Gospel Story Finder

The assignment we were given for Saturday evening sessions of stake conference during the first half of 1982 was directed toward the theme “Let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob.” (Isa. 2:3.) The objective of these meetings has been to inspire the members to obtain their own temple blessings, attend the temple in behalf of their deceased relatives and others, complete their four-generation records, extend research on family lines, and organize and strengthen the family organizations. The first instruction after the glorious First Vision to the Prophet Joseph Smith, in the act of restoring the gospel of Jesus Christ, was concerning the eternal family unit. History records this account in the words of the Prophet:
“A messenger [was] sent from the presence of God to me, … that his name was Moroni; and God had a work for me to do. …
“After telling me these things, he commenced quoting the prophecies of the Old Testament.
“Behold, I will reveal unto you the Priesthood, by the hand of Elijah the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.
“… And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers. If it were not so, the whole earth would be utterly wasted at his coming.” (JS—H 1:30, 33, 36, 38–39.)
Preparation for these conference sessions each weekend has aroused my interest in my own progenitors. I was impressed with the phrase that unless families are united together and the hearts of children are turned to their fathers, the whole earth would utterly be wasted at the Savior’s return.
My interest in my family has prompted us to hold a special family home evening each month with my children. They are invited to bring their families into our home. As a part of the lesson of each of these family home evenings, I have tried to tell them about one of their progenitors. The oldest in the line I can remember is my grandfather, Henry Morgan Perry. As I prepared to give a lesson on his life, I became very excited about his accomplishments.
My father once wrote this tribute to his father:
“Father was a conservative. He never went into debt. When we didn’t have it, we went without. He never mortgaged the farm. He was very reluctant to impose anything on his homestead. I’ve often heard him say that the only people who had their financial heads above water were the ones who hadn’t mortgaged their farms. He was a public-spirited man. I remember four important positions he held. First was justice of the peace; second, school trustee; third, a member of a bishopric; and fourth, his work on the Great Feeder Canal. He was a pioneer in the development of irrigation in the fertile Snake River Valley.”
Dad’s account describes the tenderness with which grandfather taught his family. My father was one who desired an education and was earnestly seeking to get the best he could with the means available to him. When his father would see him struggling, he would give him fatherly lectures like, “My boy, be humble in your studies, and remember your prayers. Yes, and in your prayers, remember your studies.”
Then dad tells of the time he became a little arrogant as he acquired a little knowledge. One day he challenged his father to a debate to be held after their church service. The subject was: “Resolved: That science has done more for the welfare of the human family than has religion.”
The whole congregation stayed after to listen to the debate. Each speaker was allowed fifteen minutes with a rebuttal of three minutes. My father spoke first. He spoke of the progress science had made and how it had lifted up the standard of living of all. Then he stated how many failures religion had had in the past. Dad was a member of the debating society at school and was gifted in speech. He knew how to sway an audience. When he sat down, he thought he had convinced the people to throw away their Bibles and take up science.
Then grandfather got up. He had never had the privilege of having much schooling, but was an avid reader. He told how religions, many of them, had influenced the human family for good. He explained their merits, their excellence, and their worth. Then he sat down.
My father got up for rebuttal. He spent most of his time saying, “I have proven. I have proven.” But each “I have proven” seemed to be a little less forceful as he thought of the sincerity of his father’s message. Realizing this, he sat down.
Then grandfather arose. He didn’t say much. He just added this: “I give all credit to science for what science has done. It has changed our way of life and, in a way, our thinking. It has built, encircled, and constructed. None of us want to go back to yesterday when today holds so much, and tomorrow even more. But with all of the credit to its progress, and all of the glory to its accomplishments, your scientists have not yet come up with anything that compares with the tenderness of a human heart.”
Grandfather had won the debate. Even dad was convinced. He rushed over and threw his arms around him and congratulated him. Grandfather then said to dad, “My boy, remember this: There is more satisfaction in the humble teachings of the Master than all the glamour of a false ideal.” (“They Came,” Albert Z. Perry, 1955.)
As you can see, from stories such as this I have developed a love for my grandfather.
I started looking at what has happened to his extended family since his death. Henry Morgan and Fannie Young Perry were blessed with 10 children, then 48 grandchildren, 161 great-grandchildren, 241 great-great-grandchildren, and now 22 great-great-great-grandchildren, a total of 482. Including their companions, their number reaches 639. Why, their posterity is a ward almost ready for division!
But in becoming acquainted, I’ve found that not all of the family have been blessed with a knowledge of the teachings of their grandfather. Not all have embraced the gospel. Suddenly I realized that I had a great work to do. Some of those 639 will not be part of his eternal family unit because they have not received the witness in their hearts of what they have to do to accomplish this.
I have discovered that certainly if there was a man qualified to inherit the celestial kingdom, it would have been my grandfather, Henry Morgan Perry. I am excited as I anticipate being with him in the eternities if I qualify myself. But then I start worrying about meeting grandfather and wondering how he will greet me. The realization comes to me again of the great work I have to accomplish. Because of this concern, I have researched the names of all the descendants of Henry Morgan Perry who have not taken advantage of the glorious privilege of becoming part of an eternal family unit. I have sent them letters inviting them to listen to me today. For the next few minutes I would like to address my remarks to these members of our family.
Now my dear family members who have not completed all that the Lord would require of you to become part of this great eternal family organization—I must confess that there are times when we focus so much on the worldwide impact of missionary programs, genealogical records extraction, on preparation to teach Sunday School classes, etc., that we fail to make ourselves available to help you understand the blessings which await you as part of an eternal family organization. I want you to know that I am now available. I have reordered my priorities. I want to do all in my power to be certain that our eternal family association is complete. Let us teach you the doctrines which are necessary for you to join with us for time and eternity.

