Gospel Story Finder

As a boy of fifteen I was called to preside over a quorum of teachers. Our adviser was interested in us, and we knew it. One day he said to me, “Tom, you enjoy raising pigeons, don’t you?”

I responded with a warm “Yes.”

Then he proffered, “How would you like me to give you a pair of purebred Birmingham Roller pigeons?”

This time I answered, “Yes, sir!” You see, the pigeons I had were just the common variety trapped on the roof of the Grant Elementary School.

He invited me to come to his home the next evening. The next day was one of the longest in my young life. I was awaiting my adviser’s return from work an hour before he arrived. He took me to his loft, which was in a small barn at the rear of his yard. As I looked at the most beautiful pigeons I had yet seen, he said, “Select any male, and I will give you a female which is different from any other pigeon in the world.” I made my selection. He then placed in my hand a tiny hen. I asked what made her so different. He responded, “Look carefully, and you’ll notice that she has but one eye.” Sure enough, one eye was missing, a cat having done the damage. “Take them home to your loft,” he counseled. “Keep them in for about ten days and then turn them out to see if they will remain at your place.”

I followed his instructions. Upon releasing them, the male pigeon strutted about the roof of the loft, then returned inside to eat. But the one-eyed female was gone in an instant. I called Harold, my adviser, and asked: “Did that one-eyed pigeon return to your loft?”

“Come on over,” said he, “and we’ll have a look.”

As we walked from his kitchen door to the loft, my adviser commented, “Tom, you are the president of the teachers quorum.” This I already knew. Then he added, “What are you going to do to activate Bob?”

I answered, “I’ll have him at quorum meeting this week.”

Then he reached up to a special nest and handed to me the one-eyed pigeon. “Keep her in a few days and try again.” This I did, and once more she disappeared. Again the experience, “Come on over and we’ll see if she returned here.” Came the comment as we walked to the loft, “Congratulations on getting Bob to priesthood meeting. Now what are you and Bob going to do to activate Bill?”

“We’ll have him there this week,” I volunteered.

This experience was repeated over and over again. I was a grown man before I fully realized that, indeed, Harold, my adviser, had given me a special pigeon; the only bird in his loft he knew would return every time she was released. It was his inspired way of having an ideal personal priesthood interview with the teachers quorum president every two weeks. I owe a lot to that one-eyed pigeon. I owe more to that quorum adviser. He had the patience to help me prepare for opportunities which lay ahead.

My 86-year-old mother’s health had been declining for several months, and I feared that she would not be with us much longer. My husband and I had planned to travel to Lille, which was 80 miles (130 km) away, for stake conference, but I worried about leaving my sister alone to care for our mother.
I pleaded to Heavenly Father that all would be well while we were gone. Immediately the lyrics “Peace, be still” (“Master, the Tempest Is Raging,” Hymns, no. 105) came to mind, and my fears diminished. We left for the conference feeling calm and reassured that the Lord had heard my prayer and was watching over my mother.
Everything did go well while we were gone.
Some time later, my sister called to ask if my husband, Yves, could come help lift my mother into bed. Shortly after he arrived at my sister’s home, my mother passed away.
Not wanting to relay this news over the phone, Yves called me and said only that my sister was panicked. He suggested I gather some personal belongings because he would be home soon to pick me up.
I began packing my suitcase expecting that I might stay with my sister for a while to help care for our mother. As I began, I felt guided by the Spirit that packing was no longer necessary. I knew that my mother had died. But I also felt peace, just like I had before leaving for stake conference.
Yves arrived home, and he struggled to explain what had happened. To ease his burden, I told him I already knew that Mother was gone.
Knowledge of the gospel continued to support me, and I was able to comfort my sister as we grieved for our mother. Many times I prayed for peace, and each time I felt reassured that Heavenly Father and my Savior Jesus Christ were helping me through my sorrow and pain. Through our faith and prayers we found what the sacred hymn invokes: “Peace, be still.”
Nicole Germe, Pas-de-Calais, France

Recently, in Holland, the mission president was stricken with a massive heart attack and lay near death’s door for a while. Though he was an American foreigner, so to speak, he belonged to the household of God, and literally thousands of people in Holland and other lands, and the Apostles of the Lord, knelt and prayed for his life—if it was the will of God that he should live. Think of it—and it happens hundreds of times every day upon this earth. He belonged to the family of God; he felt their fasting and prayers and love. And what about his wife? She belonged as she had never known possible. I was there. I was a witness, and there were so many calls from those who belong to the household of God that she actually became weary.
As the president improved and I left, my heart was so full. Yes, for the preservation of his life, but also for the privilege of belonging to the church of Jesus Christ, here upon the earth.

