Gospel Story Finder

When I was about 11 years old, I was exposed to pornography. That one instance developed into a greater problem that became the defining struggle of my teenage years. By the time I was in high school, I had turned away from pornography and toward Jesus Christ’s Atonement. Although I experienced a miracle in having the filth erased from my mind, I still felt overwhelming guilt in my heart.
Around this time, my grandma lent me my great-great grandmother Thea’s handwritten autobiography. Within days I felt deeply connected with Thea Martina Waagen (1883–1967). Thea’s father tragically died just a few months before her birth, so she was raised by her widowed Norwegian immigrant mother. Growing up was difficult, but she found joy in picking wild strawberries and playing the organ at her local Lutheran church. Thea’s mother remarried, and with her stepfather’s help, she attended college. Later in life, Thea and her family converted to the Church and moved to Utah, USA. Things weren’t easy for Thea. She and her husband divorced. She experienced great heartache and severe depression, yet she remained true to her testimony.
As I learned about Thea and her choice to persevere through adversity, I was overwhelmed with an intense love that reassured me of my worth and helped me overcome my paralyzing guilt. I realized that if she could do hard things, I could too.
I went on LDS.org and requested Thea’s patriarchal blessing. I was further touched when I read, “The seed of thy womb shall rise up and call thee blessed among the women in Zion.” I realized that my profound respect for her was a fulfilment of that simple sentence. Thea’s love helped heal my heart of guilt and turn my heart to my ancestors. This was my first witness of Elder David A. Bednar’s promise that by participating in family history work, I would “be protected against the intensifying influences of the adversary” (“The Hearts of the Children Shall Turn,” Liahona, Nov. 2011, 27).

Although my remarks have been directed to the youth of the Church, for parents and grandparents, I offer the following:
Recently, Elder David A. Bednar described a simple way to conduct a family assessment to mark progress on the covenant path by essential ordinances. All that is needed is a piece of paper with two columns: “name” and “plan for next or needful ordinance.” I did this recently, listing each family member. Among them, I noted an infant grandson, soon to be blessed; a six-year-old grandson, whose preparation for baptism was essential; and a son turning 18, whose preparation for the priesthood and temple endowment was imminent. Everyone on the list needed the sacrament ordinance. This simple exercise assisted Lesa and me in fulfilling our role to help each member of our family along the covenant path, with an action plan for each of them. Perhaps this is an idea for you which will lead to family discussions, family home evening lessons, preparation, and even invitations for essential ordinances in your family.

The story is told of a shy Latter-day Saint man who often sat on the back row of the chapel alone. When a member of the elder’s quorum suddenly passed away, the bishop gave priesthood blessings to comfort the elder’s family members. Relief Society sisters brought in food. Well-meaning friends and neighbors visited with the family and said, “Let us know if there is anything we can do to help.”

But when this shy man visited the family later in the day, he rang the doorbell and when the widow answered, he simply said, “I have come to clean your shoes.” In a couple of hours, all the family’s shoes were cleaned and shined in preparation for the funeral. The following Sunday the family of the deceased elder sat by the shy man on the back row.

Here was a man who was able to fill an unmet need. Both they and he were blessed by his empathy-guided ministering.

When Jim was a little boy, he loved to ride his horse. He had a pair of spurs that made him feel like a real cowboy. One day when he came in from riding, he was disobedient and his mother sent him to his room in the basement. He was so angry that he threw his spurs down the stairs. Later he repented and told his mother that he was sorry. The next time he wanted to ride his horse, he couldn’t find the spurs. He looked everywhere. Finally he knelt and prayed to Heavenly Father to help him find them. When he finished praying, he started looking again—and found them. This was the beginning of Jim’s testimony that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. Now he is a stake president. He teaches the children in his stake that praying every night and morning will bring them great blessings all the rest of their lives.

The faithful widowed mother who raised us had no confusion about the eternal nature of the family. She always honored the position of our deceased father. She made him a presence in our home. She spoke of the eternal duration of their temple marriage. She often reminded us of what our father would like us to do so we could realize the Savior’s promise that we could be a family forever.
I recall an experience that shows the effect of her teachings. Just before Christmas one year, our bishop asked me, as a deacon, to help him deliver Christmas baskets to the widows of the ward. I carried a basket to each door with his greetings. When he drove me home, there was one basket remaining. He handed it to me and said it was for my mother. As he drove away, I stood in the falling snow wondering why there was a basket for my mother. She never referred to herself as a widow, and it had never occurred to me that she was. To a 12-year-old boy, she wasn’t a widow. She had a husband, and we had a father. He was just away for a while.
I anticipate that glorious future day when the separated will be reunited and all of us will be made complete as the Lord has promised. I testify of Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of the Eternal Father, whose priesthood authority and whose Atonement and Resurrection make it all possible, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Two groups of young people in California and some Scouts in Idaho followed through on their own cemetery projects. The El Centro California Stake set aside a Saturday in February to record information found in the Evergreen Cemetery. Along with their clipboards, pencils, and typewriters, 75 youth and adult advisers arrived at the cemetery carrying rakes and shovels. Working in teams, they probed the ground to search for hidden plaques and, at the same time, cleaned up the area and cleared away overgrown grass. Approximately 7,670 names were recorded. Copies of their work were given to local agencies and a local genealogy library as well as being sent to the Church Genealogical Department in Salt Lake City.

