Gospel Story Finder

Peter McBride was a six-year-old boy who was probably hungrier, colder, and more exhausted than you have ever been. But he couldn’t go inside to warm up or buy food at the store. He could only go inside his tent, which collapsed on him one night and froze to his hair. He could only eat whatever he could find, like boiled ox hide and tree bark. Peter was a member of the Edward Martin Handcart Company.
Members of this company had come from faraway England. Problems delayed their journey to the Salt Lake Valley, and by October they were running out of food. All Peter and his baby sister were given to eat was a little flour each day. Early winter storms came, making pulling a handcart very difficult. Many were dying from cold and exhaustion.
When they came to the North Platte River, Peter said his father “worked hard all day pushing and pulling handcarts through the icy waters of that dangerous river,” helping people reach the other side. Peter’s father had a beautiful singing voice, and before he went to bed that night, he sang about how he longed to be in Zion. “The wind was blowing very cold,” Peter described. “The snow drifted in and covered our tent.”1 The next morning, Peter’s father was dead. Peter cried as he watched his father’s body being buried beneath the snow.
Peter’s older sister Jenetta was left in charge because their mother was sick. Jenetta often walked to the river to get water for cooking, even though her shoes had worn out. Her bare feet left bloody footprints in the snow wherever she went. Realizing they could go no further, the company camped near the Sweetwater River and hoped that help would arrive before it was too late.
A group of missionaries returning home to the Salt Lake Valley passed the struggling pioneers and told Brigham Young about them. Immediately, he called for 20 rescue wagons to be sent. At last, Peter and the pioneers joyfully caught sight of the wagons approaching. Peter said that “men, women, and children knelt down and thanked the Almighty God for [their] delivery from certain death.”2
The rescue teams could not carry enough food and supplies to relieve all the suffering, but they helped give the pioneers courage to continue. Together, they crossed the Sweetwater River and found shelter amid the rocks now known as Martin’s Cove. There, most of the company left their handcarts behind. The weakest pioneers rode in the wagons, and others walked until more wagons came, giving enough room for everyone to ride the rest of the way. On November 30, 1856, Peter and the handcart pioneers arrived safely in the Salt Lake Valley—where they remained faithful Church members for the rest of their lives.

Another profound incident occurred when my hosts told me that a picture had been requested by the local newspaper. They wanted to take my picture with a gifted child. “Fine,” I said. “This should be easy, for probably any child will do for the picture.”

“Not so,” they said. “We need a gifted child; wait and see what happens.” I told them to locate the child, and I would cooperate as requested. Later they called and told me that they had a gifted five-year-old boy scheduled, and he would be there in the morning for a photo session. As I was thinking of this meeting, I wondered what I might give this small boy as a gift from America. As a general practice I take a few things with me that can be used as thank-you or friendship gifts. I had brought with me three small jars of Bear Lake raspberry jam and a couple of beautiful calendars. I did not think any of these items would necessarily appeal to a five-year-old boy. Then I reflected back to my hurried departure from home when I had cleaned out my purse and replaced only those items that I felt were needed on the trip. At the last minute I had included an item that could serve as a gift for this little boy.

In the morning the little boy came with his mother. There were also two people from the newspaper. One interviewed the mother while the other one came with me across the street with the small boy. We sat down on a bench by a beautiful river with black swans nearby. While the photographer took pictures, this small boy told me about the orbiting procedures of spaceships as he showed me the book he was reading. At a quiet time I told this little boy that I had brought him a magic ring from America.

“Magic? Is it really magic?” he asked.

I told him that it was not magic as most people think of magic, but that it could do magical things for him. We put the ring on his finger, and I asked him to identify the letters on the ring. He did so, and I told him what the letters represented. “Whenever you have an important decision to make, look down at your ring, and it will remind you to “Choose the Right” and to base your decisions on important principles.”

He was entranced with his ring and could not take his eyes off it. When we returned to meet with his mother, he ran up and told her about his ring. “Oh, my,” I thought, “his mother could be quite upset over this.”

