Gospel Story Finder

“Hi. You’re new here, aren’t you?” asked Carl.
“Yup,” Tony answered.
“Where did you go to school before?”
“Lincoln.”
“Lincoln Elementary? Across town?”
“Nope. Lincoln, Nebraska,” replied Tony.
“Oh. I was in Nebraska once, but I was just a kid, so I don’t remember much about it. You like it here?”
“It’s all right.”
“What did you do at recess in Lincoln?” Carl asked.
“Well … we played marbles.”
“Marbles! Terrific! Are you any good?” probed Carl.
“OK, I guess,” Tony answered modestly. “Do you play?”
“Not much. Mostly I play kickball. You’ll have to meet Marvin.”
“Marvin?”
“Marvin the Marble Marvel,” Carl explained.
“Is he any good?”
“Is he any good! That’s like asking if ice is cold. That’s him, over there,” said Carl, pointing across the playground.
“What grade’s he in, first?”
“No, third—like us.”
“He sure doesn’t look like a third grader. He’s so little,” Tony declared.
“I know,” agreed Carl. “But that doesn’t stop him. He’s the best marble player in the whole school. I can’t remember anyone ever beating him. Want to meet him?”
“Yup.”
Carl and Tony walked over to Marvin, and Carl introduced him to Tony.
“Hi!” Marvin said, grinning and pushing up his glasses. “Want to play?”
“I didn’t bring my marbles,” Tony answered.
“That’s OK,” Carl said generously, handing Tony a marble. “I’ll lend you Orangy.”
“Let’s play lag-outs,” Marvin suggested.
“OK,” Tony agreed, “but no snudging.”
“What’s snudging?”
“That means that your knuckles stay on the ground when you shoot,” explained Tony.
“Oh,” said Marvin. “It doesn’t matter. I shoot flingies.”
“Flingies?” asked Tony.
“Sure. Like this,” said Marvin, snapping the marble forward with his thumb and index finger.
“Oh, snappers,” Tony replied.
“Whatever,” Marvin said, “Hurry—the bell’s about to ring. We’ll play funsies. You shoot first.”
“OK. Thanks.” Tony shot his marble.
“We play no hits on first tries,” explained Marvin, rolling a green marble in the opposite direction. “Your turn.”
Tony aimed his marble carefully. An audible click was heard as Orangy collided with Marvin’s marble.
“Wow!” exclaimed Carl. “What a shot!”
“Good hit,” complimented Marvin, handing Tony his marble.
“You said funsies,” reminded Tony, giving both marbles back to their owners. “I’ll bring my marbles tomorrow.”
By the next morning the whole school knew about Tony’s fantastic shot. Carl met Tony on the way out to recess. “Did you bring your marbles?” he questioned.
“Yup.” Tony held up a bulging brown leather bag.
“Good. That looks like enough. Sometimes Marvin likes to play undergrounds.”
“Undergrounds? You mean pots?” asked Tony.
“I guess, Don’t let Marvin fool you,” warned Carl.
“How?”
“Well, he doesn’t look or act like a marble champ.”
“What do you mean?” Tony asked.
“He brings the same marble to school every day,” confided Carl.
“Only one?”
“That’s right,” Carl replied. “He brings it in a sandwich bag, and every afternoon he goes home with a bagful of marbles that he’s won.”
“You’re joking,” Tony challenged.
“No. Honest. I’ve always wondered what he does with the marbles he wins.”
“He must have a closetful at home,” Tony said as they approached Marvin and a couple of his friends.
“Hi. Ready to play?” asked Marvin, pulling a sandwich bag containing just one marble out of his pocket.
Carl gave Tony an “I told you so” nudge as some of the other kids came over to watch the game.
“Same rules as yesterday,” Marvin announced.
“OK,” Tony agreed, “but no go-fors.”
“Gophers?” Marvin repeated.
“Go-fors.”
“What does that mean?”
“No one else can shoot for you,” Tony explained.
“Oh—no helpers. OK. Come on, Sunshine,” Marvin pleaded, rolling his shiny yellow cat’s-eye marble between his thumb and forefinger.
Tony wisely shot his blue marble some distance away from Marvin. But when Marvin shot his marble, it stopped just short of Tony’s. On the next shot Tony easily won the cat’s-eye.
“Good game,” said Tony as Marvin handed him Sunshine. “You’ll have to bring more marbles tomorrow.”
“I don’t have any more marbles,” replied Marvin quietly.
“What?” Carl protested. “How can that be? You’ve won hundreds.”
“Well … I …” Marvin hesitated.
“He always gives them back the next day,” Jenny, an on-looker, broke in. “I’m sorry, Marvin. I had to tell.”
“That’s OK,” Marvin mumbled, staring at the ground.
“You mean that you’ve been winning the same marbles over and over again?” Carl asked incredulously.
“Well, yeah,” admitted Marvin. “You see, I found Sunshine on my way home from school one day, and I’ve just always won. I give the marbles back so that everyone will keep playing with me.”
“You’re good, Marvin,” Tony said, handing Sunshine back to him.
“You won it,” Marvin insisted. “You can keep it.”
“We said we’d play the same rules as yesterday,” Tony reminded him. “We were playing funsies yesterday, remember?”
“That’s right!” Marvin replied, happily tucking Sunshine into his pocket.

