Gospel Story Finder

I used to watch my father during the time he served as a bishop; he carried that responsibility during the Great Depression, when he had an added welfare burden. How often I remember going out with him, night after night, to deliver a sack of flour, a sack of sugar, or some other commodity to someone in need. We always had difficulty managing an uninterrupted vacation. I remember particularly one time when we had had an exciting day fishing on Lake Yellowstone. As I passed the lodge at Fishing Bridge, I saw a sign in the window: “A telegram for L. Tom Perry.” Without reading it, I knew what that meant. I was right—a widow had passed away, and we had to leave our vacation early and return home so that Dad could conduct the funeral. I saw him also during tithing settlement, interviewing hour after hour, day after day, until he completed his assignment.

Then the time came for his release after serving as bishop for eighteen years. That day I caught a little of the vision of true service and the joy it brings. It had been indicated to him that he was going to be called to the high council, but as stake conference approached no one issued a call to him. As we sat in stake conference that day my father’s heart was heavy; he realized that his great service as a bishop was about over, and he had not received a new call to replace it. Then, without any previous warning, the visiting General Authority, in reorganizing our stake presidency, called my father into that presidency. He served in it as a counselor or as stake president for the next twenty years, all of that time filled with joy at the opportunity of service.

My orthodontist told me I needed to have four teeth pulled. My permanent teeth were ready to come in, but my baby teeth were not yet loose. I was very frightened. That same day, the September 2008 Friend arrived. There was a letter in it from a girl my age who went through a similar experience. She said a prayer to help her get through it, and all she felt was a small tug as her teeth were pulled.
It made me feel better to know that someone else had gone through the same thing. Before I went to the dentist, I said a prayer and asked Heavenly Father to comfort me. Like the girl who wrote the letter, all I felt were a few tugs and the teeth were out. I know Heavenly Father can help us when we have difficulties.

One morning as I met with the bishops of the BYU 13th Stake, over which I presided as president at the time, I was moved to talk of the lost sheep as described in the teachings of the Savior. I reminded this group of bishops that Jesus had spoken often of sheep as a metaphor for all of his children. At various times the Savior had told his apostles that “my sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me” (John 10:27), and he enjoined his apostles always to “feed my sheep” (John 21:16, 17; D&C 112:14). I told these men that in the Savior’s wonderful and moving sermon about the good Samaritan, he made it absolutely clear that we are all his sheep, even those who are despised and disregarded by others. I told them that in the Old Testament we are instructed in the clearest way possible that we are in fact our brother’s keeper, and I reminded them that Peter, following the Savior’s death and resurrection, had perceived “that God is no respecter of persons” (Acts 10:34).

Thus I think the reference to “foreigners” in Paul’s letter to the Ephesians is particularly important. In any event, on that particular Sunday morning, these bishops accepted my challenge to seek out those within their wards who needed special help and encouragement—to find, in effect, the lost sheep among them.

Later that day, Christopher Germann, one of the younger bishops in the 13th Stake, was sitting in a regional conference next to a young woman who was sitting alone and who appeared unusually quiet and pensive. She looked just like you in your quiet moments. But there was something about her that drew his attention. She was not in his ward, and as he described the event to me later, he had hesitated to speak to her. He felt that he might be intruding on a particularly private moment. But the Spirit was powerful, and I still remember exactly his question to her: “How has your day been?”

She was surprised, but he introduced himself as a bishop, and she gratefully thanked him for asking, pouring her heart out to him in a way that reinforced the teachings of that morning.

Now I will ask you whether you have someone to whom you might address the same question: “How has your day been?” And if someone asks you that question, are you ready to respond and to be moved by their spirit to another place in your life? I will tell you that right now there are many here who feel alone, frightened, and inadequate and who need the love and support that one or more of you can and should give. They need that special, careful, driven-by-the-Spirit attention that will bless both you as the giver and your new friend as well. Please reflect upon the experience of Bishop Germann as you remember this hour.

One time we were talking about the Savior’s Atonement, and I raised my hand. I just told how thanks to His Atonement, Jesus Christ not only frees us but can also help us become closer to Himself and to God. I talked about my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and how it has been strengthened as my understanding of the Atonement has grown. After class, a man came up to me and thanked me for my comments. He told me he had never thought about things the way I had said them and really appreciated my insight.

To the third and final question, “What prompts such devotion on the part of every worker?” the answer can be stated simply: An individual testimony of the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, even a heartfelt desire to love the Lord with all one’s heart, mind, and soul, and one’s neighbor as oneself.

