Gospel Story Finder

In preparation for our most recent temple dedication, in Twin Falls, Idaho, local Church members constructed a huge stage at the Filer, Idaho, fairgrounds and filled the dirt arena with sod and other decorations, including a large waterfall to represent Shoshone Falls, a popular landmark located two miles (3 km) from the new temple. The evening of the performance, 3,200 young men and young women entered the arena waving blue and white ribbons, turning the arena into a representation of a great river of flowing water. Titled “Living Water,” from John 4:10, 14, the celebration brought together youth from 14 stakes in the new temple district. They depicted, through song and dance, both their dependence for their spiritual lives on the living water from the Savior and their dependence for their physical lives on the mountain streams and rivers in their area. Those of us privileged to witness this event were uplifted and edified.

Another great spiritual influence in my life was President N. Eldon Tanner, who served as a counselor in the First Presidency. I first met him when he was my branch president and I was in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He wrote my parents a beautiful letter about me, which my mother kept and which I found after she died. He was very considerate of those of us who were in the air force.
When I moved to Calgary, he became my stake president. He had been the minister of mines and resources in the Alberta Provincial Government and had resigned from that position and gone into private business. A transcontinental pipeline was being planned, and it would be very expensive. The people who were going to finance it were reluctant to risk their money. They said, however, that if Eldon Tanner was the president of the company, they would be happy to put their money into the project. When President Tanner went to the project’s first meeting, he was told that the board meetings would be on Sunday. Eldon Tanner said, “Not if I’m president.” He explained his Church obligations and his belief in Sabbath observance. So the board of directors changed their meeting to another day. President Tanner was president of that company until he was called to be a General Authority. He was a spiritual giant, a wonderful model to pattern my own life after.

Elder Renlund and his family lived in Sweden when he was 12. One Sunday another deacon brought a firecracker and matches to the Church building. Before others arrived, Elder Renlund lit the firecracker! He tried to put it out, but it exploded and filled the chapel with fumes. Nothing was damaged, but the smell distracted everyone in sacrament meeting. Elder Renlund felt so bad that he decided not to take the sacrament. After church, he confessed to his branch president what he had done. Elder Renlund felt joy and happiness when he repented and knew he was forgiven.

This story happened in the USA.
The smell of spaghetti sauce made David’s stomach rumble. “When will dinner be ready?”
“Just a few more minutes,” Papá said, stirring the sauce. He glanced over at David. “What are you working on?”
David held up his Children’s Guidebook. “I’m trying to pick a new goal. But I’m not sure which one to do. They’re all good.”
“What are some of the options?”
David flipped through the guidebook. “Sing a Primary song, serve your neighbors, welcome others . . . .” Then he saw another one. “Oh! Papá, will you help me learn how to cook?”
“Of course,” Papá said. “I’m going to make my special Sunday breakfast tomorrow. Will you wake up early and help me?”
“OK!” David said.
The next morning, David woke up early and met Papá in the kitchen. While Papá got out the ingredients, David washed his hands.
Papá showed David how to hold a knife and cut fruit safely. He had David mix all the pancake ingredients. Then it was time for the best part. Bacon!
David used tongs to carefully turn the bacon over in the pan. The bacon sizzled, and some grease splattered onto his fingers. “Ouch!” David said.
“Careful,” Papá said. He turned on the faucet and had David hold his hand under the cold water for a minute. Then he gave David an oven mitt to wear to protect his hands from the hot grease.
“Cooking is tricky,” David said.
“Yep,” Papá said. “Learning new things is hard work. That’s why you have to learn the right methods.”
“And practice a lot,” David said. “I learned in Primary that not even Jesus knew everything at first.”
Dad nodded. “Even He had to learn things a little at a time.”
They finished cooking the bacon and put all the food on the table. The whole family loved it.
Their cat, Nacho, meowed under the table.
“I think Nacho wants some too!” David’s sister Sarah said.
David helped Papá in the kitchen a lot after that. Papá showed him lots of recipes in their recipe book. David learned how to measure ingredients for cookies, how to scramble eggs, and how to make his favorite drink, horchata. The more he practiced cooking, the more confident he felt.
Then one Sunday morning, David finally felt ready. “Papá, can I make breakfast on my own today?” David asked as he joined Papá in the kitchen.
“All right,” Papá said. “I’ll be right here if you need any help.”
David got out the things he needed and started working. He sliced the strawberries and bananas the way Papá had shown him. He flipped the pancakes carefully without burning any.
And when he cooked the bacon, he knew just what to do. He wore an oven mitt and an apron to keep the grease from splattering on him.
When he was done, David put all the food on the table. The rest of the family sat down. His younger sister Emily said a prayer, and they started eating.
“This is really good,” said his brother, Jeremie. “Thanks, Papá.”
“Actually,” Papá said, “David made it all on his own.”
“Really?” Jeremie said. He looked at David. “You’ve gotten really good!”
David beamed. It had taken a lot of practice, but it felt good to make breakfast for his family. He couldn’t wait to try more recipes.

