Gospel Story Finder

It was twilight on a cold and rainy October day in 1968, and I was riding my bicycle home from work in Copenhagen, Denmark. My husband was in Canada on an assignment at that time, and I was alone with two children, a boy ten and a girl seven years old.
On my way home I had to cross a very busy four-lane road with a bicycle lane. For safety, I had made it a habit to get off my bike and walk it across the intersection. On this particular day I got halfway across the street and stopped in the middle to let the cars go by. A small car stopped in the lane to my right, and the driver signaled for me to cross. A big truck stopped in the lane beside the small car, and the truck driver also signaled to me, so I continued across the street. Just as I passed the truck I saw a Volkswagen coming toward me, illegally in the bicycle lane, at full speed. There was no time for me to escape, either backward or forward.
In that split second, countless thoughts of my children, my husband, my widowed mother, and my job flashed through my mind, and I prayed more fervently than ever before: “Please, dear Lord, whatever happens—spare my life.”
The car hit the bicycle, slamming the handlebars into the left side of my body. As I lay helpless in the road, I could barely breathe because of the pain, but I didn’t lose consciousness. When I turned my head, I saw the Volkswagen’s tire only an inch away. I looked at my bicycle, which had been thrown several feet by the collision. It now looked half its original size.
I was certain that I had experienced a miracle. The tire couldn’t have been any closer, yet it had not crushed my head. I felt that an invisible hand had stopped it right there. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I thanked Heavenly Father for saving my life.
I lay in the road waiting for the ambulance. What would the children think when I didn’t come for them? Would I be in time to call the day-care center from the emergency room before it closed? Who could I contact? I hardly knew my neighbors because of a busy schedule, and members of my ward were some distance away.
At the busy emergency room, the staff wouldn’t let me use the telephone before they had taken an X-ray. The nurses were too busy to make the call for me. It was four hours before the police officers came to make a written report of the accident.
For the five longest hours of my life I was kept in the hospital with a number of people helping me. Still, I felt that only Heavenly Father was able to give me the help I really needed. For the first time in my life I found myself unceasingly praying about my only concern—two small and lonely children.
“Please tell them I’m all right,” I prayed. “Let them have peace of mind so that they won’t panic, and give them patience. Please tell them what to do.” I felt the presence of the Holy Ghost, and an all-embracing peace filled my mind—the same feeling I prayed my children would receive.
Finally, the doctor told me that except for my painfully bruised ribs, I was as good as new, and he let me go. The two policemen offered me a ride home, and we arrived at my apartment building at 10:15 that night.
Two small, tired children walked hand in hand in the dark toward the police car. “Mom, where have you been? What happened to you? How come it’s so late? Why did the police drive you home?” they asked, as soon as we were safely in the apartment.
I explained, and asked, “How did you get home?”
My son said, “We couldn’t understand why you didn’t come to pick us up, but we thought you might be late from work, so we walked home. It started to get dark, but we couldn’t get in because we haven’t got a key.
“I didn’t know what to do, but all of a sudden I thought we should pray about it. So we knelt on the doormat while I said a prayer. We sat without talking for a little while after the prayer, as you taught us to do, and then a nice thing happened to me.
“I felt a big, warm hand touching the top of my head, and I heard a friendly voice saying, ‘Your mother is well, she has been taken care of. It will be a while before she comes home, and it will be all dark outside, but just stay calm. Take your little sister by the hand and stay near the apartment and play peacefully. If you do, the time will go by quickly until your mother is with you again.’
“When I looked up to see who was talking to me, I couldn’t see anybody, and no more was said. I felt calm.”
Over the years I have seen my son have occasional struggles as he has grown into adulthood. It’s sometimes easy during difficult times to doubt there is a living God.
Each time he was struggling, I would ask, “Do you remember what happened to you the night of my accident?”
His features would clear, and he would say, “Mother, it’s true, and I will never be able to deny it.”
I am grateful that my son is able to carry an experience like this with him. I have also learned how important it is for us to teach our children to pray and to remember the words in Psalms 94:9 [Ps. 94:9]: “He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? he that formed the eye, shall he not see ?”

