Gospel Story Finder

Mark Bennett from Camarillo, California, is not only into Russian, but has been into Russia as well. As a priest from the Camarillo First Ward, Camarillo California Stake, Mark was one of three high school students who participated with several college students in a four-week travel study program in Moscow and Kiev in the summer of 1977.
“We studied the language three hours each morning, and spent the afternoons visiting places of interest in Russia,” explained Mark. Because he was the only LDS participant, he conducted his own personal worship services on Sunday.
Mark’s firsthand experiences in the Soviet Union helped him earn the title of champion of the Southern California Regional Olympiad of Spoken Russian last February. A panel of teachers and professors asked contestants questions on everyday life in Russia, literature, culture, geography, and history. Participants were then given a half hour to prepare an oral summary of a story in Russian. After winning the Southern California title, Mark went on to place third in the Olympiad’s Pacific Coast regional competition in Seattle, Washington.
Mark, a 1978 graduate of Camarillo High School, is a freshman at Brigham Young University.

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.

Olivia Eson, a sister in my ward (Ekpoma First Ward), hardly has the chance to come to chapel cleaning every Saturday morning because of her tight class schedule at school. But unfailingly, she serves every Sunday immediately after the sacrament meeting by tidying the chapel, which becomes messy after Sunday services.
She also goes to get soap, water, and other cleaning materials to keep the toilets clean.
Sister Olivia says, “I find joy in serving my Heavenly Father by keeping the Lord’s house clean. This is one way I choose to do my part.”

Several years ago, prior to my calling as a General Authority, Sister Cardon and I attended a dinner for members of the Dean's Alumni Leadership Council at the Harvard Kennedy School. There were about 40 people in attendance, comprising about 20 council members and their companions. We were seated at round tables, eight persons at each table. After the dinner, the president of the council announced that rather than a speaker, he and the dean had decided to invite each council member and companion to stand and introduce himself or herself, using a microphone that would be passed from table to table. He suggested that each person share his or her educational and professional background information, along with what each considered to be his or her most significant accomplishment. The process then began at the table where the president and the dean were seated. Because of the way the room was organized, it soon became clear that our table would be the last to participate.
While this may seem uneventful, there was something rather remarkable that occurred with Sister Cardon that evening. She later explained to me what she had experienced. Sister Cardon had been with me to other similar events with guest speakers and had in those occasions quietly enjoyed the evening. However, on this evening, as she saw all in attendance standing and espousing their many academic degrees and professional accomplishments, she started thinking, "Wait a minute. This isn't what I had planned on."
As the microphone was passed from table to table she thought, "I'm really going to be expected to say something. What am I going to say? What can I possibly say to these people who have been ambassadors, high government officials, educators, professionals, and leaders of gigantic enterprises? I don't even have my bachelor's degree yet. (She would later receive it from BYU after eight devoted years of distance learning.) Sister Cardon's mind continued racing: "I've got to think of something to say. No, I've got to leave. I've got to find an excuse to leave. There is nothing I can say to these people."
Her heart began to pound rapidly and she really didn't know what to do. Then, in an instant, she remembered thinking, "I'm going to pray." With this, she said a silent, earnest prayer, pleading with the Lord for His help and direction. She later told me that in that moment, a voice came into her mind with perfect clarity. "Debbie, who in this room has achieved more important things in this life than you, or has had more amazing experiences than you? You are a mother in Zion. You have brought eight children into this world. They are happily married and are having children of their own. What is more important than that? Debbie, you get up and tell these people with power what you have done."
At about that moment, the microphone was passed from the adjacent table to our table. I had seen Sister Cardon earlier shifting in her chair, a bit uneasy, so I extended my hand to take the microphone, thinking to give her some additional time and space. Imagine my surprise when her hand stretched out in front of mine and literally grabbed the microphone.
She confidently stood, and with an elegance difficult to adequately describe, she said: "A few years ago I accompanied my husband here to the Harvard Kennedy School. And my most important achievement is that I am the mother of eight children and the grandmother of eighteen grandchildren" (the number at the time).
With that statement, spontaneous applause erupted in the room. It was the only applause of the entire evening. She shared a few additional thoughts relating to the central, societal role of the family and the happiness found therein, then handed me the microphone and sat down. I stood and added simply, "I'm her husband."
The significance of what the Lord did through Sister Cardon was evidenced by the fact that for the remainder of the evening we were inundated by questions from those at our table, and later by others at the dinner asking about families, requesting specific counsel in rearing children, and desiring to know how to foster marital harmony--subjects eminently more important than anything else that had been addressed. Because she had earnestly sought direction from the Spirit, and had exercised the faith and courage to respond to what she was told, the Lord had magnified Sister Cardon in a powerful way in furthering His purposes.

