Gospel Story Finder

I grew up in a very loving family, and my whole life was centered around the gospel of Jesus Christ. I was first assistant in the priests quorum, and I served a mission. Shortly after returning home from my mission, I was arrested for a very serious crime. I was sentenced to 15 years in prison and excommunicated from the Church. As I sit here thinking of the many mistakes I made in life, I am now getting my life back together. Each month I receive the New Era, and I learn from each article I read. I use them in my daily walk in life, and they help me and lift me in times of despair.
Name Withheld

Just after my baptism on 31 October 1980, a friend invited me to a ward party. I said to myself, This Church is nice; they even throw a party for me. I later realized I wasn’t really the guest of honor. But at the party my friend introduced me to a young woman and told her to take good care of me. Annie Ortiz was indeed a good fellowshipper. At this time, she is still taking good care of me. We were married in 1985 and sealed in the Manila Philippines Temple.

Teddy pounded up the stairs and right past Cecil. “What’s up?” yelled Cecil as his big brother ran by. Teddy didn’t answer, so Cecil followed him into the bedroom, where Teddy was already shaking his robot bank as hard as he could. A nickel fell out, and the rattling stopped.
“Rats,” said Teddy.
“Rats, what?” asked Cecil.
“A nickel’s no good.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Cecil. “I wouldn’t mind having a nickel. I’d give it to Freddy Jackson so he’d let me play with his toad. Did you know that toads don’t really give you warts?”
“I’m not interested in warts,” said Teddy. “Or toads. I’m interested in Mother’s Day.”
“Mother’s Day? I’d rather talk about toads. Did you know—”
“Listen a minute, will you?” interrupted Teddy. “Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. We need to get a present for Mom, and all I have is a crummy nickel!” Teddy looked at his brother. “Cecil, old pal,” he said, “you’ll help me out, won’t you? After all, who’s your best friend if it isn’t your own brother?”
“Freddy Jackson,” Cecil answered promptly. “He lets me play with his toad.”
“Listen, Cecil, this isn’t for me; it’s for Mom. Maybe I’m not your best friend, but she’s a good mom, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” agreed Cecil. “She is. So what do you want?”
“Money for a present, of course,” said Teddy. “How much do you have?”
“None,” Cecil answered.
“None? What about that dollar you earned last week?”
“Gone.”
“Already? What did you do with it?”
“Ten cents for tithing and fifty cents for ice cream that I just happened to share with my big brother.” Cecil looked hard at Teddy.
“Oh, yeah,” said Teddy, scuffing his toe on the carpet. “I forgot about that. But that still leaves forty cents.”
Cecil shook his head. “Twenty-five cents for a glider. The one you accidently stepped on.”
“Oh,” said Teddy, scuffing his toe harder. “Sorry about that. But what about the last fifteen cents?”
“Three turns with Freddy Jackson’s toad,” answered Cecil. “Have you ever seen a toad catch flies? He sticks out his tongue and—”
“So all we have is a lousy nickel,” interrupted Teddy. “What can we get Mom with a nickel?”
“Well …” Cecil said. Suddenly his face brightened. “Hey! Maybe she’d like to play with Freddy Jackson’s toad.”
“You have to be joking,” said Teddy. “Now think!” He paced around the room with his face all scrunched up, thinking.
After a minute Cecil said, “Maybe we could earn some money.”
“But it’s already Saturday afternoon,” Teddy pointed out. “By the time we earn any money, the stores will all be closed. And Mother’s Day is tomorrow.”
“Maybe we could cut some flowers from the garden,” suggested Cecil.
“Oh, great,” said Teddy. “I’m sure Mom would just love a present she grew herself. You’re full of wonderful ideas, aren’t you?”
“At least I’m trying,” said Cecil. “I don’t hear much coming from you.”
Now both boys were pacing the floor.
“Hey!” Teddy yelped a couple minutes later, stopping so suddenly that Cecil ran into him. “I do have an idea! Listen.” He bent over and whispered into Cecil’s ear.
Cecil’s forehead wrinkled while he thought. Finally he smiled. “Not bad,” he said, “but we’ll have to keep it a secret. A secret Mother’s Day present.”
The next morning Cecil woke up, hopped out of bed, and jumped on top of Teddy. “Good morning!” he said loudly, right in his brother’s ear.
“Good morning, yourself,” muttered Teddy as he tried to roll over to go back to sleep. Cecil hit him with a pillow. Teddy laughed, and the boys wrestled until all the covers were on the floor. When Teddy stopped laughing enough to talk, he said, “Do you remember our secret present for Mom?”
“Yup,” said Cecil.
“This is going to be fun,” said Teddy.
“Yup,” said Cecil.
“Is ‘Yup’ all you can say?” asked Teddy.
“Yup.”
The boys washed, dressed for church, and straightened their room. They were making breakfast when Mom walked into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are you boys up already? And washed and dressed and even making breakfast? What’s the occasion?”
“Why, nothing,” said Cecil, setting the table as casually as if he had done it every day of his life.
After breakfast the boys did the dishes. Then the family went to church. Teddy and Cecil sat quietly all through the meetings. Cecil didn’t even giggle when Freddy Jackson passed him a picture he had drawn of a toad that looked like Teddy.
On the way home Mom said to Dad, “Did you ever see two better-behaved boys in church?”
“Never,” agreed Dad.
Teddy and Cecil smiled at each other.
As soon as they got home, the boys changed into playclothes and put away their Sunday clothes. “Now,” said Teddy, “I’ll set the table while you help Mom in the kitchen.”
“OK,” said Cecil.
“And remember,” Teddy warned, “don’t give away our secret.”
“Who, me?” said Cecil as he ran downstairs.
During dinner, the boys were very polite. They said, “please” and “thank you” and ate all their vegetables. No one spilled anything or argued or teased. Finally Mom asked if they were feeling all right.
“Of course,” said Teddy.
“We’re fine,” said Cecil. “By the way, we’ll wash the dishes, Mom.”
“Now I know they’re sick!” Dad said with a laugh.
That evening Dad came into the family room, where Mom was reading. “I think you’d better look at something,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mom, jumping up quickly.
“Nothing, I just want you to see this. I think it’s a Mother’s Day present.”
Mom and Dad walked into the living room. In the middle of the floor was a bumpy-looking mound covered by a striped sheet with a bow on top.
“What on earth … ,” Mom began.
“I told you,” Dad said. “A Mother’s Day present.”
Just then something under the sheet squirmed.
“A squirmy Mother’s Day present,” said Mom.
Then something giggled.
“A squirmy, giggly Mother’s Day present,” said Dad.
Then something else went, “Sssh!”
“A squirmy, giggly, sssh-y Mother’s Day present,” said Mom. “This I must see.”
She pulled off the sheet. Teddy and Cecil were huddled together on the floor, grinning.
“Surprise!” they said together. “Happy Mother’s Day! We’re your Mother’s Day present,” said Teddy, “the two good boys you always want us to be. Today we did everything we could to be good and make you happy. Aren’t we a good present?”
“The best I’ve ever had,” said Mom, giving them both a hug.