“Is Franklin cents a type of money?” Rose asked as Grandma handed her a stack of napkins.
Grandma chuckled. “No, frankincense is a very expensive perfume.”
Rose picked up the basket of forks and followed Grandma to the family room. “Then why did the Wise Men give it to baby Jesus?” Rose asked.
“Because it was a very precious gift,” Grandma said.
Rose helped Grandma set the table for the Christmas party. “So, Grandma, what gift would you give Jesus?”
“I don’t know,” Grandma said with a smile. “But I do know we have a house full of hungry people.” Grandma hurried off to finish getting dinner ready.
At Grandma’s Christmas party every year, Rose had fun playing with her cousins and listening to everyone tell stories. Rose ate dinner next to her cousin Beth and her new baby. Beth told Rose how Grandma used to help with the new babies in the hospital’s nursery.
Later, Rose heard Aunt Julie ask her cousin Tim what quilt Grandma had given him when he got married. They told Rose how Grandma spent hours making beautiful quilts for her grandchildren’s wedding presents.
While Rose watched her dad play dominoes, she listened to stories about when Grandma was Relief Society president in her ward. Grandma often took dinner to people who were sick.
Rose sat next to Grandpa while she ate her apple pie. He told her that he and Grandma had gone to the temple every Tuesday for 25 years. They had done temple work for so many people that Grandpa had lost count of them all.
Rose jumped up from the table and ran to find Grandma. Rose patted her hand and said, “I know what gift you give to Jesus.”
“Oh? What is that?” Grandma asked.
Rose threw her arms around Grandma’s neck. “You give the gift of love!”

In April of 1847, Brigham Young led the first company of pioneers out of Winter Quarters. At that same time, sixteen hundred miles to the west the pathetic survivors of the Donner Party straggled down the slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains into the Sacramento Valley.
They had spent the ferocious winter trapped in the snowdrifts below the summit. That any survived the days and weeks and months of starvation and indescribable suffering is almost beyond belief.
Among them was fifteen-year-old John Breen. On the night of April 24 he walked into Johnson’s Ranch. Years later John wrote:
“It was long after dark when we got to Johnson’s Ranch, so the first time I saw it was early in the morning. The weather was fine, the ground was covered with green grass, the birds were singing from the tops of the trees, and the journey was over. I could scarcely believe that I was alive.
“The scene that I saw that morning seems to be photographed on my mind. Most of the incidents are gone from memory, but I can always see the camp near Johnson’s Ranch.”

In the early years of the Church the Prophet Joseph Smith had no more faithful aide than William Wines Phelps. Brother Phelps, a former newspaper editor, had joined the Church in Kirtland and was of such assistance to those early leaders that they sent him as one of the first Latter-day Saints to the New Jerusalem—Jackson County, Missouri. There he was called by the Lord to the stake presidency of that “center stake of Zion.”

But then troubles developed. First they were largely ecclesiastical aberrations but later there were financial improprieties. Things became so serious that the Lord revealed to Joseph Smith that if Phelps did not repent, he would be “removed out of [his] place” (HC 2:511). He did not repent and was excommunicated on March 10, 1838.

The Prophet Joseph and others immediately tried to love Phelps back into the fold, but he would have nothing of it. Then in the fall of that violent year W. W. Phelps, along with others, signed a deadly, damaging affidavit against the Prophet and other leaders of the Church. The result was quite simply that Joseph Smith was sentenced to be publicly executed on the town square in Far West, Missouri, Friday morning, November 2, 1838. Through the monumental courage of General Alexander Doniphan, the Prophet was miraculously spared the execution Phelps and others had precipitated, but he was not spared spending five months—November through April—in several Missouri prisons, the most noted of which was the pit known ironically as Liberty Jail.

I do not need to recount for you the suffering of the Saints through that period. The anguish of those not captive was in many ways more severe than those imprisoned. The persecution intensified until the Saints sought yet again to find another refuge from the storm. With Joseph in chains, praying for their safety and giving some direction by letter, they made their way toward Commerce, Illinois, a malaria swamp on the Mississippi River where they would try once more to build the city of Zion. And much of this travail, this torment and heartache, was due to men of their own brotherhood like W. W. Phelps.

But we’re speaking today of happy endings. Two very difficult years later, with great anguish and remorse of conscience, Phelps wrote to Joseph Smith in Nauvoo.

Brother Joseph: . . . I am as the prodigal son. . . .

I have seen the folly of my way, and I tremble at the gulf I have passed. . . . [I] ask my old brethren to forgive me, and though they chasten me to death, yet I will die with them, for their God is my God. The least place with them is enough for me, yea, it is bigger and better than all Babylon. . . .

I know my situation, you know it, and God knows it, and I want to be saved if my friends will help me. . . . I have done wrong and I am sorry. . . . I ask forgiveness. . . . I want your fellowship; if you cannot grant that, grant me your peace and friendship, for we are brethren, and our communion used to be sweet.

In an instant the Prophet wrote back. I know of no private document or personal response in the life of Joseph Smith—or anyone else, for that matter—which so powerfully demonstrates the magnificence of his soul. There is a lesson here for every one of us who claims to be a disciple of Christ.

He wrote:

Dear Brother Phelps: . . . You may in some measure realize what my feelings . . . were when we read your letter . . . .

We have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough for mortals to drink, was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us . . . .

However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive, for which we thank the Lord. And having been delivered from the hands of wicked men by the mercy of our God, we say it is your privilege to be delivered from the powers of the adversary, be brought into the liberty of God’s dear children, and again take your stand among the Saints of the Most High, and by diligence, humility, and love unfeigned, commend yourself to our God, and your God, and to the Church of Jesus Christ.

Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal.

“Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
For friends at first, are friends again at last.”

Yours as ever,
Joseph Smith, Jun. [HC 4:141–42, 162–64]

It only adds to the poignance of this particular prodigal’s return that exactly four years later—almost to the day—it would be W. W. Phelps selected to preach Joseph Smith’s funeral sermon in that terribly tense and emotional circumstance. Furthermore it would be W. W. Phelps who would memorialize the martyred prophet with his hymn of adoration, “Praise to the Man.”

This past spring I spent a day in Siberia. As I walked into a rented hall to meet with the sisters there, the Spirit absolutely overwhelmed me. I knew that I was in the presence of women who were beloved of the Lord—our sister pioneers in Russia. I wondered if that is what it would have felt like to be with Emma and Eliza in Nauvoo. I wasn’t the only one who felt it. Near the meeting’s end, Sister Efimov, the mission president’s wife, leaned over and, in what few English words she knew, whispered, “Very Holy Ghost.” Very Holy Ghost indeed! The Spirit simply cannot be restrained among righteous women who are doing their best.

I have seen the law of the harvest fulfilled in my own family.
Some years ago I was visiting family, when the bishop asked me to conclude the sacrament service. As I was coming down from the stand, a woman approached me with her seven children and introduced herself as Sister Rebecca Guzman.
She asked, “Elder Rasband, do you know Rulon and Verda Rasband?”
I beamed and replied, “They are my parents.”
You can see where this is going. With Rebecca’s permission, who is here with family in the Conference Center, I share her family’s story.
My parents, Elder Rulon and Sister Verda Rasband, were serving as a senior couple in the Florida Fort Lauderdale Mission. They were proselyting and by divine guidance knocked on the door of Rebecca’s home. She was just a teenager and loved listening to the music of the Osmonds, in particular our friend Donny—who is here with us today. She had listened to their media interviews and learned they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She felt there was something different about them, and thinking it might be their religion, Rebecca spent two years researching the Church’s beliefs in the school library. So, when a kindly-looking couple knocked on her family’s door and introduced themselves as Latter-day Saint missionaries, she was taken back.
“My mother told me to get rid of them,” Rebecca later wrote, “but my heart said, ‘No.’ I looked into their faces, and I felt so much warmth and love. The memory still brings tears to my eyes and deep emotion to my heart.”
Rebecca invited them in, and my missionary parents shared a message with her, her two younger sisters, and, despite her objections, her mother.
Rebecca described to me: “Both your parents were wonderful in explaining any questions we had. I can still see their faces as if there was light surrounding them. We always hugged your mother when she left, and she always made a point of helping my mother feel comfortable and respected. Your father always had a sparkle in his eyes as he was teaching us about Jesus Christ. He tried to include my father in discussions and eventually won him over. My father was a chef at a local country club and started cooking dinners for your parents, including making your father’s favorite, key lime pie.”
When Elder and Sister Rasband asked Rebecca and her family to read the Book of Mormon, Rebecca did so in five days. She wanted to be baptized immediately, but the other members of her family were not ready. After four months, Rebecca insisted she be baptized and join the true Church. She recalled, “Every fiber of my soul knew it was true.” On April 5, 1979, missionaries baptized 19-year-old Rebecca, her mother, and two sisters. My father was a witness at the baptism.
When I met Rebecca and her family at church, we took a photograph of her family with me. I took it home to my elderly mother, and she held it close to her heart. Then she said to me, “Ronnie, this is one of the happiest days of my life.”

I was born in Fiji. My parents were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but they went to another church.
When I grew up, I married my wife, Anita. She was a member of the Church. She kept inviting the missionaries over to meet me.
One day I told them they could come to dinner for the next three nights. I said they had to use only the Bible to answer my questions. Their answers were perfect. On the third night, they asked me a question.
“If you had a grocery store, what would you call it?”
“I would call it the Wakolo Family Grocery Store because it’s my store,” I answered.
“Who should a church be named after?” they asked.
It was a great question. And I knew the answer with my heart and soul. The true Church would be named after Jesus because it’s His Church. And The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was named after Him!
I had just one more question: “When can I be baptized?” One week later, I was.
When I was baptized, I took upon myself Jesus Christ’s name. That means I became a member of His Church and promised to follow Him. I try my best every day to live as He did. I know that this is Jesus Christ’s true Church.