Even as the service projects were continuing, chariot construction was in the polishing stages. In the First Ward, the bishop filled in at the service project in place of Dave Holcomb, who had been working on the chariot since 6:00 A.M. At 1:00 P.M., when the vehicle was finally done, the team rolled it down the street to the high school.
“We put a stereo in it, and Brother Charles McClellan, the priests quorum adviser, helped with the wiring and balanced the weight,” Ron Fowler, a priest in the ward, explained. With the stereo playing the racing theme from the movie Ben Hur, the black chariot with gold trim attracted a lot of attention on its way to the stadium. Some people, when they heard there would be a chariot race, followed along out of curiosity.
One of the chariot builders in another ward gave up his bike for a week so he could use its wheels on the chariot. The 23rd Ward modeled a horse’s head out of aluminum foil to mount on the front of its entry.
Younger brothers and sisters were recruited as riders because of their light weight. In the 13th Ward the chariot construction was a family effort, as Phil Dold and his father designed and built their version of a Roman race car. Throughout the stake, Relief Society sisters sewed capes and fabricated helmets for the riders, including remodeled football helmets.
One ward installed carpeting and a CB radio in its chariot. And the Scouts in another ward spent several activity nights learning to weld as they built their entry.
As the racers, fans, and chariots arrived at the high school, the conversation sounded like one between automotive designers. Amateur engineers extolled the virtues of a low center of gravity, discussed pulling handle alignment, and debated the sturdiness of wheel and axle attachment to the frame.
“I thought nobody would be that interested in building the chariots because it would take a lot of time and effort,” said Dave Davis, 17, of the Second Ward. “But everybody really came through.”
Before the actual chariot race, several hours of games, designed for individual and group participation, offered a chance for recreation following a morning of hard work. To allow all of the young people to participate, adults were asked to be in charge of the different events. Colored tickets were used to limit the number of participants in a given activity at a given time.
The first contest was a balloon toss, with partners facing each other in two long lines down the center of the football field. Water-filled balloons were gently thrown between partners until only one couple remained with an unbroken balloon.
Following the balloon toss, ten other games were offered for individual competition. They included: (1) Duffle bag stuffing. With boxing gloves on, the contestant stuffed foam-rubber strips into a duffle bag, racing against the clock. (2) Spray bottle target practice. With a laundry spray bottle, each participant had to knock off a Ping-Pong ball perched atop a soda bottle. (3) Punch-drinking race. Slurping through a rubber tubing “straw” several feet long, the first person to empty a 32-ounce cup was the winner. (4) A gelatin-eating contest, with hands tied behind the back. (5) Marshmallow munching. Without the use of his hands, each contestant tried to be the one who could get the most marshmallows inside his mouth—and then close his lips. (6) Flying marshmallows. While riding a bicycle, the contestant attempted to catch a marshmallow—hung from the goal post on a piece of string—in his mouth. (7) Tricycle races (limited to those too big to ride a tricycle). (8) Blindfolded cotton-picker. A scarf was tied over the participants’ eyes. The object of the game was to spoon the greatest number of cotton balls into a bowl in 30 seconds. A stiff breeze made this a difficult project. (9) An obstacle course, including old tires, hurdles, and barrels to roll in. (10) Chocolate pudding pals. Teams were composed of three people. Two were blindfolded. One of them fed the other the pudding by following the directions of the third, who was not wearing a blindfold.
Each person was free to compete in as many individual events as he desired. These were followed by group games, which included a tug-of-war; a car-stuffing contest (28 crammed themselves into a Volkswagen); a battle over a huge, canvas ball, which could only be tossed over the goal-post by several people working together; and a contest to see how many people would fit in a four-foot circle.
A final contest before the chariot race also served to clean up the field. Each ward was given a large plastic sack, and the team with the most pieces of garbage in the bag at the end of the day was honored at the dance.
At last, the chariots were wheeled into position at the starting line. Two elimination heats of 220 yards apiece narrowed the field of six down to the three fastest teams.
“On your mark, get set, go!” the starter screamed. The speed was as fast as a 50-yard dash. Noise from the audience was so loud that Little League baseball players and their parents rushed from the other side of the school to see what was going on.
About halfway around the track, the all-girl 23rd Ward team fell behind. The other two teams were in a dead heat coming around the final turn.
On both chariots, the sprinters were nearly exhausted. Some, too tired to continue pulling, released the handles and dropped to the side of the track. The 13th Ward had only two men left, plus the rider, as the low-slung chariot pulled ahead of the First Ward’s team by four feet at the finish line.
A large banner with the number 13 on it was thrown into the air. The winners’ friends and families surrounded them, smiling, shaking hands, hugging each other, and saying, “I knew we could do it!”
Then, through the middle of the throng, President “Caesar” Brockbank pressed forward, bearing the trophy with him. He called for Kendall Hansen and Corian Taylor, who had pulled the winning chariot across the finish line. The crowd parted to let them pass, and the trophy was in their hands.
After the race, the youth of the stake were enthusiastic about the success of the day.
Karen Maury, 16, the 18th Ward Laurel president, said, “I feel the youth of the stake are beginning to gain a testimony of who we are. This whole weekend I’ve spent so much time with the Church that I know it’s going to really build me, to help me to do other things.”
Kathy Ricks, a 16-year-old 13th Warder, said, “I think the best part about it was the closeness everyone felt. I’ve never been to an event like that before, where I’ve made so many friends. You realized how much the youth are able to plan things, that they are capable.”
Mike Standard, 15, of the 13th Ward, added that “a lot of us brought friends who weren’t Mormons, and they really enjoyed it, because they saw what youth, working together, can do. They didn’t know people could just get together and do something and it could work like this did. It was a great missionary tool.”
The Second Ward’s Christan Linebarger, 16, summarized: “I’ve never seen the wards so close before. The spirit that was put across in the enthusiasm was really spectacular. I think that was the most special part of the day. It wasn’t important who won the chariot race or the tug-of-war, but it was important that the whole ward was together in whatever we were doing. That was the most special thing.”
Slowly the stadium emptied. The competitors and the fans went home to clean up and get ready for the dance. On Sunday the lessons learned in the race were emphasized during priesthood and Sunday School. At the fireside, members of the stake presidency drew analogies between pulling together as teams both in church work and in life, as well as stressing the ability of youth to engage in good, clean fun.
The lessons had meaning, because the day had been complete. Service to others was the lesson of the morning, and the need to work with others was evident in the games and in the stampede of chariots Saturday afternoon.
And as for fun, it was a good thing President Brockbank announced the Ben Hur Memorial Traveling Award as a traveling trophy, because it was obvious this would not be the last chariot race in the San Jose California Stake.

One Saturday, my family went on an all-day bike ride with the youth in our branch. My sister (8) and I (then 6) rode our own bikes the whole 17 miles (about 27 km). The ride was a lot of fun, but by the end, I was so tired that I didn’t know if I could make it to the end. With about a mile to go, my parents and I fell behind the group. It began to rain.
In a few minutes, the rain was pouring so hard that we couldn’t even see where we were going. Soaking wet and very cold, we stopped for shelter under a tree. We didn’t know if we should stay where we were or try to go on in the rain. My dad suggested that I ask Heavenly Father to help us. I prayed for Him to please stop the rain so that we could go on and meet up with the rest of the group safely and not get lost.
As soon as I finished my prayer, the rain stopped and the sun came out and began warming us up. We felt the Holy Ghost really strong just then, and I was very relieved and happy. We rode the last mile to our group in dry weather, then offered another prayer to thank Heavenly Father for sending us a miracle. I have a testimony that Heavenly Father answers our prayers.
Noah Siddoway, age 7Stevens Point, Wisconsin