Most birthday parties I am invited to are on Saturdays. However, one year I was invited to two of them on a Sunday. It was hard not to go as both parties were at the Canada Games Pool, and I knew they would be a lot of fun. But I also know that it is a commandment to keep the Sabbath day holy. I decided not to go. The next year when these girls’ birthdays came around, both of them held their parties on Saturday, and I was able to go.

But just under three months and several blood tests later, I miscarried again—this time only a week before Christmas. Another three months passed and my hopes soared after another positive pregnancy test, only to miscarry a week later—yet another stoplight.
“Even if we have strong faith, many mountains will not be moved. … If all opposition were curtailed, if all maladies were removed, then the primary purposes of the Father’s plan would be frustrated.”2 —Elder David A. Bednar
I got pregnant again, and my next due date was going to land right around the following Christmas. I had a good feeling about this pregnancy. We had seen the heartbeat on an early ultrasound and knew that family members were praying for us. While we were sitting in an endowment session in the temple one day, I had a distinct stream of thoughts: “If I were to lose this pregnancy, would my faith hold up? Of course it would. But of course I won’t have another miscarriage because this time I am ready to accept the Lord’s will no matter what.”
Despite my positive attitude, several weeks later I saw the signs, went in for the ultrasounds, and began the painful process that I felt all too familiar with. My faith did not hold up quite like I had expected. The answers that had sustained me through my previous miscarriages no longer seemed adequate. A wave of depression set in. I felt broken, empty, and even slightly betrayed. My husband and I weren’t the only ones waiting on the Lord; our daughter frequently told us how much she wanted a baby brother or sister. Our hearts ached for her as well. As I turned my vulnerable emotions over to the Lord in fervent prayer, I again received a clear witness that Heavenly Father was very aware of my pain and circumstances and that He loved me. Although my circumstances remained the same, this sweet and simple experience miraculously lightened the burden I felt and gave me the ability to cope and even feel happy as I continued through my day-to-day life. Whatever the future held, I would be OK.
When genetic testing came back several months later with no answers, we again felt confused about the purpose of these setbacks in our lives. I tried my best to set my own desires aside and align my will with the Lord’s, but during the difficult moments my heart would cry out, “What am I supposed to learn from this? I’m trying to do something good! Where is the help I need?”
“Hard is the constant! We all have challenges. The variable is our reaction to the hard.”3 —Elder Stanley G. Ellis
Eight months after my fourth miscarriage and just several weeks after my stressful drive to meet the sister missionaries, I was peacefully waiting at a stoplight on my way home when my answers came. As I watched the cars stopped next to me and the cars making their way down the road ahead of me, I caught an eternal perspective of my life. I suddenly realized that all that mattered in my journey was that I stay on the path that would take me back to my heavenly home. How many “stoplights” I waited at would have no effect on my destination. How I responded to them would.
I began to cherish every stoplight in my life, both metaphorical and literal. Instead of wasted time, each became an opportunity to acquire patience and to gain perspective that comes only through waiting. Just as every red traffic light is paired with a green light in a different direction, I found that every stoplight in my life opened an avenue for growth, just not necessarily in the way I had been planning to grow right then. Instead of dwelling on the disappointments, I began to delight in the opportunity for progress that every unexpected turn of events provided.
“A critical question to ponder is ‘Where do we place our faith?’ Is our faith focused on simply wanting to be relieved of pain and suffering, or is it firmly centered on God the Father and His holy plan and in Jesus the Christ and His Atonement?”4 —Elder Donald L. Hallstrom
Two long years after my first miscarriage, I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy. In the time leading up to that joyful day for our family, I came to realize that Jesus Christ did not suffer for me in order to remove all suffering from my life. Rather, He suffered so that I could be strengthened through and grow from the challenges I face. Although the heartbreaking moments of loss and the long months of waiting are still painful to remember, they have become a treasure in my life. In those sacred moments, I came to understand how individually the Savior knows my suffering. He succored me in a way that only one who knows my personal sorrows could succor. While the opposition in our lives often seems to thwart our plans for progress, as we turn to the Lord, that opposition can function as the friction that propels us to a higher end: knowing and abiding in the Savior’s perfect love.

Our whole family worked as stake missionaries to the Salt Lake Stake Hmong Branch, and I taught Neng and Shoua and the other children how to fold their arms to pray, how to look at the pictures in Book of Mormon Stories, how to sing “I Am a Child of God.” They taught us how to say hello in Hmong—nyob zoo (knee-ah shong)—and we taught them all kinds of things, like how to turn on a light, use a pencil, or buy a chicken with money. At Christmastime generous people gave the Hmong some clothes, toys, fruit, candy, nuts, and cookies. They ate the oranges and nuts, but they threw away the candy and cookies!