This is what motivated a personal friend, now deceased, who was in the produce business, to telephone me during those days as a bishop and say, “I’m sending to the storehouse a semi-truck and trailer filled with citrus fruits for those who would otherwise go without. Let the storehouse management know the truck is coming, and there will be no charge; but Bishop, no one is to know who sent it.” Rarely have I seen the joy and appreciation this generous act brought forth. Never have I questioned the eternal reward to which that unnamed benefactor has now gone.

Such kind deeds of generosity are not a rarity, but are frequently found. Situated beneath the heavily traveled freeway which girds Salt Lake City is the home of a sixty-year-old single man who has, due to a crippling disease, never known a day without pain nor many days without loneliness. One winter’s day as I visited him, he was slow in answering the doorbell’s ring. I entered his well-kept home; the temperature in save but one room, the kitchen, was a chilly 40 degrees. The reason: not sufficient money to heat any other room. The walls needed papering, the ceilings to be lowered, the cupboards filled.

Troubled by the experience of visiting my friend, a bishop was consulted and a miracle of love, prompted by testimony, took place. The ward members were organized and the labor of love begun. A month later, my friend Lou called and asked if I would come and see what had happened to him. I did, and indeed beheld a miracle. The sidewalks which had been uprooted by large poplar trees had been replaced, the porch of the home rebuilt, a new door with glistening hardware installed, the ceilings lowered, the walls papered, the woodwork painted, the roof replaced, and the cupboards filled. No longer was the home chilly and uninviting. It now seemed to whisper a warm welcome. Lou saved until last showing me his pride and joy: there on his bed was a beautiful plaid quilt bearing the crest of his McDonald family clan. It had been made with loving care by the women of the Relief Society. Before leaving, I discovered that each week the Young Adults would bring in a hot dinner and share a home evening. Warmth had replaced the cold; repairs had transformed the wear of years; but more significantly, hope had dispelled despair and now love reigned triumphant.

All who participated in this moving drama of real life had discovered a new and personal appreciation of the Master’s teaching, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” (Acts 20:35.)

Sacred hymns brought me peace even before I joined the Church. I was converted to the gospel long before I was actually baptized. My parents required me to wait until I was 18 years old and a legal adult. I appreciated their concern for me, but this was a difficult situation. I dreamed of having a Latter-day Saint family that studied the scriptures, held family home evening, and shared testimonies with each other. I wished my mother would ask me about my Young Women Personal Progress instead of ridiculing me for not drinking tea. I wished my father would understand that my desire to join God’s true Church was sincere, not fanatical. As I withstood the criticism, I realized that the tribulations were a test of my faith. Still, my heart was heavy.
Frustrated and exhausted, I attended stake conference just 43 days before I would turn 18. As I sat in the conference hall filled with friendly faces, I felt the Spirit instantly. Right then, I found my refuge. Between inspiring talks, the full-time missionaries sang “Love One Another” (Hymns, no. 308), first in English then in Chinese. I didn’t understand the English lyrics, and I hardly knew any of the missionaries, but I was deeply moved. The hymn seemed to describe The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, where members truly love and care about one another. When I was at church, I felt right at home; people loved and supported me.
Now I am a Church member and still face similar trials. However, when I feel down and lonely I sing hymns, and my heart is comforted. Hymns quench my thirsty heart and feed my hungry soul. They bring peace at times of weariness and give me courage to move forward. They make me realize that God knows who I am and that He loves me.
Wen Siuan Wei, Taiwan