Illustration by J. Beth Jepson
When I was 14, my physics teacher saw my talent in math and entered me in the Brazilian Mathematics Olympiad. There were three phases. The first and the second would be held on a Saturday. I was classified for the third phase and saw that it would be held on two days, Saturday and Sunday.
I then told my teacher and the director of the Olympiad that I would not take a test on Sunday because it is the Lord’s day. The director asked me to talk to my Church leaders so that I could be freed to take the test on Sunday, for if I did not take it, I would be disqualified. I said that I could forgo everything but not God.
I did not become sad, because I had the hope that God honors those who honor Him. I remembered Matthew 6:33: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.”
Some weeks later we contacted the secretary of the Olympiad, who stated that I could not take the test any other day and that I would be disqualified. After much conversing, he suggested that I send him an email explaining my situation. After sending the email, I prayed to Heavenly Father and said that I would do His will.
The following night, I received an email from the coordinator stating that I could take the Sunday test on Monday at the most convenient time for me, and he even offered to administer the test in my own city so that I would not miss the morning class at school.
After receiving this good news, I prayed to thank the Lord because He had helped me. My parents went to the temple to express thanks.
When the test results came out, I received the gold medal. The Lord honors those who honor Him.

On the morning of June 28, the bodies of Joseph and Hyrum were gently placed on two different wagons, covered with branches to shade them from the hot summer sun. William Hamilton and his father Artois accompanied Samuel Smith and Willard Richards to Nauvoo with the bodies of the slain Church leaders.

They left Carthage about 8:00 A.M. and arrived in Nauvoo about 3:00 P.M., where they were met by a great assemblage. When the bodies were returned to Nauvoo, they were washed and dressed. Then family and friends were ushered in to see them.

When young Joseph Smith III entered the room, he dropped upon his knees, laid his cheek against his father’s, and kissed him. He was heard saying, “Oh, my father, my father!” Other children of the Prophet and the patriarch crowded around to see their slain fathers. It was an almost unbearable scene.6

On the following day, June 29, the bodies lay in state in the Mansion House while thousands of Saints silently filed past the coffins, grateful but sobered to see their beloved leaders one last time. Mary Ann Phelps’s father took her to the Mansion House early in the morning, before the bodies were prepared for the public viewing.

“I went down, saw them, and laid my hand on Joseph’s forehead,” she said. “The sheet that was around him was stained with blood. Still he looked very natural.”7

Slowly, life in Nauvoo got back to normal. Missionaries left to serve missions; new converts arrived. Work continued on homes, shops, and most importantly, the temple. Young people fell in love and were married. Parties and sporting contests were held.

Yet the memory of Joseph and Hyrum did not fade. For example, one young woman made a sampler, a common activity at the time. She embroidered:
“Sacred to the Memory of Joseph and Hyrum Smith, Who fell as Martyrs for the Gospel of Jesus Christ, June 27th, 1844. Aged 38, and 44, years.
“Zion’s noblest sons are weeping,
See her daughters bathed in tears,
Where the prophets now are sleeping,
Nature’s sleep—sleep of years.
When the earth shall be restored,
They will come with Christ the Lord.”
She signed it: “Mary Ann Broomhead’s work, 1844, Age 13 years.”8

Following a short period of peace, dark clouds cast their long shadow on Nauvoo again. Eventually the Saints were driven out, leaving their beautiful temple and the graves of their Prophet and his brother behind. Yet these young people who lived in the days of Joseph and Hyrum remembered them throughout their lives. They passed on their personal stories and experiences to a new generation. By doing so they kept alive their own faith and the testimony of two great witnesses of the Restoration.

When Jeff woke up on Monday morning, everything went wrong. He could not find his favorite bear, and his socks did not match. His cornflakes got mushy, and he spilled orange juice all over his shirt.
“I’m having a bad day,” Jeff told Mom.
“You need some of my ‘magic,’” Mom said, smiling. “It can change your bad day into a happy one.”
“What kind of magic?” Jeff asked.
“Close your eyes,” Mom said.
Jeff shut his eyes and waited. A second later, Mom gave him a giant hug. It felt warm and soft.
“Did it work?” Mom asked.
“It sure did!” Jeff declared.
Then Mom said, “I need some of your magic.”
Jeff smiled and gave Mom a great big hug too!