But the mother listened intently to her son and then turned to me and, with gratitude showing in her eyes, simply said, “Thank you.” Somewhere in Perth, Australia, is a small and very gifted little boy with a Primary CTR ring.

May I offer counsel of a general nature, first with comments about General Authorities. We recognize them as instruments in the hand of the Lord, yet realize that they are ordinary human beings. They require haircuts, laundry services, and occasional reminders just like anyone else. President Benson once shared with us a story to illustrate. He said:
“Orson F. Whitney … was a great man to concentrate. One day when he was traveling by train, he was so preoccupied that he did not notice the train pass the station where he was to get off. So he had to [be driven] back to where he should have been. Meanwhile, the stake president waited and waited. … Finally when he decided that something had more than likely happened to Brother Whitney and he was not going to make it, they commenced the meeting. As Elder Whitney approached, he was greeted by the opening hymn, which was ‘Ye Simple Souls Who Stray.’”
We honor such a man because of his extraordinary calling. His official acts are valid on earth and in heaven. Well do I remember the first time I met one of the General Authorities. It was a feeling beyond description. Though I was but a boy, immediately—almost instinctively—I rose to my feet. Even now I feel that same way when one of the Brethren enters the room. A General Authority is an oracle of God.

When I was growing up, I had a special relationship with my grandfather. I was the oldest son in the family. I removed the snow from the walks in the winter and cared for the lawns in the summer for our home, Grandfather’s home, and the homes of my two aunts. Grandfather usually sat on the front porch as I mowed his lawn. When I had finished, I would sit on the front steps and visit with him. Those moments are treasured memories for me.
One day I asked my grandfather how I would know if I was always doing the right thing, given that life presents so many choices. As my grandfather usually did, he answered me with an experience from farm life.
He taught me about breaking in a team of horses so that they would work together. He explained that a team of horses must always know who is in charge. One of the keys to asserting control and directing a horse is a harness and bit. If a member of the team ever believes that it does not need to obey the will of the driver, the team will never pull and work together to maximize their ability.
Now let’s examine the lesson my grandfather taught me using this example. Who is the driver of the team of horses? My grandfather believed it is the Lord. He is the one who has a purpose and a plan. He is also the trainer and builder of the team of horses and, in turn, each individual horse. The driver knows best, and the only way for a horse to know it is always doing the right thing is to be obedient and follow the driver’s lead.
What was my grandfather likening to a harness and bit? I believed then, as I believe now, that my grandfather was teaching me to follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost. In his mind’s eye, the harness and bit were spiritual. An obedient horse which is part of a well-trained team of horses needs little more than a gentle tug from the driver to do exactly what he wants it to do. This gentle tug is equivalent to the still, small voice with which the Lord speaks to us. Out of respect for our agency, it is never a strong, forceful tug.
So the lesson my grandfather taught me was always to be ready to receive the gentle tug of the Spirit. He taught me that I would always receive such a prompting if I ever veered off course. And I would never be guilty of more serious wrongdoings if I allowed the Spirit to guide me in my decisions.

When I served as president of the Canadian Mission, headquartered in Toronto, one missionary came to our mission without some of the talents of others, yet he devotedly plunged into his missionary labors. The work was difficult for him; however, he valiantly struggled to be his best self.
At a zone conference, with a General Authority attending, the missionaries had not done too well in a scripture quiz conducted by the visitor. The visitor, with a little sarcasm, commented, “Why, I don’t believe this group knows even the names of the basic missionary pamphlets and their authors.”
Well, that was the proverbial “straw” that broke the camel’s back. I spoke up: “I think they do know them.”
“Well, we will see,” he said, and then he had the missionaries stand. In making a selection of a missionary to prove the point, none of the bright-appearing, experienced, polished missionaries was selected, but rather my new missionary, who had a hard time gaining knowledge of such things, was singled out. My heart literally sank. I looked at the pleading expression on the elder’s face; I knew that he was paralyzed with fear. How I prayed—oh, how I prayed: “Heavenly Father, come to his rescue.” And He did. After a long pause, the visitor said, “Who authored the pamphlet The Plan of Salvation?”
After what seemed like an eternity, the trembling missionary responded, “John Morgan.”
“Who wrote Which Church Is Right?”
Again the pause, and then the reply, “Mark E. Petersen.”
“How about The Lord’s Tenth?”
“James E. Talmage wrote that one,” came the response.
And so it went through the list of missionary pamphlets we used. Finally came the question, “Is there another pamphlet?”
“Yes. It’s called After Baptism, What?”
“Who wrote it?”
Without hesitation the missionary answered, “The name of the author isn’t shown in the pamphlet, but my mission president told me it was written by Elder Mark E. Petersen by assignment from President David O. McKay.”
But what about the missionary? He completed an honorable mission and returned to his home in the West. Later he was called to serve as the bishop of his ward. Every year I receive a Christmas card from him and his wife and family. He always signs his name and then adds this comment, “From your best missionary.”