Isabel Faye Hills was excited for a very special birthday. On the day she turned eight, she was baptized and confirmed! At home in Goffstown, New Hampshire, Isabel’s family says she is a shining example of staying on the right track with hard work and a great laugh.
Isabel helped plan her baptism service, and she made the program herself. She was baptized by her dad and confirmed by her Grandpap Conklin.

When I was a young mother, I found a recipe in the April 1980 Friend for Bunny Buns. They looked fun to make, so I tried them. This recipe has become a part of our Easter tradition in our family. I am the oldest of 11 children, and we have all made this recipe almost every Easter for the last 30 years. The recipe has traveled to places like India, the Dominican Republic, Mexico, and Venezuela as family members have served missions. Thank you for not only feeding us spiritually over the years with the wonderful Friend, but for feeding our physical appetites as well.

The car kicked up dust as it rolled along the rough country road. Twelve-year-old Brian could see the Westover farm out the open window. Sister Westover was a widow who had a hard time getting around. Brian and his dad were taking her into town for the afternoon so she could do some shopping.
As Dad pulled into the driveway, Sister Westover came out onto the porch. “I guess I can’t go,” she said. “My son was supposed to unload some hay bales, but he never came. I’ll have to do it so the sheep have something to eat.”
“What if I do it for you?” Brian asked.
Sister Westover smiled. “That would be a big help!”
“That’s a great idea, Brian,” Dad said. “You can walk home when you finish.”
Sister Westover gave Brian a hug. “Thank you so much! Just pull the bales out of the truck so the sheep can get to them.”
Dad helped Sister Westover get into the car, and they drove off. Brian started off across the field.
The truck was parked inside a fenced area where some sheep were grazing. The biggest of the sheep looked up when Brian climbed the fence, but none of the others moved.
Brian opened the truck’s tailgate and started pulling the heavy bales onto the ground. His arms started to ache after a while, but he didn’t stop. He was almost done when—Wham!
Something rammed into his legs so hard it almost knocked him over. Brian spun around and saw the biggest sheep standing behind him, tossing its head angrily.
Before he had time to move, the sheep charged again. Brian grabbed the tailgate to keep from falling over and jumped aside. The sheep kicked at him, and Brian barely dodged out of the way.
The sheep was big, and Brian knew if it knocked him over he could be hurt. As the sheep charged again, Brian leaped up into the bed of the truck. The sheep rammed its head into the bumper, but it couldn’t climb up after him. Brian breathed a sigh of relief as he sat down on a bale.
The sheep kept pacing around the truck like it was waiting for him to come down so it could run at him again. Brian was getting nervous. Dad and Sister Westover wouldn’t be back for hours. How long would he be stuck out here until the sheep went away?
Then he remembered that his Primary teacher had said that if you are ever in trouble, you can pray and ask Heavenly Father for help.
Brian closed his eyes and folded his arms. “Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “please bless me and make the sheep go away so I can get home safely.”
As soon as he had finished, Brian opened his eyes. The sheep stared at him, then suddenly trotted back to the herd. It was leaving! Brian hopped down from the truck and ran. He looked over his shoulder as he scrambled over the fence, but the big sheep didn’t seem interested anymore.
Brian went back to the farmhouse and sat down on the porch steps. He knew his prayer had been answered and Heavenly Father had protected him.
He closed his eyes and folded his arms again. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “for keeping me safe.”