When Elders Brigham Smoot of Provo and Alva John Butler of Salt Lake first arrived in Tonga, in 1891 they had their moment of exile, as the saints on the pioneer tract heading west. Tonga at this time was heavily engaged in religious and political upheaval. King Tupou I, was the leader of the Free Church of Tonga, and Tungi, the Minister of Lands, was the leader of the Wesleyan Church. They were both heavily engaged in competing for more membership enrollment in their individual churches.
When the two young Mormon Elders arrived, Tonga was prejudiced against them, and a law was passed prohibiting Tongans from hosting foreigners in their homes. This penalty was $500.00. The government was not enthusiastic to give the LDS missionaries a permit to lease land; although Germans and English merchants were allowed to. The Elders thought this was totally unfair. Life was very tough in Tonga for these missionaries because of this law in addition to the language barrier.
The missionaries finally found an apartment of an English merchant, situated in the middle of Nuku’alofa. They took their luggage into a back room and immediately set up their living room for cottage meetings. Little did the Elders know that their apartment was situated only a block from the Parliament House. Governors, and ministers of the kingdom, and legislative members started to visit their cottage meetings out of curiosity. They came early in the morning before their legislative sessions, again during lunch and in the afternoon.
On August 7th, the new Prime Minister of Tonga, Tuku’aho, was one of the dignitaries who visited the Elders’ meetings. He was touched by the Elders message. Perhaps they were guided by the Light of Christ. The Premier was impressed by the power of their performance for these reasons:
Five months later, Tuku’aho, could not contain the spirit of respect he had for the Elders. He decided to ignore the pressure from without, and to assist the Elders. He left the Premier’s office and escorted Elder Smoot, and pleaded with his father, Tungi, the leader of the Wesleyan Church, to give a portion of their land for the Elders to lease. He later assisted the Elders to organize the first LDS Church in Tonga in 1891, and the first school in 1892. Simply because his conscience urged him to do so. It was the same Spirit that prompted his wife to register their son, William Tungi, in the same school in 1894. This young boy of 7 became the consort of Queen Salote Tupou III in 1917.
Here we witness that the Elders moment of exile ended with a miracle. Today the present King of Tonga, Tupou VI, is named after his great grandfather Tuku’aho. And the King’s son, Prince Ata was baptized a member of the LDS church here in Hawaii in 2015. No one in Tonga, even the Royal Family, thought that was possible. But with perseverance and sensitivity from the light of Christ all things are possible. From the humble beginnings of these two American missionaries came great miracles and blessings, simply because of the Light of Christ. Tonga now has two LDS high schools, many primary schools, beautiful LDS chapels in every village in Tonga and a beautiful temple. 57% of the population in Tonga today is LDS which means that Tonga has the highest percentage of Latter-day Saints in the world per capita.

When faced with difficult adversity and trials many ask, "why me Lord?" I know that I did during one of my trials earlier in my life. I remember crying to the Lord pleading with Him when I faced this trial. This was the first time that I and my family had faced a major financial crisis in my life.

I had a small successful business with ten employees. I was a roofing and waterproofing contractor here in Hawaii. A trade that I had learn from my father since I was ten years old. Every weekend, holiday, and summer in my teenage years I would work for my father’s roofing company. This was a hard profession and I am thankful to my father that he taught me the blessings and the principles of hard work.

By the time my father had planned to retire, his company had grown to be one of the largest roofing companies here in Hawaii at the time. He had always hoped that I would take over the family business. He asked me to leave my small successful business and come over to his company to manage it and become part owner of it. I discussed this move with my wife and we saw this as a wonderful opportunity of growth and to continue his legacy. So I left my small business and took over as general manager of my father’s company. As often happens in the construction industry, his roofing company was strapped financially when I joined them. My father had exhausted his and the company’s resources to borrow money and the company owed a lot taxes.

After discussing the situation with my wife we decided to take out a large mortgage on our home that I had built, and loan the money to my father’s company. We had confidence in my ability to turn things around financially for the company since I would now be the one managing it. Unfortunately, it was a bigger task than we had anticipated. We were forced to shut down the company, in doing so I had lost the money that we had loan to the company, and I knew that it was inevitable that we would lose our home, displacing my young family.

After shedding a lot tears while praying, I remember experiencing a beautiful peaceful feeling that came over me as our Heavenly Father let me know in a very personal way that all would be well, and that this trial was for my growth and development. It was a long and hard trial but I and my family were able to endure it well.

I suppose out of all these letters the one that may touch you as much as any, or at least did me, is the one about Christmas. They were teaching about holidays.

We had a good time discussing Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day, but when we talked about the Savior, the spirit in the room changed at the mention of his name. I talked about what death really is, just a separation of the body and the spirit and how after resurrection they can’t ever be separated again. As I talked about a perfect body, the concepts of pain, hunger, suffering all seemed to be mitigated. They have suffered so much. How much more joyous the resurrection will be to them than to us! We talked of sorrow and rejection and persecution—all real things to them. It was wonderful to teach the truth and offer hope. And then we came to Christmas. We had spoken of Santa Claus and snow and Christmas trees, and then one of them wanted to know why the star was a symbol of Christmas, so I shared the Christmas story with them, and they loved it. They don’t understand words like manger or And it came to pass, so I had to use vocabulary words they could relate to. A stable is a place where the animals live; a manger is what the animals eat out of. “Wasn’t it dirty?” they wanted to know. “Yes, but they cleaned it out and put some straw in it.” A shepherd is a man who takes care of sheep. There was no room in the inns; even though the woman was going to have a baby very soon, no one would give her a place to sleep. The story came alive to me. And at the end they said, “Why, that sounds like a refugee story. Do you have some pictures of it? And no one knew who that baby was, did they? Because if they did, they would have gladly given up their own beds.” These words have haunted me: “And no one knew who they were.” That’s my own feeling about the refugees. If we only knew who they are, we would do anything for them. But not many know, and so many seem not to care. So they suffer and remain here, obscure, despised, ignored, rejected, homeless, hungry, mocked.

