Gospel Story Finder

When I first became a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, I had the opportunity to accompany President N. Eldon Tanner, a counselor to President David O. McKay, to a stake conference in Alberta, Canada. During the meeting, the stake president read the names of four brethren who had qualified to be ordained elders. These were men whom President Tanner knew, for at one time he had lived in that area. But President Tanner knew and remembered them as they once were and did not know that they had turned their lives around and had fully qualified to become elders.
The stake president read the name of the first man and asked him to stand. President Tanner whispered to me, “Look at him. I never thought he would make it.” The stake president read the name of the second man, and he stood. President Tanner nudged me again and reported his astonishment. And so it was with all four of the brethren.
After the meeting, President Tanner and I had the opportunity to congratulate these four brethren. They had demonstrated that men can change.

On registration day several of the young people complained about having the boys and girls on separate campuses, but as the conferences progressed, they all seemed to really enjoy their own activities more without the pressures they usually feel when someone from the opposite sex is around. Bryan Krieger, from Silver Springs, Maryland, felt this separation gave the conference a perfect balance of social, spiritual, and physical activities.
“There is no way we could have accomplished as much all meeting together,” added Randy Tearlink from Charlottesville, North Carolina.
When they did see each other for the first time dressed in their best at the dinner-dance, they appreciated the company even more. Franky Ipsen from Fayetteville, West Virginia, said it was even fun following the advice of the speakers. “The dance really made it worth coming. There were plenty of girls to dance with, and we tried our best to do what we were told in the general sessions, ‘Warm people’s lonely hearts.’”

My first step to finding meaning in my life was to stay connected with the Saints and missionaries in Hungary. For some time, I lived for preparation days when I would receive emails from Sister Nestor and my MTC companions. I have to admit; sometimes it wasn’t easy to read about my companions’ missions or to speak with the Hungarians that I missed so badly. But as I look back now, I realize that it was critical to my healing to hear about the miracles happening there.

My little brother, gently prompted by my intuitive mother, convinced me to start indexing. Initially I did batches of names to appease him, but one day a registry of Hungarian names popped up on my screen. The Spirit swept over me and taught me that I was still able to help bring Hungarian souls to Christ—just on the other side of the veil!

After the mission, all of my pre-mission life goals seemed unattainable with my new health condition. But with time I realized that there were goals I could accomplish while lying down. I called goals such as reading Jesus the Christ “horizontal goals” and worked on them daily.

One of my pre-mission life goals was to graduate from college. While attending classes would have been difficult with my illness and the constant doctor appointments, my dad encouraged me to take online classes from Brigham Young University Independent Study. Not only was this an achievable horizontal goal, but I also realized that maybe I was capable of doing more pre-mission goals than I had previously thought possible.

One day at church, a sister walked up to my mom and said, “Do you know that Destiny can serve an online indexing mission?” This unexpected question was an answer to my prayers. I was able to serve the Lord for nine months as an indexing support Church-service missionary. This was a mission I could do!*

As I became better at managing my health condition, I began studying at a community college while doing my online mission. I was asked to teach mission preparation at the nearby institute. Teaching helped me realize that my enthusiasm for missionary work had not waned and that even my short mission had provided me with many experiences that could be valuable for my students.

After successfully attending a semester of college near my home, I moved to Utah, USA, to attend BYU. At first, I could hardly walk by the Provo MTC without feeling a rush of conflicting emotions. But I started volunteering weekly at the MTC and found that it was healing to meet the wonderful missionaries being sent to my beloved Hungary.

A Hungarian sister, Edit, who has prepared nearly 150,000 names for the temple asked me to take some of her names to the temple. It was a joy to do the saving ordinances for these Hungarians!

Serving a mission was my most important life dream and, understandably, I felt a loss when I came home earlier than anticipated. For a time, I struggled to talk about my mission. I had to work through feelings of failure. I had to learn how to judge the value of my mission by my desire to serve rather than the length. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, each of these steps toward meaning in my life also brought healing.

For years I was nervous that returning to Hungary would be difficult for me emotionally. When I eventually traveled there, it wasn’t until the second day that I realized that not only was I not feeling any pain, I was also feeling overwhelming joy to be back. I knew then that Heavenly Father had given me the opportunity to experience the healing power of the Savior’s Atonement. I now know that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, all things will be made right in the end.