The Lost Purse
When I was recently assigned to a conference in the Mission Viejo California Stake, I was touched by an account of their four-stake New Year’s Eve youth dance. Following the dance, a purse was found with no outside identification. I share with you part of what Sister Monica Sedgwick, the Young Women president in the Laguna Niguel stake, recorded: “We didn’t want to pry; this was someone’s personal stuff! So we gingerly opened it and grabbed the first thing that was on top—hopefully, it would identify her. It did, but in another way—it was a For the Strength of Youth pamphlet. Wow! This told us something about her. Then we reached in for the next item, a little notebook. Surely this would give us answers, but not the kind we were expecting. The first page was a list of favorite scriptures. There were five more pages of carefully written scriptures and personal notes.”
The sisters immediately wanted to meet this stalwart young woman. They returned to that purse to identify its owner. They pulled out some breath mints, soap, lotion, and a brush. I loved their comments: “Oh, good things come out of her mouth; she has clean and soft hands; and she takes care of herself.”
They eagerly awaited the next treasure. Out came a clever little homemade coin purse made from a cardboard juice carton, and there was some money in a zippered pocket. They exclaimed, “Ahh, she’s creative and prepared!” They felt like little children on Christmas morning. What they pulled out next surprised them even more: a recipe for Black Forest chocolate cake and a note to make the cake for a friend’s birthday. They almost screamed, “She’s a HOMEMAKER! Thoughtful and service minded.” Then, yes, finally some identification. The youth leaders said they felt greatly blessed “to observe the quiet example of a young lady living the gospel.”
Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles

The stake president, Sonny Purcell, was driving his car when he saw the enormous wave coming far out at sea. He honked his horn and stopped children on the road walking to school and warned them to run for higher ground and safety as fast as they could go. The children followed his instruction. He frantically drove, reached his four-year-old daughter, put her in the car, and then tried to get to his mother. Before he could reach his mother, the wall of water picked up his car and swept it over 100 yards (91 m), where it lodged in a tree. He scrambled to secure his daughter on top of the car and then swam to rescue his mother, who was clinging to a branch of another tree near their house. With great effort he swam with her to the car and safety. Many were not as fortunate. They did not have time to get to higher ground and safety. Many lost their lives, particularly the young and the elderly.

I had just turned 21 and was working as a server in a local ski resort’s restaurant. One afternoon as I finished cleaning the dining room, another server handed me a book and said he wanted me to have it. I thanked him and accepted it.
I looked at the cover: the Book of Mormon. My curiosity was sparked, so I decided to go into the kitchen to check it out. Inside the cover I found a note that the server had written to me. In it he said the Book of Mormon was a true book of Jesus Christ’s gospel and that he knew it would touch my heart. I decided to start reading it right then.
As I read, a strange, peaceful feeling enveloped me. I hadn’t felt that feeling while reading any book other than the Bible. My initial intent to read a few pages quickly turned into a few chapters. I couldn’t put the book down. Then I came to 1 Nephi 15:11: “Do ye not remember the things which the Lord hath said?—If ye will not harden your hearts, and ask me in faith, believing that ye shall receive, with diligence in keeping my commandments, surely these things shall be made known unto you.”
I had to know if this book was true. I didn’t know how to address God in prayer, so I simply looked up at the kitchen ceiling and asked, “Is this book from You?” Immediately I felt a firm reply: “Yes.” I remember thinking, “Wow. I guess I’ll finish the book!”
Three months later, having finished the Book of Mormon, I drove to visit my father in California. Not far from his house I passed a building with a mosaic on its front that I recognized. I quickly turned into the parking lot and found a man outside.
“What is Lehi’s vision of the tree of life doing on your building?” I asked. He then introduced me to his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I retrieved my Book of Mormon from the car and began asking him questions about all the passages I had circled as I read. He slowed me down and explained that the Church had missionaries who devoted two years of their lives to answering questions like mine.
I gave him my father’s address, and later two elders came to visit me. I was impressed that they were eager to answer all of my questions. I was even more impressed that the new concepts they taught me felt like familiar things I was remembering again. Five weeks later I was baptized a member of the Church.
Thirty-two years have passed since then, and I still read the Book of Mormon daily. It has been a continuous source of light and direction for my family and me. How grateful I am to the ancient prophets who etched the words of God onto the golden plates, to Joseph Smith for enduring persecution and trials in order to translate and publish its truths, and to a server who had the courage to give me a Book of Mormon that day.

