Gospel Story Finder

Heavy clouds blew across the New Mexico sky as apprentice jockey David Shepherd, 18, perched atop his horse Dirt Farmer and waited for the starter to press the button. He ignored the sounds of the 24,000 spectators in the grandstand on the west side of the track. He had only one thing in mind—to beat 11 other riders to the finish line less than three-fourths of a mile away. Because Thoroughbreds run at 40 miles-per-hour, the race would last scarcely longer than one minute.
With nearly 30 wins under his belt in a little more than four months, David is considered one of the better apprentice jockeys. “I guess I’m luckier than most,” he said quietly. “I’ve had two goals in life—to go on a mission and to be a professional jockey. What I earn riding is helping me build up my mission fund. I’ll turn 19 in two months, and the bishop back home has already talked to me about it.” Back home is Genola, Utah, about 25 miles southwest of Provo. David is the oldest of 11 children and was recently ordained an elder.
Earlier, while waiting for his race, David explained that he has been riding for several years in bush league races in the Intermountain West. He used to receive $10 a race. Last spring he won his first race on a recognized track and began his apprenticeship. By June he will be a journeyman jockey.
During the years on the small tracks, he watched his weight carefully, never exceeding by much the 98-pound limit that is the requirement for a jockey.
“I’m only five foot four inches, and I look small because I have small bones,” he said as Dirt Farmer and the other horses were brought into the paddock area in preparation for the race. Jockeys look deceptively small, but their weight is almost pure muscle. It takes strength to control a racing horse weighing ten times as much as its rider.
David noted that a jockey gets a flat fee, usually about 1 1/2 percent of the purse, for participating in the race. If he wins, he then receives ten percent of the money given the owner of the winning horse.
“From that I have to pay my agent, who gets 25 percent of all I make, valet expenses, Jockey Guild fees and living costs. I also pay for my helmet, riding clothes, saddles, cinches, and goggles.
Paddock judge Jim Wilson, clipboard in hand, stepped out to check the horses. He stopped briefly at stall five and chatted with Tom Phelan of Scottsdale, Arizona, owner and trainer of Dirt Farmer. The valets then saddled the horses. The clock noted that only 16 minutes remained before the next race.
“There is generally a half hour between each race,” David continued, “to give everyone a chance to get ready.”
The talk turned to racing accidents. David said that though he has fallen twice during a race, he has never broken a bone. “In one of the races my mount stumbled just out of the gate. I was still rolling in a tight ball when the rest of the horses went past. I was clipped a couple of times, but nothing serious happened. Another time I went down when I was in front and slid on my head along the track. I wasn’t hurt too badly, just bruised, and my neck was sore for a few days. None of the horses hit me.”
Before Albuquerque he raced several weeks in Denver. “The horses here carry 106 or better, but in Denver they were getting in at 103. In order to ride I had to keep my weight at 97 pounds.” David doesn’t diet as such, but he admitted that he always watches what he eats.
“You have to keep your weight down because the saddle, girth, irons, boots, and whites weigh another four or five pounds altogether. While I’m on my mission I’ll watch my weight all the time so I won’t be too heavy when I get back.
“Living the standards of the Church has helped me be a better jockey. I never have a hangover, and I am always alert. When I told my parents I wanted to go on the track professionally, they told me they trusted me and expected me to live the standards. There are a lot of good people in the horse racing business who aren’t LDS, and they respect you for your standards.”
Others interviewed at the track voiced their respect for David as a person and a professional. He has given away a number of pamphlets on the Church. “I try to tell people about the good things in our church,” he said.
During the week David will ride as many as 20 horses in the morning to get them ready for races. In the afternoon he may race as many as six out of the 12 races scheduled.
The clock showed that 12 minutes remained before David’s race. Jim Wilson pushed a button to alert jockeys still in the jockey room. “Jockeys,” he said, and the riders entered the paddock. David walked over to Dirt Farmer who was quietly waiting with Mr. Phelan. The owner and David discussed the race strategy. “Hold him, hold him, hold him,” he told David. “Leave him something for the last. Then, if you can move up on the inside. do it.”
At a signal from the paddock judge, Tom Phelan gave David a leg up on the chestnut gelding. David thrust his toes through the irons strapped high up on the side of Dirt Farmer. His upper legs now horizontal, he adjusted the reins as Mr. Phelan led them out of the paddock and up to the race course.
Several of the horses had to be led along the track by another rider to ensure that they remained under control until the race started. Although David’s mount had been raced for several years, he had not lost a quiet disposition. David needed no other help. The outrider, mounted western, escorted the 12 horses in front of the stands before taking them toward the starting gate on the other side of the track.
Tom Phelan stood by the rail. “I met David in Denver. He was riding for another owner who had horses in the same barn. I liked the way David rode, and when I had an opening, I put him on. He’s fitting in really well. David’ll do well; it just takes a lot of time and a lot of experience.
“He listens, and he tries to ride according to instructions. That’s what I like about him. He’s the pilot, though. When the race is being run, we try to follow the race plan, but a lot of things can happen. That’s when it takes a boy who can think. David’s doing all right in that department.