It would be an understatement to say that my husband and I were surprised to learn that, at age 40, I was expecting a baby. Complications in the pregnancy soon prompted the doctors to order complete bed rest for me. My husband gave me a priesthood blessing in which I was promised that if I would do as I was instructed by the doctors, all would be well.
But bed rest proved to be a difficult challenge as I tried to meet the needs of our two young children and keep myself occupied.
When the ward members realized I would be “confined for the duration,” dinners began arriving with regularity. My three-year-old son was often picked up to spend the day with friends. And when my six-year-old son got home from school, someone always seemed to drop in to check on him. Sisters came frequently to clean the house and do the laundry, often ending up sitting on my bed to visit.
More than two months before the baby was due, I went into early labor and our tiny, frail son was born. He was so ill that the doctors told us we should set our affairs in order and prepare for a funeral. We went in to see our tiny son, covered with wires and tubes, in a warming crib. With tears flowing freely, my husband and two other brethren anointed and blessed our little baby, John. John responded by beginning to fight for his life.
While my husband and I spent many days and nights at the hospital, our ward members continued their many acts of service and love for our family. More than once during the pregnancy and at least twice after the baby was born, the entire ward fasted and prayed for us.
On one occasion when we were permitted to take John to church even though he was still on oxygen, a mother approached us with her eight-year-old son. She quietly, almost reverently, asked if her son could see the baby. She explained that her son had caught the vision of serving and loving others by fasting and praying. He wanted to see how his faith and prayers had been answered. He looked at the baby and wept. He told his mother he was glad he could fast and pray. “After all,” he said, “look what Heavenly Father did.”
Today John is a vibrant, energetic, loving 17-year-old. He is a living testimony to the members of that generous ward and their commitment to faith and charity. Words cannot express the gratitude we feel toward them and our Heavenly Father.

One day at school when I was playing with my friends, I saw a new girl in our class. She was sitting next to where we were playing. She looked like she wanted to play with us. I invited her to come and play, and she said yes! I felt good that I had asked her to be our friend. From that time on we were good friends. I was sad when she moved back to her old school, but I’m happy I had the courage to invite a new person into my circle of friends. I hope I can do it again very soon.