My mom joined a softball team this summer. “It’ll be good exercise,” she said when she first told us at dinner one night. “Maybe it’ll get me out of my rut.” If saying things like “Eat all your brussels sprouts, Scott, or no dessert,” was being in a rut, I was glad to see her getting out of it.
“Way to go, Mom,” I said, I didn’t think it had anything to do with me.
I was wrong. The next thing I knew, she had bought a glove and some cleats and was after me to practice with her. Between school and my soccer team and hanging out with my friends, I didn’t have much time to play catch with my mother, but I tried.
She wasn’t very good. She spent a lot of time chasing after balls she didn’t catch, and I stayed busy running down her wild throws. At least when I’m playing with my friends, I can yell things like, “Get a net,” but you can’t do that to your mother.
“I can tell the coach hates having to play me,” she told us at dinner one night. I knew she was upset—she forgot to fix garlic bread to go with the spaghetti.
“Give yourself a chance,” Dad said. “You’re getting better all the time—isn’t she, Scott?”
I nodded, since I’m not supposed to talk with my mouth full.
After that, Mom was after me even more to practice with her. It reminded me a little bit of when I started playing soccer. I was only seven, and I kept falling because I’d get my feet tangled up with the ball.
“You just have to get up one more time than you fall down,” she always told me. “You’re getting better every day.” That kind of thing.
So I tried to encourage her too. “You almost got that one, Mom!” “Try holding your glove like this.” That kind of thing.
She was really discouraged after one particular game. She had been in right field, where she says the coach puts her because hardly anything ever comes there. In that game something did come there, but Mom didn’t catch it, and by the time she’d chased it down, the other team had scored three runs. Her team lost by two runs, and she felt personally responsible, especially since she struck out every time she got up to bat.
“I’m thinking about quitting,” she said that night. We were having hamburgers for dinner, and she had forgotten the french fries. “They all try to be nice to me, but I know that they’d be relieved if I’d quit. It’s hard, knowing that I’m the team’s least valuable player.”
“Don’t punish yourself,” Dad said. “If you’re not having fun, quit.”
My jaw fell open. “Hey!” I protested. “That isn’t what I heard when I wanted to quit soccer. You both told me, ‘Don’t be a quitter,’ and ‘What do you think we’ll do with that soccer ball and uniform we bought?’”
“But, Scott,” Dad said, “we were right, weren’t we? You just needed to get over the rough spots. Look how much you’ve enjoyed it since then. You’re the high scorer on your team now.”
“Yes,” Mom chimed in. “Look what you’d have missed. If you had quit while you were down, you’d have had a sour feeling about it for the rest of your life.”
“That’s what I mean,” I argued. “The rest of your life may not be as long as the rest of mine, but do you want to feel sour about softball for the rest of it? Could I have another hamburger?”
I guess Mom thought about what I said. Or maybe about how much she had spent on the glove and cleats. Anyway, she didn’t quit. And she did get better. I’m not talking about a miracle. But before the season was over, she was sometimes getting hits and sometimes catching what came her way out in right field. She must have stopped feeling sour about it, too, because the meals got back to normal at our house.