“Dirt Farmer has done well, but he’s been having trouble with a cracked front hoof. We’ve had to shoe him special for the race.”
With just a handful of minutes left, David’s agent, Bob Bernhardt, came up to the fence. A jockey himself until he got too heavy, Bob is aware of the qualities it takes to make a good rider. “I watched David ride in Denver this spring. I asked someone if he had any experience and was told to keep an eye on him, that he would probably make a rider. He was getting up early in the morning and galloping but wasn’t racing much. I knew he was light, that he worked hard and deserved a shot at it. So, we got together. It was one of those things that you do because you feel you should.”
As his agent, Bob talks with the various owners and trainers to arrange rides for David. He promotes his jockey, even to the point of boasting, by pointing out when he is riding well. Bob also handles travel and living arrangements for the two of them.
Others advised Bob to choose other jockeys instead of David. “I don’t know, there was just something about Dave that made me want to become his agent. As far as I was concerned, he had a lot more potential than other apprentice jockeys in Denver at the time. It’s working out that way; he’s going to be a good rider. He had ridden only eight head the first three weeks of the meet; then we were able to arrange over 30 rides the following week. One day he rode three winners in six races.
“Dave takes care of himself. He doesn’t party, smoke, or drink. He’s serious about racing.”
The horses moved to the starting gate. The truck that pulled the gate was started up. Handlers took the racers by the bridle one at a time and ran them into the narrow enclosures. Another person expertly closed the back of the gate, confining the nervous animals until the starter would press his button and the gates would spring open. David’s chestnut was placed in the fifth position from the rail. The two peered through the grillwork, waiting for the race to begin.
Veteran starter Dean Turpitt, standing a few feet to one side and in front of the gate, watched for a time when all 12 horses were still. It came. He hit the button. Twelve horses jumped out of the gate almost simultaneously. Within a half-dozen strides Dirt Farmer was carrying his rider at 40 miles an hour. “You can’t get that kind of acceleration with a car or a motorcycle. You just have to be able to move with the horse or you’ll never make it.”
The truck pulled the gate off the track; its wheel marks were raked over by two of the workers.
The field was strung out slightly, and announcer Bob Dudich gave the placings over the loudspeaker. Dirt Farmer was seventh. With the race just 5 1/2 furlongs (eight furlongs to the mile), the gate had been placed on the far side of the field because the finish line is never moved. Without binoculars it was hard to discern the different riders, despite their varied colors.
“Hold him, hold him, hold him,” the trainer had said, and David held Dirt Farmer. Muddy sand flung up by the leading horses coated David’s face and goggles. The horses neared the north end of the track and began rounding the curve.
“Usually horses will pull away from the rail on a turn. That’s when you must be ready to move up on the inside.” There was only one curve in this race. David moved.
The spectators rose to their feet as the horses approached. The cheering reached a crescendo seldom heard even at a homecoming football game. Several horses were still ahead of David’s gelding.
“You’ve got to run the horse straight; keep him from wandering over the track, or you’ll lose strides.” Those ahead had continued to pull slightly away from the rail at the curve because of centrifugal force. There was enough room for Dirt Farmer to continue his drive up the rail. David urged him on even faster.
“You have to be willing to take chances, but know when to take them.” Should one of the leading horses move into Dirt Farmer’s path and they tangle, then Dirt Farmer would go down or crash into the rail. “It’s always the horse behind that trips and falls.” David continued to move up the rail safely.
“Dave’s only thinking one thing when he’s out there, and that’s to win.
“This is a claiming race. Several have indicated they want to buy my horse—if he does well in this race. If he wins, he’s sold for sure.”
Dirt Farmer continued to gain on the last horse ahead of him while the announcer swiftly told the positions for the last time. David began to tire, and his breath was ragged. “When you really race, it’s as though you’re running the distance yourself. It is just like running a mile on foot.”
The terrific strain was telling on Dirt Farmer, also. “It takes 90 minutes to cool a horse off after a race, to get his heartbeat and respiration down to what it should be before we can put him in a stall. Dirt Farmer hasn’t an ounce of fat on him; he’s just like his rider. Still, it will take 90 minutes.”
Running his athletic best under David’s urging, Dirt Farmer burst across the finish line in front.
“And the winner is Dirt Farmer!” Bob Dudich shouted to a crowd gone wild.
Elsewhere the race stewards watched the running on video tape, searching for any irregularities before declaring the race official. (A horse the day before had been disqualified because of a jockey’s mistake.) After several reruns, they concluded there were no obvious problems. The race was declared official.
By this time Dirt Farmer and the other horses had slowed down and were trotting back to the finish line where they would be unsaddled and taken off the track. David and Dirt Farmer moved into the winner’s circle for the official photograph. The crowd cheered.
“David did just exactly as I told him,” Tom Phelan commented as he and his wife joined them in the circle.
For David it was one of the last races of the meet. Tomorrow he and his agent would be on their way to Detroit where David would continue to ride and to build up his mission fund.
Dirt Farmer was unsaddled and led away. After David’s weight was checked, his valet took the saddle and cinch. David walked along the track back to the jockey’s room to await another horse, the next start, and a new race.