When Camille Erickson was born, no one knew quite what to do.
Don’t misunderstand. Her parents already had five other children, so they were getting to be pros at parenting. Her five siblings had excitedly awaited her arrival. It was just that, well, she was a … girl.
Being the younger sister of five older brothers, and then the older sister of one younger brother, Camille knows a lot about “being one of the guys.” When the family splits up into teams for sports, Camille plays right along. As the only girl, Camille was the only person to have her own room—a fact she didn’t get used to for a long time.
“When I was little, I used to sneak into their rooms at night and go to sleep. My mom would find me the next morning, curled up on the floor,” she says.
But Camille, now a Mia Maid in Battle Ground, Washington, hasn’t slept on the floor for a long time. She still likes to play sports and to roughhouse with her brothers, but Camille’s life is more focused on school, Young Women, and friends than in those days when she was little. Also, her older brothers have grown up, and many of them don’t live at home anymore. In fact, since the age difference between her oldest brother and her youngest brother is 22 years, having the family all together is a rare experience.
“My brothers and I try to do things together, one-on-one, so that we have time to talk,” says Camille
Activities Camille enjoys with her brothers include things that are pretty unstructured, like watching videos, going out for treats, and taking walks together. But, occasionally, there is something more planned, like the time she took ballroom dance lessons with her 23-year-old brother, Travis.
“I think the average age in that class was 60,” says Travis with a grin. “But we had a good time.”
There are traditions that keep them close, too. The night Camille was born, Brad, her oldest brother, stayed up late to make her a birthday cake. Now her brothers send roses to her at school on her birthday.
“When my friends see that I get flowers from my brothers, they’re shocked. They can’t believe we’re all friends.”

A turnspit dog! Before last week Jonathan had never even heard of a turnspit dog. Though the morning was cold, Jonathan was snug and warm in his homespun suit. Pulling his sled, he followed the snowy trail that led through the sparsely settled New England woods to the Sewell’s cabin. As soon as he heard that Mister Sewell had sent to Philadelphia for a turnspit dog, Jonathan’s curiosity would not let him rest until he had seen it.
In the early 1700s the settlers’ usual way of roasting meat was to put it on a spit, a long piece of metal supported between two andirons in front of the fireplace. It was a tiresome chore to turn the meat by hand, so someone had hit upon the idea of training small dogs for this work.
On his way to the Sewell’s, Jonathan passed Mistress Clark’s cabin. He noticed that no smoke curled from the chimney. Mistress Clark was a widow and very old. She’s probably still sleeping, Jonathan decided.
Finally Jonathan reached his destination.
“Why, it’s young Master Jonathan Adams!” Mister Sewell cried heartily. “Come in!”
Then Jonathan saw the turnspit dog. He had not known quite what to expect, but surely not this!
The spit, holding a joint of meat, was attached to a set of wheels that in turn was attached to a treadmill. Around the treadmill was a railing, inside of which was a little dog—running, running, running. As he ran, the treadmill engaged the wheels of the spit and slowly turned the savory meat.
Suddenly the dog looked up at the newcomer, and Jonathan thought he had never in his entire life seen such sad eyes. “Please rescue me!” the little dog’s eyes seemed to be pleading.
Then Jonathan saw with horror that Mister Sewell held a long switch that he occasionally flicked in the direction of the turnspit dog.
Jonathan knew at once that he must do something to help the wretched little animal. He felt sure his parents wouldn’t mind if he had a dog, so, turning to Mr. Sewell, he pleaded, “Sir, will you sell me your turnspit dog?”
Mister Sewell burst into laughter. “Tell me, just how do you propose to pay for my trained dog?”
It was a fitting question, for Jonathan had no money.
Jonathan left the Sewell cabin feeling heartsick. The way homeward led down a gentle slope, but Jonathan found no fun in gliding down the hill on his sled. How in the world can I rescue that little dog from such cruel slavery? he agonized.
When Jonathan reached Mistress Clark’s cabin again, he saw that smoke still didn’t rise from the chimney. Worried, he went up to the door and lifted the knocker.
“Come in,” called a feeble voice.
In the cabin Jonathan saw that Mistress Clark’s fire had gone out during the night. Now, shivering with cold, she was vainly trying to start another fire.
“Oh dear,” she sighed, “my son in Philadelphia sent me this tinder wheel but I cannot make it work.”
“I know how to work a tinder wheel,” Jonathan offered. “Let me try.” Jonathan began spinning the small steel wheel, using the piece of cord that was attached. It was much like spinning a humming top. As the wheel spun, it struck a piece of hard stone or flint fixed in the side of a little trough filled with bits of old linen that served as tinder. Paper was far too valuable to be used to start a fire.
Finally Jonathan produced a tiny spark. Blowing softly, he nursed the spark into a small flame that fed on the tinder. Quickly he gathered wood shavings to use as kindling. In a few minutes a glowing fire burned in the fireplace.
“Thank you, thank you!” said Mistress Clark. “My son is always sending me newfangled things I cannot use. Just last month he sent me this roasting kitchen.” She pointed to a metal box with an open side that would face the fire. A spit, turned by a crank on the outside, ran through it from end to end.
Suddenly Jonathan had an idea.
“If you have no need for the roasting kitchen, will you let me have it?” he asked excitedly. “In return I will stop by each morning to start your fire if it has gone out. I will also fetch your water and run your errands!”
Mistress Clark smiled. “Yes,” she replied, “take the roasting kitchen. I will be grateful for a little help.”
Mistress Clark and Jonathan put the roasting kitchen onto the boy’s sled, and he began to climb back up to the Sewell cabin.
“What have we here?” asked Mister Sewell as he helped Jonathan set the roasting kitchen onto the floor of the cabin.
Jonathan saw that the little turnspit dog was still running on his treadmill. How tired he must be by now! he worried.
Jonathan turned to Mister Sewell. “Sir, I have come to make you a trade. I will trade you this fine new roasting kitchen for your turnspit dog. Notice how it stands on legs to make it even with the fire! See how the little door in back can be opened to baste the meat!”
“It is true,” said Mister Sewell, “that I could enjoy such a new roasting kitchen. Yes, perhaps it would be a good trade—if you really want the dog.”
“Yes, yes, I do!” cried Jonathan.
He had only to whistle once and the little dog jumped over the railing of the treadmill and into the boy’s arms.
“You are my dog now!” Jonathan said joyously, and the dog bounded along at his little master’s side as they set out for home.