But just under three months and several blood tests later, I miscarried again—this time only a week before Christmas. Another three months passed and my hopes soared after another positive pregnancy test, only to miscarry a week later—yet another stoplight.
“Even if we have strong faith, many mountains will not be moved. … If all opposition were curtailed, if all maladies were removed, then the primary purposes of the Father’s plan would be frustrated.”2 —Elder David A. Bednar
I got pregnant again, and my next due date was going to land right around the following Christmas. I had a good feeling about this pregnancy. We had seen the heartbeat on an early ultrasound and knew that family members were praying for us. While we were sitting in an endowment session in the temple one day, I had a distinct stream of thoughts: “If I were to lose this pregnancy, would my faith hold up? Of course it would. But of course I won’t have another miscarriage because this time I am ready to accept the Lord’s will no matter what.”
Despite my positive attitude, several weeks later I saw the signs, went in for the ultrasounds, and began the painful process that I felt all too familiar with. My faith did not hold up quite like I had expected. The answers that had sustained me through my previous miscarriages no longer seemed adequate. A wave of depression set in. I felt broken, empty, and even slightly betrayed. My husband and I weren’t the only ones waiting on the Lord; our daughter frequently told us how much she wanted a baby brother or sister. Our hearts ached for her as well. As I turned my vulnerable emotions over to the Lord in fervent prayer, I again received a clear witness that Heavenly Father was very aware of my pain and circumstances and that He loved me. Although my circumstances remained the same, this sweet and simple experience miraculously lightened the burden I felt and gave me the ability to cope and even feel happy as I continued through my day-to-day life. Whatever the future held, I would be OK.
When genetic testing came back several months later with no answers, we again felt confused about the purpose of these setbacks in our lives. I tried my best to set my own desires aside and align my will with the Lord’s, but during the difficult moments my heart would cry out, “What am I supposed to learn from this? I’m trying to do something good! Where is the help I need?”
“Hard is the constant! We all have challenges. The variable is our reaction to the hard.”3 —Elder Stanley G. Ellis
Eight months after my fourth miscarriage and just several weeks after my stressful drive to meet the sister missionaries, I was peacefully waiting at a stoplight on my way home when my answers came. As I watched the cars stopped next to me and the cars making their way down the road ahead of me, I caught an eternal perspective of my life. I suddenly realized that all that mattered in my journey was that I stay on the path that would take me back to my heavenly home. How many “stoplights” I waited at would have no effect on my destination. How I responded to them would.
I began to cherish every stoplight in my life, both metaphorical and literal. Instead of wasted time, each became an opportunity to acquire patience and to gain perspective that comes only through waiting. Just as every red traffic light is paired with a green light in a different direction, I found that every stoplight in my life opened an avenue for growth, just not necessarily in the way I had been planning to grow right then. Instead of dwelling on the disappointments, I began to delight in the opportunity for progress that every unexpected turn of events provided.
“A critical question to ponder is ‘Where do we place our faith?’ Is our faith focused on simply wanting to be relieved of pain and suffering, or is it firmly centered on God the Father and His holy plan and in Jesus the Christ and His Atonement?”4 —Elder Donald L. Hallstrom
Two long years after my first miscarriage, I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy. In the time leading up to that joyful day for our family, I came to realize that Jesus Christ did not suffer for me in order to remove all suffering from my life. Rather, He suffered so that I could be strengthened through and grow from the challenges I face. Although the heartbreaking moments of loss and the long months of waiting are still painful to remember, they have become a treasure in my life. In those sacred moments, I came to understand how individually the Savior knows my suffering. He succored me in a way that only one who knows my personal sorrows could succor. While the opposition in our lives often seems to thwart our plans for progress, as we turn to the Lord, that opposition can function as the friction that propels us to a higher end: knowing and abiding in the Savior’s perfect love.

In our hectic and fast-moving world, accidents can in an instant inflict pain, destroy happiness, and curtail our future. Such was the experience of young Robert Hendricks. Healthy and carefree three years ago, a sudden, three-car accident left him with brain damage, limited use of his limbs, and impaired speech. Summoned to his side by his mother, who pleaded her despair, I gazed at his almost-lifeless form as he lay on the white hospital bed in the critical care unit. Life supports functioning, his head swathed in bandages, his future was not only in doubt, but death appeared certain.
The hoped-for miracle, however, did occur. Heavenly help was forthcoming. Robert lived. His recovery has been labored and slow—but steady. A devoted friend, who was bishop at the time of the accident, has cared for Robert each week, getting him ready and driving him to his Sunday Church meetings—always patient, ever faithful.
One day Robert’s former bishop brought him to my office, since Robert wanted to meet with me, not having remembered that I saw him that night of crisis in the hospital. He and the dedicated bishop sat down, and Robert “talked” with me through a small electronic machine on which he spelled out his thoughts and they were then printed on strips of paper. He spelled out on the machine the love he has for his mother, his thanks for helping hands and willing hearts which have aided him, and his gratitude to a kind and caring Heavenly Father who has sustained him through his prayers. Here are some of his less private and personal messages: “I’m coming along pretty good, considering what I’ve been through.” Another: “I know that I will be able to help people and make some difference in people’s lives, and that’s great.” Another: “I don’t really know just how fortunate I am, but in my prayers I am told to just keep pushing on.”
At the conclusion of our visit, the bishop said, “Robert would like to surprise you.” Robert stood and, with considerable effort, said aloud, “Thank you.” A broad smile crossed his face. He was on the way back. “Thanks be to God” were the only words I could utter. Later I prayed aloud, “Thanks be also for loving bishops, kind teachers, and skilled specialists.”
Today, Robert, through the help of his former bishop, his current bishop, and others, has been to the temple. He has learned the computer. He is enrolled in computer study at college. He was also aided along the way by Deseret Industries helpers who provided encouragement and taught him essential skills. Now, with the support of a cane, Robert walks. He has learned to talk, though in halting phrases and with great effort. His progress has been phenomenal.