There was something strange about mom and dad both coming to my room to say good-night. It seemed like they had something on their minds. Mom said, “We received a great blessing in the mail today, Jan.” Then dad added, “I have been called to be a mission president. Here is a letter from President Kimball. You will want to read it.”
My heart dropped. Where? When? Do I have to go, too? My eyes began to sting. I didn’t even attempt to hold back the tears. I wanted mom and dad to know that what they were saying was destroying my world. It wasn’t fair. Imagine asking a young, involved, excited sophomore in high school to pack away all her dreams and go out into the mission field without her friends or her older brothers or sisters for three years!
“Sweetheart, this is such a special opportunity and calling,” mom said soothingly. Then dad said, “If you want me to say no, I will. We can’t accept this call without the support of all our family.”
“No way, daddy,” I said through my tears. “We will have to think of something else. Can I live with someone here and finish school? Maybe one of my brothers or sisters wouldn’t mind.” Then the thought struck me: How could I function without mom and dad there to help me along the way? How could I stand it? We had always been so close.
Mom was the Young Women president in the stake and dad the stake patriarch. No wonder the Lord called them to preside over a mission, but why couldn’t He have waited until I was finished with high school and out of the nest? Why was I the only one left to go with them? Why was I born five years after the rest?
Then I noticed the tears in dad’s eyes and saw mom’s face full of hurt. I realized then that leaving home for them would be anything but easy. They would have to leave children and grandchildren, their friends, and home. I knew they were willing, so I took a deep breath and decided I could give it my best shot, at least for the summer.
Where would we be? It could be any place in this wide world. We talked a lot about different places in the world where we would like to live. But somehow, home in Bountiful, Utah, still seemed the very best place for me. I started hoping we would be assigned to the Salt Lake City North Mission.
The assignment came on April 1, 1979. Only missionaries know the feeling of anticipation that letter can bring. As we opened the envelope, the first thing I saw were three familiar signatures at the bottom, and then slowly I raised my eyes to the body of the letter. There it was. We were called to the Mississippi Jackson Mission.
Mississippi … where was Mississippi? I had no idea which state it was except that it was down south. Dad got out the map and the World Book. Excitement began to grow, even in me. This could be kind of fun, seeing new country and meeting all those missionaries. I have to admit I had no intention of breaking school ties and staying down there beyond summer, to go to a school where I might be the only Mormon in my class.
To my utter amazement, my older brothers and sisters envied me. My oldest brother, Craig, really encouraged me. “Jan,” he said, “this is a chance of a lifetime.” I was glad they were excited for me, but still I figured those words were easy enough for them to say, easier than for me to do.
I guess I was feeling a little sorry for myself. My world was changing, and I didn’t want it to. As a teenager I was struggling to find security by developing my talents, getting involved in many things, and in making lots of friends. I belonged and felt comfortable. Drill team tryouts were just over, and I had made it. I was a Vykette!
How could I ever give up that dream? I had so many other dreams. The one I had yet to achieve, and the most important of all, was to be in the madrigals chorus. Being in that singing group would be the highlight of my senior year if I were lucky enough to make it. However, summer was still before me, and I decided to spend it down south regardless of all my school anticipations.
That first summer, dad and mom and I traveled a lot getting acquainted with the wards and branches. I found that I did have a family after all with about 80 big brothers.
Our big family decision that summer was still what to do with Jan. Building a foundation for a new mission meant dad had to travel much of the time and mom needed to be with him to get to know the missionaries, their needs, and the areas. We all prayed about it, and the decision was made. I could go back to Viewmont High School in Utah and live with my brother David, his wife Pamela, and Kimi.
My junior year at Viewmont was wonderful, packed with lots of drill team memories, book learning, work with the junior class committee, special dances, fun with family, and spiritual and fun times with my Laurel class. Only my journal and my Heavenly Father knew of all my lonely times without my parents. The phone bills also gave unmistakable evidence.
In the spring after an especially exciting day, I just had to call “home” to tell mom and dad the big news. The voice on the other end of the line said, “Honey, we’re glad you called. We were just going to call you. Dad and I have talked to the headmaster at Jackson Preparatory School, and they have room for you this next year. We know this is where you should be. We really want you to plan to come here for school next year.” Silence. I felt my world slipping again.
“But, mom, I just can’t. I tried out for madrigals just yesterday, and I feel so good about it. My big dream, remember?” I cried, and mom cried. How could I leave everything and everyone? All my dreams of being a senior at Viewmont—I had waited so long. But when parents like mine say they both have a strong feeling that I should do something, I know that I should. When I said, “Okay, mom and dad, I will come,” a sweet, peaceful feeling came over me, and I knew it would be all right.
The second summer was filled with zone conferences and youth conferences. It was great fun seeing the missionaries again. The number had grown from 80 to 160, so there were many new ones to get acquainted with.
I was enrolled in a college preparatory school, Jackson Prep, which seemed to be number one in everything—academics, sports, drama, music. I was scared to death to start there. Aside from a couple of girls in the neighborhood, I didn’t know a soul.
My classes were tough and were taught like college courses. Everyone bought their own books and we were to take notes on lectures every day. Exams were held often. To add to my potpourri of confusion, I was told that I was being watched because I was a Mormon—the only one in the entire school. I felt that I was stuck in a spot, although not necessarily a bad one. I could make it good or bad depending on one thing—my attitude.
I had all kinds of good advice from the missionaries and others on just what I should say and do, but when that first dreaded day of school arrived, I forgot it all and barely made it home and through the front door before I broke down and wailed as if my heart were broken. There sat mom hurting too, but at least she was there for me. We cried together as I explained, “Mom, the kids are so different. I can’t understand the teachers.” The teachers spoke with a strong southern accent, and I found myself writing notes from their lectures that weren’t anything near what they actually said. I hadn’t quite mastered the language yet.
“Oh,” I sobbed, “besides that, today I was one minute late for my English class. When I finally found the room, my teacher made me stand up in front of everyone and explain why I was late.” At first mom looked at me, attempting to give me some motherly consolation, but then we both started to laugh. Mom and usually dad were always there to listen as I unfolded the happenings of the day, and we found that laughing was a lot more fun than crying. Things did get better.
As I started the school year, I made some promises to my Heavenly Father. The memory of a special blessing given to us by President Ezra Taft Benson just before we came into the mission field helped me to set my goals. I knew if I did all I could to be a good example and symbol of the Church for Him that He would send special opportunities to me.
I found myself, miraculously, a member of a new madrigal singing group, a member of the chamber singers, and of the acappella choir at school. I also found great friends in my choir director and drama director. I gained many new friends as I participated in two dramatic productions that year. Getting into these activities wasn’t all my idea. I had a little mother behind me all the way, encouraging me to get involved.
Slowly but surely, I gained respect from my friends and teachers, and I almost welcomed all the teasing about being a Mormon. It wasn’t unusual at all to have someone come into my first period class waving an article they had found on the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or on the Church’s stand on abortion.
Everyone seemed interested in the Mormons, and even though they would kid me a lot, I think they were impressed that a group of people could stick to their guns and pass up liquor and tea and coffee, not just once in a while, but all the time. Defending the Church wasn’t hard anymore. It was kind of fun. Who would be up to bat next, and whose hits could I catch?
The best opportunity I had defending the Church was when I became involved with the Junior Miss Pageant as a contestant for Capitol City’s Junior Miss. Many of the senior girls were trying out, and I decided to go for it, too.
Once I was picked as one of the 20 contestants, there were dances to learn, a short course on modeling, a talent number to prepare, and studying to do for a personal interview with the judges. It was great. Twenty girls from different schools learning together and having fun and not a Mormon except me in the bunch. Excitement began to mount as the pageant drew near. Our interviews were scheduled the afternoon of the pageant.
Finally, it was my turn, and I nervously walked up the long flight of stairs to the room where the five judges awaited. At first they just visited with me. Then an older, quiet man began asking questions about my religion—tough questions. It took me back for a moment. Then I got hold of myself and answered the best way I knew how. The words flowed freely, and I felt as if my eyes were relaying the message as well as my words. I knew I received lots of extra help from above that day. What I said must have satisfied the judges because that night number 10 was crowned Capitol City’s Junior Miss—I was number 10!
As friends and mom and dad crowded around and hugged me, my mind reflected back to the hateful feelings I had felt at first after reading “the call.” Now in my heart I thanked Heavenly Father for giving me the chance. I felt so happy—happy for wonderful friends who accepted me with all kinds of southern hospitality and for friends at home who kept reassuring and encouraging me with their love. I was happy for a wonderful family like my sisters who received calls from a bawling baby sister and always ended up making her laugh. Most of all I was happy for a dad and mom who stood by through it all and guided me with all their love.
What happened to that year I was so afraid of? I shudder to think of missing my year at Prep. There was, however, a constant concern in my heart. What more can I do to let everyone know that the Church is true? A Book of Mormon with my personal testimony written in the front to each of my teachers helped satisfy that unrest. Each one promised to read that precious book.
I am now so thankful that I listened to my wonderful family and accepted the challenge of the mission field. It means so much to me to have become a part of my dad’s special calling. I grew up a lot and learned many important lessons through my experiences in Mississippi. Things that make us grow never are easy, and now when I look back, I can’t really remember the rough times. I only remember the great ones.
All the friendships I made in Mississippi continue to grow sweeter as time passes, and maybe someday some of the seeds planted there will flourish. I guess most of all I learned how to totally rely on my Heavenly Father. This lesson will stay with me not only for today but forever.