After investigating for years, Grandpa joined the Church. He faithfully served and was stalwart and filled with integrity. Before we had stakes in Norway, he served as a counselor in the Young Men presidency for all of Norway. He was serving as a counselor in the Stockholm Sweden Temple presidency when he passed away in 1986.
In his talks, Grandpa shared his thoughts and feelings and the struggles he faced investigating the Church. He had to humble himself to pray about joining the Church. He received an answer and acted on it.

As the presiding elder, Fujiya Nara (behind the man in the dark suit) took responsibility for keeping in contact with members after the Japan Mission closed in 1924.
When the Japan Mission was closed in 1924, many members felt lost and abandoned. Leadership for the approximately 160 members in Japan fell to Fujiya Nara, the presiding elder in the country, whose employment with the railroad allowed him to visit scattered members. When he was unable to visit, Fujiya maintained contact by publishing a magazine titled Shuro (Palm Leaf) in which he shared gospel messages and encouraged the remaining Saints through the turbulent years that followed.
After Fujiya’s employment transferred him to Manchuria and his replacement as presiding elder died suddenly in 1937, contact with members in Japan was soon lost. “Even though we had no correspondence with Salt Lake City,” Fujiya said, “… we had conviction the Church would reopen [here].”3
During World War II, Fujiya returned to Tokyo, where he preached to his neighbors and organized weekly Sunday School meetings. After the war, Fujiya found a notice placed by Edward L. Clissold—a Latter-day Saint serving in the American military—inviting Church members in the country to contact him. Fujiya immediately visited Edward in his hotel room. When Edward attended the Latter-day Saint meetings in Tokyo, he was surprised to find nearly 100 people attending.
“Through it all,” Fujiya said later, “the greatest gift, and a constant gift, has been to know and embrace the true faith—that means to know Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost.”4

The lesson that most affected my life was a Primary lesson. It was so long ago that I don’t remember the teacher’s name, but the lesson penetrated my soul so deeply that I have never forgotten it.
When I was five years old I learned that God was my Heavenly Father and that Jesus Christ was my Savior and Redeemer. I learned that They love all people and that I could speak with God whenever I needed to because He always listens to my prayers. My faith increased, something within my heart grew, and little by little I gained a testimony of the Godhead. With the pure intent of a small child, I started praying with greater fervor, and I had many wonderful experiences with prayer.
I attended church for more than a year. Then other events made my going to church difficult. But I never stopped praying.
I was finally able to join the Church when I turned 20 years old. I was baptized with the sincere feelings of a child who says to her Father, “I’m coming back home.”
The seed was planted when I was a child and then germinated when I became an adult. I don’t know whether that teacher knows how much she helped me. But her lesson transformed my soul and kept my feet on the sure path, even while I had no contact with the Church for 14 years.
Estela Santana Leitão Cavalcante, Praia Grande Ward, Praia Grande Brazil Stake

Two weeks after I got my driver’s license, my parents let me take the car for the whole day. I was ecstatic! I couldn’t wait to go driving around town. That morning in my prayers I had a strong feeling to pray for safety and that the Holy Spirit would guide and direct me. I hopped into the car and headed to town to do some shopping with my sister. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt driving. But I was uneasy. I had a feeling that at sometime during the day some sort of obstacle would be in the road and I would have to stop suddenly. I wondered if I was just nervous because it was my first time driving alone. I decided to drive slower than usual. I drove all day without incident but still had that feeling. When we headed home, it was dark out, and we had a 45-minute drive home in the country. I decided to drive about 5–10 miles under the speed limit. Just as I came around a bend, I saw a deer standing in the middle of the road. I had to quickly slam on my brakes to stop. I stopped a couple of feet in front of the deer, which just walked off, leaving us with our hearts pounding. I couldn’t believe how close it was. I know if I had not been warned by the Holy Ghost and had been going faster, I would have hit that deer. I am so grateful to have the Holy Ghost guiding and protecting me.

In ninth grade, Tami had a friend who was good at everything. Tami’s friend, Sandy, was popular. She ran track and won. Tami joined the track team just to be like Sandy. But Tami never won a race. Usually she came in last. Sandy could tell a joke. And boys liked Sandy.
Just before Christmas, the school announced a writing contest. Tami decided to enter. She spent her evenings writing her poem instead of talking with Sandy on the phone as she usually did. She worried about entering the contest. It wasn’t the kind of thing Sandy would do. Tami didn’t even tell her friend she was doing it. Sandy might laugh, or maybe even make fun of her. But it was thrilling to find how much she liked writing. When the results were announced, Tami’s poem won second place.
Encouraging herself to try something on her own wasn’t easy. But Tami discovered something—deciding for herself what she wanted made her happier than trying to imitate her friends. It gave her strength to make more decisions on her own.
In the next few years, as some of her friends began making choices that were against Tami’s standards, it was easier to make her own choices, even when they were less popular.