Kristin: “The first time I felt totally alone—isolated by the fact that my husband is not a member of the Church—was the day our first baby was blessed. Shortly before the meeting began, the ward clerk handed me a small card to fill out. Most of the questions were routine, but one made my heart leap to my throat: Had my baby been ‘born in [the] covenant’?

“Suddenly all my faith, activity, and service in the Church seemed very inadequate. I had failed, it seemed—failed myself and my innocent child. I have never felt so empty as when I checked the small box that said ‘no.’”

I remember just after I joined the Church, a great feeling of confidence came over me. I felt that since I had chosen the Lord’s side, he was on my side. Several remarkable things happened, of which I will recount but two.

Although I had never had the courage to stand on my feet and speak in debate, either at high school or college, I found myself asking my branch president if I might give a talk in sacrament meeting. I still have the notes of that very first talk. It was on faith and works.

A few months after my baptism, a golden opportunity presented itself at my place of work, where I was a management trainee. Again, I had that strong feeling of self-assurance, and I received my first promotion, which set my feet on the management ladder. I found that through my Church membership and the faith it engendered, I overcame the fear of taking responsibility.

What of marriage responsibility? Are there some who delay marriage for fear of the responsibility? When my wife and I were married, we had the magnificent sum of 20 English pounds between us. Although young, we felt ready for the challenges and responsibilities that we knew lay ahead. What a glorious experience it has been now for almost 40 years to shoulder responsibility and struggle together in building a happy home and a wonderful family of ten precious children.

From time to time I meet members of the Church who do not feel able to take responsibility as an officer or a teacher in the Church. I tell them of my experience in England. Literally within days of baptism, I was called to head the youth program in the Nottingham Branch. This was completely new to me, and I felt inadeqate, but I knew the Lord had need of me. There were less than 7,000 members in the whole of the British Isles where there are now 40 stakes. We all had to be “anxiously engaged” in the work of saving souls, building the kingdom, and establishing Zion. So it is with all of us. It is futile to fear responsibility when we have been called to serve “by prophecy, and by the laying on of hands by those who are in authority” (A of F 1:5).

Last summer when I traveled from the United States to Orkney, one of Scotland’s northern islands, I learned strangers are only friends you haven’t met yet. When my group visited the small branch in the main city of Kirkwall, we more than doubled the attendance numbers from the usual 5 to 11. At the end of sacrament meeting, the branch president asked my friends and me to bear our testimonies.
As I stood in that small room so far from home, I felt the unity of the gospel family surround me, and I felt the Spirit testify to me of the truthfulness of the gospel. Their strength in living the gospel, even when so many around them did not, amazed me. These five members came faithfully to church each week just as I did at home, showing that they knew how precious the gospel is. They knew the importance of unity in the gospel and of keeping each other strong. As I bore my testimony, I realized what an example these members were to me in showing me love and how to be a faithful Latter-day Saint. I was so grateful for the Spirit testifying of the importance of the gospel to me and that so many around the world had the strength to live the gospel.

I have been waiting for the ice-cream truck to come down my street for a long time. Finally, one Sunday I heard the music right by my house. I was so excited, and I ran to get my money to buy an ice-cream bar. My mom reminded me that it was the Sabbath day and that we do not shop on Sunday. We keep it holy. I asked the ice-cream man if he could come back to my street on a Saturday, and he said, “OK.” I felt good that I kept Sunday special.
Holden C., age 6, Arkansas, USA

Yu stepped out of cram school onto the busy sidewalk. His head was full of math facts from his after-school class. People hurried by with umbrellas. Fat raindrops were falling fast, and the street was soaked.

Yu’s friend, Lin, stepped out beside him. “You should call your dad to pick you up,” Lin said. “Mr. Zhang says it’s flooding in some parts of the city.”

“I can get home on my own.”

“But look at all the water!” Lin said, pointing to the water flowing swiftly in the gutter.

For a moment, Yu had a funny feeling. Was Lin right? Maybe he should call Dad to drive him home before the streets flooded. But he and Dad had an argument last night, and Yu was still angry. He didn’t want to ask Dad for help.

Yu unchained his bike and said goodbye to Lin. If I pedal hard, he thought, I can make it home before the streets flood.

He pedaled hard, but soon his hands were cold, his clothes were soaked, and he was exhausted. Once again, the thought came to call Dad. Was the feeling from the Holy Ghost? The missionaries who baptized him had said that the Holy Ghost could be his guide. Yu glanced at the sky. It was so grey that he couldn’t see the tops of the buildings. But he was still mad at Dad.

Yu ignored the feeling and kept pedaling. The water got so high that shop owners closed their stores. People moved belongings to higher floors. Yu saw a mother push her two children through the flood in a little plastic boat.