Leslie Williams, Jr. of Tallahassee, Florida, received the Disabled Citizens’ Community Service Award and was honored at their annual banquet.
In completing his Eagle project, Leslie surveyed Tallahassee restaurants to determine how accessible they were to wheelchair patrons and nonsighted or partially sighted customers. Leslie wrote letters and sent questionnaires to the restaurant managers and organized teams to visit restaurants. The completed report of his survey is on file with several government agencies and has been printed and distributed in chart form to the city’s handicapped citizens.
As a result of his efforts, the local food editor now reports on restaurant accessibility in the newspaper’s weekly restaurant review.
Leslie is a member of the Tallahassee Second Ward.

Later, another couple came in. They, too, had contributed liberally throughout the year. As we were about to conclude our visit, the husband said, “Bishop, is there anyone in the ward who has special needs this Christmas? We don’t have a lot of extra money, but we would like to give what we do have to someone who needs it.”
Immediately I thought of a single mother in our ward. She was doing her best to be self-reliant and certainly wasn’t looking for a handout. But money was tight. She was going back to school, and there were medical bills to pay. Surely she would be a worthy recipient of this couple’s generosity.
I accepted their offer in her behalf. They told me they weren’t interested in knowing the name of the receiver. And they, too, wanted to remain anonymous.
The husband pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and stacked several twenty-dollar bills on my desk. As he was doing so, his wife said, somewhat apologetically, “It’s not much. But now that our children are grown, we don’t feel that we’re doing as much in the ward as we used to. This is the least we can do.”
I protested at her apology, knowing they were doing much in their Church callings and in their quiet service to neighbors and to an elderly parent. And I thanked them for being so generous.
The next day, while taking the money to the recipient, I became a little uneasy. How would she receive this gift? Would she be offended? Would she hesitate to accept it?
When I handed the money to her, I described the spirit in which the gift had been given and encouraged her to receive it in that same spirit.
She accepted the money gratefully.
“I can accept this,” she said, “because when times were better for me, I often gave anonymously, just like this.” Then she told me about the secret projects her family had done over the years. She told me about times when she had purchased a frozen turkey and left it, with all the trimmings, on someone’s doorstep. She told me about anonymously mailing money to people who needed it, and about purchasing a coat and boots for the child of a needy friend. Now, in her time of need, she was a gracious receiver.

Recently Sister Oswald and I decided to teach our five-year-old twin granddaughters how to jump the rope. Jumping the rope is a children’s game in which participants jump over a rope as it passes under their feet and then over their heads. After receiving some simple instructions, both girls tried but failed on several attempts.
Just as we were ready to give up, two older neighbor children walked by, and we enlisted their help. Both of the neighbor girls were experienced rope jumpers and were able to show our granddaughters how to jump the rope. As the neighbor girls jumped the rope, I noticed that they sang a song that helped them jump to the rhythm of the swinging rope.
Once our granddaughters understood the principles of rope jumping and were shown how to jump the rope, the rest of the lesson was easy. With a little practice, both of the twins were well on their way to mastering the fundamentals of rope jumping.
During the rope-jumping lesson, another granddaughter, only three years old, was sitting quietly on the lawn observing. When someone asked her if she wanted to try to jump the rope, she nodded, came forward, and stood next to the rope. As we turned the rope, to our great surprise she jumped just as she had seen her sisters do. She jumped once, then twice, and then again and again, repeating aloud the same song the older children had sung.
All three granddaughters had observed that there was an art to jumping the rope. It was a simple thing that all of them could do after learning a few basic principles and being shown how. So it is with gospel teaching. When we learn a few fundamental principles about teaching and are shown how to teach, all of us can do it.