“See you in a couple of weeks, Jaylee,” Dad said as he stopped the car in front of Mom’s house. He gave Jaylee a hug. “Love you.”
Jaylee hugged him tight. “Love you too, Dad. Bye.” She grabbed her duffel bag and walked slowly up the sidewalk. Then she turned and waved to Dad until his car disappeared around the corner.
Jaylee took her bag to her room and sat down on her bed. Her stepdad, Kyle, and her half-brother, Jesse, followed.
“How was your weekend?” Kyle asked.
“We went to a movie, and Dad helped me ride my bike,” Jaylee said.
Jesse ran over to Jaylee and put a toy car in her lap. “Jay-Jay, play cars!” he demanded.
“OK.” Jaylee didn’t really feel like playing, but she let him pull her by the hand to the toy box. She knew Jesse missed her when she was at her dad’s.
Soon Mom came home from visiting teaching. “Jaylee!” she said, hugging her. Jaylee hugged back but didn’t smile.
“Feeling sad again?” Mom asked.
Jaylee nodded. She couldn’t explain the heaviness that filled her whenever she came home from Dad’s. “I’m happy to see you guys,” she said, rolling a car over to Jesse. “I just … I don’t know. It’s hard too.”
Mom squeezed Jaylee’s hand. “I know you sometimes feel very sad about the divorce. One reason might be that you have two homes you want to be in and two sets of people you want to be with. It makes sense that you feel homesick for your dad.” She patted Jaylee’s hair. “You know, Kyle and I have been talking and praying about how to help you feel better, and we had an idea. Come with me.”
They walked down the hall to Mom’s room, and Mom pulled a small box out of her closet. Inside the box, Jaylee found a gold heart on a chain.
“It’s so pretty!” Jaylee said.
“The heart opens,” Mom said. She helped Jaylee open the heart so she could see two tiny pictures inside.
“It’s Dad on one side and me on the other,” Jaylee said.
“Yes,” Mom said. “You can wear the necklace whenever you feel lonely for him.”
“I get it,” Jaylee exclaimed. “It’s like he’s in my heart!”
“And you are in his heart too,” Mom said, fastening the locket around Jaylee’s neck.
That night as Jaylee knelt to pray, she held the locket open in one hand. She thanked Heavenly Father for her mom and her dad. Then she thought about her stepdad and stepmom; her cute brother, Jesse; her stepbrother, Spencer; and her baby half-sister, Vanessa. She thanked Heavenly Father for them too. As she prayed, her heart began to feel lighter.
After she finished her prayer, Jaylee carefully put the necklace back in its box. Then she smiled as she ran to hug Mom and Kyle good night.

One of the most telling of these experiences occurred in 1978, in competition for the coveted France Cup—a trophy sought by soccer clubs throughout France and its territories. Since the Tahitian football league is affiliated with the Fédération Francaise de Football, Tahitian teams also vie for the France Cup.
By a long-standing arrangement, two top clubs from Tahiti, together with two leading teams from the French-administered territory of New Caledonia, play off to see which South Pacific club will travel to France to compete against the French professionals in the annual France Cup competition. The playoff locations alternate each year between Tahiti and New Caledonia.
In 1978, Erroll’s club, Central, qualified for the local play-off with the New Caledonians, but it was to be played outside of Tahiti and the final was fixed for a Sunday. Not even the persuasive talents of Napoléon Spitz could get the New Caledonians to move the game to another day. And so, as he had the previous year after leading his team to the France Cup finals, Erroll stayed away from the game. While his teammates spent that Sunday morning preparing for the all-important clash later that day, Erroll went to Church. When the whistle signalled kick-off, Central’s captain was alone, back in his hotel room.
“I’ll never forget that day,” he recalls. “Towards the end of the match I had the strongest feeling that things weren’t going well. I wondered whether it would be right to pray to the Lord about a soccer game, but I knew He was aware of my situation and that I had tried to do what was right. Finally, I knelt and asked the Lord to help my team players do their best.”
Erroll learned later that Sabbath day that Central had been a goal down with only 60 seconds to go when the Tahitian club had equalized the score at 2–2. In the mandatory extra time that followed, Central took the winning goal. It was one of the most memorable of Central’s matches.