I wish I could get in touch with the person whose letter was published in the September 1986 feedback section under the title “I wish I had a friend.” I had a very similar experience in my lifetime. When I was nine years old we moved from a ward where I had wonderful friends to a ward 30 miles away from my old one. I never fit in with the large crowd of kids my age in my new ward. I struggled along for nine years, never really quitting, but sometimes attending Mutual and Sunday School only half of the time.

But I consider myself a survivor. When I moved away to attend college I made a new beginning, and I did my best to be the “Marcy” in my student ward. I sought out those who sat alone or seemed shy, and I tried to be a friend to them. By doing this, I built up my own confidence and again found myself confident around anyone in our ward.

My story has a happy ending. I have since married in the temple and have had three children. If I could make contact with the writer of “I wish I had a friend,” maybe we could compare experiences and learn from each other and perhaps bring about a happy ending for this story, too.

One dear sister and her husband who recently joined the Church had a home that was simply a wooden shell with no bathroom facilities, oven, or sink. Because of their very low income, they could not afford to feed their eight-year-old son, who had to live with his grandparents. This young couple found tithing a very difficult principle to obey.

After being a member of the Church for five months, the young mother decided that she was going to keep the commandment of tithing. In order to do so, she gave all the money she had in her home to the bishop in the middle of the month, then wondered what would become of her, her husband, and their three-year-old daughter during the remaining fifteen days. They had no money saved, and very little food.

“The windows of heaven” as described in Malachi 3:10 [Mal. 3:10] did open. That week a kind Relief Society sister brought fresh bread, their country’s staple food. In addition, an overdue debt was paid to the husband, and just three months later he received a substantial pay promotion in his work.

Heavenly Father truly looked after their needs as they exercised great faith to be obedient.

Last summer the softball team I play on was invited to participate in a national tournament in Shawnee, Kansas. During the first game a girl on the other team hit a line drive to left field. My teammates were yelling to me in the outfield “back, back, back!” I turned and ran, but the ball kept going, until it landed on the other side of the fence.
I put my arms in the air to signal that the ball was out of play. At the same time, I saw my coach come out onto the field with a disappointed, angry look on his face. He asked me if I was sure the ball had actually gone over the fence, instead of bouncing over it after hitting the ground once, or rolling underneath it. It would have been easy to say that either of those things had happened, since I was the only one who really saw it clearly. But when the umpires came out to talk to me just a few seconds later, I confirmed that the batter had really hit the ball over the fence.
We finished the game and ended up losing. I felt bad about that, but I felt good that I had told the truth.
A few days later, after we had finished playing for the day, I received an envelope. It contained a poem titled “Honesty on the Field,” and it was about my telling the truth on the field when it would have been easy not to. It had been written by an umpire who had seen the game. He said he was glad I had had the courage to tell the truth, and that not all people show integrity on the ball field.
Even though my team didn’t win very many games at the tournament, I will always remember that incident as a time when I felt like a winner.

However, there was one incident that changed the entire course of my life. One Saturday night I took the family car, and a companion and I went to a movie. Afterwards I drove to a local drive-in for a malt. In the parking lot we met three of my schoolmates. They were acting so jovial that I should have guessed something was not just right. It was Saturday night, and I wanted to be a good sport, so when they invited us to go for a ride with them, I agreed. My companion and I climbed in their back seat, and we all headed for the canyon.
Before long the driver was gunning the car up the narrow, windy road with reckless abandon, and I could see that they had all been drinking. There were times when I wanted to caution him to slow down, but I didn’t want to appear to be chicken.
We went several miles up the canyon, then turned around to come back. I learned the true meaning of fear as the driver began taking hairpin curves at an unsafe speed. Then it happened. The car flew off the road at high speed and struck a concrete abutment. As the car flipped over on its side and then onto its roof, we skidded down the road in a mixed-up bundle of humanity.
As I watched the sparks flying from the roof of the car, I reviewed my life—down to the last wasted opportunity and foolish act. I prayed too. I don’t remember what I prayed for, but it must have been a prayer of desperation, a plea for life and a chance to change. After skidding down the road for several hundred feet, the car came to a jarring stop against a large cottonwood tree that stood above the river.
Miraculously, no one was seriously hurt. Suddenly sober, the driver and his companions began concocting a story to make the accident look less incriminating. It was agreed that the driver had swerved off the road to avoid hitting a deer. To my shame, I agreed to this lie, and later that night I told it to my parents. They believed their son.
The next day dad insisted we go to the scene of the accident. When he saw where the car had struck the abutment, he knew at once that the story of the deer was pure fiction. Back home, dad sat me down across the table from him. He was very serious.
“Son,” he said in a voice that was touched with emotion, “the night of the accident your mother and I kneeled at your bedside and your mother asked the Lord to protect you and your companions. She said she had a feeling you needed help.”
It took him a few moments to control his emotions; then he continued. “Today we thank God for preserving your life, and we have come to the conclusion that he has a mission for you. This could have been a day of sadness for us; instead, it is a day of rejoicing. Our family is still together, but only by the grace of God.”
I went into my room and lay on the bed. “Okay, dad, okay,” I thought, only this time I thought it with love and appreciation. “You have put something into my heart that was never there before—an understanding of your love and the love of my Heavenly Father.” I spent that night riding upside down, watching the sparks fly up from the road, and feeling the closeness of death. I was glad when morning came with its warm sunshine.