Growing up, I heard magnificent stories about H?k?le‘a and I remember building the canoe out of brown paper bags and popsicle sticks in kindergarten at L?‘ie Elementary School. As my mother mentioned in the introduction, the ocean is a special place to me. Even though I didn’t become a professional surfer, I have been involved with water-related projects over the years at the Smithsonian Institution, National Council of Teachers of Mathematics, and East-West Center. About two decades ago while I was a student at the East-West Center, master navigator Nainoa Thompson asked me to help take care of the canoes, assist with education, and support the mission, “to perpetuate the art and science of traditional Polynesian voyaging and the spirit of exploration through experiential educational programs that inspire students and their communities to respect and care for themselves, each other, and their natural and cultural environments.”

For the first five years, I didn’t sail on any canoe or escort boat. It was never a goal for me to sail. Instead, I scrubbed the hulls, cleaned the sails, sanded the deck, and loved talking story with crew members. As part of preparation, we also went through medical, safety, physical, cultural, and educational training, to name a few. Then, a couple of years before we departed on the M?lama Honua Worldwide Voyage, my teacher Nainoa Thompson asked me to be an apprentice navigator on the first international leg from Hawaii to Tahiti. I honestly thought he was talking to someone else. The second time he asked me to be an apprentice navigator, I thought deeply about this lifelong commitment. The third time, he didn’t ask. My teacher told me, “You’re ready, let’s go.”

I recall that evening vividly when Nainoa Thompson invited me to talk story. We ended up walking at a sand bar on the south shore of O‘ahu and watched H?k?le‘a (Hawai‘i’s zenith star Arcturus) rising in the heavens. He gave me profound wisdom that I will remember for the rest of my life. He said, “Linda, you need to be prepared and have a vision. If you don’t, someone will take it away from you, or they will give you theirs.” The voyage from Hawai‘i to Tahiti was the first time for 9 of the 13 H?k?le‘a crew members to cross the equator by canoe. I used to fear the storm, but now I respect and embrace it because I know it is an opportunity to reach within and find what we are willing to sail for.

He also met his wife-to-be, Jill Featherstone, at BYU. She was teaching the Gospel Doctrine class in her student ward. Invited by his brother, Elder Taylor visited her class and met her. A romance blossomed, and they were married on April 30, 1987, in the Salt Lake Temple. They are the parents of seven children.
Sister Taylor is the only daughter out of seven children of Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone, emeritus General Authority, and Sister Merlene Featherstone. “They were just really accepting and kind,” Elder Taylor said of his in-laws. “I felt immediately loved.”

Family is very important to Carolyn. When Grandmother Fox passed away, Carolyn knew that her grandma was OK and that she would see her again. The family planned to do Grandma’s temple work as soon as possible—one year after her death. But Katie had a strong desire to be baptized for her grandmother, so the family waited an extra six months until Katie turned twelve, the age when you can be baptized for the dead.
The Saturday before Mother’s Day, they went to the Washington D.C. Temple. Katie did the baptism, and her parents did the rest of the temple ordinances for Grandma. “It was really special,” Sister Fox explained. “It helped my children see that although we’re the only members in the family right now, because of Heavenly Father’s plan, our extended family can still be together forever.”
Carolyn couldn’t go into the temple because she isn’t old enough. “I felt left out,” she said. “But that’s OK, because in two years, if I live right, I can go to the temple and do baptisms for some of my other ancestors.”
She knows that many of her ancestors are waiting for her and her family to find them and do their temple work. As Carolyn learns the history and stories of her ancestors—who they were and what their lives were like—she learns to love and appreciate them. She wants them all to have the full blessings of the gospel.