A short family history story illustrates this counsel.

Several months ago I read the testimony of my great-grandfather’s sister Elizabeth Staheli Walker. As a child, Elizabeth immigrated to America from Switzerland with her family.

After Elizabeth married, she and her husband and children lived in Utah near the Nevada border, where they ran a mail station. Their home was a stopping place for travelers. All day and all night they had to be ready to cook and serve meals for travelers. It was hard, exhausting work, and they had little rest. But the greatest thing that concerned Elizabeth was the conversation of the people they associated with.

Elizabeth said that up to this time she had always taken for granted that the Book of Mormon was true, that the Prophet Joseph Smith had been authorized of God to do what he did, and that his message was the plan of life and salvation. But the life she was experiencing was anything but what would strengthen such a belief.

Some of the travelers who stopped were well-read, educated, smart men, and always the talk around her table was that Joseph Smith was “a sly fraud” who had written the Book of Mormon himself and then distributed it to make money. They acted as if to think anything else was absurd, claiming “that Mormonism was bunk.”

All this talk made Elizabeth feel isolated and alone. There was no one to talk to, no time to even say her prayers—although she did pray as she worked. She was too frightened to say anything to those who ridiculed her religion. She said she didn’t know but what they were telling the truth, and she felt she could not have defended her belief if she had tried.

Later, Elizabeth and her family moved. Elizabeth said she had more time to think and was not so distracted all the time. She often went down in the cellar and prayed to Heavenly Father about what was troubling her—about the stories those seemingly smart men had told about the gospel being bunk and about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon.

One night Elizabeth had a dream. She said: “It seemed I was standing by a narrow wagon road, which led around by the foot of a low rolling hill; halfway up the hill I saw a man looking down and speaking, or seemed to be speaking, to a young man who was kneeling and leaning over a hole in the earth. His arms were stretched out, and it looked as if he was reaching for something from in the hole. I could see the lid of stone that seemed to have been taken off from the hole over which the boy was bending. On the road were many people, but none of them seemed to be at all interested in the two men on the hillside. There was something that came along with the dream that impressed me so strangely that I woke right up; … I could not tell my dream to anyone, but I seemed to be satisfied that it meant the angel Moroni [instructed] the boy Joseph at the time he got the plates.”

In the spring of 1893, Elizabeth went to Salt Lake City to the dedication of the temple. She described her experience: “In there I saw the same picture [that] I had seen in my dream; I think it was [a] colored-glass window. I feel satisfied that if I saw the Hill Cumorah itself, it would not look more real. I feel satisfied that I was shown in a dream a picture of the angel Moroni giving Joseph Smith the [gold] plates.”

Many years after having this dream and several months before she died at nearly age 88, Elizabeth received a powerful impression. She said, “The thought came to me as plain … as if someone had said to me, … ‘Do not bury your testimony in the ground.’”

Generations later, Elizabeth’s posterity continues to draw strength from her testimony. Like Elizabeth, we live in a world of many doubters and critics who ridicule and oppose the truths we hold dear. We may hear confusing stories and conflicting messages. Also like Elizabeth, we will have to do our best to hold on to whatever light and truth we currently have, especially in difficult circumstances. The answers to our prayers may not come dramatically, but we must find quiet moments to seek greater light and truth. And when we receive it, it is our responsibility to live it, to share it, and to defend it.

Every time Jared Burton Ikihega, 12, of New Zealand, looks up a telephone number in the directory, he sees something familiar—his artwork on the cover.
Jared was one of 20 winners in a national competition to produce a picture for the local telephone directories. His artwork, a linoprint which he called “Looking over the East,” is a view of houses in Porirua East from his school.
Jared’s entry was selected from nearly 600 entries in his area. But this isn’t the first time his art has been recognized. One of his pieces was included in an exhibition of New Zealand school children’s art in Paris. Another work was chosen for a brochure for the Wellington Social Welfare Department.