Thursday was one of those rainy English days when there is nothing you can do but play games or read in your tents. Hot meals and an opportunity to catch up on sleep were the only relief from the downpour. But during the afternoon, the two counselors in the stake presidency, Alex Stewart and Geoff Mawlam, arrived with some of their family members to join us overnight. It was President Stewart who persuaded some of the braver souls to go canoeing in the rain. It didn’t matter to him about the rain, since he capsized every time he went down the rapids anyway.

The first thing we wanted to do Friday was to dry out. The rain had stopped, but some of the sleeping bags and clothes were wet. We hung things out to dry. Then we built an obstacle course. The course consisted of various tasks—pushing the canoe trailer around some tyres (that’s the English spelling for tires); running the rapids on inner tubes; crossing over the river by rope and then wading back; climbing a rope; and monkey climbs (climbing over and through logs fashioned together like a jungle gym). Not surprisingly, most of us finished wet and dirty. Prizes were awarded for the fastest group time and the fastest individual time according to age.
Like any camp, we also had our cleanup time. The tents were dismantled, the dams broken down, the turf replaced where the fire had been. For our last meal, Brother John Dale, our chef de cuisine treated us to fish and chips from Barnard Castle.
We picked up our tents and equipment and climbed the hill for the last time. Looking back, the field seemed bare, except for yellowed patches of grass where the tents had been. All that we have now are the memories.