As a boy, I had a lot of chores to do. With 13 brothers and sisters, there was plenty of work to go around. One of my jobs was to ride our horse, Old Smoky, and herd the cows to pasture. The only problem was that there wasn’t much green grass for the cows to graze on. It hadn’t rained for some time, and the land was dry and dusty.
One day, I noticed a patch of green grass growing beside the train tracks, underneath the railroad water tower. “I bet the cows will like that,” I thought. I clucked to Old Smoky. “C’mon, boy.”
Old Smoky was smart, and as long as I was riding him, he did what I wanted him to with very few instructions. But if he ever escaped, it was tricky to catch him. He liked running free and avoided being put to work.
When the cows were all busy nibbling next to the tracks, I slid off Old Smoky and sat on his reins so he couldn’t get away. Soon I was busy making necklaces out of snakeweeds, and I didn’t notice the reins slip out from under me as Old Smoky wandered away.
Suddenly, I heard a heart-stopping sound—the whistle of a big, black locomotive. I looked up to see the cows scattered all over the tracks. My family was very poor, and I knew that if any of our cows were killed it would mean disaster.
I leaped toward Old Smoky, but he danced away from me. I couldn’t herd the cows to safety without a horse!
The sound of the approaching train got louder. Panicking, I remembered what I had learned from my mother and my Primary teacher. I dropped to my knees right where I was and prayed. “Heavenly Father,” I cried, “please help me clear the cows off the tracks!”
Just then, the strangest thought came to my mind: “Look at how the cows wander past Old Smoky and he doesn’t run away. Pretend you’re a cow and crawl to him.” I was already on my knees, so I put my hands on the ground, too. On all fours, I crept toward Old Smoky. He didn’t budge. I grabbed his reins, stood up, and leaped on his back. Racing like the wind, Old Smoky herded the cows away from the tracks. He seemed even faster and smarter than usual. By the time the train blasted by, the cows were safely in the pasture.
I knew that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer and spared my family from tragedy. Only He knew that I could save my herd by pretending to be a cow.

I arrived home from babysitting expecting to leave again within a few minutes. Some of my friends from school were in a band, and their concert was that night. Walking through the door, I saw my family seated on the couch, watching a movie and sharing a bowl of popcorn. Looking back, I realize it was a beautiful scene, but in that moment the only thought my mind recognized was of the concert that had already begun.
Anxious to leave, I reminded my parents, the only car-key bearing members of our family, of the time. They were not, however, to be moved. Dad said it was too late at night. Mom told me she still had to hem my brother’s pants before church the next day. They smiled and invited me to join the movie. I stared in disbelief.
I went to my room. I wanted to stand there and scream. I wanted to cry, write negative things in my journal, and listen to loud music. But then I realized that maybe not being able to go to the concert wasn’t that big of a deal. Maybe being downstairs with my family and their popcorn was where I needed to be.
A scripture came to my mind, the scripture mastery verse from Joshua that talks about choosing whom we will serve (see Joshua 24:15). In that moment I realized the Lord has given us agency for a reason—that it’s not just about making good choices. Sometimes decisions are made for us, and when that happens, the choice we have is how we will handle them.
I knew how I would handle mine. I knew whom I would serve.
I turned off my music and ran downstairs, lacing my hand through my mom’s welcoming one.

1. Stop playing with my china doll. You’ll break her!
Don’t be such a worry-wimp. My T. Rex is hungry and needs a snack.
3. I told you to stop! Suzie was my best doll, and I’ll never forgive you!
Good! I don’t want to be forgiven by a mean sister.
5. Being mad is just making me sadder, so I guess I will forgive you.
I’m sorry I broke your doll, Mandy. I’ll save my allowance and buy you a new one.
6. You’re not really a mean sister.
I know.