The unfamiliar can be scary. As a new bishop, it was daunting to reach out to a member of my ward who identified as gay and needed spiritual help. It was challenging to lead discussions about this topic and to counsel parents of youth who were struggling with their identity.
A wave of anxious thoughts would come to mind:
“What if I say the wrong thing?”
“What if I sound too conservative or too extreme?”
“Do I even know enough to be helpful?”
One day while contemplating my fears, my mind was drawn to study scriptures that mentioned fear. I felt peace when I read, “Perfect love casteth out all fear” (Moroni 8:16), and that “there is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear” (1 John 4:18).
Those truths helped me to remember that if I acted out of sincere love, I could be confident in receiving guidance and help from the Lord.

President George Albert Smith once dreamed that he met his grandfather, George A. Smith, in the spirit world. George A. Smith had been an Apostle and a mighty man in the Church. “I would like to know what you have done with my name,” he said to his grandson.

President Smith quickly reviewed his life. Then he smiled, looked at his grandfather, and said: “I have never done anything with your name of which you need be ashamed.”

Then George A. Smith stepped forward, took his namesake in his big arms, and embraced him. “As he did so, I became conscious again of my earthly surroundings. My pillow was … wet with tears of gratitude that I could answer unashamed.” (Improvement Era, March 1947, p. 139.)

Recently, some members of my family determined it would be fun to bicycle from Bozeman, Montana, to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, in the United States. This 225-mile journey would take us three days, and we would cross the Continental Divide on three occasions. We determined that traveling through the mountain passes with good weather would be a wonderful experience that would help us appreciate God’s creations.

After careful planning and preparation, two of my sons and my only daughter and I set out on the first day to cycle to our overnight stop in Big Sky, Montana. The morning was perfect, and we expected a delightful journey. However, as we traveled along, dark clouds gathered and brought rain, which eventually became sleet and hail and made us extremely cold and wet and miserable. As we concluded day one of our journey and reached our overnight destination, I was reminded that life can be just like that day. Fortunately, we had prepared for all types of weather conditions; had we not done so, it would have been difficult to complete our journey that first day. At each stage of life’s journey, we should set out full of hope and optimism, but we should be prepared nonetheless to face opposition or hardship at some point.

On day two of our trip, we headed to West Yellowstone. Everything was as it should be—the bicycles were running smoothly, our legs rested, as we progressed toward our second destination. It was then that I realized if we are not careful when everything is going just right in life, there can be a temptation to forget our Heavenly Father and give credit to ourselves for our happy state. Don’t make that mistake.

On day three of our journey, I learned that even though we may have some uphill struggles in our lives, our attitude will determine how we face them. On that day we crossed the Continental Divide three times, rising from an elevation of 4,800 feet to 8,300 feet. Climbing steep mountain passes on a bike requires the right attitude to get to the right altitude. It’s the same with life. By setting worthwhile goals and keeping your eyes fixed on them, you will learn self-discipline and accomplish much. Yes, there were times when climbing the steep mountain grades was as much as I could bear, but I didn’t give up, because I was fixed in my purpose.

As our family concluded the 225-mile bicycle journey, we learned that no matter how difficult things can become on this road we call life, great happiness is waiting for those who keep the commandments and endure to the end.

Prophets have charge for the whole earth, not just for members of the Church. I can report from my own experience how personally and devotedly the First Presidency takes that charge. As needs grow, the First Presidency has charged us to increase our humanitarian outreach in a significant way. They are interested in the largest trends and the smallest details.
Recently, we brought to them one of the protective medical gowns that Beehive Clothing sewed for hospitals to use during the pandemic. As a medical doctor, President Russell M. Nelson was highly interested. He didn’t want to just see it. He wanted to try it on—check the cuffs and the length and the way it tied in the back. He told us later, with emotion in his voice, “When you meet with people on your assignments, thank them for their fasting, their offerings, and their ministering in the name of the Lord.”