Now, you may be thinking: It’s not that easy for me. I have so many people to watch over. And I have so little time. But where the Lord calls He prepares a way, His way. There are shepherds who believe that. I’ll tell you about one.
Two years ago, a man was called as the president of his elders quorum. He had been a member of the Church for less than 10 years. He had just become worthy to be sealed to his wife and family in the temple. His wife was an invalid. He had three daughters. The oldest was 13, and she cooked the meals and, with the others, cared for the house. His scant earnings from manual labor supported not only those five people but a grandfather who lived with them in their small house.
When he was called to be president of his elders quorum, it had 13 members. That tiny quorum was responsible for another 101 men who either had no priesthood at all or who were deacons, teachers, or priests. He was responsible to watch over the souls of 114 families, with little hope that he could devote more than his Sundays and perhaps one night a week to his service, with all he did to serve his own family.
The difficulty of what he faced drove him to his knees in prayer. Then he stood up and went to work. In his efforts to meet and know his sheep, his prayers were answered in a way he had not expected. He came to see beyond individuals. He came to know that the Lord’s purpose was for him to build families. And even with his limited experience, he knew that the way to build families would be to help them qualify to make and keep temple covenants.
He began to do what a good shepherd always does, but he did it differently when he saw the temple as their destination. First, he prayed to know who were to be his counselors to go with him. And then he prayed to know which families needed him and had been prepared.
He called on as many as he could. Some were cold and did not accept his friendship. But with those who did, he followed a pattern. As soon as he saw interest and trust, he invited them to meet the bishop. He had asked the bishop beforehand: “Please tell them what it takes to be worthy to go to the temple to claim its blessings for them and their families. And then please testify to them, as I have, that it will be worth it.”
A few then accepted the quorum president’s invitation to a temple preparation class taught by stake leaders. Not all completed the course and not all qualified for the temple. But each family and each father was prayed for. Most were invited at least once to a feast of the good word of God. With every invitation came the president’s testimony of the blessings of being a family sealed forever and the sadness of being separated. Every invitation was issued with the love of the Savior.
During the president’s service, he has seen 12 of the men he taught ordained elders. He has seen four of his elders ordained high priests. Those numbers don’t come close to measuring the miracle. The families of those men will be blessed over generations. Fathers and mothers are now sealed to each other and to their children. They are praying over their children, receiving the help of heaven, and teaching the gospel with the love and inspiration the Lord gives to faithful parents.
That president and his counselors have become true shepherds. They have watched over the flock with the Master and have come to love Him.

The day just didn’t start out right. The weather was supposed to be warm and sunny, but this particular Saturday morning in Mexico was cold, windy, and overcast. The dust was everywhere in Tijuana and our car, chameleon-like, had changed color to match the weather and the city.
Trying to find the LDS chapel was no easy feat. Everyone in the car had his own opinion of where it was, as had every Mexican we asked. As we tried to decipher the street signs, we read one that said, “Un Sentido.” By the time we found out what it meant, it was too late. Our whole caravan was on a one-way street—going the wrong way.
We had made the trip from Los Angeles that morning in a couple of station wagons, two huge vacation trailers, and a two-ton truck crammed with over 100 used suits, 150 dresses, 600 shirts, blouses, trousers, and sweaters in all different sizes and shapes. We had nearly 100 pairs of shoes and loads of underwear, ties, and odd pieces of clothing. Add to that over 300 gift-wrapped toys and gifts, several bicycles, a rocking horse, 10 pairs of roller skates, and 30 to 40 boxes of canned goods and food. All of it had been collected in Los Angeles for the benefit of an orphanage and some of the needy Saints in Mexico.
In less than a month an idea for a Chatsworth Second Ward (Los Angeles California Chatsworth Stake) Aaronic Priesthood MIA service project had grown into a major undertaking.
After a few “No comprende” answers to the grinning Mexicans, we found the attractive little Mormon chapel on a hilltop overlooking the city.
There to meet us were all the children just coming out from Saturday morning Primary. But before long children from neighboring streets were on hand, too, to help carry half of the clothing and supplies into one of the classrooms for later distribution to the needy. After handing out some of the gifts for the children, we were off again, this time in a downpour, to an orphanage across the city.
It was quite an experience.
Recalls Randy Hansen, who spearheaded the project: “When we first came to the orphanage, the children’s eyes were really wide, and they weren’t sure why we were there or what was happening. When they helped us unload and carry in all the packages and supplies, they loosened up. We were then able to be more friendly. When we played ball with them you could see that they didn’t do much of that type of thing. They probably didn’t have any supervised activities. It was really touching when they sang to us because I have never studied another language. When I heard them trying to sing in English and then I tried to sing in Spanish, I knew how much they must have practiced to get it just right.
“I would like to have had more friends and members from our ward go down there,” he added. “It would have been a good experience for them. A lot of people come to church on Sunday and feel the Spirit, but they sometimes lose the Spirit during the week. This trip made me feel that we need to have this kind of spirit with us no matter what we are doing. It really touched me because I have never really felt like that at any other time.”
Kathi Regas feels much the same way about the project: “It was a good experience for all of us and made us appreciate all the things we have at home. I needed to give of myself to others and in the process I became much more thankful for what I have.
“The children seemed to need so much love. We brought them clothing and toys, but they needed love. When we began to play with them, you could tell by their expressions they appreciated our caring. I was really grateful that I could do something for someone else. I found that the children down there are especially grateful. We take so much for granted,” she said.
“I also became more thankful for everything that I have, especially my parents,” adds Marlene Yeates. “When we went into the nursery, I felt like taking all the children home with me. It is a feeling I probably will never forget. It was really a good experience, and I am glad I had the opportunity to be part of it.”
Mark West echoes the same feelings. He says, “I thought it helped us all get together. It helped us personally to see how other people live. We are too accustomed to our warm little beds. For example, when I saw the children in the little nursery it really hit me.”
Debbie Webb comments: “They just wanted us to hold them and give love. This one little boy was sitting stiffly in the windowsill all alone when everyone came in. Then I held him and he started acting like a person. When it was time to leave, we put him back in the windowsill and he stiffened up again.”
It didn’t matter that it rained miserably on the way home. Our hearts were full of sunshine.

Shortly after my mother and I were baptized, she began working as a registered nurse. As a single parent, she didn’t have time to cook, so we began eating more processed and fast foods. Although I was only 12, my health began to decline. I didn’t have the energy I once had. I felt tired and anxious. I gained weight.
I asked my mom how I could get into better shape. Hoping for a medical response, I was a little surprised when she simply said, “Live the principles of the Word of Wisdom.” I thought she would give me advice on calories and carbohydrates and fats, but her answer was exactly what I needed.
For family home evening the following Monday, we reviewed Doctrine and Covenants 89 and outlined an eating and activity plan. Our lifestyle change was dramatic. We both began to feel healthier and happier. I noticed more peace in my life and more quiet promptings from the Holy Ghost.
I am grateful to a loving Heavenly Father, who wants to communicate with us. I know now that we must be prepared physically and spiritually to receive sacred, personal revelations.
Eric D. Richards, Utah, USA

When I was in my late 20s, I went through a period of deep depression, and during that time, it was as if the reality that God existed was suddenly gone. I can’t fully explain the feeling other than to say I felt completely lost. From the time I was a young child, I had always known that my Father in Heaven was there and that I could talk to Him. But during that time, I no longer knew if there was a God. I’d never experienced anything like that before in my life, and it felt like my whole foundation was crumbling.
As a result, it was hard for me to attend church. I went, but it was partly because I was afraid of being labeled “inactive” or “less faithful,” and I was afraid of becoming someone’s assigned project. What I really needed during that time was to feel genuine love, understanding, and support from those around me, not judgment.
Some of the assumptions I was afraid people would make about me, I myself had made about others when they didn’t regularly attend church. That painful personal experience taught me some valuable lessons about why we’ve been commanded not to judge one another unrighteously.