With the water now past his ankles, Yu could no longer pedal his bike. He got off and pushed. It was probably too late to call Dad now, and the rain was still coming down. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed above him. Yu felt afraid. And he was so tired! He looked ahead. Home was still far away. He shouldn’t have ignored the Holy Ghost just because of a silly argument.

Yu stopped to say a short prayer. He couldn’t hear his voice above the rain and thunder, but he knew that Heavenly Father could hear him.

“Heavenly Father,” Yu prayed. “Please help me get home safely.” When he finished, he felt enough strength to keep going.

At last, Yu could see his house on the hill. Cold, tired, and somehow missing a shoe, Yu trudged up the hill. He saw Dad waiting for him outside. Dad rushed down the hill to meet him, splashing water as he ran.

When Dad reached him, he put his arms around Yu. “I was so worried!” Dad said. “You should have called me!”

“I thought we were mad at each other,” Yu said.

“I am never too mad to help you,” Dad said. Then he took Yu’s bike and pushed it the rest of the way up the hill.

Even with thunder echoing between the tall buildings and heavy rain pelting down, a warm feeling filled Yu’s heart. He felt peace and safety as he followed Dad home.

It was twilight on a cold and rainy October day in 1968, and I was riding my bicycle home from work in Copenhagen, Denmark. My husband was in Canada on an assignment at that time, and I was alone with two children, a boy ten and a girl seven years old.
On my way home I had to cross a very busy four-lane road with a bicycle lane. For safety, I had made it a habit to get off my bike and walk it across the intersection. On this particular day I got halfway across the street and stopped in the middle to let the cars go by. A small car stopped in the lane to my right, and the driver signaled for me to cross. A big truck stopped in the lane beside the small car, and the truck driver also signaled to me, so I continued across the street. Just as I passed the truck I saw a Volkswagen coming toward me, illegally in the bicycle lane, at full speed. There was no time for me to escape, either backward or forward.
In that split second, countless thoughts of my children, my husband, my widowed mother, and my job flashed through my mind, and I prayed more fervently than ever before: “Please, dear Lord, whatever happens—spare my life.”
The car hit the bicycle, slamming the handlebars into the left side of my body. As I lay helpless in the road, I could barely breathe because of the pain, but I didn’t lose consciousness. When I turned my head, I saw the Volkswagen’s tire only an inch away. I looked at my bicycle, which had been thrown several feet by the collision. It now looked half its original size.
I was certain that I had experienced a miracle. The tire couldn’t have been any closer, yet it had not crushed my head. I felt that an invisible hand had stopped it right there. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I thanked Heavenly Father for saving my life.
I lay in the road waiting for the ambulance. What would the children think when I didn’t come for them? Would I be in time to call the day-care center from the emergency room before it closed? Who could I contact? I hardly knew my neighbors because of a busy schedule, and members of my ward were some distance away.
At the busy emergency room, the staff wouldn’t let me use the telephone before they had taken an X-ray. The nurses were too busy to make the call for me. It was four hours before the police officers came to make a written report of the accident.
For the five longest hours of my life I was kept in the hospital with a number of people helping me. Still, I felt that only Heavenly Father was able to give me the help I really needed. For the first time in my life I found myself unceasingly praying about my only concern—two small and lonely children.
“Please tell them I’m all right,” I prayed. “Let them have peace of mind so that they won’t panic, and give them patience. Please tell them what to do.” I felt the presence of the Holy Ghost, and an all-embracing peace filled my mind—the same feeling I prayed my children would receive.
Finally, the doctor told me that except for my painfully bruised ribs, I was as good as new, and he let me go. The two policemen offered me a ride home, and we arrived at my apartment building at 10:15 that night.
Two small, tired children walked hand in hand in the dark toward the police car. “Mom, where have you been? What happened to you? How come it’s so late? Why did the police drive you home?” they asked, as soon as we were safely in the apartment.
I explained, and asked, “How did you get home?”
My son said, “We couldn’t understand why you didn’t come to pick us up, but we thought you might be late from work, so we walked home. It started to get dark, but we couldn’t get in because we haven’t got a key.
“I didn’t know what to do, but all of a sudden I thought we should pray about it. So we knelt on the doormat while I said a prayer. We sat without talking for a little while after the prayer, as you taught us to do, and then a nice thing happened to me.
“I felt a big, warm hand touching the top of my head, and I heard a friendly voice saying, ‘Your mother is well, she has been taken care of. It will be a while before she comes home, and it will be all dark outside, but just stay calm. Take your little sister by the hand and stay near the apartment and play peacefully. If you do, the time will go by quickly until your mother is with you again.’
“When I looked up to see who was talking to me, I couldn’t see anybody, and no more was said. I felt calm.”

Last year, our very first nephew, Nathan, left to serve a mission in Mexico. We explained to our children that Nathan was in the MTC to learn Spanish. One evening we decided to devote a family home evening night to writing letters to him. Although we were helping the youngest, all of the other children were writing independently. At one point, Stephen, age 7, asked, “How do you spell ‘empty?’” We thought nothing of it at the time, but later as we were reviewing what the kids had written, we saw this question in Stephen’s letter: “Dear Nathan, what do you do in the empty sea?”—Meredith J., Colorado

Starting about two years ago it seemed that my younger sister and I just couldn’t get along. Then, gradually, everything my little brothers did bothered me, too. Soon, every time I would see any of them, I would almost immediately say “Go away.” Sometimes I would be patient, but it didn’t seem to last long.
We have a family tradition that on every birthday, we say things we like about the person whose birthday it is. On my last birthday my five-year-old brother, Lucas, said, “Well, I like Anna because sometimes she is nice to me.” That hurt. I wondered why it was so easy for me to get along with my friends and so hard for me to get along with my family.
As a family we are always reading a good book together. The book we were reading during this time was The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis. It’s the story of a “devil-in-training” and the letters of advice he receives from his boss, who is named Screwtape. One night we read this advice from Screwtape: “Let him think if he ever meets a German he will be kind to him; but his neighbors, the people he associates with every day, let the little things about them annoy him.” I was in a hurry that day and didn’t really think about what I had read until later. Then I started thinking about the people that I associate with every day. Of course the first people that came to my mind were the members of my family. I tried to put the thought aside, but it immediately came back. I realized that that was how Satan was working on me. He was getting me to think about everything that bothers me about the people I live with, so that I would prefer being with my friends over being with my family. I knew that I was impatient with my brothers and sister way too often. So I set a goal to be kinder to them. On my next birthday, I would love to hear someone say, “I like Anna because she is always so nice to me.”
In my nightly prayers I pray that I might have the courage to withstand the temptation to lose my temper. I still lose my patience, but with Heavenly Father’s help I have been doing a lot better.