One summer morning in 1856, 16-year-old Janetta McBride started walking from Iowa to the Salt Lake Valley.
Her journey had begun months earlier when she left England with her family and sailed across the Atlantic Ocean. Once in the United States, they continued by rail to Iowa City, Iowa, where a westbound railroad line ended.
In Iowa City Janetta’s family joined the Latter-day Saints as they gathered their strength and supplies for the final part of the journey—a 1,300-mile (2,090-km) walk with handcarts. Janetta McBride was assigned to the Martin handcart company, one of seven companies that left Iowa City between 1856 and 1857.
Now 150 years later, the date is June 9, 2006. One more handcart company is leaving Iowa City.
This time the company is made up of about 70 young men and young women from the Iowa City Iowa Stake. Dressed in pioneer clothing, with their handcarts full of supplies, these youth are gathered at the Mormon Handcart Park just outside of Iowa City—the same place from which the first handcart company left exactly 150 years earlier on June 9, 1856. Looking west, they can’t help but think of the original pioneers who stood here so long ago.
Kameron Hansen of the Iowa City First Ward thinks of his fourth great-grandmother, Janetta McBride. Kameron, 14, is almost the same age Janetta was when she started walking to Zion.
“I like to think how happy she would be to see me doing this,” says Kameron. “I hope she is proud that her family is still faithful in the Church.” Kameron knows his journey will be much shorter and easier than Janetta’s, but he still feels grateful for this chance to remember and honor his ancestors.
Anna Shaner of the Fairfield Branch is also grateful to honor the pioneers. She is amazed they walked into the frontier not knowing whether they would live through the experience. Anna gains a lot of strength from the people who, as she puts it, “had faith in what they were supposed to do and the courage to do it.”
This trek is a great opportunity for all the Iowa City youth to honor their ancestors. Whether they have handcart pioneers in their family line or not, the youth are members of the Church, so the handcart pioneers are their spiritual ancestors.
Today Iowa City, Iowa, is in the heart of the midwestern United States, but 150 years ago it was on the frontier—as far west as the train could take you. Most of the early converts who camped outside Iowa City in 1856 were emigrants from Europe. They had already traveled far and had little money to buy wagons and supplies. The people in Iowa City were tolerant of the Latter-day Saints, and pioneer journals recount the Iowans’ acts of kindness.
When President Brigham Young announced handcart travel as a cheaper and faster option for traveling to Zion, these Saints were eager to try it. The first handcart company left Iowa City on June 9, 1856.
Most handcart companies made the exhausting journey safely to the Salt Lake Valley, but it was more difficult for Janetta McBride’s group, the Martin company, and the Willie company. Both companies were caught in early snowstorms, and more than 200 people died. Their journeys required a great sacrifice, which was possible to endure only through faith in Heavenly Father and in His plan. This same faith motivated all the handcart companies that pushed and pulled their way to Zion.
In 2006 the handcart trek was part of a sesquicentennial celebration to honor this faith. Members of the Iowa City stake hosted events such as an academic symposium, a pioneer festival, and an interfaith devotional. These events honored not only the handcart pioneers but also the Iowans who helped them.
After a long day of trekking through the hills of Iowa, the youth now have a moment to reflect on their experience. Emma Pauley rereads Ether 12, a chapter on faith that she remembers learning about in seminary.
“I don’t know if I could have walked the whole way to Utah,” says Emma, “but the pioneers were able to do it, and I know that it was because of their faith. All great things are done by faith.”
The faith of the handcart pioneers enabled them to respond to President Young’s call to gather to the Salt Lake Valley. Their example makes it easier for the Iowa City youth to follow the counsel of the prophet today.
One way young men like Kameron Hansen can follow the prophet is by completing the Duty to God program. As he explains, “When I think of the pioneers and their sacrifice, it makes me want to finish my requirements so I can follow the prophet too.”
Following the prophet is important to these youth, and they look forward to seeing him the following Sunday at a commemorative fireside. The chance to hear the voice of a prophet will be the highlight of the celebration.
The early pioneers must have felt this same excitement as they walked to the Salt Lake Valley, knowing that with every step they were closer to their leader and hearing his voice.
“It is like a treasure waiting for me at the end,” says Skylar Hansen of the Iowa City First Ward.
Having finished their trek, the Iowa City youth are now getting closer to their treasure, but they are not there yet. The next day is Saturday, and there is a lot of work to do.
During 2006 members of the Iowa City Iowa Stake kept busy serving those in need throughout the area. It was the members’ way of saying thank you to a community that gave assistance to those early Saints.
Today the youth got their chance to serve. Although 6:30 a.m. felt early, Marc Humbert of the Iowa City First Ward said the trek the day before actually made it easier for him to get up and start serving. “Going on the trek helped me remember what was important,” he said, “and it was easy to serve.”
Marc was not the only one eager to serve. Despite the pouring rain, excitement was visible as the youth took turns visiting rest homes, cleaning police cars, stocking food shelves at local shelters, and cleaning up a park.
Giving this service was the least they could do to thank a city that helped the early Saints.
After walking all day Friday and giving service on Saturday, the youth are happy it is Sunday—time to listen to the prophet in person. Now seated with their families at the commemorative fireside, the young men and young women feel grateful for their new understanding of the handcart experience. The words of President Gordon B. Hinckley inspire them to continue the legacy of faith left by the handcart pioneers. He tells them, “We must ever look back to those who paid so terrible a price in laying the foundations of this great latter-day work.”
The pioneers who left Iowa City in 1856 would have rejoiced to hear about the modern pioneers living in the Iowa City stake. Perhaps they would be inspired by the courage of today’s youth who strive to live the gospel in such a confusing world.
Anna Shaner, for one, works hard to be a righteous example to her friends and family. Her faith gives her the strength she needs to stay the course. She says, “The experience of the pioneers means a lot to me because they did it for me. It is my history.”