*Many early returned missionaries continue to serve as young Church-service missionaries. Meet with your bishop or branch president for more information.

“Congratulations, José,” Bishop García said. He handed me my new temple recommend.
“Thank you!” I said. I shook his hand and walked out of the office, staring down at the white paper. I could go to the temple to do baptisms!
My abuelos (grandparents) were waiting in the hall. My parents didn’t come to church very often, so I usually went to church with Abuela and Abuelo. They both gave me a hug.
“Are you excited for your first temple trip next week?” Abuelo asked as we walked out of the building.
“Yes!” I said. But I couldn’t help noticing a funny, fluttery feeling in my stomach.
“It will be so nice to go together as a family,” Abuela said with a big smile.
I smiled back, but the funny feeling didn’t go away.
As the day of the temple trip got closer, I got more nervous. I finally talked to Abuela about it.
She was chopping vegetables in the kitchen, but she stopped when I came in. “What’s wrong?” she asked, wiping her hands on a towel. “You look worried.”
I sighed and sat down at the table. “I’m really excited to go to the temple. But I’m also nervous.”
Abuela nodded, like she understood how I felt. “You don’t need to worry. People will be there to help you every step of the way.”
As she spoke, I felt a warm, comforting feeling from my head to my toes. I knew it would be a special day.
Soon the day of our temple trip came. I put on my Sunday clothes and combed my hair. Abuela came into my room.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Excited! I can’t wait to go to the temple.”
Abuela sat on the end of my bed and pulled a piece of paper from her pocket.
“This is a temple ordinance card,” she said. “It’s for my brother. He was very special to me. But he died before he could be baptized. Would you be baptized for him in the temple today?”
Abuela held out the paper to me. I read the name: Ramon Rodriguez. I could tell Abuela loved her brother, and I was glad she trusted me to get baptized for him.
“Of course, Abuela. Thanks!” I carefully put the card in my pocket.
While riding the bus to the Santo Domingo Temple, Abuela told about when she went to the temple for the first time with Abuelo. Back then, they had to go all the way to Peru because there wasn’t a temple in the Dominican Republic.
An hour later, we arrived at the temple. Bishop García was there too. My eyes widened as we walked up to the building. It was so beautiful! I paused to read the words above the doors: Holiness to the Lord: The House of the Lord.
As I walked through the doors, I knew I was entering a special space. All my worries seemed to melt away. Everything was quiet and calm.
After changing into white clothes, I stood in the baptismal font with Bishop García. I listened carefully as he said the words of the baptismal prayer. When he said Ramon’s name, a peaceful feeling filled my body.
Bishop García lowered me into the water. When I came up, I was smiling. I couldn’t wait to do this again!