After dinner, Dad called everyone together for family home evening. “Tonight,” he said, “we’re going to learn about one of our early pioneers—Jesse Nathaniel Smith.” He opened a small red book and showed them a photo of a white-haired man with a big, bushy beard, a long nose, big ears, and thoughtful eyes.
“Who is he, Dad?” Jay asked.
“Jesse N. Smith was a young cousin of the Prophet Joseph Smith. His father, Silas, was a younger brother of Joseph Smith, Sr., the Prophet’s father.”
“Wow!” Jay exclaimed. “I didn’t know that the Prophet Joseph Smith had any cousins in the Church.”
Dad smiled. “The Smith family is a big, wonderful family, Jay. Jesse N. Smith has many descendants in the Church today, and we are some of them. He was an influential mission president in Scandinavia and an early settler in Utah and Arizona. But tonight I want to tell you something about Jesse when he was a boy.” Dad turned to Susan. “His birthday is very close to yours, Susan. He was born in New York State on December 2, 1834.”
“My birthday’s December third—we’re almost twins!”
Dad turned a few pages, and began telling about their ancestor. “Things were not easy or comfortable for Jesse and his family. He was only three years old when they had to leave Kirtland with the rest of the Saints and make the long journey to Missouri. His brother Silas was seven, and his brother John was five. They traveled for six months to reach their new home in Far West. Even before they got there, they were forced to flee from angry mobs on the trail. They had to live one winter in a crude log cabin, and they ate mostly boiled, dried corn because there was no mill to grind the corn into meal. Life was so hard that John died before the winter was over.”
Susan looked at Jay. What would it be like if Jay or Greg died? she wondered.
“Less than a year later,” Dad continued, “the family was in Illinois. There was a lot of illness, and Jesse’s father died in September.”
“Oh no!” Susan jumped up to snuggle beside her dad. “What did they do?”
“They moved to Nauvoo, and the Prophet Joseph and Hyrum helped for a while. When they were killed, Jesse and his family moved across the river to live near his Uncle John Smith in a settlement called Zarahemla. Uncle John helped them, but they had to earn a living for themselves.”
“You mean Jesse had to go to work when he was a little boy?” Susan asked.
“That’s right. When he was ten, he went to work for a farmer who wasn’t very nice to him. He had to live on a farm away from his mother and brother. Every morning he had to get up very early and go a quarter of a mile to get all the water for the day from a well. He worked the rest of the day in the fields. Then he had to bring home the cows. He said, ‘This was the most lonesome and tedious part of my service, as I was sometimes gone in the woods until after dark.’”
“When did he rest?” Susan asked.
“Only on Sundays, when he was allowed to visit his mother.” Dad looked down at the page. “Sometimes Jesse had special chores. He said, ‘On washing days, I carried water the whole day.’ What do you think it was like to carry water all day, a quarter of a mile each trip?”
“Pretty hard,” Jay said. “But I bet I could do it.”
“Not me,” Susan grumbled. “I’d just sit down and not go at all.”
“Well,” Dad said. “Maybe you’re strong enough for one trip. Let’s find out. Everybody come outside with me.”
“So,” Dad said when they were all inside and Mom was passing out cupcakes for a treat. “How was that?”
“It was awful!” Susan admitted. “And I think it was awful that Jesse had to do it every day. Why did he have to work so hard? It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Well, they needed money, Susan. But I think working was good for him, too. Hauling all that water made his arms grow strong,” Dad said. “And some things soon happened to him that made that a very good thing.” Dad opened the journal again. “He wrote, ‘During the summer of 1845, I took a job of hoeing corn, thus earning the first pair of boots I ever owned.’ Your arms have to be strong to hoe all day long. Then, not long after that, Jesse and his family went west with Uncle John Smith. He had two wagons, and Jesse’s mother had one of her own. Who do you think was assigned to drive one of those wagons?” Dad asked, looking at Susan.
“Jesse?”
“That’s right. Even though he was only twelve, Jesse drove a wagon with four big oxen all the way across the plains to the Salt Lake Valley. His Aunt Clarissa rode with him. His arms had to be pretty strong to control the oxen, to keep them pulling that wagon day after day over rivers, through mud, up rocky mountains, and down steep canyons. He even had to hold them steady when the buffalo came thundering by. I’m sure his muscles grew even more, driving the ox teams. And that was a good thing, too.”
“Why?” It was Jay’s turn to be surprised.
“His work wasn’t over just because he had arrived in the valley. He wrote, ‘I herded the cows the whole [first] winter through for Uncle John and … a few others. I was exceedingly hungry, [being] at an age when my appetite was very keen; but there was no help for it. We voluntarily put ourselves on rations; we had about half a pound of flour per day for each person, without any vegetables, and but little meat; sometimes no meat. For months my desire for food was not satisfied.’”
“I can’t imagine working all day when you’re so hungry,” Jay said.
“And herding wasn’t all he had to do, either.” Dad continued reading: “‘As the Spring approached, preparations were made for farming and gardening. I drove the team to break the land for [two neighbor men] and [for] my brother and myself a patch of ground. … We planted considerable corn, … also … beans and peas and some few other vegetables … and an acre of wheat.’ Then,” Dad said, looking up, “he had to tend all those crops—weeding, irrigating, and harvesting them. It was hard because he was inexperienced. He said, ‘Our wheat did poorly, not having sufficient water. As we were unused to irrigating, we did not apply the water properly. We had to pull the most of it, as it was too short to cut—’”