When my friends and I heard that President Gordon B. Hinckley had asked the teens in our temple district to participate in the Manhattan New York Temple youth jubilee, we were excited because we would perform in Radio City Music Hall. We also thought it would be fun to practice with the other stakes in the area and meet new friends.
It wasn’t until the first practice that it hit me that there was a more important reason I was participating in the jubilee—it was something the Lord wanted me to do.
Twelve stakes from the New York Manhattan Temple district were involved in the jubilee, and we practiced every Saturday for three months. Youth from 12 stakes were divided into six groups, and each group learned different songs and dances that represented some Church history events in New York and the ethnic diversity of our area. The practices took time, but knowing President Hinckley was coming to watch our performance gave me the push I needed to get things right.
When the night of the jubilee arrived, I had a bad case of the butterflies. But then I looked into the audience and saw President Hinckley. I had never seen him in person before, and it was incredible to be so close. In his presence, the Spirit was strong.
The night was a big success. Although we were performing in front of a huge audience, I was able to calm down and have fun. The audience laughed and clapped throughout the performance. Nearly 2,400 youth participated. It was the largest group that has ever been onstage at Radio City Music Hall.
After the performance, we were invited to attend a devotional. At the devotional, President Hinckley said he asked the youth to participate in the jubilee because he wanted the Church to be fun for us. Doctrine and Covenants 136:28 says: “If thou art merry, praise the Lord with singing, with music, with dancing, and with a prayer of praise and thanksgiving.” The jubilee helped me appreciate just how much song and dance can lift our spirits and help us be happy. President Hinckley also read to us from his journal about the time two years before when he had been inspired to have the Manhattan temple constructed. He told us that Church members in this generation have a great responsibility to make a difference in the lives of those we come in contact with.
The jubilee made a difference in my life. Meeting youth from other stakes has helped me become more outgoing and happy. I’ve also been blessed with many missionary moments with my friends at school who asked me about the jubilee and my reasons for participating in it.
Church members in this area have waited to have a temple nearby. I am grateful to a latter-day prophet who had the wisdom to allow the youth to celebrate the temple dedication through song and dance. It was truly a time of jubilation.

I recently went with priesthood leaders to visit the homes of four women in Honduras. These sisters and their families were in need of priesthood keys and authority, priesthood ordinances and covenants, and priesthood power and blessings.
Our next visit was at the home of two single sisters, women of great faith. One sister has a son preparing for a mission. The other sister is receiving treatment for cancer. In times of discouragement and despair, they remember the Savior’s Atonement and are filled with faith and hope. They both need the additional blessings and power available through temple ordinances. We encouraged them to join the future missionary in their home in preparing to receive those ordinances.

Hi, I’m Jesse!
Every member can be a missionary. My stake president in California gave us a challenge to share the gospel. When I had to give a school report on a state in the United States, I knew this was my chance!
The Challenge
My teacher asked us to pick a U.S. state and build a diorama, or a miniature scene. I told my teacher I wanted Utah. I’ve been to Utah many times on family vacations. I wanted to learn more about the “Beehive State.” And I thought it might help me with missionary work!
Fun Facts
I learned that the golden spike that linked the First Transcontinental Railroad was placed in Utah. I put a picture of the Salt Lake Temple in my project. I also wrote facts about President David O. McKay (1873–1970) because he is my grandpa’s favorite prophet.
The Beehive
I wanted to show my class our Savior’s beautiful creations in my diorama. I covered a box in bees and designed it like a beehive. Beehives remind us to work as hard as bees to spread the gospel.
The Buzz about Bee-ing a Missionary
I took my school project to the open house. Everyone loved my bee box! My teacher gave me an A+! I hope people will see what a great place Utah is. Maybe they will ask questions about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I can’t wait until I’m old enough to go on a mission and share the gospel even more!