In the spring of 1844, Parley P. Pratt and most of the other members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles were serving missions in the eastern United States. In June, Elder Pratt felt inspired to return to Nauvoo, Illinois. On the way, he heard that Joseph and Hyrum Smith had been martyred at Carthage, Illinois. “I felt so weighed down with sorrow and the powers of darkness that it was painful for me to converse or speak to any one.”*
Now that great leader was gone. As Parley approached Nauvoo, he was worried. He didn’t know if Brigham Young, the President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, or any of the other members of the Quorum were there. What should he tell the people? Should he tell them to flee from Nauvoo? Or should they stay and complete the temple? Parley prayed to know what to do. “On a sudden the Spirit of God came upon me and filled my heart with joy and gladness indescribable. … The Spirit said unto me: ‘Go and say unto my people in Nauvoo, that they shall continue to pursue their daily duties and take care of themselves. … Exhort them that they continue to build the House of the Lord which I have commanded them to build in Nauvoo.’”
At Nauvoo Elder Pratt found that the people had already resumed work on the temple under the direction of John Taylor and Willard Richards, two other members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles who had been in jail with the Prophet when he was killed. The three men worked together to keep the people united and at peace until the return of President Young and the other members of the Quorum.

Of course, there were political and social conflicts in the lives of some of our ancestors, but even these become instructional in the ways they dealt with their circumstances. John Davies was a loyalist during the American Revolutionary War. He had been instrumental in the establishment of the Church of England in America, which became known as the First Episcopal Society of Litchfield. These early immigrants had been taught that next to religion, loyalty was the cardinal virtue. They honestly considered that none but the infidel and traitor would venture to speak of revolution from the Mother Land. Some argued that any attempt to independence was rank ingratitude. They considered the king to be the head not only of their state but also of their religion.

John Davies recounts the challenge of building their first church in Litchfield, Connecticut, only to have it seriously damaged by soldiers of the Revolution. His cattle were run off by revolutionists and much of his property severely damaged because of significant persecution of those who had remained loyal to the king. Listen to this about John Davies:
“After the close of the war a man who had taken an active part in driving off a number of cattle from his farm, and had committed other acts of plunder, having become destitute, applied for relief in his extremity to Mr. Davies, who not only pardoned him for the wrongs he had done, but liberally relieved his wants” (in Henry Eugene Davies, Davies Memoirs, 1895, pp. 21–22).

A few years ago, while sitting with our children at tithing settlement, our bishop invited our 10-year-old son to take a small picture of the Savior and decide where in our home to place it, where it would be a constant reminder of our family’s commitment to follow Him. After returning home, he placed the picture on the front door, where, our son said, “each of us would see it the most.” This has been a great blessing and constant reminder to all of us every day in a small but powerful way of our promises to follow Jesus Christ.

The temple was as beautiful inside as it was outside. Everyone there was so nice, and there was a warm and peaceful spirit there. It was different than anything I had felt before. Everything was exactly perfect. My aunt brought names of some family members who hadn’t been baptized yet. As we were waiting, my mom and aunt and I imagined what these women were like when they lived on earth 300 years ago. It was special to have my dad baptize me for them.
Seeing everyone in white made me feel like I was surrounded by angels. The temple is like heaven on earth.

Imagine a young man who is home alone and is getting hungry (it’s far-fetched, yes, but just try to imagine it). Now imagine that this young man decides to try to make a grilled cheese sandwich on his own for the first time.1 Imagine that this young man’s parents had never taught him how to make grilled cheese and that he had never observed them very closely when they made it.
Let’s say, though, that this young man gets all of the ingredients just right: bread, cheese, a little butter on the outside of the bread (and a little mayonnaise inside because he’s brilliant). Next, he gets out the pan and puts it on the stove. (We’re also imagining he doesn’t have a special griddle or other appliance for making this treat.)
Now imagine that a certain thought takes hold of his mind—a thought that so many people have been ignorant enough (or temporarily insane enough) to think: “If I turn the heat up high, it’ll be done faster.”
Imagine what happens next. (Or perhaps you don’t have to imagine.)
He’s going to get either perfectly crispy, golden-brown bread or perfectly gooey, melted cheese—but not both. Most likely, he’ll have bread that looks and feels (and probably tastes) like lava rock and half-melted cheese, which is about as appealing as half-told tales.
His problem, as you can see, was a combination of ignorance (which is excusable) and impatience (which, though understandable, is less excusable). If he were to repeat this mistake the next time, it would be even less excusable, since it couldn’t be blamed on ignorance but would result almost entirely from impatience.
To get it right, he would have to discover the miracle of medium heat.
The medium setting on a stove is perfect for grilled cheese and many other dishes because it allows food to be cooked through without being overdone on the outside. The only downside is that it requires more time and attention, which require patience.
It’s not just sticking the grilled cheese sandwich on the pan and forgetting it; it’s watching and flipping it at the right time.