When our children were young, we moved into a small house with a beautiful yard. On either side of the front door were two empty flowerbeds, and though my gardening experience was limited, I was excited to plant flowers there. I bought a gardening book and ordered plant and seed catalogs and studied them carefully.
Over the next few months I planned my garden, prepared the soil, and planted more than 200 bulbs. I knew it would be a few more months before I would see any results, but still I checked the garden often for growth. In early spring my flowers started to bloom, beginning with tiny purple irises and then daffodils. By the middle of spring my flower boxes were filled with a splendid display of tulips. I loved my garden, and I often sat on the front steps just to look at the flowers.
One afternoon our four-year-old daughter, Emily, had a friend over to play. Just before her friend’s mother came to pick her up, the girls struggled in through the kitchen door, their arms filled with heaps of tulips. “Look what we’ve brought you,” they said happily. They had picked nearly every bloom.
Tulips bloom only once a year. I was heartbroken—all that work, all that waiting. We filled my vases with flowers and sent the rest home with Emily’s friend. Later, as I complained to my mother about the disaster, she said, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re raising children and not flowers.”
I realized that I needed to change my perspective. I remembered the Primary song I had sung with my girls about gathering flowers:
Dear mother, all flowers remind me of you.
O mother, I give you my love with each flower.1
I saw the ruin of my garden, but two four-year-old girls saw a gesture of love.
Planting a flower garden had required patience, and stepping back and looking at this incident through my child’s eyes required even more patience. But learning patience as a mother draws me closer to the Lord.