The lump in my throat continued to grow as I slowly walked to the front of the room. I was a senior in high school, and this was my last Young Women in Excellence presentation. As I faced the audience of young women, parents, and leaders, I realized that my years of theater and speech experience were not going to help that night.
What I was about to repeat was different from some script or prepared speech. This was when I had to demonstrate that I had completed the challenge that was more difficult than I could have ever imagined.
The challenge began about six months earlier on a Wednesday night as the young women in my ward sat in the gym at our building and focused on Personal Progress. The excitement I had about Personal Progress as a Beehive had faded, and as a 17-year-old Laurel, I had adopted the belief that I had better things to do. I just wasn’t interested in picking my last two value projects, but that didn’t stop my Young Women president, Sister Widener, from trying to motivate me to get them done.
As I flipped through the Personal Progress book just to make Sister Widener happy, I came to the suggested projects under Faith. I read the suggestion to memorize “The Living Christ” and explained to Sister Widener that I could easily do that. I had memorized plenty of lines to plays in my life, so memorizing “The Living Christ” would be easy. It would never take 10 whole hours. My dedicated Young Women president took this as an opportunity to challenge me. She told me that it might not be as easy as I thought it would be. I would do it, she would do it too, and we could make it into a challenge to see who could finish first.
I may have thought that Personal Progress was below my maturity level, but I was never too old for a good challenge. I agreed to the challenge and memorized the first paragraph by the end of Mutual that night.
Though I never forgot the challenge, I got distracted during the summer months and put memorizing at the bottom of my list. Sister Widener stayed focused and completed the challenge in a just a few months. Sister Widener promised me that if I would commit myself again to finishing the challenge, it would change my life. I didn’t really believe her, but I didn’t want to be viewed as a loser either. So I decided that reciting “The Living Christ” would be my final Young Women in Excellence presentation.
As I stood before the audience that night, I was confident that I knew the words well enough to recite them. It had taken many more hours than I had expected, and I was happy that I would finally be able to prove that I could do it. As I got to the third paragraph, I began to realize that this was not going to be as easy as I had expected. Tears filled my eyes as I repeated the words: “He was arrested and condemned on spurious charges, convicted to satisfy a mob, and sentenced to die on Calvary’s cross. He gave His life to atone for the sins of all mankind. His was a great vicarious gift in behalf of all who would ever live upon the earth.”
The tears began to fall, and though I knew the words, in front of the audience that night I stopped and couldn’t say a thing. Those words truly meant something to me. I wasn’t just reciting lines to complete a challenge—I was testifying of Jesus Christ. I was testifying of His life, love, and sacrifice for me and for everyone else in that room. And I knew it was true, because I could feel the Spirit stronger than I ever had before as I bore that testimony.
I looked at Sister Widener, who smiled as she wiped away her own tears. I finally understood what she meant when she told me that if I would just finish the challenge, my life would be changed. I took a deep breath and completed my presentation. The tears didn’t stop falling until I had finished speaking and was back in my seat.
The simple challenge extended to me by a loving Young Women president had changed my life. That night I gained a testimony of Personal Progress. I realized that the challenges presented to me as a young woman could provide me with experiences to learn and grow through the Spirit. I had felt the Spirit in a way that I had never experienced as I recited the testimony of Jesus Christ given to us by our prophet and Apostles. That testimony became my own. I had gained a real and true testimony of my Savior Jesus Christ. I better knew and loved Him, and I knew that He knows and loves me.
Sister Widener gave me a framed copy of “The Living Christ” that night. Six years later it still hangs on my wall and reminds me of the night that I came to better know my Savior and the love He has for me. And I still know, just as surely as I did when I repeated the words that night, that “He is the light, the life, and the hope of the world. His way is the path that leads to happiness in this life and eternal life in the world to come.”