Andy Taylor had a problem. And he was worrying about it so much that he hardly noticed anything else going on around him. He didn’t even hear the click-clacking music of his skateboard wheels as he rolled along toward Mr. Weber’s house.
The problem had started right after his baptism. “Now remember, Andrew,” Sister Thomas had said, “every member of the Church should be a missionary. And that’s what you are now—a real member.”
Even though he had always felt like a member, Andy knew now that he really was a member. Still, he’d asked Sister Thomas if even Primary kids were supposed to be missionaries, and she’d said “Yes, even Primary kids.”
When he got home, Andy asked his father the same question and got the same answer. That’s why he was going to see Mr. Weber. Maybe Mr. Weber can help me, he thought. He’s a great thinker.
Andy screeched his skateboard to a stop in front of Mr. Weber’s house, opened the door, and walked in. “Mr. Weber,” he called. “It’s me, Andy Taylor.”
Several months ago, shortly before Andy’s eighth birthday, Mr. Weber had been injured in a terrible automobile accident. He couldn’t walk or talk or do anything now except lie in his bed. He even had a full-time nurse to help take care of him.
Andy had started coming to see Mr. Weber every day after school, just for short visits, to keep him company. At first the visits had been hard for Andy because he had had to do all the talking. Then one day Andy discovered that Mr. Weber could sort of talk to him by blinking his eyes—one blink for “yes” and two blinks for “no.” After that they talked about everything. Well, Andy did all the real talking, and Mr. Weber did all the blinking, but it was almost like they were both talking out loud.
It was because he and Andy had become such special friends that Andy was allowed to walk into Mr. Weber’s house whenever he wanted. And now Andy just had to talk to his friend about his problem. “Hi, Mr. Weber,” Andy said as he seated himself on a stool by the side of the bed. He always sat close enough to clearly see Mr. Weber’s eyes. “Did you get a lot of rest today?”
Mr. Weber blinked his eyes once for “Yes.”
“Great! I have a really big problem that I want to talk over with you. Is that OK?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
So Andy explained about his baptism, about how he was now a real member of the Church, and about how every member of the Church should be a missionary. “But how can I be a missionary when I’m only eight years old?” Andy asked. “Maybe only grownup members are meant to be missionaries. Is that right, Mr. Weber?”
“No,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“You mean kids should be missionaries, too?” Andy asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s what Sister Thomas, my Primary teacher, said, and my father agrees with her. But being a missionary kind of scares me. You see, I don’t know how to be a missionary.”
Mr. Weber blinked once. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Andy repeated, surprised. “I do know how to be a missionary?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“But I don’t knock on doors like real missionaries do.”
“No,” Mr. Weber blinked twice.
“And I’ve never read to you from the Bible or the Book of Mormon.”
“No,” Mr. Weber answered.
“Boy, am I lost.” Andy tried to think of anything that he might have done that would make Mr. Weber think of him as a missionary, but Andy’s mind was as empty as the time he had flunked a spelling test. He just sat there and couldn’t think of a thing.
Andy glanced up and saw that Mr. Weber’s eyes were closed. It was his way of telling Andy that he wasn’t talking enough. If Andy didn’t talk, Mr. Weber couldn’t blink.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weber. I know you want to talk, but I’m stumped. How can I be a missionary?”
Mr. Weber’s eyes glanced quickly from one side of the room to the other, then he stared really hard at Andy. Deliberately he did the same thing again.
Let’s see, Andy thought. By first looking at his room and then at me, he’s trying to tell me something. “You want me to figure out some connection between your room and me?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
Andy got excited, knowing that he was close to the answer. “Let’s see. Your room and me, and we’re talking about me being a missionary. Am I being a missionary by visiting you in your room?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked again.
Andy was pleased with his lucky guess. Suddenly he remembered pictures he had seen of pioneers throwing seeds from sacks slung over their shoulders. “I remember something from a Primary lesson,” Andy said. “Farmers plant seeds that grow. And when I’m good and do good things, maybe I’m planting ‘missionary seeds.’”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked, and his eyes were really shining now. That meant that Andy had it right.
“So even though I’m only eight years old and I don’t knock on doors like real missionaries do, I can still be a missionary by setting a good example and by being kind and thoughtful. And visiting you is one way that I do good—is that it, Mr. Weber?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“Wahoo!” Andy yelled. “That’s it! I can be a missionary by helping those around me. I’m going to help Mrs. Gandey in her garden and Mr. Thompson with his lawn. And I’m going to keep visiting you. Thanks, Mr. Weber.” Andy jumped down from the stool and added, “I’m glad that we had this talk. I’m going to be the best missionary that you ever saw!”
“And thank you, Andy Taylor,” Mr. Weber’s eyes seemed to twinkle back. “I’m glad that we had this talk too.”