I had prayed strongly for a missionary experience ever since my first year at girls’ camp. Each young woman was given a Book of Mormon to write our testimonies in and was encouraged to pray for a missionary experience. For four years, I looked to give someone my Book of Mormon.
One Sunday as we set up for Young Women, my leader asked me if I would befriend her niece who was coming from Texas to visit for the summer. I didn’t know what to do, so I did just what she asked me to. I started being a friend. After a while, I forgot about giving away my Book of Mormon. I had a new friend. The more I got to know Gianna, the better friends we became. It wasn’t long until we started discussing our different religions. The more questions she asked, the more I wanted to share. I found myself turning to the scriptures all of the time. I could tell the things I read were truly words from God.
I started getting more out of the scriptures. Not only were those questions helping Gianna, they were also helping me to gain a stronger testimony of truths I’d grown up with. It wasn’t just my scripture reading that improved, I also had more meaningful prayers. I prayed fervently to find the answers, and be the friend she needed. As a result, I came closer to my Heavenly Father.
I never had to send in mission papers. I never had to go tracting or teach any lessons. Nobody even accepted the offer of the Book of Mormon. But I think I had one of the best missionary experiences anyone could have. Like many missionaries, I was strengthened in the gospel as I tried to share it. I became closer to Heavenly Father and learned to study the scriptures as I tried to answer questions. I came to appreciate people of other faiths. Best of all, I gained a friend I will always love while sharing the dearest thing to my heart.

At age 23, I thought I had everything a young man in México City could want. I was independent, had a good job, and was almost finished with my higher education. Life had given me much—parents who taught me good principles, instilling in me the ability to work hard and a desire to improve myself. And now I was dating a pretty young woman. The only real problem I had was a few differences between us on the topic of religion. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I was not.
I had already met the missionaries, who “by coincidence” were often at her house when I went to visit. I listened to the first discussion a few times, but the missionaries could not get me to read or pray. We never got to the second discussion. I knew they wanted me to join the Church, but I wasn’t interested. Although I was impressed with many of the members I had already met, I wasn’t willing to spend Sundays in church. I preferred to play soccer or go to the movies.
One day after a series of arguments, my girlfriend and I stopped seeing each other. I missed her and began to think about her integrity, virtue, and maturity. Her standards were much higher than those of anyone else I knew. So one night I went to see her again. After we talked I realized she had missed me, too. As soon as I realized she really did want to be with me, I asked her to go out with me again.
I was quite surprised to hear a firm no come from her lips. At the same moment, tears began running down her cheeks.
I thought, What would cause her to say no when she wants to say yes? When I recovered from my surprise and asked her why, she said, between sobs, “I want to be married in the temple—I want an eternal family.”
An unfamiliar feeling swept over me, and then I, too, started to cry. For some reason, there began to grow in me a desire to do anything I could to have the same feeling about an eternal family.
I started the missionary discussions again, this time in earnest. Three weeks later I was baptized.
Now I understand what I felt that night. It was the Holy Ghost prompting me. I’m 25 now and serving full time in the México Guadalajara Mission. My girlfriend is serving a full-time mission, too.
I’m very grateful to my Heavenly Father for the powerful change in my heart and for the opportunity to share the fulness of the gospel. I’m also grateful to my friend for her faithfulness. Her desire for an eternal family has caused me to share the message of eternal families with other people—people who are now seeking that blessing for themselves.