One such family with four young children writes: “We decided to start small because of our children’s short attention spans. Our oldest child was not yet reading, but she could repeat our words, so we began reading the Book of Mormon, just three verses each night. My husband and I would read one verse each, and then Sydney would repeat a verse. We progressed to four verses and then five verses as the boys began to repeat their own verses. Yes, it was tedious, but we kept going. We tried to focus on consistency instead of speed. It took us three and a half years to finish the Book of Mormon. It was a great feeling of accomplishment!”

The mother continues: “Daily family scripture reading is a habit in our family now. Our children are comfortable with scriptural language, and my husband and I take opportunity to bear testimony of truths. Most important, the Spirit has increased in our home.”

The Wolfgramms took their Polynesian show on the road and traveled all over the United States and Canada. When they got a full-time offer from a Hawaiian hotel chain in Minneapolis, Minnesota, they packed their bags and moved. Minneapolis was about as far removed from Tonga as it could possibly be, but the Wolfgramms liked it there and contributed to the local ward as well as to the local entertainment industry.
They were devastated when the hotel chain they were working with went out of business. For several months the family of fifteen lived in the hotel owners’ basement. They decided that it would be more profitable to switch from Polynesian to popular music, and they began traveling in an old, uninsulated van, to whatever playing engagements they could arrange. “The van didn’t have any seats,” Leroy recalls, “and we sat in chairs against the sides. Sometimes we traveled in temperatures forty degrees below freezing, and there would be ice on the roof—on the inside.”
Finally, however, their efforts and dedication paid off. Don Powell, an entertainment industry expert who had managed some leading performing groups in the 1960s and 70s, heard them play. He had retired from entertainment because the industry had become “so bizarre,” but when he heard the Wolfgramms, he became interested again.
“The reason I reentered this business was literally because of this family,” says Don, who had had very little contact with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints before he met the Wolfgramms. “The whole family is so loving and bright, and talented, I couldn’t help getting involved. And we’ll never have problems with drugs or alcohol or anything like that, as you do with so many entertainers. It’s absolute heaven to manage them.”
With the resultant success, every minute of every day is packed full of performances, personal appearances, interviews, recording and photography sessions, but a Monday doesn’t go by without a family home evening. If they happen to be on the road on any given Monday, the stage crew is invited, and a lot of missionary work is done at these times.

In 1898, President Wilford Woodruff recounted an experience he had as a new member in 1834 at a priesthood meeting in Kirtland. He related: “The Prophet called on all who held the Priesthood to gather into the little log school house they had there. It was a small house, perhaps 14 feet [4.3 m] square. … When we got together the Prophet called upon the Elders of Israel … to bear testimony of this work. … When they got through the Prophet said, ‘Brethren I have been very much edified and instructed in your testimonies here tonight, but I want to say to you before the Lord, that you know no more concerning the destinies of this Church and kingdom than a babe upon its mother’s lap. You don’t comprehend it. … It is only a little handfull of Priesthood you see here tonight, but this Church will fill North and South America—it will fill the world.’”