It’s Tuesday night in Nashua. Sixty teachers and their spouses begin arriving at the appreciation night. They’re talking with their students, and the youth are relaxing.
I stop 14-year-old Cyndie Munk and ask her how it’s going. Three or four of her teachers are already here. “The teachers are just so impressed that we want to honor them,” she says, grinning. She sees her vice principal walk in and waves in his direction. “He never gets to do anything,” she tells me. “I gave him his invitation and told him what it was for and he absolutely beamed. Every time I saw him around school he just started smiling, asking if he was still supposed to come.”
The teachers are filing out and Cyndie sums up the Nashua evening for me. “My teachers said they’ve never had anyone do anything like this for them,” she says. “But I think they work hard. They give up a lot of their own time for us. I think they deserved this.”

“Please don’t panic, ma’am, but your son was hit by a car on the way to school.”
The young woman’s words fell on my ears with the intensity of a bomb. Without stopping to think, I threw down the phone, snatched my sleeping little girl, and ran toward the school. I wept and prayed.
Within minutes I was at the school. There was five-year-old Abraham, sitting in his classroom, looking completely healthy, and telling me that he had been hit by a car. I looked him over, and although I could see no apparent harm from the accident, we took him to the hospital.
When we got to the emergency room, we saw a man with his head down, sobbing. Someone must have pointed me out to him, because while the doctors examined my son, the distraught man nervously approached me and said, “I am the one responsible for hitting your son. I will take care of the expenses for anything that has to be done.”
The man began to tell me exactly what had happened. He had driven through an intersection with a traffic light that was out of order and didn’t see the boy crossing the street in front of the stopped bus. He noticed the child only after striking him with the car. He said the impact felt as if he had hit a brick wall. The collision destroyed his car and caused injury to his passengers. He told me he had shut his eyes and thought about the little child lying on the street.
In his despair at reliving the experience, the man did not even notice that my son was now running and jumping through the halls. Suddenly, he stopped his story, and his eyes began to follow the leaps and jumps of Abraham. He cried, “It’s him. It’s him! It’s a miracle!” He looked at me and said, “I don’t believe in God, but I’m going to tell you something. I hit something very hard and strong. If you believe in anything, be thankful, because a host of angels protected your little boy today.”
That was when I remembered the prayer Abraham had offered that morning. He had a habit of saying very long prayers, which included gratitude for everything from our distant relatives to the dishes on the table. But on this particular day he had been very brief and had said only, “Heavenly Father, protect me on my way to school.”
We later went to the site of the accident, and I saw with my own eyes the magnitude of the damage to the man’s car. A wheel was out of place, a door was dented in, and the bumper was destroyed. But my little Abraham had just a scratch on his elbow. Although I know all prayers are not answered so quickly or so dramatically, Abraham is a living witness of the love and power of God.

It was early spring in Nauvoo when I first walked the Trail of Hope. The light was golden and the shadows warm as I walked the tree-lined path. As a photographer, I was focused only on shutter speed, aperture, and the amazing light that filled my lens.
Then gradually the thoughts of my ancestors who had walked this trail began to fill my heart. First it was Jared and Cornelia with their two-year-old son. I felt the chill in the air, but that chill was nothing compared to the freezing conditions Jared and his little family had experienced during their exodus. Cornelia died somewhere between Nauvoo and Salt Lake. I imagined Jared weeping as he picked up his son and continued on.
Afraid the feeling of their presence would leave, I didn’t stop photographing as tears blurred my view. Then I remembered young Sarah, who had left with her loving stepmother in the last group of Saints to leave Nauvoo. At one point, a loving Heavenly Father filled their camp with quail to feed them. Then they struggled forward with grateful hearts.
My heart began to swell with emotion; it felt as though Sarah had joined me. Jared and Cornelia with their little son were with me also. We walked together amid the light and shadow, past and present merging on this trail—this trail of hope, this trail of tears. In a way I can’t explain, they were with me and awakened in me our shared love of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I realized that my testimony burns in me because it had burned in them—passed from generation to generation—each laying the foundation for the next. I wept with gratitude.
Soon my husband, who had been photographing elsewhere, caught up with me. I stood close to him as I told him of my experience. He, like those Nauvoo Saints, was the first in his family to believe the gospel. And he, like those who had walked this trail more than 150 years before, would not be the last to believe. His testimony and mine nurtured the testimonies that now burn in the hearts of our children, just as the testimonies of Jared and Cornelia and Sarah nurtured the testimonies of thousands of their descendants.
Forgetting about our photography, my husband and I slowly walked the rest of the Trail of Hope together, quietly remembering those who had gone before.