The day dawned bright, hot, breathless. Perfect weather for planting, John thought as he jumped out of bed and dressed in his work clothes. It was the time of year he loved most. Days were getting longer, full of sunshine, and new things were beginning to grow.
John struggled to fasten the clumsy metal buttons on his overalls. “I have to hurry—I hear Grandpa outside,” he said to himself. His sleepy fingers finally managed to nudge the last stubborn button through the buttonhole. John was Grandpa’s helper now that his big brother, Mark, was serving a mission.
Today he and Grandpa were going to get the small south field ready to plant in wheat. After that, there would be weeks of work ahead for them—wonderful weeks of fertilizing, weeding, waiting. Then would come the biggest event of all, the harvest.
After a quick breakfast, a whoop of sheer joy, and a kiss on Mom’s cheek, seven-year-old John grabbed the knapsack his mother had prepared and bounded out the back door and across the yard. He scrambled excitedly up onto the well-worn metal tractor seat and settled down next to Grandpa. He surveyed the waiting field, then grinned his mile-wide, I’m-ready-to-get-down-to-work grin.
Today was a big day for John. Grandpa was going to let him steer the tractor all by himself for the first time. Grandpa trusted him to help with even the toughest jobs around the farm, and that made him feel grown-up.
John anxiously double-checked his gear. Yep, everything was there. Mom had sent along one man-sized lunch, a thermos of ice water, a hat to help keep the sun away, and. … Thrusting his hand deep down into his pocket, John fingered the coins he had brought along so that he could surprise Grandpa by taking him to town for an ice-cream cone after their work was done.
“Why, John!” Grandpa exclaimed over the noisy tractor engine, “I do believe you’ve forgotten something.”
“What, Grandpa?”
“You’ve forgotten your two front teeth,” Grandpa chuckled, tousling John’s hair and smiling into his freckle-splashed face.
Now both of them were laughing, and John, reaching up, gave Grandpa a mighty hug.
“You’ll be glad I lost those teeth, Grandpa, because the tooth fairy left me just enough money for …”
“Enough money for what?” Grandpa’s voice boomed over the rattle and roar of the tractor.
“You’ll see when we’re finished here, Grandpa,” John teased as they headed the tractor down to the field.
After forty years of farming, Grandpa had retired and John’s dad had taken over the farm. All of it, that is, except this one small parcel of land. “I won’t ever quit working this field,” Grandpa told John as they chugged along on the trusty old tractor. “This is our mission field.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” John giggled. “When Mark writes letters to me about being in the mission field, he isn’t talking about being out in a field of wheat.”
“John, I can see it’s time I tell you the story.” Grandpa reached over to shut the engine off. “When your dad was ready to go on a mission, almost twenty-five years ago now, your grandmother and I couldn’t afford to send him. We’d always tried our best to live the gospel, and we knew we could depend on the Lord, so we prayed that He would help us make enough money to send our boy on a mission.”
“Were your prayers answered, Grandpa?”
“Yes, John. Heavenly Father answered them in a surprising way. This little piece of land came up for sale, and your grandma and I felt inspired to buy it. It was a small field, nothing to rave about. But we had read in the scriptures that from small things great blessings come. So Grandma and I hoped that if we remained faithful and hard-working, the Lord might see fit to turn this small field into a great blessing.”
“Did you get your blessing, Grandpa?” John asked.
“Did we ever!” Grandpa answered, beaming. “We received enough money from our first crop to send your dad on his mission, and for as long as he was serving in England, we had a bumper crop. When he came home from England, the field’s production returned to normal, but as each of our three sons served missions, it thrived again. To this day, Grandma and I call it our mission field. Why, this very field is helping support Mark on his mission right now.” Grandpa smiled, giving John’s shoulder a healthy squeeze.
“And someday,” John whispered, “do you think that someday, Grandpa … ?”
“Yes, John, someday you’ll reap the rewards of our mission field too.”
It was time to work now. John and Grandpa dug right in, grateful for the fertile soil beneath them.
Under Grandpa’s watchful eye, John steered the tractor around the field, carefully overturning the hard soil. He tried hard to set his sights so that the rows would be straight and to concentrate on Grandpa’s instructions. He wanted to do his best, now more than ever before.
Dust swirled behind the tractor as John steered it, row by row, up and down the field. After the field had been plowed, they put the disk harrow onto the tractor and went over the field again to break up any large clumps of earth. Gophers, rabbits, and grasshoppers scurried ahead to avoid the harrow’s sharp disks. Seagulls swooped down from above in hopes of nabbing a succulent cricket or grasshopper as John and Grandpa made their rounds. Beneath him, John felt the soil break up, ready for them to plant the next day.
John imagined how it would be in early autumn, when the field would be beautiful with tall, golden wheat, ripe for harvest. Grandpa would pull a handful of wheat from the stalk, as he always did, and rub it hard between his strong, rough hands to separate the kernels from the chaff. Then he and John would stand together in the field, the breeze blowing waves of grain around them, while they tasted the wheat. Grandpa would chew slowly, deliberately, checking for texture and flavor. John would chew his handful of wheat until it turned to gum in his mouth. At last Grandpa would nod with satisfaction and say, “It’s ready, John,” and together they would harvest the crop.
John sighed contentedly as he and Grandpa climbed down off the tractor that day. This was going to be a most wonderful summer. John just knew it. There would be ice-cream cones to eat, laughter to share, and stories to tell. Best of all, he thought as he gazed out over the newly plowed mission field, this summer there will be a bumper crop!