Chan Yung Fai stopped furtively at the corner of the building to flick away his cigarette in the darkness. The wind howling off the South China Sea flung the red sparks down narrow Macau Street.
Yung Fai hesitated at the church door. It’s been three years, he thought. I can’t go in now. But the ominous sound of the approaching typhoon warned otherwise. Inside the church were his mother and sister. He had to warn them.
Already the street markets were shutting down in panic. Yung Fai had hurriedly sold the last of his squawking chickens, keeping a plump red hen for the family’s dinner. Now the hen writhed in a pink plastic bag clenched firmly in his hand.
Yung Fai could vaguely hear singing inside the church. His sister, Chan Wai Fung, had talked all week about the music festival here tonight. Above the door, he read the Chinese characters for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Reluctantly, Yung Fai stepped through the doorway. The last time he had been inside this church was two weeks after he and his sister had been baptized. It was also the same day he had started smoking again. He had not dared go back—not to face broken promises and rules he could not keep.
The clear, melodic voice of his sister singing an old Chinese love song wafted through the church. Her voice is as perfect as she is, thought Yung Fai. Then he sighed. She’s always kept every rule in the book—probably even a few that aren’t there.
He edged around the corner to watch. Instantly, Wai Fung’s eyes greeted him. Her song smiled to him. Shyly, Yung Fai smiled back.
Then she sang her favorite, “How Firm a Foundation.” The audience was so enraptured they seemed oblivious to the rising wind outside.
Yung Fai watched her frail body quiver as she was named winner of the music competition. Propped in her chair, she was extraordinarily small for age 19. She lifted her crippled arms to limply clasp the hands of people crowding around to congratulate her.
Yung Fai had almost forgotten why he had come. Suddenly, he pushed forward to the pulpit and nervously cleared his throat. “There’s a big typhoon brewing outside. You need to get home.”
Stunned, the congregation for the first time heard the gushing wind. Wai Fung’s mother scooped up her daughter. The fragile, smiling girl with the lifeless legs and big, beautiful voice looked like a tiny child tucked in her mother’s arms.
Yung Fai followed them out. Rain was plopping on the rough-stoned street. Halfway down the street already, his mother was trying to shelter Wai Fung from the splashing drops.
Yung Fai had always looked upon his mother’s devotion to his sister with a mixture of guilt and amazement. On Sundays, while he was off gambling at the racetrack, his mother carried Wai Fung to church—a church his mother did not even like. Yet, every Sunday, she took Wai Fung to this Christian church and then went to her own Chinese temple to burn incense.
His mother’s irritated voice broke into his thoughts. “Yung Fai, are you coming? If we don’t hurry, the buses will stop running and we’ll be stranded on this side of the bridge.”
As he caught up with them, Wai Fung reached out to him. “That was brave of you to warn us. I would have been frightened to speak out in front of so many people I didn’t know.”
Yung Fai only shrugged and tried to keep up with his mother’s fast clip. When they reached the bus stop, people were pushing at each other to squeeze on the Taipa Island bus. A passenger immediately gave up his seat to Wai Fung and her mother. Yung Fai grabbed the overhead rail and wiggled close to them. Crammed against another passenger, his red hen began screeching loudly. His mother gazed at the squirming sack.
“What else have you got in that sack?” she snapped.
Yung Fai shrugged again. “Oh, only a pack of cigarettes.
Her black eyes flashed. “How much longer are you going to waste our money on those worthless things? You seem to forget there are seven of us to feed in our house. With you gambling and smoking, we’ll never be able to save enough money to go back and visit your father in China. You know that’s all Wai Fung has ever dreamed of.”
The bus lurched forward and picked up speed. The wind and rain whipped through the open windows, drowning out their voices and the sound of the irate chicken. Across the long bridge, above the tumultuous sea, the bus reeled with the wind and weight of its passengers.
When they finally jostled off the bus in front of the path leading to their plot of land, Wai Fung touched her brother’s sack. “I think you picked a good chicken for dinner, Yung Fai.”
After dinner, Yung Fai watched his mother clear the rice bowls off the table and roll the chicken bones up in the newspaper tablecloth. He uneasily paced the floor in their small tin/wood house. It was too quiet outside. He knew the storm would come back. Everyone in the house was waiting for the typhoon to exhale like a dragon. In the corner, his eldest sister, who preferred the English name of Lily, was listlessly threading plastic petals on a spindle. Her flower making brought a little extra money for the family.
Lily’s husband was fidgeting with the television.
“All you’re getting is static. Why don’t you turn that thing off!” Yung Fai said in exasperation.
“I’m just trying to get the Hong Kong station. They’re predicting this storm to be one of the worst ever.”
Yung Fai noticed Wai Fung shudder tensely. Wai Fung was usually so calm. Now her uncoordinated hands were fumbling aimlessly through the Book of Mormon which she read so diligently. She was always reading the Bible or Book of Mormon or one of those other scriptures.
Everyone was nervous. Only Lily’s toddler girls slept peacefully in the bunk against the far wall.
The typhoon crept back gradually as they all finally dozed in their beds. Yung Fai woke with a jerk to the wailing of the wind and whimpering of Lily’s youngest daughter. The window near her bed was rattling crazily.
At first everyone lay rigidly in the darkness, listening to the swelling storm. The dragon had returned. Its lashing tail sounded as if it would rip right through the house. They heard a thundering crack and the rushing thud of a tree falling. More trees creaked and splintered. The pitter-patter of rain had become a spewing torrent.
Yung Fai could hear the foreboding sound of rain beginning to trickle through the roof. Then the splattering of glass brought them all rolling to their feet. The wind hurled itself in one window and crashed out through another window on the opposite wall. Glass and splintered boards lay scattered on the floor.
Yung Fai was soon sweeping up water faster than glass. Water poured under the door. An unrelenting stream came through the ceiling and broken windows.
“We’ve got to save our things!” shrieked his mother, yanking open the door. She began scooping buckets of water and throwing them into the yard. The yard looked more like a river.
Suddenly, Wai Fung’s scream resounded above everything else. “Hear it! The power pole is falling. The house will cave in!”
“We must escape!” gasped Lily.
Momentarily, everyone groped in confusion. The ensuing crash seemed to come down in slow motion. Wood and tin hurtled against them. In panic, they pushed each other through the door.
Yung Fai looked back to see the entire roof collapsing under the weight of the giant pole. He could feel warm blood seeping down his face. But the rain sloshed it away, and Yung Fai imagined he was standing in a river of red. Dazed, he looked around to see that all his family had miraculously escaped.
“The animal shed!” shouted his brother-in-law. “There might be more shelter against the hillside.”
Bracing against the wind, everyone struggled through the swirling waters toward the hill. They slithered through mud and climbed over fallen trees. Once Yung Fai saw his mother fall, and he hurried to help her. She was still holding Wai Fung above the water.
When they reached the animal shed, mud and water were oozing through it. But no one cared. The storm was less violent there.
The chickens cackled noisily, and the pigs grunted in annoyance. Lily’s husband tried to kick the pigs away, but they were not about to be rousted from their secure spot.
Exhausted, everyone sank down. The pigs and people rested against each other, waiting out the typhoon.
Yung Fai dreamily kept pace with the rhythmic breathing of the pig next to him. After a while, his glazed eyes focused on his sister, Wai Fung. In her hands she gripped the satchel holding her scriptures. Even a typhoon threatening her life could not make her give them up.
Yung Fai looked slowly around. Each person was clutching something. His mother held Wai Fung closely. Lily and her husband were each cradling a daughter. Strangely, each tiny girl had managed to stay clinging to her doll.
Then Yung Fai realized he had also carried something out. He looked down to see what it was. The pink plastic bag was wound tightly around his hand. In it was his pack of cigarettes. In a sudden surge of disgust, he flung them outside into the mud.