“Jared, do you smell smoke?” Mom asked.
“No,” I replied groggily, still a little weary after just waking up from a nap.
“It’s probably Courtney’s cookies burning in the oven,” yelled somebody from the living room.
My brother Tyler had three friends over working on a psychology project in the dining room. Dad, Kim, Travis, and Devin were watching TV. Courtney and I were in the kitchen. All of us were downstairs on the main floor of our old, two-story farmhouse. Mom continued to ask everyone if they smelled smoke.
“Tyler, go check upstairs, please.”
As Tyler opened the door to the stairwell, smoke began to roll into the downstairs living room.
“Call 911! And everybody out of the house!” exclaimed my dad. I sat and watched as my mom made the phone call. I never really thought a 911 emergency phone call would have to be made from our kitchen phone.
“Jared, grab some shoes and a coat and get out.” It was good advice from my mother. As I did, I thought about getting my money out of the drawer, but I didn’t. The fire can’t be that bad, I thought.
I felt quite calm as I walked out into the chilly December air. I knew everybody was safe, and that was the main thing. Just then, I came out from underneath the porch and looked up to see flames billowing out of my sister’s second-story bedroom window.
My heart began to beat faster. My two little brothers were crying as they escaped to our barn to watch the horrible spectacle. My father stretched a garden hose around the side of the house and Tyler and I joined him in a futile effort to fight the flames from below. The fire was spreading. I heard windows in the old farmhouse shatter from the intense heat. My mom was worried and yelled at us to get away.
“Jared, go down and direct the truck when it comes,” I heard my dad say.
I ran away from the house to the spot in the road where our driveway separates from the main road, a deceptive fork to those who have never traveled it. Standing there alone, I watched bright, orange flames stream from several upstairs windows. The place where I had lived my entire life was being destroyed without mercy. A feeling of helplessness overcame me. I wanted to stop the disaster but knew it was impossible. The flames cut into the dark night. In that instant, the sight was calm, silent, scary, and awesome all at the same time.
I began to hear the whine of sirens approaching as the fire engines made their way through northwest Corvallis, Oregon. It seemed they were extremely slow.
The headlights of an engine came into view down the road. It had taken ten minutes for the trucks to arrive, but it had seemed more like an hour. By now the flames lit up the house, and the engines kept coming. Four trucks were on the scene.
I ran back to the house as the firefighters mapped out the entire house before entering, identifying from my mother the location of pictures and valuables. To our relief, most of these were saved.
The fire was confined to the upper story of the house because we had shut the door to the stairwell. It looked as if the house might not be a total loss. I looked at my dad staring at his burning home. “Well, we always wanted to do some remodeling up there anyway,” he said.
Ward members and other friends began arriving rapidly. I didn’t notice them come, but suddenly the place was filled with people eager to help and give comfort. As the firefighters brought things from the house, everybody helped in transporting them to the barn. Some of the people there I didn’t even recognize. I had never realized the kind of support and friendship our family has. I think sometimes I have taken for granted our many friends. I realized then, and in the ensuing months, that friends are truly a blessing that should be cherished.
It was difficult to sleep that night. My brother and I slept at a friend’s house, and the rest of my family stayed at various ward members’ homes. All I could think about was the fire. I wasn’t heartbroken about all the possessions I might have lost; those were not important. I realized the things that matter most in life are not clothes, stereos, or computers, but friends and family. The materialistic pleasures we have in life are nice, but definitely not important. I felt more sorrow for our dilapidated farmhouse that had weathered the years since 1918.
The relief effort put forth by Church members, the city, and other friends was truly amazing. We were showered with presents, food, and especially love. I almost felt guilty for all the gifts and acts of kindness that we were receiving from so many. All this did not stop after a few weeks or months.
As I look back on the experience today, I regard the fire as a blessing for our family. We ended up tearing our house the rest of the way down, and we have spent more than two years working to build a new one. The project of building a new house has been an opportunity for our family to learn new skills and has taught us to better refine how we deal with each other. Most of all, however, the fire taught us the importance of giving service and loving our neighbors.
Sometimes it seems that life throws us a curve ball. The important thing is how we deal with it. Every experience in life can be used for growth and learning. I thank my Father in Heaven for loving me enough to teach me the things I need to know.