How, then, do we avoid and overcome the patterns of debt and addiction to temporal, worldly things? May I share with you two lessons in provident living that can help each of us. These lessons, along with many other important lessons of my life, were taught to me by my wife and eternal companion. These lessons were learned at two different times in our marriage—both on occasions when I wanted to buy her a special gift.
The first lesson was learned when we were newly married and had very little money. I was in the air force, and we had missed Christmas together. I was on assignment overseas. When I got home, I saw a beautiful dress in a store window and suggested to my wife that if she liked it, we would buy it. Mary went into the dressing room of the store. After a moment the salesclerk came out, brushed by me, and returned the dress to its place in the store window. As we left the store, I asked, “What happened?” She replied, “It was a beautiful dress, but we can’t afford it!” Those words went straight to my heart. I have learned that the three most loving words are “I love you,” and the four most caring words for those we love are “We can’t afford it.”
The second lesson was learned several years later when we were more financially secure. Our wedding anniversary was approaching, and I wanted to buy Mary a fancy coat to show my love and appreciation for our many happy years together. When I asked what she thought of the coat I had in mind, she replied with words that again penetrated my heart and mind. “Where would I wear it?” she asked. (At the time she was a ward Relief Society president helping to minister to needy families.)
Then she taught me an unforgettable lesson. She looked me in the eyes and sweetly asked, “Are you buying this for me or for you?” In other words, she was asking, “Is the purpose of this gift to show your love for me or to show me that you are a good provider or to prove something to the world?” I pondered her question and realized I was thinking less about her and our family and more about me.
After that, we had a serious, life-changing discussion about provident living, and both of us agreed that our money would be better spent in paying down our home mortgage and adding to our children’s education fund.
These two lessons are the essence of provident living. When faced with the choice to buy, consume, or engage in worldly things and activities, we all need to learn to say to one another, “We can’t afford it, even though we want it!” or “We can afford it, but we don’t need it—and we really don’t even want it!”
There is an equally important principle underlying these lessons: we can learn much from communicating with our husbands and wives. As we counsel and work together in family councils, we can help each other become provident providers and teach our children to live providently as well.

La Verne California Stake
As the 100th birthday of the El Buen Pastor Church in Pomona, California, approached, the congregation had concerns about the state of its building and premises. Looking for a chance to help a neighbor, the youth of the La Verne California Stake decided to pitch in and spruce up the church for its celebration. El Buen supplied the paint and the LDS youth came with a willing attitude, painting the church’s exterior in only four hours. The youth tore out old carpet, sanded and repainted the pews, and landscaped the grounds. Many members of the El Buen Pastor Church were touched by the service, and one parishioner, a member of the Pastor Church for more than 60 years, said she was so grateful to the LDS youth who restored their church to its former beauty.

Many years ago I attended a stake conference in Star Valley, Wyoming, where the stake presidency was reorganized. The stake president who was being released, E. Francis Winters, had served faithfully for the lengthy term of 23 years. Though modest by nature and circumstance, he had been a perpetual pillar of strength to everyone in the valley. On the day of the stake conference, the building was filled to overflowing. Each heart seemed to be saying a silent thank-you to this noble leader who had given so unselfishly of his life for the benefit of others.

As I stood to speak, I was prompted to do something I had not done before, nor have I done so since. I stated how long Francis Winters had presided in the stake; then I asked all whom he had blessed or confirmed as children to stand and remain standing. Then I asked all those persons whom President Winters had ordained, set apart, personally counseled, or blessed to please stand. The outcome was electrifying. Every person in the audience rose to his or her feet. Tears flowed freely—tears which communicated better than could words the gratitude of tender hearts. I turned to President and Sister Winters and said, “We are witnesses today of the prompting of the Spirit. This vast throng reflects not only individual feelings but also the gratitude of God for a life well lived.” No person who was in the congregation that day will forget how he or she felt when we witnessed the language of the Spirit of the Lord.

Here, in Francis Winters, was “an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity.”

One convert, Special Constable Frankie Png, joined the Church a little over a year ago. He says, “At first, my associates tried to make me feel uncomfortable. But I always try to be patient and encourage them to live better lives. I also encourage my Muslim friends to live their religion more fully. Most respect my beliefs now.” Because of his fine example, his mother and brother were recently baptized.

I was impressed the other day when the national president of the Junior Chamber of Commerce of America came with his wife and two other couples into my office, brought in for a courtesy call by a local Jaycee who was a member of the Church. After we had talked about things in the world and about the responsibility of this young man, who was president of the Junior Chamber, I said, “Maybe you would like to know something about the Church.”
He said, “Yes, I would.”
Then I turned to the young man who had brought them in and said, “Will you tell them something about it?”
He said, “Well, President Tanner, I thought you would.”
I said, “No, you tell them about the Church.”
He looked this other young man in the eye and said, “I want to tell you a little bit about the Book of Mormon, in which we believe, and which we know is the word of God.” He told them what it was, how it was obtained by the Prophet, and how it was translated; and as he gave them this information he said, “And I want to tell you that I know it is true, and I bear my testimony to you people here today that that book is true, that it is the word of God, and I would like to refer you to the promise in that book”—which promise you all know.
Then he said, “Would you like to have a copy of the book?”
And the Jaycee president said, “I surely would. I am interested.”
That young man who gave that testimony was Richard Moyle.