Blackberries grow like weeds on the western coast of Canada. The plants sprout and grow everywhere and will take over everything they can reach—fields, sidewalks, roads, and beaches are lined with blackberry cane. In the fall neighbors work together to pick berries to use in their homes.
As I joined in picking blackberries one year, I was determined that not only would I pick enough to make jam for myself and my family, but I would also make extra to give to the sisters I visit teach. The best place to pick blackberries in my neighborhood was down by the elementary school, where pathways and fields are lined with brambles reaching eight feet (2.4 m) high. I had already been there picking the week before, and I knew many others had already gone there as well, so it was likely that there wouldn’t be much fruit left.
As I prepared to pick berries again, I thought I would try picking in a different place. Out my kitchen window I could see a vacant lot next to the street. Hardly anyone went by there, and canes were spreading out over an acre of land. Surely there would be lots of fruit where no one had picked. I put my buckets in the back of the car and headed over.
Soon I was hot, scratched, and perplexed as I stood in the middle of the acre of brambles. The canes were barren, full of thorns but without any sign of flowers or fruit. I had found exactly three berries in all that land, and I couldn’t understand why. My jam jars, however, still needed to be filled, so I headed over to the school to see if any fruit was left there.
When I got to the school fields, I found even more berries than I needed and more still ripening, even though many people had already picked there. I suddenly recognized what had happened: blackberry canes produce much more when their fruit is picked. Because our neighborhood had shared this patch for years, the canes responded with crops year after year. Where the canes had not been used, they had remained dry and fruitless. Through sharing that blackberry patch over the years, we had created abundance—there was more fruit than all of us collectively needed.

Several years ago, while on vacation, I wanted to go kayaking for the first time. I rented a kayak, and full of enthusiasm, I launched into the sea.

After a few minutes, a wave overturned the kayak. With a great deal of effort, holding the paddle in one hand and the kayak in the other, I was able to regain my footing.

I tried again to paddle my kayak, but just a few minutes later, the kayak tipped over again. I stubbornly kept on trying, to no avail, until someone who understood kayaking told me that there must be a crack in the shell and the kayak must have filled up with water, making it unstable and impossible to control. I dragged the kayak to the shore and removed the plug, and sure enough, out came a large amount of water.

I think that at times we move through life with sins that, like the leak in my kayak, impede our spiritual progress.

If we persist in our sins, we forget the covenants we have made with the Lord, even though we keep capsizing because of the imbalance that those sins create in our lives.

Like the cracks in my kayak, the cracks in our lives need to be dealt with. Some sins will require more efforts than others to repent of.