One day when Tommy was about eight years old, he and his grandfather were sitting on the front-porch swing. An elderly man from England lived on the same street. His name was Robert Dicks, but most of the neighbors just called him “Old Bob.” He was widowed and poor.
Old Bob came over and sat down on the porch swing with Tommy and his grandfather. He said that the small adobe house where he lived was going to be torn down. He had no family, no money, and nowhere to go.
Tommy wondered how his grandfather would respond to the sad story. His grandfather reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather change purse. He took out a key and put it in Old Bob’s hand. “Mr. Dicks,” he said kindly, “you can move your things into that empty house of mine next door. It won’t cost you a cent, and you can stay there as long as you like. And remember, nobody is ever going to put you out again.” Tears filled Old Bob’s eyes.

But today there were no mysteries to solve. Danny sat down next to Dad at the computer desk and played with his magnifying glass.
“Is Detective Danny solving another mystery?” Dad asked, looking up from the computer.
“No,” Danny said. “Nobody lost anything. Nobody is missing. And I can’t find anything suspicious.” (The detectives in Danny’s books said words like suspicious a lot.)
“I have a mystery for you,” Dad said as he clicked the computer mouse.
Danny perked up. Another mystery? He looked at the computer screen, but all he saw were a bunch of names and dates.
“Aw, Dad!” Danny said. “That’s not detective work. That’s just family history.”
“Just family history?” Dad pretended to be shocked. “This is some of the most important detective work you can do! You have to hunt for clues, find missing people, and solve the mystery of where you came from!”
Danny crinkled his nose. He would rather be following footprints with his magnifying glass.
“I’ll tell you what,” Dad said. “I need to make a few calls. Why don’t you look at the family tree while I’m gone? You might be surprised by what you find.”
Danny sighed and sat down at the computer. He found his name. His parents’ names. And his grandparents’ names. Then he clicked an arrow and even more names appeared! The names kept going on and on. Some of his ancestors were from California like him. But some were from countries far away.
Whoa! They lived hundreds of years ago, he thought. I wonder what they were like.
Then Danny saw some blank spots on his family tree. Maybe there was some detective work to be done.
From that day on, Detective Danny was on the case—the Family History Mystery!
He looked for clues in family journals.
He called his grandma and asked her lots of questions.
He searched online and found old records and pictures of his ancestors.
Danny loved helping fill in the blanks on his family tree. Soon he had helped Dad find 12 people who needed temple ordinances.
Dad was really excited when Danny found a record for Herbert Henry Jonte, Danny’s great-great grandfather.
“Your great-grandpa used to talk about his father all the time,” Dad said. “And now I can do his temple work for him. Thanks, Detective Danny! Case closed?”
Danny shook his head and smiled. He wasn’t just solving a mystery. He was helping his family members get closer to Heavenly Father. And he wanted to keep helping.
“Case not closed,” he said. “We have a lot more work to do!”

A young man once pleaded with me for help. He had become addicted to pornography, which he accessed via his home computer. It burdened him with such guilt that he could not feel good about attending church or participating in priesthood assignments. It adversely affected his social life. He was powerfully drawn to spend hour upon hour alone in front of the computer viewing that which he acknowledged brought only frustration and despair. It was as if he were chained by a master whose only purpose was to make him miserable.
He did not decide at once to become a slave to the computer screen. Rather, he decided at some earlier time that viewing destructive images “just this once” would not hurt and would satisfy a “curiosity.” Once became twice, and twice became several times, until a powerful addiction had lessened his power of choice. Only after he was enchained by his addiction did he recognize that he had willingly submitted to captivity.

It is also very important for you to obey your parents. I had an experience that taught me the importance of obedience. I love horses, and I love to train them to jump. As a young man, I was invited to compete in the Pan-American Games, which are something like the Olympic Games for the countries of North, Central, and South America. For two years I worked very hard to train for this competition. Then one day not long before the games, I disobeyed my coach. I had just finished my training session, and he had told me it was time to stop. But I decided to make a few more jumps. As I did, I fell with my horse and was seriously injured. After all my hard work, I was not able to take part in the competition. We must all learn to be obedient to our trainers—our parents, our leaders, and our teachers. They know how to help us avoid dangers and problems.