During my teenage years, that decision was tested a number of times. I watched friends accept invitations to see movies and go to parties that I knew were not appropriate. Sometimes I was tempted to join them because it looked like they were having so much fun. I mentioned to my bishop this frustration about feeling left out. He helped me keep things in proper perspective by reassuring me that being a teenager only lasts a few years and that those who exercise their agency properly during those years will actually have far more freedom in the future than those who choose a different path.
I realized that I didn’t want poor teenage decisions to affect my opportunities later in life. I tried to date young women and associate with friends who felt the same way. It wasn’t always easy, but my decision to be worthy of the priesthood, enter the temple, serve a mission, and later marry in the temple have made any tough times as a teenager worth it. You will never regret staying clean and pure. If you have already made mistakes that keep you from feeling close to the Spirit, talk to your parents and your bishop. They will know what to do to help you feel whole again.

Reality: Three boys got in a sports car with a high school classmate after she offered them a ride. She had been drinking. On the winding road toward her house, the car was going between 70 and 80 miles per hour when it spun out of control and hit a road barrier.
The driver escaped from the car, but the boys were trapped inside. The car exploded, killing all three.
The sister of one of the victims says, “Other people say, ‘You can drink; just be careful when you drink.’ But I don’t want anything to do with drinking because it took my brother away from me.” Is beer funny?

At this point in our report from President Holland and Professor Holzapfel, I need to introduce a small character into this story: my great-great-grandfather Robert Henry Swain.12

In 1853 Grandpa Henry and his wife were baptized in Kent, England, where he was employed as a policeman and as a member of the queen’s local bodyguard. Like many of our ancestors, Grandpa and his wife, Elizabeth, and their children crossed the Atlantic to make the pioneer trek to Utah, but they did not come together. What’s unique in Grandpa Henry’s story is that when he departed from Liverpool on April 29, 1865, on the ship Belle Wood, he left alone. He and Elizabeth had separated five years earlier. We don’t know the circumstances of the divorce, but we do know that Elizabeth was not happy with Henry and had tossed her wedding band into the sea. Grandpa subsequently lost his membership in the Church.

I imagine that if any of you have been napping, I just captured your attention. What captures my attention and imagination is visualizing Grandpa walking alone into the Great Salt Lake Valley with the William S. S. Willes wagon company on November 11, 1865. I wonder what he was thinking and feeling as he entered the valley. What was this divorced and excommunicated brother to do there? He had no useful skills for the Saints at that time, and he wasn’t in a position to provide much priesthood service.

Grandpa went to work as a stonecutter in Little Cottonwood Canyon and as a stonemason on the temple, where he labored for the next 10 years. And while working on the construction of the temple, a reconstruction of his own life began taking place as he returned to full fellowship in the kingdom. Eventually he became a chief stonemason and established a family occupation that was passed forward to many of his descendants, including my father and my brothers and me. As a result, I have some experience with sweating over brick and stone in the summer and working to keep the tools and materials unfrozen in the winter. It became my own “stay-in-school” program and made the work on my doctoral studies a comparatively painless experience. That said, when I look at my soft, pink hands today, I miss the quality of that work and mourn a little its disappearing legacy as the Swain family line continues to move forward into the information age and acquires new skills in a new economy.

Two and half years after the temple dedication, on November 18, 1895, Grandpa Henry died of a lung disease attributed to his working so long in the granite dust.20 I believe, though, that his work on the temple breathed life back into him. Grandpa died surrounded by his large family. He died fully in the faith. Besides a family tradition of brick and stone masonry, he left a legacy of faith for me. Grandpa Henry was built—was remade—into a new creature.