I fidgeted impatiently in the backseat of the car, excited as much by the prospect of an end to our long ride from California to Kansas as by the thought of seeing my grandparents again.
“Do you think she’ll like my hair short? Last time she saw me I was wearing it in braids. Can you imagine? I must have been about ten or eleven. I hated those braids! Remember when Grandpa offered to cut them off with the hedge clippers?”
My mother exchanged glances with my father. “Don,” she began.
Dad cleared his throat and spoke to me in the rearview mirror. “Tara, you realize that they’ve changed. People do as they get older. You’ve changed, and they will have, too. You have to expect that.”
“I know, I know.” Impatiently I brushed aside the warning in his voice. “But I’m eager to see them.”
“So are we, dear,” Mom said, but there was an edge to her voice that I didn’t understand.
We reached the edge of the little town where my grandparents lived, and Dad turned down their street. Grandpa was waiting for us on the front porch.
I shot from the car and hugged him as tightly as I could. He seemed thinner than I’d remembered, almost fragile, so I released my grip on him.
He held me at arm’s length. “Tara, you look wonderful. But whatever happened to those beautiful braids?”
“Well, one day I was trimming a hedge and they just happened to get caught in the clippers,” I teased.
We laughed and hugged again.
“How’s it going, Dad?” Mom asked him. “You holding up okay?”
Grandpa kissed her soundly on the cheek. “You bet.” He turned to Dad and clapped him on the back. “Good trip out?”
Dad shrugged. “Can’t complain.”
I couldn’t stand this exchange of pleasantries any longer. “Where’s Grandma?” I interrupted.
Grandpa looked at Mom and she nodded.
“She’s at the rest home by the courthouse. We can see her tonight,” he said.
“Oh, can’t we go now?” I begged. “I want to see her.”
“Well, Tara, you’ve come all the way from California, and your father probably wants to rest after such a long drive. We’ll go tonight.”
“Please?” I wheedled. “Pretty please with sugar on top?” It had been my favorite childhood phrase when I had wanted something very badly, and I could see him weakening.
Dad solved it. “Let me unpack the car. You three go, and I’ll snooze a bit while you’re gone.”
I threw my arms around Dad. “You sweetie!” I turned to Mom and Grandpa enthusiastically. “Let’s go!”
We pulled up in front of the sedate red brick rest home. As Grandpa got out of the car, my mother leaned over the back of the seat to speak to me.
“Don’t forget,” she cautioned in a tight voice, “she’s not the same grandmother you remember.”
Not the same grandmother? Of course she was. Oh, I knew from Grandpa’s letters that sometimes her memory slipped and she couldn’t remember people’s names, but she was still my grandmother, the same one who had read me Winnie-the-Pooh when I had scarlet fever, the same one who had let me name the barn cats, the same one who had taught me how to make the world’s best grape jelly. The same one.
I leaped from the car and began to sprint across the vast green lawns of the nursing home, until I remembered that Grandpa was with us, so I waited patiently in the quiet Kansas afternoon for him to catch up to me.
My grandfather led us confidently, like a tour guide, through the cool halls of the nursing home, holding a jar of peaches he had put up himself. “They’re her favorite, you know,” he said. “Bring her some each time I come.”
We stopped outside Grandma’s room, and Mom reached over to squeeze my arm, perhaps to reassure herself as much as me. I ignored her touch and opened the door.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, almost engulfed in a flowered robe that was much too big for her. She looked up as we entered.
Her eyes looked past me and found my grandfather. “Oh, there’s the nice man with the peaches,” she said.
My mother dropped on the bed beside her and put an arm around her. “Hey, Mom,” she said, “remember me? I’m Annie.”
Grandma ignored her and held out her hand for the peaches. “It’s so nice of you to bring me peaches each time you come.”
I wanted to say triumphantly to Mom, “See? She does remember. She is the same grandmother.”
Then Grandma cocked her head and looked quizzically at Grandpa. “Now, what did you say your name was?”
I wanted to leave. I wanted to be outside in the cleansing heat of the summer day, where the sun could burn this scene from my mind. I wanted to forget it had ever happened. It was changing my entire world.
But my grandfather was speaking to Grandma. “I’m Frank. And this is your daughter, Annie, and your granddaughter, Tara.” He spoke slowly and patiently.
“Hello,” Grandma said politely to Mom, and held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Tara,” I blurted.
A smile lit up her face, and my heart with it. She remembered me!
“Why, that’s my name, too!” She peered closely at me. “Will you be going to my school?”
I looked helplessly at my mother. She was crying silently, her face in her hands. My grandfather touched my shoulder and gently nodded.
I took a deep breath. “I hope so,” I said.
“Good. We’ll have great times. I hope you don’t live too far from me.”
I didn’t know what to do. She obviously expected me to say something. Suddenly I decided what to do. I plunged into her world.
“Tell me about the other people who go to the school,” I prompted.
Grandma’s eyes looked back 60 years. “Well, there’s Edith Scott. She’s nice and has the most beautiful red hair. And there’s Rob Anders, but stay as far away from him as you can. He’s trouble. And there’s Frankie Gleason.” A sly smile stole over her face. “I’ll bet he goes for you in a big way.”
My grandfather caught my eye and winked.
“Oh, no, I don’t think he will,” I said. “I think he likes you.”
Grandma blushed and smoothed the lap of her robe. “Well, some have thought so, but I don’t know. He is a nice fellow, though.”
“Why, I’ll bet that one day you and Frankie Gleason get married and have a beautiful daughter,” I teased. My mother looked up at me startled, and I wrinkled my nose at her. I was beginning to enjoy this.
Just then a nurse walked in. “Are you ready for your lunch, Mrs. Gleason?” she asked my grandmother.
Grandma’s face brightened. “Can I have peaches?”
In the middle of the night, the phone rang. A few minutes later my mother came into my room and sat on my bed.
“Tara, that was the nursing home. Grandma’s had a stroke, and it’s a bad one.” Her voice broke. “They don’t expect her to make it to morning.”
I sat up, suddenly awake. “Are we going?”
Mom touched my forehead, smoothing away stray hairs. “You don’t have to go.”
“But I want to go!” I cried. “She’s my grandma!”
Mom bit her lip and looked at me before she nodded. “Okay. Get dressed. We’re going right away.”
The nursing home looked different at night. “It looks so asleep!” I burst out. Grandpa patted my arm.
As we crossed the lawn, I noticed something in Grandpa’s hand.
“Peaches,” he said, embarrassed. “Her favorite. Bring her some each …” His voice cracked.
It was my turn to pat his arm.
Inside, the only person in the lobby was a nurse, who nodded understandingly at us and said softly, “Go ahead.”
Grandma’s room was brightly lit, and a doctor stood beside her bed.
“How is she?” asked my mother.
The doctor shrugged helplessly. “I never know what to say. It’s been a massive stroke, and her heart isn’t strong.”
Grandma looked very small on the bed. She looked past my mother and my grandfather to me. “Tara! How kind of you to come see me.” Her voice faltered. “I don’t think I’ll be in school tomorrow. I don’t feel very good.”
“That’s all right,” I said as reassuringly as I could. “I’ll explain to the teacher. By the way, I brought someone with me to see you. Frankie Gleason.”
We stood in a stiff line at the cemetery to “accept condolences,” as my mother put it. I felt numbed, yet painfully aware of what was happening. Grandpa seemed to shrink even more as his friends filed by to lay gnarled hands on his shoulders and wordlessly offer looks of understanding with eyes that had seen other loved ones laid to rest in this same grassy stretch. This man who had been the strongest man in the world to me when I was a child suddenly looked vulnerable, and I moved closer to him, instinctively wanting to protect him.
After the other people had left, Dad cleared his throat. “They’re serving lunch at the church. Come on, Tara.”
I hung back, reluctant to let Grandpa stay there alone, yet not wanting to hurry him into a premature separation from Grandma.
“I’ll wait and go with Grandpa,” I said.
Mom looked up sharply. “Tara …”
Grandpa stopped her. “Let her stay, Ann. We’ll meet you at the church after I say . …” His voice wavered. “After I say good-bye.”
When we were alone, I told Grandpa I’d wait for him in the car. He nodded absently. In a rush of empathy, I put my arms around him. He held on to me, and I could feel his thin shoulders shaking. Tears collected in my eyes, and I blinked helplessly as they ran unchecked down my cheeks.
“I’ll miss her, too,” I said. “But you know what makes me feel good, really good? Out of the millions of people in the world, I got her for my grandma. I feel very lucky and very grateful to whoever picks grandmas.” I leaned my head against his. “And grandpas.”
Grandpa lifted his head and smiled at me. “And granddaughters.” He took a large white handkerchief from his suit pocket and blew his nose.
I patted his arm. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
When he got to the car, I offered to drive. I started the car, and as I pulled out of the parking lot, something rolled out from under the car seat and tapped my foot. I stopped the car and reached down to pick it up. It was a jar.
“Peaches,” Grandpa said. “They’re her favorite, you know. Bring her some each …” He buried his face in his hands.
I laid my hand on his arm. “Let’s take them to her.”
Grandpa raised his head and looked at me. Then he nodded.
He carried the peaches in one hand and held my hand with the other. Together we walked back to the grave.
Grandpa knelt with difficulty and placed the jar of peaches in the midst of the flowers. Then he turned to me.
“Looks kind of simple here with all those showy flowers.”
I smiled at him. “You’re a nice man, Frankie Gleason.”