That winter, the nine apostles in Winter Quarters and the surrounding settlements counseled together often. During these meetings, the future of the quorum weighed heavily on Brigham’s mind. On the journey back from the Salt Lake Valley, the Spirit had revealed to Brigham that the Lord wanted the Twelve to reorganize the First Presidency so that the apostles could be free to proclaim the gospel of Jesus Christ throughout the world.14
Brigham had long been reluctant to speak to the quorum about the subject. He understood that his responsibilities as president of the Twelve set him apart from the other apostles, giving him authority to receive revelation for the quorum and everyone within its stewardship.
But he also understood that he could not act alone. The Lord had revealed in 1835 that the Twelve were to make decisions unanimously or not at all. By divine direction, the apostles were supposed to act “in all righteousness, in holiness, and lowliness of heart” when making decisions. If they were going to do anything as a quorum, they would need to come together in unity and harmony.15
On November 30, Brigham finally spoke to the quorum about reorganizing the First Presidency, certain that it was the Lord’s will to move forward. Orson Pratt immediately questioned the need for change. “I would like to see the Twelve hold together perfectly and unitedly,” he said.
Orson believed that the Twelve could lead the Church in the absence of a First Presidency because a revelation had declared the two quorums to be equal in authority. The prophet Joseph Smith had also taught that a majority of the Twelve could make authoritative decisions when a full quorum was not present. For Orson, this meant that seven apostles could stay at Church headquarters to govern the Saints while the remaining five took the gospel to the nations.16
Brigham listened to Orson, but he disagreed with his conclusion. “Which is better,” Brigham asked, “to untie the feet of the Twelve and let them go to the nations, or always keep seven at home?”
“It is my feeling,” said Orson, “there should not be a three-member First Presidency, but the Twelve be the First Presidency.”17
As Orson and Brigham spoke, Wilford turned the matter over in his mind. He was willing to sustain a new First Presidency if it was the Lord’s revealed will. But he also worried about the consequences of a change. If three of the Twelve formed a First Presidency, would three new apostles be called to take their place in the quorum? And how would the reorganization of the presidency affect the role of the Twelve in the Church?
For now, he wanted the Twelve to continue as they were. Splitting up the quorum would feel like severing a body in two.18
A short time later, Brigham met with eight other apostles at the home of Orson Hyde, who had returned from his mission in England. “I want to have a decision,” he said. “From the time I had been in Great Salt Lake City till now, the tappings of the Spirit to me is, the Church ought to be now organized.” He testified that the quorum needed to sustain a First Presidency to govern the Church so the apostles could lead missionary efforts abroad.
“I want every man to go with the conviction of the Lord. Just learn which way that the Lord goes and go with that,” he counseled. “An elder who resists the current of the Spirit will spit in his own face.”
Heber Kimball and Orson Hyde agreed that it was time to reorganize the First Presidency. But Orson Pratt once again expressed concern. He worried that the First Presidency would not seek advice from the Quorum of the Twelve and that the Twelve might also defer too quickly to the presidency’s authority, accepting its decisions before thinking through matters themselves. The Church had functioned well enough under the Twelve, he reasoned. Why change now?28
Brigham asked to hear the thoughts of each of the quorum members present. When his turn came, Wilford Woodruff shared his hesitations about creating a First Presidency, but he expressed his willingness to align his will with God’s. “Our president seems to be moved upon by the Spirit,” he said. “He stands between us and God, and I for one don’t want to tie his hands.”29
“I don’t want to see this quorum divided,” George A. Smith said next. He wished to delay his decision until he was certain of the mind of God, but he was open to change. “If it’s the will of the Lord that this course should be taken,” he declared, “I’ll twist myself to it.”
“My feelings are precisely like yours,” said Brigham. “I would not be divided in our feelings or separated no more than you would.” Still, he knew the Lord’s will. “It is in me like seven thunders rolling,” he declared. “God has brought us where we are, and we have got to do it.”30
Amasa Lyman and Ezra Benson, the two newest apostles, agreed with him. “I want to help with the Quorum of the Twelve,” Ezra said, “and I mean to stick to Brother Brigham.” He compared himself to a machine in a mill, ever ready to serve its function. He said he was perfectly willing to have the First Presidency lead him as the Lord saw fit.
“Amen!” said several apostles.
Orson Pratt stood. “I don’t consider we should act as machines,” he said. “If we are to be governed in all cases in that way, we have no room in the least degree to look at a thing in this light.”31
“It’s of importance now to organize the Church,” Brigham told Orson. “What we have done is a mere patching to what we have to do. If you tie us up, we can’t do anything.”32
Brigham’s words hung over the room, and the Holy Ghost was poured out upon the apostles. Orson knew what Brigham had said was true.33 The apostles brought the question of reorganization to a vote, and each member of the quorum raised his hand to sustain Brigham Young as the president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“I suggest that Brother Young appoint his two counselors tonight,” said Orson.34
Three weeks later, on December 27, 1847, about a thousand Saints from settlements along the Missouri River gathered for a special conference. They had built a log tabernacle for the occasion on the east side of the river at a place later called Kanesville. The building was larger than any cabin in the area, but it could not hold everyone who wanted to attend.
Inside, the Saints sat shoulder to shoulder on hard log benches. Though the winter had been intensely cold so far, when the Saints arrived at the log tabernacle the weather was unseasonably pleasant. The day before, Heber Kimball had promised them that if they attended the meeting, they would have one of their best days ever and a fire would be lit that would never go out.35
On a platform at the front of the room, the apostles sat with the Winter Quarters high council. The meeting opened with singing and prayer, followed by sermons from some of the apostles and other Church leaders. Orson Pratt spoke about the importance of the First Presidency.
“The time has come when the Twelve must have their hands liberated to go to the ends of the earth,” Orson said, certain now of the Lord’s will. “If there is no First Presidency, it confines the Twelve too much to one place.” Reorganizing the presidency, he testified, allowed the Church to turn its eyes to the distant parts of the earth, where thousands of people could be waiting for the gospel.36
After the sermons, it was proposed that Brigham Young be sustained as president of the Church. The Saints then raised their hands in unison to sustain him. Taking the stand, Brigham proposed that Heber Kimball and Willard Richards be sustained as his counselors.
“This is one of the happiest days of my life,” he told the Saints. The road ahead would not be easy, but as the Saints’ leader, he would dedicate himself completely to fulfilling the Lord’s will.
“I will do right,” he promised. “As He dictates, so I will perform.”37