Vincent Poulaert (11) did not always know that Jesus Christ is the Savior, that He and Heavenly Father love him, and that his prayers would be answered. But he knows it now.
Early each morning the Poulaert family reads the scriptures together. Last year they were reading from the Book of Mormon. One day they read about Jesus Christ calling the little children to Him. Sister Poulaert loves this passage of scripture and asked her children if they each had a testimony of Jesus Christ. Everyone said yes—except Vincent. “I was pleased that Vincent would be so honest,” Sister Poulaert said, “but I was concerned also. I asked him if he knew how to get a testimony, and he said he did.”
Some of Vincent’s family teased him about not having a testimony. That helped him decide to do all that he could to learn if Jesus Christ was the Savior. During the next week he studied scriptures about Jesus Christ and prayed about what he had read. The following Sunday his family noticed that he wasn’t eating. They asked him if anything was wrong.
“No,” he said. “Today I’m fasting and praying for a testimony.” It was hard for Vincent to fast all day, but he did it. That afternoon, with tears in his eyes, he told his mother that he now knew that Jesus Christ was the Savior and his Friend.

I still have a picture of the green chairs Elder Pistone and Elder Morasco sat in while they taught my family in our home in Argentina. They taught with so much spiritual power that my 10-year-old sister and I (age 9) would run to touch the chairs after they left, hoping that power would rub off on us.
I soon learned that the power didn’t come from the chairs but from having a covenant relationship with God and Jesus Christ.

Jason:
I’ve been a member my whole life, but after my mission, there were a couple of years when I was less active. I started reactivating myself two years ago. During this time, I met my wife, Jackie, at a young single adult conference a month after she got baptized. She changed my life because I felt that I needed to be a better example.

After his mission, Jason was less active for a couple of years. While returning to Church activity, he met Jackie, a recent convert, at a young single adult conference. “She changed my life,” he says, “because I felt that I needed to be a better example.”