A notation beside the death date of a great-uncle in our family record read, “Died on way to New Zealand, buried at sea.” It was sad, surely, but had connotations of adventure. Little did we dream, however, of the impact these few words were going to have so many years later.
We let him rest at the bottom of the ocean for over a hundred years.
Then a very old letter from my great-grandmother came to light, and in it was a reference to “Catherine” in New Zealand. This awoke in us the realization that even though George Perkins died and was buried at sea, his wife and family went on, and we felt impelled to learn more about that family.
So we began the search, first in old shipping records. We checked the embarkation records from Greenock, Scotland. There we found information that “George Perkins, Gentleman,” his wife Catherine and five children had set out in the sailing ship Mooltan to that idyllic land under the Southern Cross. The names of those five children were a great find. I thought of those wide-eyed, excited little children going with their parents to build a home in a new land halfway around the world.
Next, I wrote to the Alexander Turnbull Library, and the Public Library at Dunedin, New Zealand, the Old Settlers’ Association, and the National Archives at Wellington. All sent prompt and fruitful replies full of information about these kinfolk of mine—where they lived, what they did, who they married. We learned of a baby born after their arrival there, a little girl who must have brought joy to the young, widowed mother.
I learned of cousins, very far from me in distance and time, and of a relative “killed in the Maori Wars.” My New Zealand family had suffered perils, trials, and hardships similar to those of their kin in Utah who were “killed by the Indians.” All were pioneers who started out from the same British shores.
I found that these early settlers were the founders of cities and towns, of businesses and farms, of family dynasties. I learned more about that great-uncle who while still in England had bought a great deal of land in New Zealand and had then sailed away with such high hopes only to die and find a resting place in the vast and lonely ocean.
I knew there must be present-day kinfolk still living in New Zealand, so I researched and found many descendants of those early kinsmen of mine. I put an advertisement in the Otago Times asking for the descendants of George and Catherine Scott Perkins to correspond with me.
Again the response was overwhelming—grandchildren, great-grandchildren, cousins two and three times removed. I have found them so friendly, so helpful, so anxious to give me all the information they had, and they were even willing to find information they did not have. Bits of legend and lore, added to the store I already had, helped me in writing family histories. I found that those pioneers to New Zealand, who traveled there at the same time as my other pioneer forebears came to Utah, had taken very good ancestral records with them. They could furnish me with some additional names, places of birth, and dates a generation or two further back.
We have had some of the family come to visit us, and even their friends have come. We have found them to be warm and friendly and very British. When they came, they brought more records. One lady in particular sat with me as I typed for most of one day in order to copy a very large pedigree chart her cousin had made for me.
Can someone be homesick for a place they have never been? I am sure they can, because the feeling I have now toward New Zealand is so strong. This warm feeling I have for that land is not just because it is one of the islands in the exotic South Seas, nor because it awakens a yearning that most of us have to visit “faraway places with strange-sounding names.” It is a deeper something awakened in me by the notation at the side of my great-uncle’s name. It has been interesting to study, to read, to search the maps of New Zealand.
I would like to walk down the streets of Christchurch and Auckland, to call on folks in Dunedin, Invercargill, Greymouth, Timaru, Buckland’s Beach—names now recorded in my family history book. I feel that some day I must visit there, and if I knock on the doors of the homes of my kinfolk, I know I will find a welcome. They will not be strangers, because we have met on the family tree and through the world of letters. What an opportunity—what an adventure there is in hunting folks!