Layna Cahone ran lightly up the front steps of the house and into the living room. “Dad,” she called, “are you home?”
“In the kitchen.”
She went to the kitchen doorway. Her father stood by the stove, stirring something in a small pan. “I knew that you’d be too busy again to fix supper,” he said, “so I opened a can of soup.”
Layna felt a quick stab of guilt. She had thought having just herself and her father home would be rather enjoyable. Charles was in the service, and Mother had gone to help Anne with her first baby. Layna had promised that she’d see to it that her father had adequate meals and clean clothes, but she realized now that she’d been pretty lax.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier, Dad,” she told him, “but I was talking to Debbie and forgot the time. You want toast with your soup?”
“Never mind, dear, but it would be nice if you would—”
“Oh, good grief,” she cried, “just look how late it is! I’m supposed to be at a meeting—decorating committee for the dance. May I take the car?”
He inclined his head slightly toward the hook behind the door where the car keys hung. Hurrying out, Layna thought briefly that her father must have had an especially tiring day. The lines around his mouth appeared deeper than usual, and his skin looked gray.
For a moment Layna paused with her hand on the car door. She really should go back and at least fix him dessert; but then, remembering the confusion in the school auditorium—decorations half finished, no decision made on the music—she climbed into the car and drove away.
Darkness had fallen before she reached home again. All the windows were dark. Wondering where her father could have gone, Layna turned on the kitchen lights. His soup, uneaten, was on the kitchen table. A cold chill went through her.
“Dad?” She flipped on a lamp in the living room. Her father lay on the couch. His hands, clenched into fists, were on his chest and his eyes were closed. Layna ran to him and bent down, realizing at once that he was fighting desperately to breathe.
“Oh, Daddy,” she cried, “what is it? What’s the matter?”
His eyes opened. “Heart,” he gasped hoarsely. “Doctor—”
Layna rushed to the phone, grateful that emergency numbers were written down, because her fingers shook so badly she had trouble dialing the doctor’s home number. She breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving when Dr. Shannon, answering, said, “An ambulance will be there in just a few minutes. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
But even though she knew that little more than fifteen minutes had passed before she and her father were speeding toward the hospital, Layna hadn’t known a stretch of time could be so agonizingly long. She looked at her father, lying half conscious on a stretcher, telling herself over and over, “I wouldn’t know what to do if my father died.” What would life be like without the good, quiet man whose gentle strength had supported her every day of her life? She knew that a world without him would be not only empty but frightening.
At the hospital her father was wheeled down a long, busy corridor. After she could no longer see him, Layna stood, not knowing what to do, until a nurse came to ask if she could register for her father at the front desk.
In the office a woman asked, “Does your father carry insurance?” and Layna remembered the card he carried in his wallet.
“I’ll have the orderly get it and bring it to you,” the lady said.
The sight of the wallet, handed to her a few moments later by a young man in a white coat, made Layna intensely aware of the seriousness of her father’s condition. She took the wallet, feeling the soft leather, worn smooth, and after giving the woman the necessary information, she went to call her mother, who assured her that she’d be there by morning. Then she sat in the waiting room, holding the wallet tightly, as though she could gain comfort from something that was his.
Thinking of how many important things the wallet held, Layna remembered a picture that she knew her father had carried for a while—a snapshot of herself and Charles and Anne taken in the mountains one summer. Wondering whether the picture was still there, she opened the wallet. As she did so, a tightly folded piece of paper fell out.
Absently she unfolded it. As she read the brief paragraph, she knew with a stabbing sense of her own failure that a letter she had seen in a newspaper the week before, one that had touched her, had also been seen and saved by her father.
She read the clipping again: “I have lived nearly fifty-five years and have worked hard to care for my family. My children have all they need. Why can’t they see me as a person who loves them and needs their affection? I’d gladly give every cent I have if my son or one of my daughters would only take my hand and say, ‘I love you, Dad.’”
Layna folded the clipping carefully as tears streamed down her cheeks. Oh, Daddy, she thought, don’t die. I want a chance to say what I’ve been too thoughtless to say to you all these years.
Slowly the hours passed. Layna rested, eyes closed, remembering many little things about her father, such as the day when she was in her early years at school and had complained because he absentmindedly took steps that were too long, and then how, smiling, he had shortened his stride to fit hers. She thought about one of her birthdays; he had come home from work looking a little sheepish because the stuffed tiger he’d bought for her was too big to wrap.
She remembered big things, too, like the time she’d had her appendix out and had awakened to see her father sitting beside her bed. She had known immediately that she’d be all right. She thought of the nights when she’d gone on dates and he had told her, “I know we can trust you.”
Just then Dr. Shannon came into the room. Jumping up, Layna ran to him. He put his hand on her arm.
“Everything’s fine, Layna,” he assured her gently. “Your father’s resting.”
After drawing a shaky breath, Layna asked, “Can I see him?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, but just for a minute.”
Slowly, feeling almost shy, Layna entered the room where her father lay on a high, narrow bed. How strange, she thought, to see him so quiet, this big man who was always busy and interested. His face was white, but the worry lines on his forehead seemed eased, his eyes composed.
Pulling a chair close to the bed, Layna sat down. She looked at her father and smiled, then covered his strong, work-worn hand with hers.
“Daddy,” she said softly, “I love you.”

My husband and I joined the Church in 1973. Before we were baptized, our two year old son and only child had died after open heart surgery. We longed to have another child, especially as we gained new understanding from gospel principles.
Our stake patriarch promised, one year later, that the Lord would give me more children if I called upon him in faith and kept myself worthy.
In 1976, I learned that I was pregnant, but four and a half months later, I had a miscarriage.
In the hospital I had read my patriarchal blessing many times. We’d had one child after receiving the blessing. But there it was, from the mouth of the patriarch: The Lord would give us children. I was already thirty-five years old, and after losing two children, I was discouraged.
In 1984, two years after Christian’s death, our beloved daughter was born. I was close to dying giving birth to her.
We rejoice in the knowledge that our two sons are waiting for us in the spirit world, and we rejoice in our daughter who already has said her first prayer. If any more children are intended for us, we will gladly receive them.

When floodwaters slammed into Calgary, Alberta, Canada, in June, spring rains and mountain runoff forced over 100,000 people out of their homes.
The flood left behind a massive mess—along with a massive need for volunteers. Church members of all ages from wards and stakes in the Calgary area responded immediately. “There was rubble everywhere,” says Brigham S., a deacon who volunteered.
Some youth knocked down drywall, carried away ruined furniture, or raked up mud and debris. Other youth, such as Brigham’s group, made and delivered sack lunches to workers, volunteers, and families returning to their homes.
Brigham remembers one particular family pumping muddy water out of their house. He and the youth volunteering with him asked this family if they wanted some lunches. “They were so happy!” Brigham says. “They gave us hugs.”