Anderson School was a tall and dark redbrick building, and Jenny knew she wouldn’t like it. She remembered the low cream-colored school she had attended in California, also the modern one in Maryland before that where one wall was built completely of glass.
Clutching her mother’s hand, Jenny walked into the principal’s office. A woman behind a desk stood up to meet them and introduced herself. Jenny heard her mother’s meeting-new-people voice, telling of their arrival in Grant’s Valley two days before. Jenny knew the sentences by heart: “Our daughter has gone to five different schools and has never had any trouble adjusting.”
The lady smiled and said kindly, “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the fourth grade here, Jenny. Miss Sorenson is a wonderful teacher!”
Jenny’s mother said again that she knew Jenny would fit right in as she always had in the other schools.
But Jenny wasn’t sure that she would. She just twisted her pink handkerchief around her little finger and stared hard at the bouquet of lilacs on the principal’s desk, until the two women rose to go to the fourth grade classroom. Then she followed them down the hall, glancing at the boys and girls who sat at the old desks in the rooms she passed.
When they arrived at Room 12, Miss Sorenson was showing a movie about Washington, D.C. The teacher stopped the movie and turned on the lights so she could talk with the principal. The children turned around in their seats and looked at Jenny. The room smelled like blackboard erasers, and there were narrow windows at the side with dark green blinds pulled down for the movie. Jenny wished that her mother would stop talking to Miss Sorenson and go home. A girl with brown hair and a red-checked dress whispered something to the girl across the aisle, who giggled and whispered back, their eyes on Jenny.
At last Jenny’s mother left. Miss Sorenson said, “Class, this is Jenny Martin, who just moved here from California. Now, Jenny, why don’t you take that seat there in the second row and we’ll finish watching the movie.”
Gratefully, Jenny slid into the seat just as someone switched off the light. She watched as the scenes flashed by on the screen, showing the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument during cherry blossom time. Jenny wanted to say, “I’ve been to those places!” But she was sure no one cared about that.
Recess followed the movie. Everyone had to wait in line and march down the long halls together. In California, the playground had been right next to the classroom. Jenny reached the end of the line and slowly walked outside, wondering what they would play.
There were swings, a slide, and climbing bars on the playground. In California, the playground was an area of black asphalt without play equipment, but with painted white lines for hopscotch and dodge ball. Jenny kicked at the dirt that comprised most of the playground and watched the other children. They played noisily in their own private groups. The girls looked at her as she walked past them, but no one smiled or asked her to join them. She walked on until she went around a corner of the building and just kept going. Soon she had walked past the end of the school property and crossed the street at the corner.
Jenny continued walking. The weather was cool and, even though it was early May, she wished she’d worn a coat instead of her light sweater. Between the sidewalk and the street a stream of sparkling water rushed through the new grass. Jenny noticed how beautiful the trees were, with tiny leaves of the softest green, just the color of a dress her mother sometimes wore to parties.
At the end of the block Jenny came to a small park. It was empty except for a man picking up litter with a pointed stick. The lonely girl sat down in a swing and pushed herself slowly. It made a squeaking noise, and for a moment she was afraid someone would come to ask why she wasn’t in school. But soon the rhythm of the swing and the sound of the wind moving through the trees made her forget her fear. She closed her eyes and swung higher, pretending she was back in California playing on the beach.
When she opened her eyes, she saw the principal was standing there. Jenny almost fell out of the swing.
“Hello, Jenny,” said the principal in a kind voice. “Did you decide to come here for recess today?”
She didn’t sound angry, and for a minute Jenny almost smiled.
“I saw you walking away from the playground and wondered if you thought school was over for the day,” the principal added.
Then Jenny did a strange thing. She started to cry. She hardly ever cried, but she cried now because she was thinking of how the girl in the red-checked dress would probably laugh and whisper about her tardiness. And she was crying because she knew that she couldn’t hunt for shells and rocks on the beach anymore. But mostly she was crying because the principal was very kind and Jenny thought somehow she should be quite cross.
The principal didn’t put her arms around the sobbing girl, although she wanted to very much, to help her stop crying. She stood quietly and said, “Jenny, I imagine you noticed a lot of things about Grant’s Valley on your little walk, didn’t you? I used to live in San Francisco, and when I came here I was surprised to find that spring in Grant’s Valley is like a miracle. When we walk back to school, I’ll show you the place where I got the lilacs on my desk, and perhaps the lady who lives there will give you some to take to your mother.”
The principal took Jenny’s hand in hers and continued, “You will soon see that the children in Grant’s Valley have a good time, especially in the spring and summer. They don’t ride ferryboats across the bay, and they can’t go to the beach and find seashells. But they play games outside on warm summer evenings, and wade in these refreshing irrigation ditches. And do you know, I’ll bet if you told the class some afternoon about all the things you’ve seen and done in the places you’ve lived, they’d be glad to share with you some of the wonderful things in their lives!”
Together she and Jenny walked back to Anderson School—the friendly redbrick building.

When I was a boy, my maternal grandfather had a large cherry orchard. I had the opportunity to work in the orchard, mostly in the summer during the harvest of the cherries. As a very young boy, I found that the extent of my involvement was being handed a bucket and then sent up a tree to pick the cherries.

The harvesting of cherries changed significantly when my grandfather purchased a machine called a cherry shaker. This machine grabs the trunk of the tree and shakes it, causing the cherries to fall out of the tree onto nets that are used to collect the cherries. I noticed that when the shaker would begin to shake the tree, almost all the cherries fell out of the tree within seconds. I also noticed that it didn’t matter if the tree was shaken for 10 seconds or a full minute, some cherries would not fall. They were truly unshakable.

1849–1919
“I esteem it a great privilege to … help in the [spreading] of the gospel.”
She lived in Norway. She was a widow, and she raised two sons.
She learned the gospel from a shoemaker. When he repaired her shoes, he put a Church pamphlet in each one. She was baptized in the sea.
She served a mission in Scandinavia. Her son John became an Apostle.
Anna C. Widtsoe letter, Salt Lake City, Utah, to Joseph F. Smith, June 6, 1903, Church History Library, Salt Lake City, Utah, USA.