At a special fireside, stake president David G. Crittenden challenged the youth to prepare 3,000 names for the temple in four months. They would then spend three days of a school vacation doing baptisms at the Ogden Utah Temple.

Only about 100 names were submitted for temple work during the first month. To speed the work along, the youth spent two Mutual nights a month at the Ogden Family History Center. Initially unsure about sacrificing their regular activities, they soon discovered they looked forward to going. Family history even became a topic of conversation at school. Richard Thomas of the Third Ward says, “You have these great feelings that you’re doing something really important for people who could have been waiting for hundreds of years. This project used our time more wisely and was better than just doing fun things at Mutual.”

Working at the Ogden Family History Center helped the number of names submitted grow to 1,911. But numbers became unimportant to the teens as they realized the importance of what they were doing.

By the end of the project, the youth had submitted 5,846 names, and more were coming. The experience has had a long-lasting impact on stake members. Many teens continue to go to the temple every other week to perform baptisms before school. And the number of adults going to the temple to do endowment work and sealings has increased. At last count, more than 10,000 names have been submitted.

Each year we have a family vacation at Bear Lake. It is an exciting week of getting acquainted with grandchildren. For the past few years I have listened to their opportunities and challenges. They have let me know of the increased pressures of being in the world but not of the world. Movies, television, Internet, designer clothes, extreme fashions, Sabbath-breaking activities, et cetera, escalate the magnitude of their temptations. Moreover, peer pressures force difficult decisions about whether to follow the crowd or stand up for the principles taught by converted and committed parents and the Church.
This year I decided to be a little more aggressive in counseling my grandchildren. I wanted to provide them with a framework to resist temptations and thrive in today’s complex world. Our vacation at the lake extends for four days, so I decided to purchase a loose-leaf binder for each of them and include a topic for discussion for each day. Each insert included some scripture references and quotes that were intended to start fruitful discussions between the generations.
On the first day, there was not much interest in discussions, but the momentum seemed to increase each day. The experiment had enough success that I would like to play grandfather to each of you young people listening today to see if we can stimulate some thoughtful discussions in your homes with your parents.

When my husband was a bishop, he came home from interviews one evening and told me that he had just been talking with his Elders Quorum President who had a very long list of attributes and characteristics he was looking for in a wife. He honestly felt like he had to check off every characteristic as he continued his quest for the perfect woman. At the top of his list were the physical attributes he thought were essential beauty being number one. His list required her to be perfect in every category.
This young man had confided to my husband, his bishop, that he really liked a young woman in the ward whom he had dated recently, but she didn't meet all of his criteria. Fortunately, he was able to get comfortable with the fact that he was not perfect either. This couple did marry. They have a wonderful family with four children, and he is now a Bishop. He and his family are living the plan.

As I was going around teaching the people of the village, there was a man who was baptized in 1982. He joined the Church in Lagos but when he came back to the village, the Church was not there. He became a pastor and used the Church’s Bible Dictionary and Topical Guide to teach. The people there thought he was a brilliant pastor. They didn’t know where he was getting his information from. Because he was technically a member, I focused on teaching his wife and daughter. The whole family got baptized. I was using my own money to hire a van to go to church in Umuahia, which was the closest place. The bishop and stake president were happy to receive us. My father even came from the city to the village to go to church with us.
I told my elder brother, who is a stake president in Owerri, what was going on. He said we fell under the Nigeria Enugu Mission. Eventually, we got permission to worship in my village. We decided to use my grandfather’s house to hold church in. My grandfather has passed away. When he was alive, white missionaries came to him and he said he would support the Church, this was back in the 90’s.
The people helped me move all the property and clean the house. The people cleaned the house as if they were members, but they were not yet baptized. The missionaries came and on the first Sunday, we had about 19 baptisms and later more, for a total of 39 baptisms. The stake president has applied for us to become a branch. My father came and bore his testimony and said he never thought the Church would be in his village.
The group still worships in my grandfather’s house. From my village, we now have two high councilmen called. There is someone enrolled in BYU Pathways. The Church is growing, and it makes me happy.