Gracie twisted a strand of curly hair around her finger. “Is anyone else going to repeat first grade?”
“I don’t know, honey.” Mom put her arm around Gracie.
“Then why do I have to?” Gracie asked.
“Mrs. Carter says that sometimes you don’t understand the work,” Mom said. “She thinks that is why you talk to your neighbors instead of finishing your own papers.”
“But Mom, if I don’t go on to second grade, all my friends will think I did something wrong.” Gracie’s eyes filled with tears. “They’ll laugh at me if I’m in first grade again.”
Mom said gently, “You know how hard reading is for you? And how upset you get when you can’t do your math pages?”
Gracie nodded.
“Honey, you’re not quite ready for second-grade work.”
Gracie put her hands over her face and burst into tears. “I know! I’m not smart.”
“Gracie, that’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” Gracie sobbed. “I’m the only one who still sounds out every word when I read. And yesterday, when the teacher wasn’t listening, Dalton called me stupid.”
Mom cuddled Gracie and let her cry. “You’re not stupid, Gracie. But you are younger than most of the children in your class. That makes a big difference.”
Mom tipped Gracie’s chin up and smiled into her eyes. “You know what? We have three whole summer months ahead of us, and we’re going to practice reading every day. When school starts again, first grade will be much easier. You’ll see.”
But on the first day of school, Gracie did not feel smarter. She just felt taller—like a giant standing in line with the new first graders.
Gracie saw her old friends lining up in front of the second-grade classroom. Her shoulders sagged. She slouched and stared straight ahead, trying to make herself invisible.
She noticed a new girl in front of her. A shiny black braid hung down the girl’s back, and she stood very still, as if she was scared.
Gracie remembered how afraid she had been last year when she was new. She tapped the girl on the shoulder.
“You’re going to love our teacher,” she said. “Mrs. Carter is really nice.”
The girl turned and stared at Gracie with round, dark eyes.
“Hey, Gracie!” Dalton yelled from down the hall. “You’re in the wrong line, dummy! This is the line for second graders.”
Gracie’s cheeks felt hot. She ignored him.
“I have to repeat the first grade,” Gracie said to the girl.
The girl looked at Dalton. “He … no es amable,” she said softly, then shook her head. “I mean … he is not kind.”
Gracie grinned. “My name is Gracie.”
“I am Juanita,” said the dark-eyed girl. “We just moved here.”
The classroom door opened, and Mrs. Carter smiled at the waiting children. “Welcome!” she said as they filed in. Gracie took Juanita’s hand and helped her find her name at one of the tables.
Later that morning Gracie showed Juanita where the girls’ bathroom was. She helped her get a hot lunch in the noisy cafeteria and explained about the bells for recess.
In the afternoon Gracie helped the shy boy next to her with his math page. Then she showed a girl with curly red hair how to sharpen her pencil so that the lead didn’t break.
All week Gracie was so busy helping the new first graders that she forgot she didn’t want to be there.
On Friday, Mrs. Carter called a class meeting. Gracie and Juanita sat next to each other in California, on the carpet that was a huge map of the United States.
Mrs. Carter pointed to the bulletin board. “Would anybody like to try to read the class rules to us?”
No hands went up.
“Nobody?” Mrs. Carter asked. She looked right at Gracie and raised her eyebrows.
Juanita poked Gracie. “You can read the words?”
Gracie shook her head. Just thinking about it made her heart stutter. She stared at the big red letters on the board. Then, to her surprise, as she stared at the letters they began to clump together and become words—words that she knew! Her heart beat faster. Maybe she could read the first rule. Very slowly, she raised her hand.
“Gracie.”
Gracie stood up. Her legs wobbled like cooked noodles. Everyone was staring at her.
“Class rules,” she said in a tiny voice. She cleared her throat. “Number one: Come … to … class … with … a smile!”
“Very good, Gracie!” Mrs. Carter said. “Would you like to try the second rule?”
Gracie took a deep breath. Her voice became stronger. “Ree … sp … ect … Respect others. Be kind.” She only had to sound out one word!
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Carter clapped as Gracie sat down on the floor.
Juanita whispered, “You are so smart!”
Gracie sighed happily. Maybe repeating first grade wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“Reading just takes practice,” Gracie said, squeezing the hand of her new best friend. “I’ll help you.”

Joseph Knight arose early the morning of September 22, 1827. As he went outside to check on his animals, he noticed that his horse and wagon were gone. He was a guest in the home of the Joseph Smith family in Manchester, New York, and Joseph and Emma had borrowed his horse and wagon in the predawn to go to the Hill Cumorah.
Brother Knight was a dear friend of the Prophet and was among the first to hear Joseph describe the sacred experience of being visited by the angel Moroni. The angel had appeared to Joseph Smith once a year for the three previous years, and this morning was to be the fourth and last visitation. During this visit the angel Moroni had promised to let the Prophet take the gold plates if Joseph had been faithful.
When Joseph and Emma returned from the Hill Cumorah, the Prophet told Brother Knight something of his glorious experience. He told him of the size of the plates and described the glasses, or Urim and Thummim, which he (Joseph) had been given to help translate the Book of Mormon.

Several months ago while traveling by air in the Andes area, I had the opportunity to explain to the man sitting next to me why I was living in South America.
After coming to understand something about the Church, its doctrine, and my role as a General Authority, he finally said, “How can you give your entire life to another man, like this Mr. Kimball, and stay in this country as long as he tells you to stay here? I could never do that.” I responded, “I could not either, if he were just a man,” and then bore testimony of the true role of the prophet on the earth, and that “for the Lord, through him, I would do anything.”