Dan was born in Flintshire, Wales, on August 4, 1811. After receiving a college education there, he immigrated to the United States and became the owner and captain of a little river streamer called The Maid of Iowa. He operated it as a freight and passenger boat on the Mississippi River above St. Louis, Missouri. One day as a group of converts to the Church were leaving his boat at the wharf in Nauvoo, they were welcomed by the Prophet. Dan stood quietly watching the greeting. Suddenly the Prophet left the group and walked over to Dan. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he said, “God bless this little man!”
Dan was so touched by those few words of praise that he decided to investigate the church that had such a thoughtful man as its leader. To the many converts to whom he preached the gospel in the British Isles he always declared: “I have come in obedience to the counsel of the martyred Prophet, as a messenger to my native land.”

At last she could rest! It had been a long afternoon, mused the weary pioneer, leaning against the tree trunk. Easing off her muddy boots, she rubbed her feet until the aching subsided. Then, picking up her journal, she wrote:
“Our company traveled six miles today, pushing and pulling over hot and dusty trails. Someone accidently stirred up a nest of bees from a dead log, and one girl was stung 12 times! We had a number of repair stops, and three carts had to be abandoned along the way because of broken axles and wheels. But ours seems to be really sturdy and reliable. I believe we’ll make it all the way to the valley! Several of us learned firsthand today about patience and helping others as we loaded bundles from the broken carts onto our own already heavy, creaking carts.”
The journal entry of the young Latter-day Saint has now joined snapshots, worn shoes, and handcarts as a reminder of the three-day trek that was a major part of the Olympia Washington Stake girls campout last July. More than 100 girls shared dried corn, fruit leather, campfires, and 23 handcarts in an effort to gain a better understanding of the sacrifices and dedication of their pioneer ancestors. The enthusiastic organizer behind the event was Sister Fayetta Johnson, stake camp specialist.
The three months preceding camp were busy ones of preparation on both the stake and ward levels. Because Oakville Branch President Daren Johnson had access to a plane, he volunteered to fly over the areas the girls would cover and map out the trails for them. Leaders and girls experimented with all kinds of pioneer-type food available to find the lightest, most nutritious, and non-perishable food available, since they would need a three-day supply and were limited to 17 pounds for all supplies. Busy ward camp directors agreed to complete camp certification before camp arrived, and members of the priesthood built all 23 carts.
During the trek itself, the girls were required to wear long dresses, and a swim in the lake had to take the place of a hot shower. To make the experience as real as possible, a trading post and shaded bowery were set up along the trail, and on the second day out, the carts were ferried, one by one, across the lake on a raft. The evenings were devoted to campfires, singing, telling stories, and sharing testimonies. When at last the journey was complete, the whole party agreed that they had had an unforgettable experience and that they had gained a new awareness and appreciation of the Mormon pioneers who had braved so much in coming west.

I often travel as part of my work here at the University. On one trip, I was traveling from Indonesia to Malaysia, and I found myself being bumped from a flight because the airlines oversold their seats. It was stressful. A few local Indonesians in front of me were trying to deal with the issue, which got very heated. The tension was high, tempers were flaring, and young kids began to cry. I felt helpless and frustrated. This setback would be detrimental to my downstream engagements like firesides, interviews, and meetings with area leaders. I felt alone in a foreign country trying to navigate complicated travel changes in a foreign language and embittered with having to spend an additional 8 hours in an airport.
After about 30 minutes, the air started to clear and the guards dissipated. We, who were bumped off the flight, sat in the terminal together. I sat in a corner close to a small family with young kids and thought of my own children. I tried to talk with the kids. This allowed me to talk with their father. To my surprise, the young father spoke excellent English as he had studied in Australia for his undergraduate degree. As we talked about kids and our families, the conversation turned to the gospel beliefs on family. For the next 6 hours, we sat engrossed in gospel conversation.
Fortunately, before we boarded the plane, I was able to share my testimony and give a Book of Mormon to my new friend Indra Kasuma. I recall occasionally looking back at his family to see how he and his kids were doing, and every time I looked, I would see him reading the Book of Mormon. Upon arrival in Malaysia, he recounted to me all that he read and promised to read more. We exchanged information and still connect on social media. Being grateful to have received the gift of the Book of Mormon, he hired me a cab to get to my event as a token of his appreciation.