Another example of dedication is found in the life of Julia Smith Ballard. Julia made a burial suit for one of her little nephews when she was sixteen and another the next year for one of her sisters. She found satisfaction in this occupation and took it up as a lifetime call. For the next thirty-five years she made temple and burial clothing for more than 400 persons, nearly all without special remuneration.22 At one time one of her daughters—she had twelve children—had been promised a new dress for a special occasion. She rushed home from school full of anticipation only to find her mother sewing on burial clothes. Her disappointment was so great that she burst into tears and said, “I wish folks would quit dying so us kids could have something to wear.”23 Thus did Julia show her love for the gospel.

In 2000, Lucas Bento traveled from Mozambique to Lisbon, Portugal where his brother lived, to receive medical treatment for a chronic illness. He stayed with his brother and made weekly visits to a nearby hospital. Lucas was a faithful member of a Protestant church in Mozambique and was anxious to attend services during his stay in Lisbon. When he asked his brother where he might find the local Protestant church, he was told that there was not one in the area, but that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, was nearby. His brother was not a member of the Church but was familiar with the missionaries and knew that they were frequently in the neighborhood visiting people. Lucas’ brother knew that the missionaries would gladly take him to church.
Lucas began meeting with the missionaries and soon expressed an interest in becoming a member. He was particularly impressed with the commandments and teachings of the Church, such as the Word of Wisdom, the law of chastity and the importance of having a living prophet. One scripture in the Book of Mormon was important to his search for the true Church. In 3 Nephi 27:8, he read, “And how be it my church save it be called in my name?” Lucas Bento gained a testimony of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and was baptized on 9 June 2002. He was ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood and soon returned to his village in Mozambique where he was the only member of the Church.
Brother Bento’s branch president in Lisbon instructed him not to join another church when he returned to Mozambique, but to gather his family and teach them the gospel of Jesus Christ. Brother Bento asked the missionaries in Portugal why the Church was not in Mozambique. When he discovered that the Church was indeed in his country, he wrote the mission president in Maputo asking for directions to the Church. Missionaries were sent to visit Brother Bento in Nampula. He showed them his baptismal and Aaronic Priesthood ordination certificates, and arrangements were made to ordain Brother Bento to the Melchizedek Priesthood. He wrote again to tell the mission president that he had followed the directions of his branch president in Lisbon and had been teaching his family and friends. There were 18 people ready to be baptized.
Brother Bento continues to share the gospel with his neighbors and is now the group leader for a small congregation in the village of Luaha, Mozambique. There, close to 80 members have joined the Church as a result of Brother Bento’s missionary efforts. He loves the gospel of Jesus Christ and continues to teach his neighbors about the prophet Joseph Smith and the Restoration. Brother Bento recently traveled to the temple in Johannesburg, South Africa, to be endowed and sealed to his wife. “When I went to Lisbon,” he says, “I did not go just for my illness; it was Heavenly Father’s will. Over my year in Portugal, I went to five hospitals and was still was not cured. But I now understand that I went to Portugal to find the true Church of Jesus Christ.”

About four years ago my husband, David, and I bought an old house in Clarksville, Tennessee. We tore out all of the insides, ripped up some of the floors, replaced the wiring and plumbing, and added more rooms. It was a major undertaking! And we stayed in the house the whole time.
We lived in a genuine construction site. At night before falling into bed, I’d rake the sawdust, sheetrock, chips of wood, and other debris from the covers. I used a large shovel, instead of a broom to clean the floors. Lumber and sheets of plywood were stacked in the living room. Cans of paint, boxes of nails, ladders, and other tools were scattered throughout the rooms.
During the remodeling, I was pregnant with our second child. Two weeks before my due date, we stained the floors and painted the new rooms. That night, the baby started coming. We rushed to the hospital, leaving behind a house with no heating system, no windows in the front room, and no place for an infant to sleep.
My mother and father came that afternoon, driving from their country farm 90 kilometers away. I was apprehensive about Mama coming. She and I hadn’t been on good terms since I joined the Church in 1976. But she knew I needed help, with a new baby and with the house all torn apart.
Before going home, Mama stopped by our construction site. Overwhelmed—and a little dismayed at the living conditions her new grandchild would be brought into—she made plans to clean the house the next afternoon before I came home from the hospital.
Mama came as planned, wearing workclothes, with a shovel, rake, and bucket in hand. To her surprise, the construction site was spotless. Lumber, plywood, paint, and tools were all neatly stacked in one room. Clean sheets were on the bed. A bassinet with a new mattress and new sheets waited for the baby. The dirty laundry was missing. Lunch for David was in the refrigerator. And a wrapped package of baby clothes and a large bag of diapers sat near the front door. The card attached read, “Congratulations! With Love, from your visiting teachers, Carol and Barbara.”
I hardly knew these sisters—they had been called to be my visiting teachers only the month before. But when I came home from the hospital the next day, Carol brought the freshly washed laundry. Barbara brought supper.
But something else had happened.
Mama had taken the missionary discussions years before while I was on my mission. She had even read the four standard works and Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith. But her heart did not begin to soften until she saw the gospel in action.
Mama and I had a long talk later that week. We hugged each other for the first time in years. Tears fell as we talked long into the night, and we again felt a closeness as mother and daughter.
Now, with three daughters, my husband and I live in the western United States, some three thousand kilometers apart from Mama, and I look forward to her telephone calls and letters. For that blessing in my life I have to thank Carol and Barbara, my visiting teachers. They had come to clean a house and cook a meal. But they had no way of knowing that they were mending hearts and healing wounds and putting a family relationship back together again.