“Here are all the sego lily bulbs I could find today,” Shaquana said, carefully untying a pouch to reveal seventeen of the small roots. “They’re getting mighty scarce.”
“You did fine, dear,” her mother replied. “I’ll take them inside and get supper started. You go on out and help your pa with the watering.”
As Shaquana turned to go, her mother stopped her. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Quana.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Shaquana said, walking toward the field. When she saw that her mother had gone inside, her steps slowed and her shoulders drooped in weariness. She was hungry. Her bare feet were cracked and bleeding. Her dress was so threadbare that it wouldn’t take another washing.
Haven’t we suffered enough, Heavenly Father? she prayed silently. We’ve been mobbed. We crossed the country in a wagon. Ma lost two babies. We’ve done all that was asked of us, and yet now we’re facing a drought and everyone is so hungry. Please help us!
Seeing her father, Shaquana straightened her shoulder and tried to look strong.
“There you are,” her father said. “What kept you?”
“I had to go much farther for segos today, Pa.” She took a dipperful of water from the barrel and gently poured it on one of the plants. Each one had to be watered by hand so that not a single drop of precious water would be wasted. No one knew how bad the drought would be this spring of 1848.
“If this keeps up, are we going to make it?” she asked.
“God will provide, Shaquana,” Pa said. “We must have faith.”
“You, Ma, and the Elders all keep saying that, but things just get worse.”
Shaquana’s father patted her shoulder. “Yes, it is hard right now. Everyone is hungry, and clothes are wearing thin. We all need to muster as much faith as we can. Heavenly Father loves each of us. We’ve obeyed His commandments, and He will take care of us.”
Shaquana had always loved these talks with her father. He had such solid faith, no matter what trials came their way. Lately Shaquana’s faith had clashed head-on with her hunger and exhaustion.
As she was watering the last plant, she looked toward the foothills. The darkest cloud she’d ever seen was coming their way. “Look, Pa, rain’s on its way!”
Her father’s face paled as he looked at the dark mass moving quickly toward them. “That’s not rain! Go get your mother and some gunnysacks. Hurry!”
As Shaquana began to run, crickets descended from the sky in droves. She felt them squish under her feet.
“Ma, come quick!” she yelled when she was near enough to be heard over the deafening sound of the crickets. Grabbing some gunnysacks and sticks, she followed her mother back to the field, where they tried to beat the crickets off the crops.
Hour after hour they flailed at the insects, praying all the while for deliverance from them.
“How can we win?” Shaquana cried. “We kill some, and more take their place! It’s hopeless.”
“You go get something to eat and some rest, Quana,” Pa said. “You’ve worked long into the night. We can fight them again in the morning.”
Shaquana nodded and obeyed. “Oh, Heavenly Father,” she prayed before falling into exhausted slumber, “why aren’t we getting any help?”
Each day was the same. They beat back the crickets and prayed. Shaquana was so tired that at night she’d sob herself to sleep. I wish we’d never left our nice home back east and come here, she thought constantly.
They heard from the Elders that the crickets were infesting the entire Salt Lake Valley.
Sunday morning Shaquana slowly got out of bed. She dressed and picked up her gunnysack.
“Not today,” said Pa, “It’s the Sabbath. We’re going to church and hear Brother Charles C. Rich speak.”
“Church? Oh, Pa, I just can’t go sit in church as if all is well. I’m sorry—I just can’t.” Shaquana ran to her bed, flung herself across it, and sobbed.
Pa sat on the edge of her bed and patted her back. “That’s it, Quana, let it out. Maybe you should stay home today and sleep. I like the family in church together, but this once you stay and rest.”
After her parents left, she lay on her bed and prayed aloud, “Heavenly Father, why hast Thou forsaken us? I don’t understand anymore. I’m so hungry and tired, I just don’t …” Before she could finish, she was sound asleep.
She awoke with a start. A strange new cry had joined the whir of the crickets. She ran to the door. Everywhere she looked, there were seagulls!
“Now what?” she cried. Grabbing a gunnysack, she went out to meet this new menace, then stopped in mid-stride and stared. The seagulls were eating the crickets! They weren’t hurting the crops at all.
She quickly dropped to her knees. “Thank you, Heavenly Father!” she said over and over.
When her parents came home, she yelled, “Pa, Ma, look what happened! Heavenly Father sent the seagulls to eat the crickets. They gorge themselves, fly away, then come back for more!”
With tears of gratitude, she confessed, “Oh, Pa, I was so close to losing my faith! I was angry. I thought God had forsaken us. Now I feel ashamed.”
“A lot of folks felt the same as you,” Pa said. “The same things were being said by some at church. And now this miracle! You should write down what you’ve been through. It will help you in other times of trial. Everyone gets discouraged now and again. Sometimes our faith isn’t as strong as we’d like. Remembering the crickets and seagulls may help you get through other rough times that will surely come.”
Shaquana threw herself into her father’s arms. “I’m so glad you understand, Pa!”
He hugged her tight. “And I’m glad you found your faith again. If you water and nurture it as carefully as you have these crops, it will grow strong.”
“I will, Pa. I will.”

On a cold winter’s night in 1951 there was a knock at my door, and a German brother from Ogden, Utah, announced himself and said, “Are you Bishop Monson?” I answered in the affirmative. He began to weep and said, “My brother and his wife and family are coming here from Germany. They are going to live in your ward. Will you come with us to see the apartment we have rented for them?” On the way to the apartment, he told me he had not seen his brother for many years. Yet all through the holocaust of World War II, his brother had been faithful to the Church, serving as a branch president before the war took him to the Russian front.
I looked at the apartment. It was cold and dreary. The paint was peeling, the wallpaper soiled, the cupboards empty. A forty-watt bulb hanging from the living room ceiling revealed a linoleum floor covering with a large hole in the center. I was heartsick. I thought, “What a dismal welcome for a family which has endured so much.”
My thoughts were interrupted by the brother’s statement, “It isn’t much, but it’s better than they have in Germany.” With that, the key was left with me, along with the information that the family would arrive in Salt Lake City in three weeks—just two days before Christmas.
Sleep was slow in coming to me that night. The next morning was Sunday. In our ward welfare committee meeting, one of my counselors said, “Bishop, you look worried. Is something wrong?” I recounted to those present my experience of the night before, the details of the uninviting apartment. There were a few moments of silence. Then the group leader of the high priests said, “Bishop, did you say that apartment was inadequately lighted and that the kitchen appliances were in need of replacement?” I answered in the affirmative. He continued, “I am an electrical contractor. Would you permit the high priests of this ward to rewire that apartment? I would also like to invite my suppliers to contribute a new stove and a new refrigerator. Do I have your permission?” I answered with a glad “Certainly.”
Then the seventies president responded: “Bishop, as you know I’m in the carpet business. I would like to invite my suppliers to contribute some carpet, and the seventies can easily lay it and eliminate that worn linoleum.”
Then the president of the elders quorum spoke up. He was a painting contractor. He said, “I’ll furnish the paint. May the elders paint and wallpaper that apartment?”
The Relief Society president was next to speak: “We in the Relief Society cannot stand the thought of empty cupboards. May we fill them?”
The next three weeks are ever to be remembered. It seemed that the entire ward joined in the project. The days passed, and at the appointed time the family arrived from Germany. Again at my door stood the brother from Ogden. With an emotion-filled voice, he introduced to me his brother, wife, and their family. Then he asked, “Could we go visit the apartment?” As we walked up the staircase to the apartment, he repeated, “It isn’t much, but it’s more than they have had in Germany.” Little did he know what a transformation had taken place, that many who participated were inside waiting for our arrival.
The door opened to reveal a literal newness of life. We were greeted by the aroma of freshly painted woodwork and newly papered walls. Gone was the forty-watt bulb, along with the worn linoleum it had illuminated. We stepped on carpet deep and beautiful. A walk to the kitchen presented to our view a new stove and refrigerator. The cupboard doors were still open; however, they now revealed that every shelf was filled with food. The Relief Society as usual had done its work.
In the living room we began to sing Christmas hymns. We sang “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm; all is bright.” (Hymns, no. 160.) We sang in English; they sang in German. At the conclusion, the father, realizing that all of this was his, took me by the hand to express his thanks. His emotion was too great. He buried his head in my shoulder and repeated the words, “Mein Bruder, mein Bruder, mein Bruder.”
As we walked down the stairs and out into the night air, it was snowing. Not a word was spoken. Then a young girl asked, “Bishop, I feel better inside than I have ever felt before. Can you tell me why?”
I responded with the words of the Master: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25:40). Suddenly there came to mind the words from “O Little Town of Bethlehem”:
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.
(Hymns, no. 165.)