Mandy dropped her book beneath the tree and excitedly ran to the fence. Next door a moving van had just pulled up at the curb.
Mandy watched closely as two men began to unload the van. Crossing her fingers, she wished very hard. The new neighbors just had to have a girl her age! All the other neighborhood kids were either older or younger than she was. It would be wonderful to have a friend her own age to talk to.
As Mandy stood watching and wishing, a car pulled up behind the moving van. A man and woman climbed out—and a girl just Mandy’s size!
“Hello!” Mandy called out.
The girl didn’t answer.
“Hello, there!” Mandy called again, waving her hand.
The parents were busy talking to the moving men, and the new girl was just staring at the house. She didn’t turn around.
Mandy choked back her disappointment as the girl followed her parents into the house. With a sigh, Mandy flopped under the tree again and tried to read her book. She couldn’t concentrate, though. She was too busy watching to see if the new girl would come back outside.
It wasn’t until the moving van was nearly empty that the neighbors reappeared. Mandy ran to the fence and tried again. “Hello!” she called out loudly.
The new girl still didn’t turn around. Her mother heard, though. She gestured to her daughter and pointed to Mandy. The girl turned and smiled.
Now that’s better. She must have been too busy thinking about something to hear me before, Mandy decided.
“My name’s Mandy. What’s yours?”
The new girl didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and wiggled her fingers at her mother. The mother nodded, and they both walked over to the fence where Mandy stood.
“Hello, Mandy. I’m Mrs. Henderson, and this is Carol.”
“Hello, Carol.”
Carol smiled shyly but still didn’t say anything.
“Please forgive Carol for not speaking to you,” continued Mrs. Henderson. “She was born deaf. Because she can’t hear, she can’t speak well enough for you to understand her. But I know she’d like to be your friend.”
Mr. Henderson called to his wife, and she hurried back to the moving van. Carol stayed by the fence and continued to smile at Mandy, but her eyes were looking all over the yard.
Mandy could feel her face turning hot with embarrassment. Now what do I do? she worried. How can I be friends with someone who can’t hear or speak? Carol and I can’t just sit and smile at each other all day.
Suddenly Carol turned and ran to her father. She made motions with her fingers and hands. Smiling fondly at her, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a little card, and gave it to her. When Carol ran back to the fence, she pointed to the gate and looked at Mandy questioningly.
“You want to come in?” asked Mandy. Then she thought, How dumb, talking to her like that. She can’t hear me.
But Carol was looking closely at Mandy and understood what Mandy had said. She nodded her head.
Mandy nodded back and watched while Carol ran to the gate and let herself in.
Carol went quickly to the tree and picked up Mandy’s book. She motioned for Mandy to join her.
Mandy wasn’t quite sure what to do, but Carol patted the ground beside her, so Mandy plopped down and leaned against the tree trunk while Carol opened the book. Then she thrust the little card into Mandy’s hand.
The card had a heading that read “Manual Alphabet.” Mandy knew that manual meant hand. A hand alphabet? she wondered. On the card were printed all the letters of the alphabet. Above each letter was a picture of a hand formed into a different shape.
Carol pointed to the word tree in Mandy’s book. Then she made her hand into a first and stuck her thumb up between the first and second fingers. She pointed to the letter T on Mandy’s card. Then she raised her first and second fingers into the air and crossed them.
Mandy looked at the card. Yes, that looked like an R.
Next Carol made another fist, only this time the thumb stretched below the tips of all four fingers.
“An E!” cried Mandy excitedly.
Carol smiled and nodded her head. In a strange-sounding voice she said something that sounded almost like “yes.”
Carol pointed to the word tree in the book again, then patted the tree they were leaning against. She raised her right arm in the air with all the fingers extended. Next she rested her right elbow on the back of her left hand.
“Tree?” asked Mandy.
Carol watched Mandy’s face carefully and nodded again.
Mandy grabbed the book and pointed to another word. When Carol spelled it with her fingers this time, Mandy imitated her. Then Carol made the sign that stood for the whole word. Every word could be spelled out, and many words had special signs of their own as well. Ideas, too, were communicated by using signs. Mandy tried to imitate the word sign.
Carol started to giggle, then Mandy giggled too. They laughed so hard that they both fell backward and bumped their heads against the tree.
O-u-c-h, spelled Mandy.
Tears of laughter rolled down Carol’s cheeks.
This is going to be fun, thought Mandy. She studied the manual alphabet card carefully. Then she pointed to Carol and spelled f-r-i-e-n-d.