“I wish we could have a May Day like the ones Mama used to have in England,” Susie said as she sprinkled water around two spindly lilac sprigs in a big bucket.
“Everyone is too busy,” said her older sister, Margaret, who sat by the doorway churning butter. “The fields need to be cleared and the gardens must be tended. There isn’t time for parades and Maypoles.”
“Everyone here in America is so busy getting settled that no one has time for fun,” Susie replied. “But it’s spring, and someone should do something special to celebrate even if it’s only you and I.”
Margaret thought for a minute and then said, “I know what we can do. Mother used to tell us that the day before May Day some people in England would leave branches of trees outside the doors of different homes.”
“That doesn’t sound like fun to me,” said Susie.
“But it was the kind of branches they left that made it fun,” Margaret explained as she looked into the churn to check the butter. “If the person in the house was pretty, then they’d leave a peach branch. A plum branch was left for a gloomy person, a branch with thorns for a very mean person, and an apple branch for a pleasant and good-natured person.”
“That sounds fun,” Susie said with a smile. “Let’s do it for our May Day celebration.”
“All right,” Margaret said. “While I churn the butter, will you go gather some branches? We ought to leave a plum branch at Miss Grumpy’s,” she added as she nodded her head toward the rickety cabin beyond the meadow that separated the two houses.
Miss Grumpy was really Miss Grundby, who lived by herself and was always complaining about something or other. She didn’t seem to want any friends, and no one ever visited with her.
Susie hunted for branches all afternoon. She found several thorny ones, and near the church was a wild plum tree. North of town she found an orchard with apple and peach trees. Susie quickly broke off small branches of each, being careful not to injure the trees.
Just before dark the two girls began delivering their May Day branches. They left an apple branch at the blacksmith’s house and a peach branch at the house of Susie’s friend Jill. At several other houses they left both apple and peach branches.
“Now let’s take plum and thorn branches to Miss Grumpy!” Margaret suggested.
“That’s a good idea,” Susie agreed, and before she could think twice about it, they ran across the meadow and put a branch of thorns and a plum branch on Miss Grundby’s doorstep.
The girls tried to smother their giggles as they hurried home and got ready for bed. They didn’t want either Mother or Father to ask them what they’d been doing all evening.
After Susie was in bed, she began to think about the fun she and Margaret had had delivering the branches. But the more she thought, the more uneasy she became when she remembered the plum and thorn branches on Miss Grundby’s doorstep.
As she lay in bed unable to sleep, a noise just outside the door startled her. What if someone is putting a plum or thorn branch on our doorstep for me, she wondered. Susie knew she had often complained about the work she had to do, how she hated having her hair combed, or because she didn’t have a new dress. Maybe others had known about her complaints.
It would be awful for anyone to see a plum and a thorn branch on the doorstep, she decided. And Miss Grundby will probably feel the same when she finds the ones we left.
Mother had said that Miss Grundby was old and not well. Susie suddenly remembered how grumpy she felt sometimes when she was ill and how good she felt when everyone was kind to her.
Quietly Susie got up, dressed, and tiptoed out of the house. The orchard was too far away to walk in the dark and there were no peach or apple trees nearby. As she looked around wondering what to do, Susie had an idea. She ran to the lean-to in the back of the house and then hurried across the meadow to Miss Grundby’s house.
Susie tossed the thorn and plum branches into the field and replaced them with her lilac sprigs that she had carefully tended all spring. Then she quietly slipped back into her bedroom and soon fell asleep.
The next afternoon while everyone was working, Susie and Margaret heard a bell ring. They ran outside to see what the noise was all about.
“Look! Look! It’s Miss Grundby,” Susie called to Margaret. “And she has a Maypole!”
The pole wasn’t very tall and the streamers on it were thin and not at all the same color, but Susie thought it was the most beautiful Maypole she had ever seen. At the side of it Miss Grundby had a little table, and on it were heaps of cookies and a large pitcher filled with punch.
Miss Grundby kept ringing the bell until a crowd gathered and the people started talking and laughing together.
“This is May Day, isn’t it?” the blacksmith shouted as he ran home for his fiddle. In a few minutes he was back and began playing a lively tune.
The blacksmith’s wife said, “I’m glad you remembered May Day, Miss Grundby. We’ve all been working so hard that we didn’t even think of a celebration this year.”
“I’m not the only one who remembered,” Miss Grundby answered with a smile. “Someone else reminded me of May Day. Someone wasn’t too busy to leave a bucket with two lilac springs on my doorstep this morning. And I’ve always thought no one wanted to be friends with me.”
“We’d all like to be friends, Miss Grundby,” Susie said. “And we’re glad you decided to help us celebrate May Day.”
Margaret looked at Susie with surprise. Then she walked over and gave her an understanding hug.
What a wonderful day this has turned out to be, Susie thought. It’s spring, and I feel as if I’m about to sprout and start blooming myself!

In speaking of overcoming the natural man to follow the prophets, I am reminded of an experience Natalie and I had when our son Matthew was three. I had an offer to teach at the Washington and Lee University School of Law, and we were visiting the area in the process of deciding whether to accept.
As we visited a home with a realtor, Matthew was running around energetically. Natalie pulled him aside and asked if he would behave.
He responded, “I don’t want to behave. I want to be Matthew.”
It must be a three-year-old thing. This past Sunday, when I spoke to our youngest son, James, who is currently three, about behaving in sacrament meeting, he replied, “I am have.”
Fortunately for us, the choice is not between behaving and being ourselves. We are children of God. Following the prophets is consistent with our divine nature.

I remember the occasion more than 70 years ago when, as a missionary, I was speaking in an open-air meeting in Hyde Park, London. As I was presenting my message, a heckler interrupted to say, “Why don’t you stay with the doctrine of the Bible which says in John, ‘God is a Spirit’?”

I opened my Bible to the verse he had quoted and read to him the entire verse:

“God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth” (John 4:24).

I said, “Of course God is a spirit, and so are you in the combination of spirit and body that makes of you a living being, and so am I.”

Each of us is a dual being of spiritual entity and physical entity. All know of the reality of death when the body dies, and each of us also knows that the spirit lives on as an individual entity and that at some time, under the divine plan made possible by the sacrifice of the Son of God, there will be a reunion of spirit and body. Jesus’s declaration that God is a spirit no more denies that He has a body than does the statement that I am a spirit while also having a body.

I do not equate my body with His in its refinement, in its capacity, in its beauty and radiance. His is eternal. Mine is mortal. But that only increases my reverence for Him. I worship Him “in spirit and in truth.”