As I casually peered out the window, an unexpected stomach spasm began at the sight of an all-too-familiar car pulling into our driveway. It shot from the pit of my stomach, tickling its way upward, stopping briefly to flip-flop my heart, then climaxed in my throat with a delighted scream. Matthew Conally was here! Actually here at my house! He was only the most coveted hero on campus. And he was actually here!
I began to run to the door, but just as I realized it wouldn’t look cool, I tripped, falling flat on my face, and from my now horizontal position, I had a horrifyingly realistic view of our living room floor. It was covered with blocks, Lincoln logs, doll clothes, doll furniture, a dollhouse, and among other things, that rotten Tonka truck I had just tripped over.
As I picked myself up, another unexpected spasm began. Only it began in my throat, draining all the moisture, and dropped downward until it landed with a painful thump in the pit of my stomach. The living room was a total disaster area! What kind of an impression would it make? Grabbing up an armful of coats, newspapers, and books, I relocated them into the next room. Next, I began kicking anything else that would fit into and under the sofa and then threw the cushions back into their natural position on top. As I ran past the window, I could see that Matthew was having a hard time climbing over the tricycles in the driveway. I dumped another quick load down the hall just as the doorbell rang. A final glance around the room revealed that I had cleared out most of the clutter.
Putting on my calmest smile and trying to concentrate all my 16 years into a look of maturity, I opened the door. Then there we were, face to face, Matthew Conally and me, his biggest fan.
“Well hi!” I said in my sweetest, most surprised voice.
“Hi. How are you?” came his refined reply.
“Just fine. Won’t you come in?” I most invitingly smiled back.
Matthew strolled through the door and handed me a book.
“Well, I just dropped by to bring you back your book. You left it in the car the other night. You know, the night I brought the gang home.”
“Oh, really? Gee, thanks for bringing it by. I was beginning to wonder where I had left it.” That was my coolest response yet, but I was letting my cool go too far. I knew darn well that I had left it on purpose as an excuse to see him again.
But of all times, why had he chosen this day to return it! The whole house was such a mess because I was in charge. Mother was in the hospital with a new baby. It was very evident that I wasn’t as organized as she. I watched Matthew’s puzzled expression as he looked around the room and into the kitchen. That was the worst spot in the whole house! Nothing in the kitchen was in its proper place. Aside from every dish, pot, and pan piled high in the sink, every box, package, mixing bowl, and canister was stacked on the counters.
With a crush like I had on Matthew, I knew enough about his life history to write a book. He was an only child, and it didn’t take much to know he’d never seen a mess like this one. Matthew was suddenly aware I was watching him. He calmly lifted his eyebrows and tried to explain.
“Oh, I, I was just wondering if, if I could have a drink of water.” He seemed pleased at his quick response.
“Sure,” I said, “but you’ll have to excuse the mess.” This seemed like the only natural thing to say. I reluctantly led him into the kitchen and was even further embarrassed to find that there weren’t any clean cups. Quickly I grabbed a clean bowl and filled it. Then I handed it to him with an apologetic smile.
“You’re lucky today,” I chuckled encouragingly, “sometimes it gets down to plates!” Matthew didn’t say anything. I was going to explain about Mom and the new baby and me being in charge of eight younger brothers and sisters, plus the house, when Kent and Steve came running into the kitchen chasing each other. They made it around our legs twice and over the kitchen table, throwing chairs for barricades. After they had made two more laps, I was furious and, without thinking, handed the baby I had rescued from the floor to Matthew and excused myself.
I ran after the boys, even though their size was in their favor. They darted around the furniture in the bedroom—over, under, through, and between. I finally caught two handfuls of hair and found, much to my delight, a brother attached to each. After threatening them with the termination of their lives, I returned to the living room, panting. There I found Matthew still holding little Jerry in the same position. He hadn’t moved an inch. It was obvious he didn’t know what to do with the baby. When he saw me, he quickly handed him back, giving Jerry a nasty little smile.
“What in the world is he wearing?” he asked.
“Oh … ah … it’s a towel. We’re all out of clean diapers.”
We sat down as I tried to explain about the circumstances.
“You see, the washing hasn’t been done yet. My mom is in the—” Again my explanation was interrupted. Matthew’s eyes suddenly grew terrified, and he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. Quickly I grabbed Jerry, prying his teeth away from Matthew’s arm. Little Jerry was teething and happened to like the feel of flesh against his sore little mouth. But Matthew didn’t understand.
“I think he likes you,” I told him reassuringly.
“And I think you’re right,” he replied as the baby once again squirmed his way back onto his lap. But this time, very much to Matthew’s relief, Jerry sat quietly, beaming his toothy grin. Then into the room came Kent and Steve and Lori and Cathy, dancing and singing, “Ginnie’s got a boyfriend! Ginnie’s got a boyfriend!” One glance at the look on my face, and they knew it was time to leave.
My anger and embarrassment were suddenly forgotten as I heard Matthew’s terrified voice announce, “I think he’s wet!” Again I quickly rescued Jerry from his lap. Jerry wasn’t wearing plastic pants and, boy, was Matthew soaked!
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Gosh, I’m sorry about all this.”
Matthew followed me down the hall. Then as I opened the door I found myself staring at another embarrassing mess! I had forgotten I had hung flannel sheets in place of towels on the racks. Again I was apologizing.
“I used all the towels as diapers!”
“What kind of a madhouse do you live in?” I was surprised to find his good looks fading away with his anger. “This place ought to be condemned!”
Matthew stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him as I began to apologize. The doorbell rang. I slowly walked down the hall back to the living room and sank down onto the sofa. I just couldn’t face anyone now.
The bathroom door swung angrily open. Out charged Matthew with a huge wet spot on his pants. It looked terrible. He said nothing, just stormed out of the house.
“My mom had a baby,” I quietly called after him. “It was a girl.”
The front door had been left open and in through it came Charlie. Good old Charlie Miller, the best piggyback-ride-giver and sidewalk-snow-shoveler in the neighborhood, with a smile big enough to make a pumpkin jealous.
“Hi, Ginnie! I rang the bell, but nobody answered. Hey, what’s wrong? What was Matthew Conally doing here?”
He sat down and listened as I told him about the whole horrible mess. Suddenly I was surprised to hear the sound of laughter. Charlie thought it was funny! And then I was laughing, too. We howled until we thought we’d break. The tears were rolling down my face from pure delight. How come everything suddenly seemed so funny?
Charlie had come over with a pie his mother had baked. But it was after he had changed Jerry’s diapers and was helping with the dishes that I realized he was truly something special. Quietly I slipped my name bracelet into his coat pocket—just in case he needed a reason to come back over.