Several horses were dozing against the pasture fence as we turned into the cemetery. A stylish palomino raised its head. It looked like the horse owned by that blonde down in Glenville.
“You better not let her beat you at the barrels,” Grandma had said.
There is something I can do for Grandma, I thought. I can beat the rodeo queen in the barrel racing competition.
I was next. Ginger knew it too. She kept prancing sideways and tugging on the reins.
“Easy, girl. Don’t get all worked up before we get out there.”
The afternoon was warm. Sweat was already seeping from under Ginger’s saddle blanket. The reins felt sticky in my fingers.
The crowd roared as last year’s rodeo queen zoomed out for her turn at the barrels. I could see her blonde braids streaming behind her. She zipped sleekly around the first barrel and bolted for the next.
This blonde and I were the last two barrel racers. The other competitors’ times had been mediocre, so I felt Ginger and I still had a chance.
The rodeo queen circled the second barrel without a hitch. Uneasily, I eyed the last barrel. Maybe she would tip it over and get disqualified.
I could see the girl and her horse lean together around the third barrel. It was too close. The barrel rocked wildly. But it didn’t go over. At least it might have knocked a couple of seconds off her time. The crowd thundered as she spurted toward the finish.
I’ll show them, I thought, as I positioned Ginger for a run into the arena. But I was scared.
I charged out. The flag dropped at the starting line as Ginger and I flashed past. I hadn’t thought of Grandma until that very second. Suddenly I had a feeling that beating this rodeo queen was not what Grandma had in mind.
Ginger’s black mane flew in my face as I reined her low around the right barrel. She veered around it smooth and tight—just like a pro. I didn’t feel as much like a pro. I was slightly off balance and bumpy as we raced down the arena to the far barrel. Ginger went a little wide on this barrel, but we were still on target.
Now for the last barrel. I was in her rhythm again, so my confidence rose. “Dig, Ginger, dig,” I whispered, leaning over her neck.
She flicked her ear back briefly. I felt the tremble before blastoff.
Then we were hurtling toward the last barrel. Too fast. I tried to check her, but we were already swerving steeply around the barrel. I was off balance, askew in my stirrups. Ginger was sliding. Too far. We were falling. In slow motion, we were crashing into the barrel. Grandma’s sad gray eyes flashed before me. “You can do it,” she was saying.
“I’m sorry, Grandma. I thought I could beat her.”
I was falling.
“I was never too good with words,” said Grandma. “But you are.”
“No, my words hurt you.”
Falling. Falling.
“It’s okay,” whispered Grandma. “I know you can write it.”
“Write what?” I muttered.
Then I hit the barrel.
When I came to, I was deep in rodeo arena dirt, and Ginger’s hot breath was in my face. But I knew what I needed to do.
A cowboy was leaning over me. “Write what?” he said.
“Did I say something?” I asked.
“You keep saying you need to write something.”
I rolled to my feet. “That’s right. I do need to write it.”
“You all right?” he asked.
“I’m just fine.”
I started by interviewing Grandma’s seven sons. They each gave me a different view of Grandma’s life.
“Mom was the only widow I knew who could get seven kids ready for church and still be five minutes early,” said Uncle Orvil.
“Mom would feed every hobo who’d come along the tracks,” said Uncle Russ. “I was scared of them and would hide behind her skirts. But she wasn’t scared. She’d just put them to work chopping wood.”
“I remember Mom telling me that she wanted to be Annie Oakley when she was little,” said Uncle Rolfe, “so she took her stick horse and ran away. She was gone for most of the day. Half the county was looking for her. They finally found her fast asleep in a pasture full of unbroken mustangs.”
“Long before anyone had heard of family home evening, Mom had what she called family time once a week,” said Uncle Matt. “There was no getting around it. We had to be there.”
None of my uncles knew much about the chestnut horse or the rodeo saddle.
“Mom kept pretty silent on some things,” said Sid, my oldest uncle. “All I know is that she didn’t have that horse very long.”
He motioned to several boxes of scrapbooks and letters. “But you might find something there. You’re welcome to take them home with you.”
Digging through the scrapbooks, I finally found a small picture of Grandma on her chestnut horse. “Me and Flash, 1930” was scrawled on the back. I was surprised how much Grandma looked like me sitting on that horse. Straight brown hair and freckles.
When my great-uncle Al came to town, I asked him, “Do you know any other stories about Grandma besides the ones you told at the funeral?”
“Oh, I’m chock-full of tales about my sister,” he said. “I remember her first date with your Grandpa.”
Date? It had never occurred to me that someone would actually remember Grandma going on a date.
“To be honest, I remember her second date better. It was almost the last. Her first date was kind of normal. She came home with this goofy smile on her face and walked past me like I didn’t exist. But on her second date, she came home scratching like a hen in the barnyard. I thought she must have fleas. She kept yelling, ‘I can’t stand it,’ all the while yanking at her clothes and peeling down her socks. Come to find out, Harry’s old Plymouth also served as a truck. He’d forgotten to take the chicken feed sacks out in time for his date. Harry and Annie got covered with chicken mites. They were scratching like a couple of dogs all night and didn’t dare say a word to each other. Luckily, chicken mites would rather be on chickens than people, so Annie got over it quick. But it took a few weeks for her and Harry to get back together.”
Uncle Al and my dad were laughing so hard tears were running down their cheeks. Suddenly I remembered the words from the funeral. “Whoever does Annie’s life story is in for a few laughs.”
Uncle Al knew a little more about her chestnut horse. “Oh, yes, how she loved that little mare. Annie’s dream was to become a trick rider and ride in rodeos and wild west shows.”
“A trick rider?”
“Yep, she got pretty good at it too, considering she didn’t have that horse very long. I did watch her fall a few times in the pasture.”
“Did she barrel race too?”
“Oh, no, that was before the days of barrel racing,” he said. “But she did enter some sort of horsemanship event at the rodeo. Maybe you’ve heard about the saddle she won?”
I nodded.
Uncle Al shook his head. “It’s too bad about that saddle. I don’t think she ever got to use it.”
“She didn’t?” I said.
“Nope. She sold Flash right after that.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I have my suspicions. But the person who might know is my brother Bill.”
I hugged my notebook as I entered the rest home. Uncle Bill, Grandma’s next oldest brother, always made me a little nervous. He tended to get confused when he talked. But today he seemed sharp.
“Why did Annie sell her horse?” he repeated, leaning forward in his wheelchair. “Well, the Depression was coming on. I told her it didn’t matter; I could earn the money myself. But she had already made up her mind. Maybe you know how bullheaded she could be. She wanted to do her part for my mission. She said she couldn’t stand watching Flash eat hay in the barn while I might be hungry in England.”
“And she sold her new rodeo saddle too?” I said.
“Well, I don’t recollect that she did,” replied Uncle Bill, scratching the top of his head. “I think she kept that saddle a long time, hoping to buy another horse so she could be a trick rider. Then later on she hoped to have a daughter to give it to. To be honest, I don’t know what happened to that saddle.”
I had almost completed Grandma’s history by the time I found out what happened to her prize saddle. I ran across a letter from Bishop Jensen in the box of papers Uncle Sid had given me.
“Dear Annie: I know how you like your gifts to be anonymous. But I just wanted to tell you how thrilled the Hansens are with your saddle. They were afraid of paralysis after the accident, but now their little Marie seems determined to put that saddle on a horse. I knew you wanted your saddle to go to a girl who loves horses, and there’s no doubt Marie loves horses.”
I finished Grandma’s history and made copies for my family. Everyone was thrilled, including Bishop Jensen, who turned 100 years old the day I gave him his copy.
By the way, I never did beat that sassy blonde from Glenville in the barrels. She got married that summer and moved away. But the next year, I shortened my stirrups a notch like Grandma said and won second place. First place went to Rebecca Williams, who happened to be “little” Marie Hansen’s daughter.
Grandma’s saddle deserved to win first.