One day my sister and I were playing outside with our friends. During the game one of our friends used Heavenly Father’s name in vain. My sister and I told her in nice voices that that was not a good word to say. Now all our friends know that we do not like saying that word. My sister and I felt warm and happy inside for setting an example of not using Heavenly Father’s name in vain.
Lucy and Eliza B., ages 5 and 6, Virginia, USA

Young women in the Mansfield Ward, Arlington Texas Stake, worked countless hours to produce this stained glass nativity scene. After the work was completed, the nativity was displayed in their ward meetinghouse so that the whole ward could enjoy it. Martha Kate Downey, a nonmember in the area, helped the girls produce the beautiful work. In return, they gave her the gift of a Book of Mormon with their testimonies written inside the front cover.

Some time ago a dating relationship with someone I cared a great deal about ended. Already anxious about being unmarried, I doubted whether I could find another person with whom I was as compatible.
Not long after, I was reminded of the story of Abraham being commanded to sacrifice Isaac (see Genesis 22:1–14). I realized that both of us were asked to give up someone we loved. Of course, my experience pales in comparison to Abraham’s, but I discovered that his experience taught patterns I could follow.
Knowing that—but not necessarily how—God would keep His promises, Abraham was obedient. His love for his son was great, but his response showed that he loved the Lord above all else. We are asked to demonstrate the same thing (see D&C 101:4–5), and we too have the promise of great reward upon our faithful endurance (see Matthew 24:13). When my relationship ended, it was difficult to move on. Having received the promise that I will marry, moving on seemed to be unaligned with the fulfillment of that promise. But the promise gave me hope, which helped me to try again and to show Heavenly Father that I love Him above all else.

Once I was traveling in Turkey with three fellow Americans and a local driver. I had planned the trip in careful detail. The longest day of our trip involved driving through many miles of mountainous country of small villages and amazing vistas. The last part of that long day was to take us on a sixty-mile road to a hotel near the top of a mountain. We should be there in an hour, we thought. We were already tired when we turned onto that road. We found, to our dismay, that it was no highway at all but a very small road that wound its way up and down mountains. That may sound interesting and beautiful, and indeed it was. But the sun was getting low, and we had already traveled far. We were tired. Soon it became apparent that we would be spending much more time on that road than the hour I had anticipated. It took us three hours to cover the sixty miles, with scarcely a village or building along the way.

Soon it turned into a dirt road. And then the sun went down, and it was pitch black outside.

We finally saw a sign to what we thought was our destination. It pointed to an even smaller dirt road that turned steeply up the mountain. We took that road and went on in the darkness, winding our way up almost four thousand feet, ever higher into what for us was the total unknown.

The men with me were not pleased with my planning for the trip. I felt the emotions that the captain of a ship feels when a mutiny is about to take place.

Yet we went forward. I wish I could say that we went forward because of faith, but that wasn't the case. It was out of fear and desperation, because we didn't have other good options. We were already three hours removed from the nearest town behind us, and we could only take our chances with what lay ahead. We drove up and up and up, well beyond the last trees, with no signs of any kind of life around us.

Not far from the top of the mountain, the road ended, permanently. There was no road, no parking lot, no hotel, nothing.

Two of us volunteered to walk up the rest of the mountain in the dark, in a vain hope that we would find our hotel on the other side of the peak. As we walked, we saw a light in the distance. Drawing near, we could see that we had arrived at a mountain-top archaeological site, and there was a small shack immediately below it.

You can imagine the surprise of an old man when he saw two total strangers come to his door in the middle of the night in such a remote place. His name was Osman, and he was the caretaker there. He lived alone on the mountain in the little wooden shack. It was about ten by fifteen feet in dimension and had a small coal-burning stove in the middle of the single room. With that stove, Osman kept warm during the cold nights at high elevation, and on it he cooked his meals. He slept on a bench along one of the walls.

With the help of my map, I showed Osman where we had come from and where we thought we were going for our stay in a hotel. With words and hand gestures, he communicated what had already become painfully obvious to us: "You can't get there from here." To arrive at our hotel, we would have to drive the four thousand feet back down the mountain, then along a remote dirt road for about twenty miles, and back up to the top of the mountain on its other side.