I was enjoying my full-time mission in the beautiful mountains of Cajamarca, Peru, when my father suddenly suffered a stroke. Shortly afterward, he was gone.
When I met with my mission president, I wept as I remembered that my dad had taught me what it means to be a missionary and a man of integrity. He had written me each week, sharing his testimony, teaching me powerful gospel insights, and encouraging me to do my best.
After our meeting, the mission president handed me a letter—the last one from my father. His letter reached into my future, giving me words that meant the world to me:
“You have another [mission] coming in a few months—a most difficult mission, where you will be counted on to dedicate your life to the principles you have taught, to doing the things which, up to this point, you have only preached. It can be the most productive mission. You are like the leaven in the loaf. …
“We love you and pray for you daily. Work hard and do the right things.”
As I read his words, I cried—for sorrow, knowing they were his last words to me in this life, and for joy, knowing their power and purpose for me. I knew that my next mission—the rest of my life—would mean everything. It would be a time of true testing, and it would require all that I had learned and experienced as a missionary.
I know that Heavenly Father has a deeply purposeful plan for each of us. He can elevate our moments on earth and give us eyes to see and know His truth. I’ve seen this as I’ve committed my life to Him and experienced His blessings. And I’ve seen this as my beautiful wife and I have worked together to build a family filled with hopes, children, and the gospel.
The Savior has brought us strength as we’ve gone to our knees, to the scriptures, to the temple, and to others in service. I’ve seen the Lord’s hand unfold during amazing moments in my life as I’ve shared the gospel with family and friends.
His mission is “to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man” (Moses 1:39). That mission truly does continue.

“I was born and grew up in the community of Tooele, Utah, where my father ran a newspaper. As a youth, I worked at the newspaper office and also helped take care of the family cows. My brother, Joel, and I had the responsibility of not only taking care of our cows but, during the summer, also gathering our neighbor’s cows and taking them to the fields on the edge of town to graze on the grass. This is how I made my first money. Later, my brother and I worked on a twenty-acre farm that the family owned on the edge of town. We were teenagers, and my father wanted to keep us busy.
“One day a neighbor came to Father carrying a list of things we were doing wrong on the farm. After the neighbor finished reading the list aloud, Father sat back in his chair, looked at him, and said, ‘Well, Jim, you don’t understand. I’m raising boys, not cows.’”

When President Nelson invited the women of the Church in October 2018 general conference to read the Book of Mormon before the end of the year, Matthew, Andrew, and Isaac, along with their father and younger brothers, decided to offer Mom their support. “We’ll read it with you!” they said. Every morning before seminary, they woke up to read together.
Matthew, Andrew, and Isaac are amazed that their family finished the Book of Mormon in just two months. “It usually takes us a year,” Isaac says. Together, they discovered the blessings of following the prophet’s invitation.
“If you do what you’re supposed to do,” Andrew says, “like building a relationship with Heavenly Father through prayer, scripture study, and staying fully active in the Church, life is so much better.”

Sister Vida Osei of Ghana wanted to learn to read and write English. She had tried community programs a number of times but had become discouraged and quit within weeks. Then one Sunday while attending meetings at the Second Branch, she learned that the Asamankese District was sponsoring an English literacy program. She decided to take a chance and enroll.
She soon found that this program was different. She would be able to attend with friends from church. Scriptures are used as study materials, so she would learn English and the gospel at the same time.
Two months after starting the class, Vida gave her first prayer in a class—ever. Three months after starting, she gave her first-ever talk in sacrament meeting, partially in Twi, a local African language, and partially in English. Four months after beginning, she began writing in a tattered notebook the orders, costs, and prices for her work as a self-employed seamstress. She made fewer mistakes with customers, got lower prices from vendors, and made more money than she had before in any previous month.
“I was too shy to attend a literacy class with just anyone,” she said. “But when the literacy class was held at the meetinghouse with members I knew, it gave me the courage to try again. And now I can read the scriptures and improve my business by reading and writing English.”

