportunity of developing friendships with senior friends.

“I will be back in a few minutes,” my Thai host father said on his way out the front door. At least, I think that’s what he said. My comprehension of the Thai language was sketchy at best.
I had lived in Thailand for about four months as a community service volunteer, and although I could speak basic Thai, I still had a lot to learn. I had just changed areas, but my new host family already understood that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I did my best to explain my values and even gave the family a Thai Book of Mormon and a For the Strength of Youth pamphlet.
As I waited for my host father to come home, I sat on the living room floor and began studying a Thai phrase book. Suddenly, a strong impression came to me to invite him to pray with me. It had occurred to me before to ask him, but the impression had never come so powerfully. During my time in Thailand, I had shared the gospel on many occasions, but I had never asked anyone to pray with me.
My host father and I had a good relationship. I even called him “Dad,” which he seemed to appreciate. I felt excited and then nervous. What if he told me no? What if he felt uncomfortable around me for the rest of my time with his family? Should I chance ruining our relationship? To make matters worse, I didn’t know how to pray in Thai. I didn’t even know enough Thai to ask my host father to pray, so I asked my Heavenly Father for help.
Shortly afterward, I heard a loud clang as the front gate closed. As my host father entered, he greeted me and announced that he was going to bed. I realized that I couldn’t let this opportunity pass. As I opened my mouth to speak, I immediately knew what to say and how to say it in Thai.
“Dad, in America I used to pray with my family, and I really miss doing so. Would you pray with me?” I was surprised by his response.
“Jon,” he replied, “of course I would. Teach me how.”
I then explained in Thai what prayer is but decided to say my prayer in English. I knew God was listening, and I knew my host father felt the Spirit. My eyes welled with tears as he followed the conclusion of my prayer with “amen.”
I can’t express in words the joy and love I felt for my host father and my Heavenly Father. That experience gave me confidence and led to more experiences in sharing the gospel with others. Unfortunately, my host family never accepted my invitation to attend the local branch, but I know that the knowledge I shared with them will benefit them sooner or later.
Though we may not always see the fruits of our labors in this life, I learned that planting gospel seeds can bless at least one life—your own. And in the Lord’s time, those seeds may bless the lives of others.

Thirty-eight years ago this month, Dean and I, then newlyweds, traveled to New Mexico to visit my parents. While there, my father took us on a day trip into the mountains in the northern part of the state. In the afternoon, we encountered a car stranded on the roadside with a flat tire. The driver told my father that his spare was also flat and he needed a ride to the nearest town to get the tire fixed. My father, seeing the man’s family inside the car, said to him, “You’ll never be able to get to town and back before dark. But listen, you have the same size wheel as mine. Take my spare, and the next time you come to Albuquerque, bring it back to me.”
The stranger, shocked by the offer, said, “But you don’t even know me.”
Daddy’s response, typical for him, was, “You’re an honest man, aren’t you? You’ll bring the tire back.”
A few weeks later I asked my dad about the spare tire. He told me that it had been returned.

Often, the primary contact inactive members have with the Church is through the home teachers who work under the direction of the bishop and the Melchizedek Priesthood quorum leaders. My interest in this important home-teaching duty began early in my life.
When I was a young man preparing to go on a mission, I had an outstanding bishop. His name was Marion G. Romney, now a member of the First Presidency. In giving my companion and me a home-teaching assignment, Bishop Romney emphasized the importance of being humble and prayerful and of preparing a challenging, spiritual message. He promised us great joy in the opportunities to be found in this home-teaching assignment. We were asked to visit five families, three of whom were inactive. This home-teaching assignment was so important to Bishop Romney that his enthusiasm and concern for it soon became our own. His careful instructions on how to accomplish it were impressive, and we followed carefully his inspired counsel. After a number of visits, all our families, including those who were inactive, became very friendly; and ultimately, all became active members of the Church.
Bishop Romney had made this home-teaching assignment significant for us. He encouraged us to prepare carefully and to be serious about the results of our visits. He helped us to develop the desire and the faith that make the difference. He taught us that dull, mechanical compliance to any assignment dooms it to failure. He brought us to the realization that the first essential factor in successful home teaching to inactives is the home teacher himself. The home teacher’s own preparation, dedication, attitudes, and initiative are crucial.

In 1914 he spent the first year of his Central States mission traveling, relying on the good will of the people for his bed and a meal each night. He was made president of the East Missouri conference, in charge of 25 missionaries. According to his records, he personally contacted 3,800 nonmembers during the first half of 1916. Even his piano-playing skills were useful. Tracting one day in St. Louis he noticed a piano in a home. “It’s a Kimball, isn’t it?” he asked a woman who was closing the door. “That’s my name too. I could play a song on it for you that you might like to hear.” She let him in, and he played and sang, “O My Father.”