It didn't look good for us.

But Osman had a giving heart. To our surprise, he invited us to spend the night in his cabin. We were deeply touched by the invitation. It was a blessing, to say the least. Our driver was exhausted, we were all short-tempered and traumatized, and we didn't know if we could even find the roads in the dark without driving off a cliff. So we welcomed Osman's generous offer.

As we returned from the car with our fellow travelers, Osman was fixing us a late dinner in a pan on his stove. He threw in whatever he could find in the cabin to feed his five guests. I was touched, again, by the generosity of one who would house and feed total strangers under such odd circumstances.

Between the six of us, we used up every available inch of bench and floor space in the little hut. I got to have a bench to myself. It was hard and only about five feet long and a foot and a half wide. The room was burning hot when we went to bed and freezing cold in the morning, but it was shelter, and it was a place to spend the night in safety and rest.

Our night on the mountain turned out to be one of the most memorable experiences of my life, and one that reminded me of what a blessing it is that there are people in the world who have giving hearts. At the time, my primary reaction was profound relief to have a place to spend the night after such a traumatic drive. But over time, my reaction has gravitated more and more to thankfulness: for Osman and his generosity and for the Lord who led us to him. You see, we were hungry, and he gave us meat; we were thirsty, and he gave us drink; we were strangers, and he took us in. Indeed, that night was probably the only night of my life when I really had no place to stay. I was taken in by a stranger, fed, and housed, and sent on my way in peace the next morning.

A few years later, I had occasion to return to the same location. This time, we took the right road, and we drove it in daylight. I went to the little hut, prepared to greet Osman and remind him of the experience. I was saddened to learn that in the interim, he had passed away. I wish I had thanked him more when I was there the first time. This to me is a reminder that with our giving hearts, we also need to have thankful hearts.

“I think we ought to kick Robby Burns off the team,” my best friend, Joey, said to me one day after a football game. “He can’t run very fast, and he’s always fumbling the ball.”
“Yeah, and whenever he plays,” I mumbled, “we usually lose.”
“But you’ll hurt his feelings,” said Joey’s younger sister Margie, who had overheard us.
“What does she know about guys playing football,” I grumbled under my breath. “I’ll see how the other guys feel about it,” I said aloud to Joey. “If they agree with us, I’ll talk to Robby after supper.”
“I think you’re both awful,” Margie complained. “Robby can’t help it if he’s not as good as you two are.”
“Margie,” I said, trying to be patient with her, “we’ll still play with him, but not football. He can watch us when we play that.”
I looked up, and Robby was standing right beside me. He had heard what I had said!
“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling. “I don’t mind not playing.”
Something about his smile stuck in my mind. Way down deep I knew that if I’d heard someone say that he didn’t want me on his team, I wouldn’t have smiled. That night after dinner I went for a walk with my dad. “You can understand how we feel, can’t you, Dad?” I asked him as we walked along. “He never helps us win. He’s just not good enough.”
“Yes,” Dad answered, “I do understand how you feel. Even so, it won’t be easy deciding which is more important—winning a game or keeping a friend.”
“But Robby’s still our friend. He told me he doesn’t care if he doesn’t play. I know he understands why we dropped him from the team.”
“I hope you’re right,” Dad said thoughtfully.
The next day in school we had a spelling bee. Robby Burns was one captain, and he picked me to be on his team. “We’ll have a contest each day for four days,” the teacher explained, “and the team that spells the most words correctly will represent our class in a spelling bee against the other third grade class.”
It sure sounded like fun. It was fun, too—except that I found out I wasn’t as good a speller as I thought I was. But Robby was terrific. He never missed a word. The other two on our team didn’t miss many, either. But I sure did.
On the last day we were tied with another team for first place, and there was a special spell-off. I was scared, but Robby encouraged me every time my turn came. It didn’t do much good, though, because the words were just too hard for me, and I missed nearly every one. I felt awful when we lost and the other team was declared the champions. I wouldn’t have blamed Robby for being sore, but he wasn’t.
“I’m sure sorry, Robby,” I apologized. “If it hadn’t been for me, our team would’ve won.”
“That’s OK, Chris,” he answered. “I know you did your best. Besides, it was fun just being on the same team.”
I thought of a few days ago, when I’d said we didn’t want him on our football team.
“Robby’s quite a guy,” I told Dad that night at supper.
“He sounds like a good sport,” Dad answered.
Dad was right. That’s just what Robby was—a good sport. He wanted to win as much as anyone, but he was willing to lose rather than hurt someone else’s feelings.
The next afternoon when the guys got together to play football, I made a little speech. “And from now on,” I said, “anyone who wants to play, can, and no one is going to make fun of someone else. We’re not a professional team where everyone has to be terrific. We’re just a bunch of neighborhood kids who want to have a good time.”
Robby was standing next to me. “Come on, sport,” I said to him, “you’re on my team!”