Johanna walked beside the wagon train making its way westward along the dusty trail. “Why do I have to walk all the way?” she grumbled to herself. But she already knew the answer: The wagons were loaded with precious supplies to help the Saints begin a new life in western America. There was no room for riders.
The sack tied to Johanna’s waist dragged on the ground, so she hitched it up. By nightfall she would have loaded the sack with dry buffalo dung and small sticks to make a warm fire on the cold prairie. The late summer sun shone warm on her back. It soothed her grumbles.
Johanna began to hum a little tune. The heard the same tune sung by someone behind her. It’s that Barney Biegland! Why does he always have to copy me! Johanna turned and stuck her tongue out at him. Crosser than ever, she stopped watching where she was walking and tripped. Her knees and elbows hit the ground hard, and she began to cry.
Barney bent to help her up.
“Leave me alone!” Johanna yelled, pulling away from him.
“I was just trying to help”
As Johanna picked herself up, she turned and looked at the dusty line of oxen and covered wagons as they plodded across the parched prairie. As she watched, the words Captain Rice had spoken ten days before in Council Bluffs, Iowa, came back to her:
“We need to travel thirty kilometers a day to reach the Salt Lake Valley by October conference, before winter comes.” Johanna started walking again.
As the sun set below the horizon, the wagons formed a circle for the night. The younger men were assigned to herd the oxen, and Barney was one of them. The three cows in the company were milked, and the precious milk was distributed to the sick and to the young children. One cow belonged to Johanna’s family.
Johanna emptied her sack near the fire, where her mother already had the salt pork out. Johanna helped mix flour and water into dough. She patted the dough into thin cakes and laid them on the hot rocks around the fire. When they were baked, she picked the cakes off the rocks and brushed the ashes off. They were rather tasteless, but they were warm.
Johanna thought of the comfortable farmhouse her family had left in Denmark. Good food at mealtimes had filled the family’s big table, loaves of hot bread in the center. She could almost taste the warm butter and honey dripping off a big slice of bread—almost, but not quite. She felt sorry for herself as she ate the thin, warm cake.
Still, Johanna was not sorry that the Latter-day Saint missionaries had taught her family the gospel. And she was not sorry that her parents had decided to join other Latter-day Saints in the valleys of the western mountains of America. It was an adventure to travel to a new home. But she did hate the dusty trail and the dull food. The thing she hated most, though, was the walking—more than 1,600 kilometers, one step at a time, day after day.
Soon it was time for the nightly song and prayer. Captain Rice gave the scripture: “And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way.” (Ex. 13:21.) The Israelites at least had a cloud to lead them, Johanna thought. Exhausted, she sank into her bed in the back of the wagon.
Johanna was startled from a deep sleep by the piercing shouts of “Fire! Fire!” She quickly dressed and looked out the back of the wagon. It was a prairie fire and flames were quickly moving across the ground burning grass, bushes, everything in its way. Smoke blackened the western horizon. “Leave the bedclothes. I’ll take care of them,” her mother said. “Help your father find the oxen and cow.”
The animals had grazed farther away from the camp than usual, and the men were having a hard time getting the fire-frightened animals back to the wagons.
Running to find her father, Johanna saw him in the distance, driving the oxen. As she ran toward him, he called, “Johanna, lead the oxen back to camp. I must look for the cow. She’s too valuable to lose.”
Johanna found a stick and touched it to the backs of the oxen to urge them forward. The smell of the smoke was becoming stronger. When a little of the smoke passed over them, the frightened oxen stopped, and even though Johanna used the stick on them, they wouldn’t move. Johanna looked around desperately for help. She could hear the crackling of fire now.
Barney came up behind Johanna, leading another team. “Pull the rope of the first ox!” he called.
As she bent to pick up the rope, Johanna was pulled to the dusty earth. The ox had stepped on her skirt!
“Don’t move,” Barney commanded as he hurried over to her. “Watch the ox. When I get him to move, pull away.” Johanna waited anxiously while Barney calmed the ox and got it to step forward, off her skirt.
“Hurry,” Barney told her as he got the oxen to move toward camp and went back to his own team.
Soon Father was at Johanna’s side with the cow. His smile comforted her. As they reached the camp, they heard the call to prayer. In the prayer circle, Johanna slipped her hand into her mother’s.
The captain spoke. “There is no chance for the oxen to escape the fast-moving prairie fire. We must ask the Lord for guidance.”
As a fervent amen was said by all, the captain stood on a wagon and pointed at the sky. “Brother and Sisters, we have not come this far to be destroyed. That tiny cloud will be our deliverance.”
Johanna looked up into the smoke-blackened sky, and the small cloud began to grow in size. Even as the fire burned across the plain and its heat waves reached up to the clouds, the cloud became bigger and heavy with rain. Lightning, brighter than the flames of the fire, lit up the sky. The sound of the fire roared in Johanna’s ears; the thunder seemed to answer back.
The single cloud suddenly became many clouds, all spilling rain onto the fire below. The earth hissed, and steam billowed upward. Johanna looked heavenward. The rain washed the tears and dust from her face.
Then, as quickly as the clouds had appeared, they disappeared. But the fire was out! Blue prairie sky surrounded the wagon train. A thankful group of pioneers knelt again in the circle of their wagons to thank their Father in Heaven.
Later that morning Johanna skipped ahead of the wagon train with the other children. She looked down at her muddy feet squishing in the wet prairie soil. I would ordinarily be grumbling about this, she thought. She smiled and started humming a tune.
Barney appeared at her side. “You sound cheerful,” he said.
“Thanks for helping me with the oxen,” Johanna said shyly.
Johanna, wondering if the Israelite children had had dirty feet like hers, was sure that they were as grateful for their cloud as she was for the one that Father in Heaven had sent today.

At this point, Henry interrupted his steeple-chasing to fulfill a mission to Brazil. He grew spiritually in the mission field, and to his chagrin he grew physically as well.

“For about 12 months in the middle of my two-year mission I didn’t run a step. I put on 20 pounds, and I was pretty out of shape. But the last six months I started running and trying to incorporate running with missionary work. I went to an athletic club, and we taught the people as we ran with them.”

Nevertheless, the Henry Marsh who returned home in August of 1975 struck no terror in the hearts of the world’s other steeplechasers.