“One evening while I was visiting Grandpa Snow in his room in the Salt Lake Temple, I remained until the door keepers had gone and the night watchmen had not yet come in, so grandpa said he would take me to the main front entrance and let me out that way. … After we left his room and while we were still in the large corridor leading into the celestial room, I was walking several steps ahead of Grandpa when he stopped me and said: ‘Wait a moment, Allie, I want to tell you something. It was right here that the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to me at the time of the death of President Woodruff. He instructed me to go right ahead and reorganize the First Presidency of the Church at once and not wait as had been done after the death of the previous presidents, and that I was to succeed President Woodruff.’
“Then Grandpa came a step nearer and held out his left hand and said: ‘He stood right here, about three feet above the floor. It looked as though He stood on a plate of solid gold.’
“Grandpa told what a glorious personage the Savior is and described His hands, feet, countenance, and beautiful white robes, all of which were of such a glory of whiteness and brightness that he could hardly gaze upon Him.
“Then he came another step nearer and put his right hand on my head and said: ‘Now, Granddaughter, I want you to remember that this is the testimony of your grandfather, that he told you with his own lips that he actually saw the Savior, here in the temple, and talked with Him face to face.’”

The embarrassment Devon suffered was her own fault. The boy next door invited her to a dance, and though she wasn’t wild about him, she consented to go. A short while later another boy, who she was wild about, asked her to the same dance, so she told her neighbor the second guy had actually asked first. The embarrassing part came when her dear little brother told her neighbor the actual truth.
Devon learned that if you never tell a lie, there’s no danger of embarrassment when the truth actually comes out.

Sister Jill Berrett, a full-time missionary in the Vancouver mission, tells of an investigator who toured the meetinghouse at the invitation of her 18-year-old friend. “While she was on the tour she became so excited she wanted to take the lessons right away. Her friend gave her a Book of Mormon, and another friend invited her to Young Women camp. She felt so loved and so involved that she began referring to the ward as ‘her ward’ even before she was baptized.”

This whole family from Alberta, Canada, loves sports. “Name a game and a time,” says 15-year-old Halle, “and we’ll be there.” For example, during baseball season, you’ll find the whole family at the ball field. That’s where the oldest brother, Ty, 18, helps coach the team his 10-year-old sister, Skye, plays on.
But when the family is at the ballpark—or anywhere else for that matter—you’ll notice something that sets them apart from a typical sports-oriented family. At least one family member is always watching over the youngest sibling, seven-year-old Grady. It’s not just a matter of keeping an eye on him; he requires constant attention.
Grady was born with a condition that still defies medical diagnosis. He can’t form words but continually cries out and makes loud noises. He wears a bib because he constantly drools. And he likes to touch and feel everything, often placing dirt or other foreign objects in his mouth. So he has to be watched, closely and constantly, for his own safety.
“Whatever we do as a family, Grady comes along,” says Halle, 15. At the baseball game, for example, Halle and Kamree, 13, take turns watching Grady while Mom and Dad cheer for Ty and Skye.
“Grady loves the playground by the ball field,” Kamree says. “We stay with him while he has fun, and Mom and Dad are right there if we need help.”
“Our family is a team,” Ty says after the game. “So we take turns helping Mom and Dad with Grady. It brings us closer together to know we’re helping them and helping him.”

In later years I worked as an engineer installing robotic systems for many companies. There was one project I worked on for a long time. Some of the people I worked with didn’t always use good language, but they were my customers, and I had to work with them. I tried, in little ways, to improve their language.
I went back to that company years later, and while the manager was giving me a tour, someone came up to him and spouted a long sentence of expletives about a problem they were having. The manager didn’t respond to the question being asked but introduced me and said, “Now, he doesn’t stand for that kind of language, and we will not use that when he’s here.” I had no idea of the influence I had had all those years earlier. I didn’t need to defend my standards; the manager stood up for me.

At one difficult point in my life, I couldn’t discern answers to my heartfelt prayers for a long period of time. A dear friend of mine was going through some difficulties of her own. But as we played and sang hymns and gospel songs together, we often experienced overwhelming feelings of solace and testimony. I now recognize that the Lord was fulfilling His promise. He was answering the songs of my heart, again and again. And that really did help me lift up my heart and go on.