Pursuing a Pathway degree is sometimes a long, patient process. Daddy Kampoy David shares his experience: “I have a young family and a full-time job. I serve as the first counsellor in the Bandalungwa Ward, DRC, and I teach in the EnglishConnect program. My time for study is very limited. I started my degree in 2020 and hope to finish in 2024. I get up at 5:00 am for study, care for my family, work all day, and study a couple of hours before returning home at night. Before exams, I take a few days of vacation for study. I know this degree will help me grow as a person and provide a more secure life for my family. I know this is worth it!”

Sister Gayle Clegg of the Primary general presidency and her husband lived for a number of years in Brazil. Recently she had a Primary assignment in Japan. As she came into the chapel on Sunday, she noticed among the Japanese Saints a Brazilian family. “They just looked Brazilian,” she said. She only had a minute to greet them and found the mother and children very enthusiastic but noticed that the father was rather quiet. “I’ll have a chance to talk with them after the meeting,” she thought as she was quickly ushered to the stand. She delivered her message in English, which was translated into Japanese, and then she felt impressed to bear her testimony in Portuguese as well. She hesitated, as there were no translators for Portuguese and 98 percent of the people would not understand what she said.

After the meeting the Brazilian father came up to her and said, “Sister, the customs are so different here, and I have been lonely. It is difficult to come to church and not understand anything. Sometimes I wonder if I would be better off just reading my scriptures at home. I told my wife, ‘I’ll give it one more chance,’ and I came today for what I thought would be the last time. When you bore your testimony in Portuguese, the Spirit touched my heart, and I knew that this was where I belonged. God knows I am here, and He will help me.” And he joined the others in putting away the chairs.

Was it a coincidence that the only Portuguese-speaking member of the Primary presidency was sent to Japan instead of to Portugal? Or was it because the Lord knew someone there needed what only she could give—and she had the courage to follow a prompting of the Spirit? One of the great blessings of having a calling in the Church is that the Lord, through His Spirit, will inspire us to help those we are called to serve.

When Elder Ballard was in his late 20s, he was called to be a bishop. “I faced great anxiety,” he recalls. “I’d never been a bishop before. Both of my counselors were old enough to be my father. I thought about all the bishops I’d ever had and tried to glean from their examples those things that I admired and thought were worthwhile. But ultimately doing the assignment, whatever it is, helps you overcome that fear.”

An older brother and sister had been able to attend the University of Utah in Salt Lake City; but since the family was too poor to send another child there, Joseph enrolled at Weber Academy (now Weber State College) near Ogden, Utah. At the Academy Joseph idolized his principal and English teacher, David O. McKay, “a handsome man, straight as an arrow, and a man of great personality” who disciplined his students by his bearing.
His teacher refused to let Joseph’s bashfulness keep him back: more than once he called on the young boy to pray or to write on the blackboard in front of the large class—a task, he recalls, that made him sweat with fright. His days at the Academy under David O. McKay influenced the rest of his life, as he studied English poetry and memorized parts of Sir Walter Scott’s “Lady of the Lake,” a Scottish classic beloved of Principal McKay, who had recently returned from the Scotland mission. Joseph’s love of words and his natural talent at shorthand, learned from a commercial course, later set him on his secretarial career.