Even as the service projects were continuing, chariot construction was in the polishing stages. In the First Ward, the bishop filled in at the service project in place of Dave Holcomb, who had been working on the chariot since 6:00 A.M. At 1:00 P.M., when the vehicle was finally done, the team rolled it down the street to the high school.
“We put a stereo in it, and Brother Charles McClellan, the priests quorum adviser, helped with the wiring and balanced the weight,” Ron Fowler, a priest in the ward, explained. With the stereo playing the racing theme from the movie Ben Hur, the black chariot with gold trim attracted a lot of attention on its way to the stadium. Some people, when they heard there would be a chariot race, followed along out of curiosity.
One of the chariot builders in another ward gave up his bike for a week so he could use its wheels on the chariot. The 23rd Ward modeled a horse’s head out of aluminum foil to mount on the front of its entry.
Younger brothers and sisters were recruited as riders because of their light weight. In the 13th Ward the chariot construction was a family effort, as Phil Dold and his father designed and built their version of a Roman race car. Throughout the stake, Relief Society sisters sewed capes and fabricated helmets for the riders, including remodeled football helmets.
One ward installed carpeting and a CB radio in its chariot. And the Scouts in another ward spent several activity nights learning to weld as they built their entry.
As the racers, fans, and chariots arrived at the high school, the conversation sounded like one between automotive designers. Amateur engineers extolled the virtues of a low center of gravity, discussed pulling handle alignment, and debated the sturdiness of wheel and axle attachment to the frame.
“I thought nobody would be that interested in building the chariots because it would take a lot of time and effort,” said Dave Davis, 17, of the Second Ward. “But everybody really came through.”
Before the actual chariot race, several hours of games, designed for individual and group participation, offered a chance for recreation following a morning of hard work. To allow all of the young people to participate, adults were asked to be in charge of the different events. Colored tickets were used to limit the number of participants in a given activity at a given time.
The first contest was a balloon toss, with partners facing each other in two long lines down the center of the football field. Water-filled balloons were gently thrown between partners until only one couple remained with an unbroken balloon.
Following the balloon toss, ten other games were offered for individual competition. They included: (1) Duffle bag stuffing. With boxing gloves on, the contestant stuffed foam-rubber strips into a duffle bag, racing against the clock. (2) Spray bottle target practice. With a laundry spray bottle, each participant had to knock off a Ping-Pong ball perched atop a soda bottle. (3) Punch-drinking race. Slurping through a rubber tubing “straw” several feet long, the first person to empty a 32-ounce cup was the winner. (4) A gelatin-eating contest, with hands tied behind the back. (5) Marshmallow munching. Without the use of his hands, each contestant tried to be the one who could get the most marshmallows inside his mouth—and then close his lips. (6) Flying marshmallows. While riding a bicycle, the contestant attempted to catch a marshmallow—hung from the goal post on a piece of string—in his mouth. (7) Tricycle races (limited to those too big to ride a tricycle). (8) Blindfolded cotton-picker. A scarf was tied over the participants’ eyes. The object of the game was to spoon the greatest number of cotton balls into a bowl in 30 seconds. A stiff breeze made this a difficult project. (9) An obstacle course, including old tires, hurdles, and barrels to roll in. (10) Chocolate pudding pals. Teams were composed of three people. Two were blindfolded. One of them fed the other the pudding by following the directions of the third, who was not wearing a blindfold.
Each person was free to compete in as many individual events as he desired. These were followed by group games, which included a tug-of-war; a car-stuffing contest (28 crammed themselves into a Volkswagen); a battle over a huge, canvas ball, which could only be tossed over the goal-post by several people working together; and a contest to see how many people would fit in a four-foot circle.
A final contest before the chariot race also served to clean up the field. Each ward was given a large plastic sack, and the team with the most pieces of garbage in the bag at the end of the day was honored at the dance.
At last, the chariots were wheeled into position at the starting line. Two elimination heats of 220 yards apiece narrowed the field of six down to the three fastest teams.
“On your mark, get set, go!” the starter screamed. The speed was as fast as a 50-yard dash. Noise from the audience was so loud that Little League baseball players and their parents rushed from the other side of the school to see what was going on.
About halfway around the track, the all-girl 23rd Ward team fell behind. The other two teams were in a dead heat coming around the final turn.
On both chariots, the sprinters were nearly exhausted. Some, too tired to continue pulling, released the handles and dropped to the side of the track. The 13th Ward had only two men left, plus the rider, as the low-slung chariot pulled ahead of the First Ward’s team by four feet at the finish line.
A large banner with the number 13 on it was thrown into the air. The winners’ friends and families surrounded them, smiling, shaking hands, hugging each other, and saying, “I knew we could do it!”
Then, through the middle of the throng, President “Caesar” Brockbank pressed forward, bearing the trophy with him. He called for Kendall Hansen and Corian Taylor, who had pulled the winning chariot across the finish line. The crowd parted to let them pass, and the trophy was in their hands.
After the race, the youth of the stake were enthusiastic about the success of the day.
Karen Maury, 16, the 18th Ward Laurel president, said, “I feel the youth of the stake are beginning to gain a testimony of who we are. This whole weekend I’ve spent so much time with the Church that I know it’s going to really build me, to help me to do other things.”
Kathy Ricks, a 16-year-old 13th Warder, said, “I think the best part about it was the closeness everyone felt. I’ve never been to an event like that before, where I’ve made so many friends. You realized how much the youth are able to plan things, that they are capable.”
Mike Standard, 15, of the 13th Ward, added that “a lot of us brought friends who weren’t Mormons, and they really enjoyed it, because they saw what youth, working together, can do. They didn’t know people could just get together and do something and it could work like this did. It was a great missionary tool.”
The Second Ward’s Christan Linebarger, 16, summarized: “I’ve never seen the wards so close before. The spirit that was put across in the enthusiasm was really spectacular. I think that was the most special part of the day. It wasn’t important who won the chariot race or the tug-of-war, but it was important that the whole ward was together in whatever we were doing. That was the most special thing.”
Slowly the stadium emptied. The competitors and the fans went home to clean up and get ready for the dance. On Sunday the lessons learned in the race were emphasized during priesthood and Sunday School. At the fireside, members of the stake presidency drew analogies between pulling together as teams both in church work and in life, as well as stressing the ability of youth to engage in good, clean fun.
The lessons had meaning, because the day had been complete. Service to others was the lesson of the morning, and the need to work with others was evident in the games and in the stampede of chariots Saturday afternoon.
And as for fun, it was a good thing President Brockbank announced the Ben Hur Memorial Traveling Award as a traveling trophy, because it was obvious this would not be the last chariot race in the San Jose California Stake.