The Evans family was finally moving out of the house on our homestead farm in New Mexico.
“I wish they’d hurry and leave so we can move in,” Ed said as we watched from the barn roof. No one but Papa had seen the inside of the house.
“I wonder if they’ll leave anything,” Caroline said.
“Probably not.”
“The Caldwells found all sorts of good things left in their house,” I put in.
“Like what?”
“A table and some fruit jars.”
“And a pretty good harness in the barn.”
“Don’t forget the stove. They left a good stove,” I added.
“The oven has to be propped up,” Caroline reminded us.
“It’s still good.”
By the time the Evanses had finished loading their belongings onto the wagon and started out the gate, it didn’t seem likely that anything could be left. We slid down the smooth board and ran to look inside. The house was completely empty except for one thing.
“A high chair!” Caroline exclaimed. “Look at that. Georgie can have a high chair.”
“But we don’t even have a table,” I complained.
“Papa will make us one,” she said. “Let’s go ask him.”
After we moved our things from the dugout, Ed said, “Now I get to sleep in the barn.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“Nothing doing,” Mama warned. “The barn’s for animals, not children.”
“Papa promised,” Ed told her.
“It’s all right, hon,” Papa told Mama. “The loft’s clean and warm and close enough so that we could hear them call if they needed us.”
“Well, it is pretty crowded in here,” Mama relented a little. “Just one room for the seven of us.”
“Please, mama,” Ed coaxed.
“Please,” I echoed.
“I guess it won’t hurt to try it,” she conceded, and we started out the door.
Frank grabbed my legs and shouted, “I wanna sleep with Dora! I wanna sleep with Dora!”
“Let him come, Mama. I’ll take care of him.” She knew I would too.
“Watch him, then, so he doesn’t fall down the ladder,” she cautioned.
“I don’t fall down ladders.” Frank said indignantly. “I climb down.”
So the three of us moved into the barn.
Papa began to make some furniture, first a table and then a long bench. Georgie would use his high chair. He built a stretched-out sofa, too, and Mama sewed cushions for it. In the barn Papa was working on some chairs with woven seats.
Every day Papa put a bucket down the well, hoping to bring up water, but the best he could get was damp sand on the bottom of the bucket.
“Don’t try the well till I get there,” Ed called down from the loft to Papa, when he heard the door shut after milking.
“Me, too,” I yelled and scrambled down the ladder.
One day the bucket made a splash when it went down. “There’s water,” Papa announced and pulled quickly on the rope to bring up a dripping pailful.
“Water!” Ed shouted.
“Water!” I echoed.
It was a race to the house to tell Mama, and she was so excited she said, “Let’s celebrate. I’ll make pancakes for breakfast.”
“Hurry then,” Papa said. “We have to get the pipe and sucker rods in.”
“What are sucker rods?” Ed wanted to know.
“They’re wooden poles to suck the water out of the ground.”
“Where do you put them?” I asked.
“First, we put a big pipe down to the bottom of the well. Then we put the sucker rods, one at a time, inside the pipe and push them as far as they’ll go into the sand.”
“What if they aren’t long enough?” Ed asked.
“We’ll fasten another one onto the first. They’re made so they can be screwed together.”
“Then will the water come up?”
“Yes, as soon as we build a windmill to run the pump.”
“What if it pumps water all over and makes a mud hole?”
“It won’t. We’ll have it fixed so we can turn if off.”
“What if the wind doesn’t blow when we want water?”
“We’ll have a storage tank. The pump will fill it up when the wind’s blowing, and we’ll use the water when we need it. I saw a galvanized tank in the Sears Roebuck catalogue. I’d better send off for one right away.”
“Pancakes are ready,” Mama announced, and we sat up to the table to eat them.
“Anyone want to go with me to look for a Christmas tree?” Papa said one day in December.
“I do!” Ed shouted.
“Me, too,” I declared.
Caroline had just spread out her paper dolls to play with while the little boys were having their naps, and she didn’t want to pick them up just yet, so she shook her head.
“Where can you find a Christmas tree?” Mama asked. “I haven’t seen any pine trees growing around here.”
“Don’t know,” Papa said. “Maybe we’ll have to use a cactus.”
“A cactus Christmas tree?” Ed sounded disappointed.
“Why not!” Papa said. “Think how pretty it would be with paper chains and popcorn strings.”
“I guess so,” Ed conceded.
“I’ll pop the corn while you’re gone,” Mama offered. “We’ll string it when you get back.”
We tramped around in the warm sunshine, trying to imagine it was winter and that Christmas was nearly here. Although we learned to expect some snow every year, it wasn’t really very much when compared with what we had in Utah. This year December seemed more like March.
We could find nothing on our property that would do, so we started down the road to the sand hills. This definitely was not Christmas tree country. We decided there was no use hunting for a green tree and began to search for something else.
“Look at this,” Ed said, pulling a spiky round bush from next to the fence where it had tumbled in the wind.
“Not bad,” Papa said. “Not bad at all.”
I found another like it but not so squatty. “Look!” I exclaimed.
“That’s even better,” Papa said.
Once we began to look, we found a whole little forest of tumbleweeds along the fence line and finally selected one that was nearly cone shaped. Papa carried it on his shoulder, and we sang “Silent Night” as we walked home in the desert twilight.
The “tree” was suspended from the ceiling in the corner, where Frank and Georgie could see but not touch. We draped it with popcorn strings and chains made from the bright Christmas paper our purchases were wrapped in at Younger’s General Store.
We didn’t receive many gifts that first Christmas in New Mexico. Our stockings contained an apple, an orange, a handful of nuts, and a peppermint stick.
Each of us had one package, and inside was a napkin ring carved by Papa. Tucked inside the ring was a paper Mama had decorated with pretty writing and flowers painted around the edge. It read: “Coupon for part interest in a place of our own. To be redeemed for a deed in seven years.”
It was the best gift of all—the gift of hope. I put mine in the box where I kept my precious things. (To be continued.)