My name is Olivia. I’m six. My brother Grayson is four. We like to go to the park with Mom. My favorite part is the swing. When I stretch my toes, I can almost reach the trees!
I watch the other kids chase each other. It looks like fun, but I don’t play with them. I just swing and watch and imagine.
The other kids are playing with their brothers and sisters. I wish Grayson could run and play with me, but he can’t walk or talk. He sits in his wheelchair next to Mom. He watches the kids playing too. And he watches me swing. He smiles when I go high.
Yesterday Mom found a new park. I ran to the swings. I saw the kids playing below, and I started to wish again. I closed my eyes. Suddenly I was flying an airplane! I was flying the other kids to visit Grayson.
I felt the swing go up and down. It felt like a ship—a pirate ship! Now Grayson and I were sailing across the ocean, looking for treasure. He steered the ship. I read the map.
I heard Grayson laugh. I opened my eyes and looked at the bench. But Grayson wasn’t there. Mom had put him next to me in a big red swing!
Mom pushed the swing. Grayson laughed and whooshed through the air. We were swinging and laughing together!
Finally we stopped. I looked at Mom and said, “I’m glad Heavenly Father gave me Grayson for a brother.”

As a young girl I saw commitment in my grandmother, who helped Grandpa homestead our farm on the Kansas prairie. Somehow they outlasted the Dust Bowl, the Depression, and the tornadoes that terrorize the Great Plains. I’ve often wondered how Grandma put up with years of meager income and hard work and how she went on when her oldest son died in a tragic accident. Grandma’s life wasn’t easy. But do you know what I remember most about her? Her total joy in the gospel. She was never happier than when she was working on family history or teaching with her scriptures in hand. Grandma had laid aside the things of this world to seek for the things of a better.
To the world, my grandma was ordinary. But to me, she represents the unsung heroines of this century who lived up to their premortal promises and left a foundation of faith upon which we may build. Grandma wasn’t perfect, but she was a woman of God. Now it is for you and for me to carry forward the banner into the next century. We are not women of the world. We are women of God. And women of God will be among the greatest heroines of the 21st century. As President Joseph F. Smith proclaimed, it is not for us “to be led by the women of the world; it is for [us] to lead … the women of the world, in everything that is praise-worthy” (Teachings, 184).