In her book My Grandfather’s Blessings, Dr. Rachel Remen tells of becoming good friends with a couple and their young son, Kenny. When she visited, she would sit on the floor with Kenny and play with his two Hot Wheels cars. Sometimes she would have the one without a fender and he had the one with a door missing and sometimes vice versa. He loved those cars!
When a gas station chain offered a Hot Wheels car with every fill-up, she recruited the staff at her clinic to go to that particular station and collect the cars. As soon as she had all of the models, she wrapped them in a big box to take to Kenny. She hoped she wouldn’t offend his parents, who lived quite meagerly. Kenny excitedly opened the big box and took out the cars one by one. They filled the windowsills and even extended to the floor. What a collection! Later, while visiting the family, Rachel noticed Kenny just staring out the window. When she asked Kenny, “What’s the matter? Don’t you like your new cars?” he looked down very sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I guess I just don’t know how to love so many Hot Wheels.” (See “Owning” [2000], 60–61.)

After Ella gulped down her breakfast, she quickly put on her jacket, boots, hat, and gloves. She opened the front door and eagerly stepped onto the porch to see the glistening, new-fallen snow.
Ella dragged her feet through the snow, making two narrow trails across the yard. She reached the sidewalk and peered down the street. The Gonzales twins were already out in their yard, busily constructing a snowman.
“Their snowmen are always the biggest and fanciest on the street,” Ella grumbled to herself, “because there are two of them to do the work. Well, I’ll show them. I’ll build the best snowman that’s ever stood on Larkin Street—even if it takes me all day!”
Scooping up a handful of snow, she patted it into a ball and began rolling it in the snow. Around and around and around the yard she went, until her arms ached from pushing and sweat trickled down her forehead.
“Whew!” Ella stood back in admiration. She’d never seen such a gigantic ball. She glanced proudly toward the Gonzales’s yard—and her eyes popped as the twins set still another snowball on top of the four already there. A five-layered snowman!
“Nuts!” Ella said crossly. She wished that she had someone to help her—this was hard work! She flexed her arms, took a deep breath, and began rolling a second ball.
“Can I help?”
Ella whirled around instantly, but her excitement turned to dismay when she saw who was standing hopefully in the driveway.
Deon! Of all the people on Larkin Street—of all the people in the whole third grade—Deon was the very last person whom Ella would pick to help her. Deon was big enough, but he was awkward. He couldn’t make it through a day of school without dropping something, tripping, or crashing into desks and shelves and people—even Mr. Brown, the principal. Deon’s nickname was the Clumsy Giant.
Deon would probably trip and fall on top of mysnowman and smash it to pieces, Ella thought. I don’t want him to help.
She opened her mouth, all set to tell him—nicely, of course—to go away. Deon’s head drooped sadly. He seemed to know exactly what she was thinking.
“Oh,” said Ella, hating to see him so unhappy, “all right. You can help. Here, let’s lift this up.”
An enormous grin spread across Deon’s face as he plodded into the yard and bent over. Together they lifted the ball and set it on the sturdy base.
“Great!” Ella exclaimed as she dusted the snow off her knees. Then she looked down the street again and groaned. “The Gonzales’s snowman is so tall!”
“Yours is a lot wider, though,” Deon encouraged her.
Ella was pleased. “I’ll make the head, and you can make the neck, OK?”
“Sure!”
In another half hour they were finished.
“Fabulous!” Ella said, beaming. “It’s much better than the Gonzales’s snowman.”
“Are you going to put a face on it?” Deon asked eagerly.
“Of course. A face and a hat, buttons, …”
“A belt?” Deon asked.
“Terrific!” Ella exclaimed. “Why don’t you get a belt and buttons, and I’ll take care of the rest,” she said. “I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes.”
“OK,” Deon agreed. He lumbered down the sidewalk.
Ella rushed inside and began rummaging through the kitchen.
“Who’s that you’re playing with?” asked her mother.
“Oh, that’s Deon,” Ella explained, slamming a drawer shut. “He’s eight, too, even though he’s so big.”
Mom chuckled. “He reminds me of your Uncle Terry. Terry was big like that when he was a boy. Papa called him a bumbling old sheepdog.”
“Uncle Terry was that big?” Ella was amazed. Uncle Terry looked just like anybody else now. Oh, he was a little taller than average, and quite a bit chunkier, but still he was normal.
“He certainly was a clumsy child,” Mom said. “But now Aunt Rosemary says that he’s the best dancer that she’s ever danced with!”
Ella kept sneaking glances at Deon as they decorated the snowman. Will Deon grow up to look and act like everybody else? She wondered. And had Uncle Terry minded being called a bumbling old sheepdog? I bet Deon doesn’t enjoy being called the Clumsy Giant! Uncle Terry is a pretty super guy—and Deon really is a nice boy.
Soon the snowman was dressed with pop-bottle-cap eyes, a carrot nose, a potato-peeling mouth, an old fishing hat, a moth-eaten blue and green scarf, five shiny black buttons, and a sagging brown belt. Ella lifted up the hat and plopped down an old mophead for hair, and Deon leaned a broken fishing pole against the snowman’s arm.
Deon laughed. “We should make a sign: ‘I’m all ready. Where are the fish?’”
Ella grinned. “That’s a good idea.” She paused, then said, “Come on in. I think that we have paint and cardboard somewhere.”
Mom greeted them cheerfully and gave them cookies and milk after they finished their sign. She didn’t even mind when, on the way out, Deon knocked over a chair and just missed toppling a lamp. “No harm done,” she said, reaching out to steady it. “Now,” she added, “put your sign up, then wait for me. I’m coming out with the camera.”
“Your mom’s nice,” Deon told Ella as they propped the sign against the snowman. “My mom’s always afraid that I’ll break things. She starts yelling at me as soon as I come into the house: ‘Stay away from the table! Don’t set foot in the living room!’” Deon sighed. “I wish that I could take a shrinking potion. I hate being so big.”
“Don’t worry,” Ella said reassuringly. “My Uncle Terry was big like you when he was eight, but now he’s just like everyone else.”
“Really?” Deon’s eyes brightened.
“Yes. After Mom takes our picture, you can come in and play and she’ll tell you about him.”
“Are you ready?” Mom called as she tramped through the snow. “One of you get on each side of this super snowman and smile!”
“The best snowman on Larkin Street,” Ella said proudly as Mom focused the camera. “The best friends too.”