I was worried. My Primary teacher had asked me to give a talk the next week in sharing time. “You could bear your testimony about prayer,” she had said. We had just talked about prayer in our class.
I had prayed many times. I always said my own prayers, and I often prayed during family prayer. I had prayed for blessings on the food many times too, and I had prayed in Primary before. But now I wasn’t sure I had a testimony of prayer or if I understood how prayer could help me. Does someone really hear me when I pray? I wondered.
I went to the kitchen, where my mother was getting dinner ready.
“Mama,” I said, “how can I bear my testimony of prayer when I’m not sure I have a testimony of it?”
Mama put her arm around me. “Why don’t you give a lesson about prayer in family home evening tomorrow, and we’ll talk about it together,” she said.
My mother helped me find stories and conference talks about prayer. Then I began to prepare for family home evening and for my Primary talk. I thought about it all day—at home, at school, and at soccer practice.
When I gave the lesson that night, Mama and Papa told me how prayer had helped them. I gave my Primary talk the next Sunday too, but I didn’t feel much different. I still wondered if I had a testimony of prayer. I prayed about my doubts, but the answer didn’t come right away.
One day my father came home after looking for work all day with no success. He was very sad. He had been out of work for many weeks. I ran to him and hugged him, as I always did.
“Don’t be sad, Papa,” I said. Then suddenly I felt something in my heart. “We need to pray,” I said.
“Right now?” Papa asked.
“Yes, right now,” I said. “I believe Heavenly Father will hear us.”
We knelt together and prayed, asking Heavenly Father to comfort us.
After the prayer we read the scriptures, as we did each night, and then sat together and talked. I noticed that little by little our sadness was replaced with the happiness we always had in our home. I felt different—as though we were safe and protected, and I knew that everything would be all right. It was a wonderful feeling.
Mama noticed it too. “Can you feel it, Lucas?” she asked quietly. “The Holy Ghost is comforting us, helping us know that we are not alone.”
“Yes, I feel it,” I said. I knew that Heavenly Father heard our prayer.
It was a night that I will never forget. Now I have my own testimony of the power of prayer.

Before I joined the Church, I was living with my parents in the Freeport area of Monrovia, Liberia. In April 2010, my father passed away and I went to stay with his brother who was a member of the Church. Before inviting me, my uncle told me that he wanted me to attend his Church and if I was satisfied with it, I could continue attending. If I was not satisfied, he would not force me to attend. The first day I attended church, I was a little bit confused because of the way they worshipped. Many people came around me and smiled, spoke to me and were very friendly. At other churches I did not feel that friendliness.
The missionaries started teaching me and taught me about the Book of Mormon. They asked me to read, pray and ponder about it and ask Heavenly Father if this book is true. I did that. Later, they asked me to be baptized and I said yes. I got baptized in May 2013. My mother was Muslim, and she loved the Church. She came to my baptism so she could witness it.
In 2019, I came back to live with my mom in Freeport. Until 2021, I did not know that the Church was in my area. When I found it, I started worshipping again. They gave me a position as the female representative and that helped me feel involved.
Ever since I joined the Church, my dream has been to serve a mission. I want to be a missionary. I want to bring souls to Christ. I want to help gather scattered Israel.
My mom always wanted me to be a missionary. She wanted me to serve a mission before her passing. She passed away April 26, 2022. My dad died in the same month, 2010. That April was a challenging time for me, and I would never have made it if it wasn’t for the grace of Almighty God.
I told myself that I wanted to go on a mission by the end of 2023. So, little by little, with the help of my bishop and close friends, I processed my paperwork. My friend told me “You said you wanted to go on a mission by the end of 2023 and your wish came to pass.” I told him “No, it was the will of my Heavenly Father, He planned it.”
There was a sister in my ward who was about to leave on mission. She knew the importance of temple work and started asking about information on my mom because she wanted to do the temple work for her. I kindly told her that I wanted to do it myself.
When I went to the missionary training center, with the help of my MTC president and his wife, President Lords and Sister Lords, I got to do the temple work for my parents and seal them together. I was so excited! Some people ask if I’m doing the right thing for my parents since they were not married. I want them to learn about the gospel where they are. Then, they can be happy forever. And after this life, I will be able to meet them again. That is something I look forward to.

Some time ago, I was on an airplane over the Colombian jungle of South America. I had been telling my seat companion about the Church. At one point in my enthusiastic gospel conversation, my friend commented, “You Mormons have surely built a magnificent shrine at Joseph Smith’s grave site.”
In surprise, I exclaimed, “What shrine—what grave site?”
He replied, “Why that tall building in Salt Lake City with the gold angel on top. Isn’t that a mausoleum or a shrine of some kind where you worship your prophet?” He was referring to the great Salt Lake Temple.
In dismay, I recognized his misunderstanding. No telling where it came from. I proceeded to correct the error, to the best of my ability.
I said to my friend, “Please allow me to explain that we definitely are Christians—we do worship God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ, and we do not worship any prophet or any saint—modern or of ancient times. We do not worship the Prophet Joseph Smith, although we love and honor him. But we never pray to him. In our doctrine, philosophy, and practice, he is not an intermediary of any kind, nor is any other prophet or saint. Christ alone is the advocate with the Father”—and I repeated for emphasis—“not Mary, not Joseph, not Peter, James, or John, not any of the ancient prophets like Adam, Moses, or Abraham. No modern prophet like Joseph Smith or Brigham Young is ever worshiped or prayed to.”
I went on further to explain that the temple in Salt Lake City is not to honor the Prophet Joseph, nor is he even buried there. To make my point that we do not worship our prophets, I said, “Please believe me when I say that we never make a pilgrimage to where the Prophet Joseph is buried; as a matter of fact, I do not even know where he is buried!”
This explanation of my not knowing where Joseph Smith is buried seemed to be the most dramatic kind of clarification my friend could have received. He was thoroughly astonished, but he could easily see that his understanding of our Church had been completely wrong. This turnabout then led to a conversation in which truths regarding how we do worship the Savior could be discussed easily and openly. The positive fact that we are practicing Christians was established.