After the closing prayer at my cousin’s Eagle Scout court of honor, somebody rolled out a cart with bowls of ice cream and a variety of toppings. I was one of the first to get to the refreshments. As I poured chocolate syrup over my ice cream, I laughed with my brothers and cousins.
While eating, I looked around the room. We were in the gym, and metal folding chairs had been set up for the audience. Most of the chairs were empty now. People were gathered in small groups talking and laughing. My great-grandma Clark sat alone.
Grandma Clark had once been an energetic world traveler, but a couple of strokes had left her frail. I crossed the room, sat down next to her, and asked if I could get her some ice cream.
Grandma simply said, “Michael’s getting me some.”
I turned and saw my father, Michael, walking towards us with an ice-cream sundae. He was always thinking of others.
My father often encouraged me to serve others, but it was through his example that I really learned how to serve.

I confess that as a young boy, Sunday was not my favorite day. Grandfather shut down the action. We didn’t have any transportation. We couldn’t drive the car. He wouldn’t even let us start the motor. We couldn’t ride the horses or the steers or the sheep. It was the Sabbath, and by commandment the animals also needed rest. We walked to Church and everywhere else we wanted to go. I can honestly say that we observed both the spirit and the letter of Sabbath worship.
By today’s standards, perhaps Grandfather’s interpretation of Sabbath day activities seems extreme, but something wonderful has been lost in our lives. To this day, I have been pondering to try to understand fully what has slipped away. Part of it was knowing that I was well on the Lord’s side of the line. Another part was the feeling that Satan’s influence was farther away. Mostly it was the reinforcement received by the spiritual power which was generated. We had the rich feeling that the spiritual “fulness of the earth” (D&C 59:16) was ours, as promised by the Lord in section 59 of the Doctrine and Covenants.

When the Civil War erupted, Louisa felt a need to do her part. In 1862, she moved to Washington, D.C., and served as a nurse in the Union Army. She worked hard and got very little sleep because of her concern for the wounded soldiers. She became a trusted friend of many of the young patients. However, after only a few weeks at the hospital, Louisa became very ill with typhoid fever. Her father arrived in time to take her back home, where fresh air, rest, and her mother’s care helped her to recover. Later Louisa compiled the letters that she had written to her family from Washington about the suffering soldiers into a book called Hospital Sketches.

Joseph and Emma Smith’s home in Harmony, Pennsylvania.
In April 1828, Emma and Joseph were living in a home along the Susquehanna River, not far from her parents’ house.22 Now well along in her pregnancy, Emma often acted as Joseph’s scribe after he began translating the record. One day, while he translated, Joseph suddenly grew pale. “Emma, did Jerusalem have a wall around it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, recalling descriptions of it in the Bible.
“Oh,” Joseph said with relief, “I was afraid I had been deceived.”23
Emma marveled that her husband’s lack of knowledge in history and scripture did not hinder the translation. Joseph could hardly write a coherent letter. Yet hour after hour she sat close beside him while he dictated the record without the aid of any book or manuscript. She knew only God could inspire him to translate as he did.24

Let’s start at the beginning.
“I’ve been helping my dad build things my whole life,” she says. “I got used to power tools and construction, and I just really grew to love it. So, when I was 16 years old, I decided that I wanted to start my own construction business.”
“My dad has taught me to put things together, from two boards to a whole house,” Sarah says.
Sarah first remodeled a house one year over the summer. She loved it so much that she took on another remodeling project the next year. Eventually, she decided to tackle an even bigger project—a “spec” house, or a house that she and her team of subcontractors would build from foundation to finish, hopefully to sell at a profit.
Demolition day! Sarah takes a hammer to a bathroom in one of her projects.
Starting a business was no easy project, especially because Sarah was still busy with high school and cross country running.
Sarah started her own construction company when she was 16 years old.
“I learned so much,” she says. “I had to use a checkbook to pay people, which I’d never done before. I had to become comfortable talking to strangers who were my subcontractors. I’ve also learned how to deal with the stress of running a company, which was not always fun. There’s always the worry that you won’t make the money needed to break even when selling a house.”
But despite the worries and stresses that come with running a business, Sarah never had to face her big dreams alone.
“It always worked out, and I know that’s because of the Lord,” she says. “This business thing wasn’t possible without Him. He helped me through the bad days, the hard work, everything.”