And what about that long trek westward? Is that the period you would have chosen? The years from 1846 through 1869—and particularly through the end of the 1850s—were a time when it was not easy to be a believing and practicing adherent of the restored gospel. You would have suffered deprivation of a quality and duration known by few other people in the history of the world. Almost inevitably some of your loved ones, and perhaps even you, would have been buried along the trail in shallow, unmarked graves, and one might conclude that even greater suffering was endured by some of those who did not die. The experiences of the Willie and Martin Handcart Companies, for example, must never be erased from our memory but must always remain a proud part of our tradition, however painful it may be to reflect back on their tragic experiences.

Because of a series of unfortunate delays, those companies found themselves buried by the deep snows of a disastrous Wyoming winter. Their food stores ran out, and they did not have sufficient bedding to withstand the freezing temperatures. An estimated 217 of them perished in the cold. Samuel and Margaret Pusell and their little family from Preston, England, were with the Martin Company. Samuel grew so weary from lack of food and the constant pulling of the cart that he became ill and died. His wife followed five days later. Ten-year-old Nellie’s feet were frozen so badly that they had to be amputated with a butcher knife and a carpenter’s saw, without anesthetic. A biographer records that “in pain she waddled through the rest of her life on her knees.” Nevertheless, in “poverty and pain she reared a family of six children but never asked for favors of pity or charity because of her tragic handicap” (William R. Palmer, “She Stood Tall on Her Knees,” Instructor 91 [July 1956]: 196–97).

Those days, my brothers and sisters, are gone forever. Never again will faithful Saints be required to endure that exact set of circumstances. What we must never forget is that the members of those companies were willing to suffer as they did because of their unshakable belief that no sacrifice—whether starvation, loss of frozen limbs, or death itself—was too great a price to pay for their convictions.

I first had contact with the missionaries in 1992. From their first discussion, I felt something special in my heart. As the discussions progressed, I learned of gospel principles that I never knew existed. The first time I attended a Church meeting, I was warmly greeted by the members as though they had always known me.
I was the first member of my family to be baptized. Now my two sisters are also members, and my father is reading the Book of Mormon.