Aurelia stood on the bank of the Mississippi River and looked back across it. Never before in her eleven-and-a-half years had she been west of the wide river, and now here she was in Iowa.
She shivered in the February cold and tucked one hand into her coat. With the other, she held George’s hand. He was only six and was her responsibility. Ellen, thirteen, and nine-year-old Catherine walked ahead with seven-year-old Howard; little Lucy rode in the wagon with Mama, who was still very sick. But Aurelia and George stood and looked back across the river to Nauvoo.
Nauvoo! How could they bear to leave their beautiful home? All was cold and gray across the river, but Aurelia remembered how the city had looked when she first saw it.
It was already a bustling, growing city when the Spencer family arrived. Thousands of people lived there, and more were coming every day. There were hundreds of log cabins and many brick homes. People were building, buying and selling, planting, working everywhere! Aurelia had never seen so many people—and most of them were Latter-day Saints.
Her family had rented a room until Papa could build a house for them. He had chosen a lot on a hill above the town, a little northeast of where the temple was being built.
Their lot, like most in Nauvoo, was big enough to plant a large garden and some fruit trees. Ellen and Aurelia had helped Papa plant the trees that first spring—peach and apple trees, Papa said, although they looked like twigs to Aurelia. She had asked Papa why he planted the tiny trees so far apart.
“They are small now,” he had said, “but if we want them to grow large and give fruit, they will need space to grow.” Aurelia had watched them grow until last year they had finally blossomed and borne fruit!
All of Nauvoo blossomed in the spring. The mud in the streets was deep enough to suck the boots right off your feet, but flowers and fruit trees bloomed in every yard. Aurelia wished she could see spring come to Nauvoo again. But the Prophet Joseph was dead, and soon his beautiful city would be deserted.
George had been too young to remember the first time he and Aurelia met the Prophet. Aurelia remembered it clearly. She had met a real, living prophet! He had come to their home to visit, and he limped very slightly when he walked, just like Papa! Papa told her later it was caused by the same illness that had caused his limp—typhus fever, which had settled in his leg.
Lucy was born there, and when Joseph saw her, he exclaimed, “Oh, what a little black head!” Even as a baby, Lucy’s hair was thick and dark. Joseph had laid his hand on Lucy’s head and blessed her. Aurelia had loved the Prophet from that moment. He was God’s own prophet and the most important man in Nauvoo, yet he loved little children and liked to be with them.
Aurelia shivered as she remembered the terrible day two years later, when Joseph and his brother Hyrum were killed by a mob in the nearby town of Carthage. Aurelia could scarcely believe that anyone could be so wicked as to kill a kind man like the Prophet.
Aurelia’s Papa had taken her to the Mansion House to see Joseph’s body. A great crowd was there, all crying and crowding to look. Aurelia couldn’t see, so Papa had lifted her up to the window from where she could see Brother Joseph one last time. That had been nearly two years ago.
Things had been hard since Joseph’s death. Nauvoo wasn’t allowed to use its police force, so bad men did what they wanted. They burned farms outside town and caused trouble in Nauvoo. Then some of the Latter-day Saint boys formed the “Whittling and Whistling Brigade.” When one of the bad men came to town, the boys followed him everywhere, whistling and whittling pieces of wood with their pocketknives. There were too many boys for the man to fight, and they wouldn’t let him out of their sight long enough for him to do anything bad, so finally he would leave and look for mischief someplace else. Howard and George couldn’t wait to join the brigade, but they were only six and four then, and Mama wouldn’t let them use her knives to learn to whittle. They practiced whistling, however. Finally, though, even the brave boys couldn’t keep the bad men away.
Aurelia squeezed George’s hand and pointed to show him the temple across the river. Even on this cold, gray day, the tall building seemed to shine on the hill. She remembered when its roof had caught fire one day. She lived only a block away and had run with a bucket of water to help fight the fire. It had been put out, and work on the temple had continued. Just two months ago, Mama and Papa had gone to the temple to be sealed together. Mama said that that was the hardest part of leaving Nauvoo—leaving the temple they’d worked so hard to build. It still wasn’t quite finished. “Heaven only knows when we’ll have a temple again,” Mama had said. “We’ve been blessed to have this one.”
Aurelia looked to the left of the temple to see if their house was visible from here. She couldn’t see it. But she did see Mary Ann Stearn’s house. Mary Ann and her cousin Ellen Pratt were Aurelia’s best friends. They had gone to school together and played together. Aurelia stared at Mary Ann’s house, but she knew that Mary Ann wasn’t there. She, too, was going west with her family. Aurelia wondered if they’d meet again on the way to the Rocky Mountains. Oh, she hoped so! It was hard leaving everything and everyone to travel to a strange land. Why shouldn’t the bad men have to leave instead? It wasn’t fair to be forced to leave friends, homes, gardens, orchards, the temple!
Thinking of Mary Ann made Aurelia remember something else. At the last general conference, in October, Mary Ann’s stepfather, Parley P. Pratt had spoken to the Saints. People had crowded into the temple to listen. Elder Pratt spoke about how hard the Saints had worked to build a beautiful city and temple and how hard it was to leave it all behind. But the Lord had other plans for this people, Elder Pratt had said. He explained that a small nursery could produce many thousands of fruit trees, but that as they grew, they must be transplanted. They need room to grow if they are to produce fruit. He promised that the Lord had a place for the Saints to grow, where they wouldn’t be crowded and where they would enjoy liberty and equal rights.
Aurelia knew that it was true. She thought of those tiny twigs of fruit trees she and Ellen and Papa had planted. She had seen them grow and blossom and produce sweet fruit. It was hard to leave Nauvoo, but it was time to be transplanted to a place where she and her family and all the Saints could grow strong and bloom.
Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.

A few years ago I had another experience with finishing in another Spanish church. I was admiring a display of medieval Bibles at the cathedral in Burgos. One copy—as old as San Justo—stood out. Like most of the other artifacts on display, this Bible was a stunning example of artful calligraphy and brilliant illustrations. What caught my eye was the Bible’s final leaf, on which the copyist and the illustrator had drawn self-portraits. Their backs were curved and their hands withered from arthritis. The drawings told us that finishing this volume of scripture literally cost them their lives. Their “waiting” transformed imperfect bodies into this perfect book—their flesh made Word. They had lived out Paul’s promise: “Ye are manifestly declared to be the epistle of Christ . . . , written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God; not in tables of stone, but in fleshy tables of the heart” (2 Corinthians 3:3; emphasis added). I think often of my medieval brothers. Their devotion inspires me. The perfection of their offering stands in contrast to the unfinished panel at San Justo—a reminder that, left alone, even my best efforts will always be incomplete.

I am reminded of a story about a missionary call which you may find of interest and which shows how the inspiration of the Lord directs his work. I could give you a dozen. But on one occasion, after the letters of call had been sent to a group of missionaries, the executive secretary of the Missionary Department received a telephone call from the mother of a boy who had received an assignment to a mission in the eastern part of the United States. The mother said that she and the father of the boy were extremely disappointed because the boy’s father and grandfather had served missions in Germany, and they had expressed their desires that the boy also be called to a German mission.

The secretary asked the mother how the boy felt about it, and she replied that he was at school and that she had opened the letter in his absence. He did not yet know where he was to be called. The secretary expressed his surprise that the mother would open the only letter the boy might ever receive from the President of the Church and suggested that she call him back after the boy had read the letter.

The following day the mother called back most apologetically and said that the boy’s reaction was one of complete satisfaction with the call. He had secretly been praying that he would not be called to a foreign mission.