Today is one of those days when getting out of bed is nothing but a trial. Six o’clock is just too early for any sane soul to be up. Even the birds aren’t yet awake! And besides, it’s Sunday—a day when I should be resting from my labors. But I have to go to work, and needless to say, I’m not thrilled. But I’ll go, grudgingly. Just let me sleep ten more minutes.
My name is Jana, and that is the attitude I had on that certain Sunday morning. Even though I love my work as a nurse at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City, I just wasn’t in the mood to be there.
I arrived at the hospital promptly at 7:05; I was supposed to arrive at 7:00. Seeing the time on the clock in the hall, I panicked and pushed the elevator button several times, only to see that the elevator was on the fifth floor and not coming down. No time to waste. I ran up the six flights of stairs. By the time I reached the top, I was exhausted—huffing and puffing, my heart pounding in my ears in rebellion against the sudden exertion. I was relieved to know that I was in a hospital and if I had a heart attack, someone could save me.
I went down the hall, passing the clerk who looked up from her work and said without emotion. “They’ve started without you.” I smiled and stumbled into the report room where all the other nurses were gathered, to receive instructions for the day.
In the meeting several patients were assigned to me, each with special problems and needs. I had baths to give, bed linens to change, equipment to monitor, temperatures to check, food trays to deliver, medical charts to complete, medications to administer, bandages to change, sore muscles to rub, and to top it all off, doctors to please. Unfortunately, the work was not going to get done by itself. I had no choice but to start on the work.
In the midst of all the activity, a voice came over the loud speaker in the hall, “Any patient who would like to go to church, please notify your nurse.” Oh yes, I had almost forgotten; it was Sunday. I asked each of my patients if they wanted to attend the short half-hour meeting. No one seemed interested; most were too ill or too tired. That was how I felt too. Only one little lady, Mrs. Whitmer, an arthritis and bone cancer patient, answered my question with a quiet yes. This dear woman—who was confined to bed and in pain with every movement, every touch—desired to attend the meeting.
I told the brethren conducting the meeting that Mrs. Whitmer needed to be wheeled to church in her bed. Then without delay, I hurriedly prepared her for the trip, combing her hair, washing her face, and changing her gown and bed linen. She grimaced with pain at every move, but she never uttered a word of complaint. No sooner had I finished getting her ready than the brethren came for her, and off she went. I turned my attention to other patients without giving her another thought.
The day progressed, and finally my work period was over. I could relax! Before leaving duty I checked once more on the patients who had been under my care. Mrs. Whitmer had long since returned from church and was resting calmly—and so was everyone else, thank goodness. As quickly as I had run to work that morning, I ran back to my apartment, ending another working day.
A few days later when I was working the evening shift, just as I was ready to finish, the call light went on in room 4. I thought, “Why do they wait until I’m ready to leave before they call for me?” But I really didn’t mind. I went down the hall through the darkness to the patient’s bedside. It was Mrs. Whitmer.
“Jana?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
She reached out and gently took my hand. In a quiet, quivering voice she said, “I just wanted to thank you for helping me get to church last Sunday. I haven’t been for awhile because I’ve been so ill, and you’ll never know how much it meant to me that day to go. When I partook of the sacrament …” There was a long pause; then in trembling words she continued: “I felt God’s Spirit, and I just knew that Christ is my Savior.” And with that she began to cry. I realized that I too was shedding some tears. This beautiful woman, as weak as she was, was stronger than I had ever been. She had a glowing testimony.
I couldn’t help but recall the times when I had only gone to church out of habit, never partaking of the Spirit, though I always partook of the bread and water. I also recalled the Sunday when I prepared Mrs. Whitmer for church and how hurriedly I had done so, as if it were a burden on me. Never would I feel that way again.
The two of us cried together that night, only for a few minutes, but it was long enough to share our souls. No other words were spoken; none needed to be. The tears and the touch of our hands had said it all.