Tommy’s mother also taught him how to love and serve others. Every Sunday before the Monson family ate dinner, Tommy’s mother prepared a plate of roast beef, potatoes, and gravy for Old Bob. Sometimes it also included Tommy’s mother’s famous ribbon cake with layers of pink, green, and white cake and chocolate frosting. Tommy’s job was to deliver the dinner to Old Bob.

At first Tommy did not understand why he couldn’t eat first and then take the plate over. But he never complained. He would run quickly down to Old Bob’s house, balancing the full plate. Then he would wait anxiously as Old Bob came slowly to the door.

The two would then trade plates—Bob’s clean plate from the previous Sunday and Tommy’s plate mounded with food. Then Bob would offer a dime as payment for the kindness.

Tommy’s answer was always the same: “I can’t accept the money. My mother would tan my hide.”

The old gentleman would pat Tommy’s blond hair and say, “My boy, you have a wonderful mother. Tell her thank you.” When Tommy reported the compliment from Old Bob back to his mother, her eyes glistened with tears.

Elder Perry: We should never forget the value of partaking of the sacrament. I recall another experience I had in the military. I was part of a group that was able to stay together for a time. We held sacrament meeting every Sunday I was in the service. Sometimes the water came from a canteen cup and the bread was a biscuit from our K rations, but we partook of the sacrament. Friends who were separated from us, who did not have the opportunity to take the sacrament for a long time, seemed to be not as sure in their faith because of it.

On an earlier trip a woman past 82 traveled with us. She had to prepare at length, exercise, and get constant reassurances from her physician that she could endure the rigors. We were touched that, as we turned our backs on a church that has been built near—and some say over—the ancient site of Gethsemane, she who had come so far and had lived so long was on her knees near the place where tradition says Jesus knelt.

After retiring from the air force, I moved back to my hometown to continue practicing law. The intervening 20 years had reordered the wards along entirely different boundaries, but I felt that I should visit Sister Hazel Peterson, who had lived alone since her husband died of cancer.
Six months later, however, I still hadn’t visited her. One winter morning I was driving to my law practice when the image of Sister Peterson unexpectedly came into my mind. Passing by the freeway exit closest to her home, I discounted the feeling and continued driving. But by the time I reached the next exit, I found myself leaving the freeway and backtracking to Sister Peterson’s home. Just as the Spirit had gently compelled me to return to activity almost 25 years earlier, it now gently whispered that I should visit my old home teaching sister.
I knocked on Sister Peterson’s door and waited. After several minutes, I wondered sheepishly if she was out. Another knock, another few minutes. Finally the window above the door rattled and slid along its track. Sister Peterson peered down at me. The years had whitened her hair to the purest wool, and she looked tiny and thin. Her face was contorted in pain. Despite her labored breathing, she began weeping as she recognized me. “Oh, Kevin,” she said, “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m in such terrible pain from my arthritis, and I need a priesthood blessing. Thank you for waiting—please come in.” Before turning away from the window, she added, “I thought you were Burniss.”
I was startled to hear the name Burniss. “Do you mean Brother Skinner?” I asked her. “Does he still live around here?”
“No,” she said. “He lives another 40 miles [65 km] north. But he still works near here, and I have his work number. I called about 20 minutes ago and asked him to come give me a blessing. He should be here any minute.”
A car pulled into the driveway, and Brother Skinner stepped out—much grayer but with the same pleasant spring in his step and kind smile on his face. We shook hands, and 20 years of distance melted away. We entered Sister Peterson’s familiar home, the site of my spiritual apprenticeship to Brother Skinner so many years before. I anointed Sister Peterson’s head with consecrated oil, and Brother Skinner pronounced the blessing. We were together again, companions in an impromptu call to service from the Lord Himself.