A few months after finding the poem—while serving in the mission office—I traveled to Trujillo, Peru. There I met Elsa Hauyon, who was then 82 years old. She turned out to be my grandfather’s cousin, the only relative I have ever known who grew up with him in China. I spent hours talking to her, recording the names of my grandfather’s brothers and sisters. I learned that there were 13 of them and not just the four my grandfather spoke of. With Elsa’s help, I also traced our family back to the founder of my grandfather’s hometown.

Another sacred family history event also occurred while I served as a missionary. Upon arriving in Peru, I was assigned to Callao, the port of Lima. It was most remarkable because, unbeknownst to me at the time, the tombs of my Swiss ancestors were in that very city. A relative eventually told me about the tombs, but I was unable to find them before being transferred to another city.

However, I believe the Lord wanted me to find my ancestors. While missionaries are seldom assigned to the same branch twice, I was. Almost a year later, I came back to Callao, and this time I discovered there were two adjacent cemeteries, one where my Schlupp ancestors are buried and the other where the records (dating back to 1820) for the family are stored. Searching through the records, I finally came across what I was looking for: “Elizabeth Schlupp, 57 years old, buried September 16, 1875; Ana Maria Schlupp Kruse, 66 years old, buried January 24, 1918.” I had found my Swiss ancestors!

I was ecstatic. I was able to complete four generations of my family history at last. Of all the places I could have been assigned, the Lord had called me not once but twice to Callao—the place where I could locate my Swiss ancestors.

All of these wonderful events happened during the six years after my baptism. When I look back on my youth, I realize how much my testimony of the Church and its divinity has been strengthened through family history work and the Spirit of Elijah. I can truly say I have felt the Lord’s influence many times in turning my heart to my ancestors. That chord, struck by my branch president who was inspired to get me started at age 16 with family history, still resonates today in the most sacred experiences of my soul.

“Elijah came not only to stimulate research for ancestors. He also enabled families to be eternally linked beyond the bounds of mortality. Indeed, the opportunity for families to be sealed forever is the real reason for our research. The Lord declared through the Prophet Joseph Smith: ‘These are principles in relation to the dead and the living that cannot be lightly passed over, as pertaining to our salvation. For their salvation is necessary and essential to our salvation, … they without us cannot be made perfect—neither can we without our dead be made perfect’ [D&C 128:15].”Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “A New Harvest Time,” Ensign, May 1998, 34.

Richard set about building a home and planting a field of wheat. A hailstorm destroyed his crop, however, and he and his wife and infant son faced a winter with no income and little food. Despite these hardships, Richard was inspired with an idea, one that he could not ignore. He wanted to start a Sunday School for the children in the valley. With his bishop’s approval, Richard began construction on an adobe building in which to hold Sunday School. He worked long hours hauling sandstone and logs, plastering walls, and making benches.
At last it was finished. On December 9, 1849, the first Sunday School in Salt Lake Valley was held. Richard led the children in a song, said a prayer, read a short scripture, then began to tell the story of Jesus. Years later he declared, “I was early called to this work by the voice of the spirit, and I have felt many times that I have been ordained to this work before I was born, for even before I joined the Church I was moved upon to work for the young. Surely no more joyful nor profitable labor can be performed by an elder.”
For four years Richard planted crops, and for four years the crops failed. He resolutely continued with the Sunday School, though, and found peace and satisfaction in teaching the children.

On a Saturday in January, Amy slowly opened her eyes and stretched in the warmth of her bed. Today was the day: the first weekend after a big snow. Hopping out of bed, she whirled around the room, hummed as she dressed, then skipped into the kitchen and gave her mother a hug.