Eighteen months after becoming a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints I went on a mission to Ireland at the age of twenty-two. In the Salt Lake City mission home, just three days prior to my departure, it became apparent to me that I lacked a very important missionary aid. I knew through prayer that the Church was true, so I knew that the Book of Mormon must be true. But the Book of Mormon had not been a part of my conversion and I hadn’t read it. I started reading that day and finished my first reading about a month later. I knelt down by my bed in Dublin, Ireland, and reported to the Lord that I had read the Book of Mormon and desired a spiritual witness of its truth. After a period of pondering in my prayer I received a revelation through the power of the Holy Ghost that was strong, clear, and definite. Brothers and sisters, I know that the Book of Mormon is true. And I know that it has nourished my spirit, and it has strengthened my conviction, as I have continued to read and to study over the years.

One of the sweetest chapters in a book of life filled with things of the heart and of the spirit begins with President Monson’s courtship of Frances Johnson. “Mom is the other half of Dad’s success story, the half no one really knows,” says their daughter Ann Monson Dibb. “He gave a conference address once entitled ‘Anonymous’ about people who serve so faithfully and give so much, yet never seek recognition. That talk applies beautifully to my mother; maybe he even wrote it about her. He couldn’t have done what he has done without her.”
It was obviously to be a marriage-made-in-heaven when on that first evening as young Tom called at the Johnson household, Brother Franz Johnson said, “Monson! Monson! That’s a Swedish name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir!” the young suitor quickly reassured him.
At that, Brother Johnson went to the bureau drawer and brought out a picture of two missionaries. He said, pointing to one of them, “Are you related to this Monson?”
“Yes, sir, that is Elias Monson, my great-uncle,” affirmed the young visitor.
Brother Johnson’s eyes filled with tears as he exclaimed, “He was one of the missionaries who helped bring the gospel to my mother and father and my entire family in the land of Sweden.” On that strong foundation, the romance between Tom and Frances flourished and the two were married in the Salt Lake Temple for time and eternity on 7 October 1948.

Two enthusiastic young women of the Modbury Ward, Adelaide Australia Modbury Stake, entered the Junior Miss South Australia Quest and achieved great results. The Quest is an annual affair held to raise money for research for the Epilepsy Association of South Australia.
Debbie Johnson, 14, and Sandra Moore, 15, put in many long hours in raising funds. Their families and friends were supportive and helpful.
Debbie placed third in her age-group and Sandra took first place.

Many of Samoa’s early Saints were exiled, persecuted and even executed for their faith. In 1904, prophet and President of the Church, Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918), directed the purchase of 800 fertile acres up in the green hills of rural Upolu. This land would provide a refuge for members of the Church.
The people praised the Lord for His kindness and dedicated the 800 acres with a prayer that it might “become a choice land and a fit place for Saints to gather and become a choice people of the Lord.” They then voted to call this place: “Sauniatu,” which means “prepare to go forth.”
Starting over wasn’t easy but the early villagers moved forward in faith, planting crops, building homes and chapels, and founding a school for their children.

My decision stunned my family. My older brother declared that if I went on a mission, I should not plan on having anything to do with my family in the future.
But as Nephi promised, the Lord prepared a way for me to do what He asked (see 1 Ne. 3:7). I left for the Taiwan Taichung Mission in May 1996. Right before I left, my brother held me in his arms and tearfully told me that he opposed my going because he hated to lose me. Throughout my mission, my family gave me their full support.
Serving a mission changed my life. I came to understand more clearly my relationship with Heavenly Father. My testimony grew, and the significance of the work, of bringing souls to Jesus Christ, became eternally impressed on my mind and heart.
What is most dear to me now that I have completed my mission is the promise I made to God that I would endure to the end. I remember my mission president’s words as a group of us were soon to be released. He said he wanted us to stay worthy so we could all be together again in heaven someday. I have thought of this challenge often, especially during times of trial.
My heart is filled with gratitude. I am grateful that God has protected me and provided me with learning experiences. Many of these experiences were surprising and unexpected, but they all have stretched me into becoming more like the servant of the Lord I so much want to be.

Wolfe wrote about a train engineer who drove the same line for 20 years. At a certain crossing he had to blow the whistle, and then, just ahead, every day a woman stepped out of her cottage and waved to him with a high, happy hand. He looked forward to that distant encounter every day. Soon the woman came to wave with a child by her side, then, over the years, the little girl grew bigger until now she was a grown woman, too.

The cottage where the woman lived was neat and tidy with flowers growing around it. The woman waved summer or winter, sunny days or gray, and the man promised himself that someday he would go meet the woman who had been such a bright spot in his life.

Finally the day came. Retired from responsibility, he got off the train at the little town one day and walked the country road to where the woman lived. He was shocked to find that it was all unfamiliar, not at all as he had imagined it. In fact, when he got up enough courage to knock at the door, he found the woman who greeted him at the door was not beautiful, not free. Life’s hardships had made her pinched and sullen and ugly. After struggling to explain why he was there, he left disappointed, beaten, and sad.