The large classroom in the hospital for crippled children is full of children and laughter and clowns with rainbow-colored wigs and giant smiles.
The children have already laughed and shouted through exploding balloons and fun games. Now it’s time for clown bowling. The clowns are the bowling pins. A nurse is invited to bowl. She successfully aims a large ball at the clowns. But it never makes contact because the clowns jump and twist out of the way.
Now a little girl tries. Sitting in her wheelchair, she pushes the ball at the clowns as hard as she can, but it dribbles weakly off her lap and barely reaches the human bowling pins. The little bowler sighs, underestimating clown magic. As the ball gently nudges the foremost clown he hurls backwards as if struck by a truck, knocking down a second clown who ricochets into a third. The whole clown pile explodes like a grenade and falls apart, vanquished. The children cheer. When clowns are present, children always win.
With this wild bunch of clowns, it’s one crazy thing after another. They’re the young men of Explorer Scout unit 207 of the Riverside Ward, Colville Washington Stake. If laughter is the best medicine, these young men are physicians. They can cure sadness with smiles and cure tears with giggles. Children they visit enjoy a period of time free of thinking about operations or hypodermic needles or pain.
When this day’s performance ends, the clowns move among the patients, making balloon animals and objects—dogs, cats, swords, giraffes, airplanes. They’ll try anything the children request, and even the failures are good fun. They also draw clown stars on the children’s faces.
All too soon the good times must end. The nurses who have laughed and cheered right along with their patients begin taking them away for medical treatment. The children devise delaying tactics, stretching out the farewell moment as long as they can. One little girl hugs a clown tight, then looks into his eyes. “I love you, clown,” she says. Finally, all the good-byes are said. The children go back to their rooms, feeling as if they have been touched by some special magic.
The clowns are still full of the spirit of what they’ve been doing. So they keep their costumes and their funny faces on as they leave the hospital, pack into two cars, and drive off for a hamburger. Motorists along the way, especially little ones, gape in wonder as they see the two cars full of smiling and waving clowns.
While they eat at a hamburger restaurant, the clowns share experiences from their hospital performance. They have made many such visits.
Clown Unit 207 began when the ward youth planned a visit to the hospital. The Explorer Scouts decided to present a clown act as their part on the program. Their adviser, Ron Buchanan, asked the help of his next-door neighbor Howard Pressy, who just happened to be a professional clown. With Howard’s help the scouts prepared an act and presented it at the hospital. Brother Buchanan (also known as “Classy Clown”) recalls, “It gave us all a new perspective. Those young patients weren’t worried about social activities. They were worried about whether they were ever going to be able to walk! You can’t be the same after that experience. You come out of there changed.
“We talked afterward about the words of King Benjamin, ‘When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God’. (Mosiah 2:17.) We decided that we were going to keep right on clowning. We would serve through laughter.”
There followed a period of training in which they worked hard to learn their art. They spent hours designing their faces and costumes and learning how to put them on perfectly. They practiced comedies and learned to twist long, thin balloons into animal shapes. Then they used their talents to bless the lives of children in hospitals, orphanages, and through other worthwhile causes. Each of the young men developed some special talent. “Painter” (Donald Anderson) could fall and stop himself only centimeters from the ground. “Jasper” (Karl Watts) became spokesman for the group. “Giggles” (Aaron Griffith) developed a great Charlie Chaplin walk.
Meanwhile, Howard (also known as “Bungles”) helped them understand what it meant to be a clown. He emphasized right from the start that being a clown is very serious business.
“Anybody can paint his face and put on a silly looking costume, but that does not make you a clown. When a real clown puts on his makeup and his costume, he also assumes certain character traits which he has a moral obligation to uphold. A good professional clown doesn’t smoke, drink, or use profanity at all in costume. It just isn’t done. He doesn’t pay any attention to whether a child is black, green, yellow, or purple. He treats them all the same.
“He doesn’t ruin the impression, no matter what happens. If a child walks up and kicks you, you still love that kid—because you’re a clown.”
As the fame of the clowns spread, the younger boys in the ward began looking forward to their sixteenth birthdays when they would enter the Explorer phase of Scouting. By the time Tony Romish and Bryan McGinty came of age, they already had names waiting for them. Tony became “Digger,” and Bryan was “Doctor Funnybones.” They practiced hard and soon were full-fledged clowns.
Not content with merely being very good, the boys gets together every Wednesday to practice their routines and become even better. There is a camaraderie here, a warmth and love, but there is also a serious sense of taking care of business. The young men have often prayed that they can make a difference in the lives of those they clown for. Now they are working hard to become part of the answer to their own prayers.
Howard and Ron have always emphasized to the members of the unit that when they put on their clown outfits and makeup, they are themselves no longer. They can no longer allow their own personal fears and inhibitions to keep them from doing their duty as clowns. “When you’re in costume you have no identity of your own. You’re not yourself; you’re a clown. And you owe it to the people to make them happy.”
The Explorers soon realized that they could do things as clowns, good things, that it was hard to do as themselves.
“When I perform as a clown,” Don says, “I’m no longer Donald Anderson. I’m ‘Painter’. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I like people more because of ‘Painter’s’ influence. I’m definitely going on a mission. I used to wonder about that, but I see that ‘Painter’ helps people a lot, and I want to be able to do that as Donald Anderson too.”
All of Painter’s wonderful qualities are, of course, really Don’s own. They have merely been waiting inside for a good excuse to come out and shine.
In addition to personal growth, the clowns have been rewarded for their hard work with wonderful memories. “The first time we visited the hospital, we were all scared to death. We weren’t sure how we were going to work with crippled children. But they really responded, and it was a wonderful experience. When we finished we asked the nurse if there were any children who hadn’t been able to come.
“She took us to the room of a boy who had literally had his face ripped off in a car wreck. It looked like his face had been run through a meat grinder. He was so self-conscious that he wouldn’t come out of his room.
“So we were very careful. We walked in and said ‘Hi, we missed you. We wanted to give you a special balloon.’ At first he was really timid. But then he started to respond. And I was so proud of the clowns. They didn’t look away from him. They looked right at him and let him know that they cared about him.
“By the time they were finished, that boy was talking. He was friendly. He knew that he was somebody important, and that there were three or four clowns in that room who cared about him. He told us about his upcoming surgery, and we all wished him the best. It was one of the most giving experiences of our lives.”
Once at a baseball game for handicapped and retarded youth, the clowns adopted a team that was losing by an impossible margin. The team members had given up—until they found themselves with a real clown cheerleading squad. “We’d find out the name of the boy up to bat and then we’d start calling, ‘Come on, Charlie, you can do it. Come on, Fred!’ In that one part of the game they more than doubled their score. They still lost, because it was the last part of the game, but when they left they were so excited that someone had cheered for them.”
Sometimes it can take so little to make a difference, but to a clown that little is not optional—it is a duty. For example, at one hospital there were two Spanish-speaking boys in the audience. They were feeling a little neglected because they couldn’t understand the English jokes. The clowns combined their meager knowledge of Spanish and started some bilingual clowning. The result? “Those boys seemed to come to life.”
Working with those less fortunate than themselves has given the clowns a sensitivity and love for all of God’s children. Tony Romish reports, “As a clown, you want to help other people who are different from you. You feel a unity with everyone. We all seem to divide ourselves into different groups—the able-bodied and the handicapped, black and white, young and old, rich and poor. As clowns we feel close to everybody. We feel less separate. At school people often tease those who are mentally or physically handicapped. Before, I’d just walk on past, but now I can’t. I have to stop and defend whoever is being hurt.”
One of the secrets of the clowns’ success is Brother Buchanan. He loves these young men with all his heart. He sacrifices most of his Saturdays and many week nights for them, and considers it no sacrifice. “They’re very very special to me,” he says. “They’re wonderful young men. They give of themselves continually. And they have fun doing it. They’re my second family.”
Clowning is a uniquely unselfish form of entertainment and service. The clown receives applause, but the people applauding him don’t know who he is. They know his clown name, but they will never know his real name. There is no personal fame—only the wonderful feeling of making people happy.
But the love these clowns feel for the children they serve is far sweeter than any fame. Several of them have gotten up when they have been sick in bed to perform rather than miss that good feeling.
Clowning is hard work. But it may also be the most enjoyable form of service ever invented. “I mentioned to one of the boys that it was fun doing service projects. He said, ‘This is service, isn’t it? I’m having so much fun that I never stop to think about it.’”
Fun and service. Service and fun. And brotherhood and love and the sweet, healing joy of pure laughter. The Explorer Scouts of unit 207 specialize in lifting hearts, and you can’t lift hearts without lifting yourself.