Mom, returning Amy’s hug, said, “Please set the table. Dad and Roy will be in soon.”

As Amy set the last plate on the table, Dad and Roy hurried through the back door, stomping snow from their boots. “There must be a good eight inches of snow out there,” Dad said, “and probably two feet in the mountains.”

Roy added, “And it looks like there’s more to come.”

When breakfast was over and everything had been cleared away, Dad asked, “Is everything packed and ready?”

“Yes,” Mom answered, pulling a blue and white wool cap over her head. “We’re all ready to go.”

As Dad drove slowly along the back road into the mountains, Amy, unable to contain herself, sang out, “Won’t it be fun! Won’t it just be great fun!”

One final, long, climbing curve brought them deep into the mountains. Off to the right was a snowy bowl-like meadow. The sunlight sparkling on the snow sent rainbows of color glittering into the air.

“It’s so beautiful!” whispered Amy, gazing at the snow-covered pines surrounding the meadow.

Mom whispered too. “It’s glorious! It’s one of Heavenly Father’s designs, and it’s perfect for our special day.”

Roy and Amy tossed handfuls of snow at each other as they ran to help unload the sleds. Then Roy placed their big picnic basket on the sled between Mom and Amy.

“Dad and I will beat you two down,” he challenged as he ran to sit behind his father on the other sled.

The rush of air snatched their happy cries as the sleds sped down the slope, coasting to a stop at the far edge of the meadow.

“First things first,” Mom announced, unloading the basket. Soon a big thermos of hot chocolate and slices of bread and butter were laid out on an old blanket spread on the snowy ground.

Dad, meanwhile, had lit a fire in the large sand-filled metal tub that he and Roy had brought on their sled. As soon as the charcoal was crusted with white ashes, they placed an old grill over the top and set a kettle of chili on it to keep warm while they played in the snow.

Swooping Amy high in his arms, Dad whooped, “Let’s make a snowman!” They all began rolling big balls of snow, and in just a short time they had a huge snowman. Placing eyes of charcoal in the snowman’s head, Roy tossed a handful of snow at Mom and said, “Finish him off.”

Mom pulled all kinds of leftovers from Halloween costumes out of her coat pockets, and soon the snowman was completely outfitted.

The sleds—sometimes with one rider each, sometimes with two—were soon racing each other down the slope.

Later, filled with hot food, the happy family sat around the glowing embers and talked about the fun they’d had. After they’d rested a bit, Mom declared that it was time to play fox and geese. First they stomped out a circle in the snow. Then they tramped the snow down to form paths that cut the circle into quarters. The paths crossed in the center, where they formed the safety circle.

Dad laid claim on being the fox first and warned that the geese had better look out for him. Soon they were all running around the circle, bumping into each other and shrieking happily. After each of them had been the fox several times, they flopped onto the snow and watched as long shadows from the pines crept across the meadow.

It was time to go. They extinguished the charcoal, then headed for the car. Amy turned and waved to the snowman. She was sure that he tipped his head in response. Before snuggling beneath the cozy blankets at bedtime, Amy told Heavenly Father, “Thanks for today. There is nothing as fun as a winter picnic!”

Well, I’m the eighth child in a family of nine, and I wonder if I gave my older brothers and sisters such a hard time. Oh, I’m sure that I did things like spill food on their clothes as they were heading out the door for a date, but it seemed that no matter how badly I embarrassed them, they still treated me kindly. I admired them a lot.
I especially looked up to my older sister Lynette. I started second grade when she entered college. We both had a love for music. She was majoring in music composition and spent many hours at the piano. When she practiced, I often sat on the couch next to the piano and listened to her play. I watched as her fingers glided over the keys and wondered if I would ever be able to play like that. I liked to think that by keeping her company, I was helping her out in some way.
One day as I listened to her practice, I noticed she was playing something new. “Hey, Lynette! That sounds like wind chimes!” I said.
She explained to me that she was composing a piece for her class. She then decided to name the song “Wind Chimes.” She even let me help her with it. She showed me which two notes to play on the organ pedals while she played the rest of the song on the piano. I tried in vain to keep the right rhythm, and she just smiled and said, “Try to keep it even, Rebecca.”
By then I was feeling pretty special. I couldn’t believe that she was letting me, a second grader, help her with her college homework.
A few days later Lynette told me that her composition had been graded. She said that “we” got an A! I was on cloud nine. I was happy for her, and at the same time I felt like a princess because she had let me be a part of it.
Now I’m a freshman in college and going through the struggles of being a music major myself. I even have some of the same teachers that she had. There are times when I have difficult questions, and I know just who to go to for help. Although Lynette is now married and lives miles away, I call her and she patiently explains the theory of music to me. For those few moments, it feels like we are once again a team. Nothing makes me happier than to be able to phone her again a few days later and say, “Hey, Lynette! We got another A!”
As the years come and go, I’ll always remember the time my big sister shared with me. She took the time to make me feel special—to let me know she cared. It’s a great lesson I learned about sisterhood.