Linahei not only uses her voice for music and prayer, but she also speaks up about helping family members on the other side of the veil.

“I had a dream one night where I saw hundreds of people, but none of them could communicate with each other,” she says. “I thought I recognized them, but I wasn’t sure.”

Linahei didn’t know what to make of the dream at first. Then she had an exciting thought: “Before the COVID-19 lockdown, I had performed over 100 baptisms for my ancestors—these people in my dream could represent those family members!”

Feeling more excited about family history than ever, Linahei did all she could to help move those names along in the temple to receive their additional ordinances. Soon after, Linahei and her mom were called as family history consultants in their ward.

“We helped a woman in our ward access her FamilySearch account. When she saw her family tree, she was so happy—it was the first time she had seen all of her ancestors!”

“I used to feel nervous going up to people in my ward,” Linahei admits. “But now that I have my mom with me, I feel more confidence teaching people about family history.”

Now Linahei looks forward to helping people learn about their ancestors. “I love seeing how happy people are when they do their family history. And I think our ancestors are happy that we’re interested in them and in performing their ordinances.”

In her calling as a family history consultant, she recently organized an activity for her ward’s young women. Not only did she help them find family names to take to the temple, but she also helped Primary children set up accounts so that they can participate.

“We are going to the temple soon,” she says.

“I like the joy that comes when you do family history.”

Want to be as cool as Linahei? Don’t worry, it’s definitely possible. “Young people can advance the errand of God by using technology,” Linahei says. “Anything that helps us think of our ancestors is wonderful. I know doing family history will bring everyone more joy in their lives. Family history has brought me closer to my ancestors and to Christ at the same time.”

With all the work she’s doing for her ancestors, one thing’s for sure: Linahei’s family is definitely not just history!

It all started when my sister Grace and I were spending the day with Uncle Harry and Aunt Jane on their farm. Aunt Jane was a terrific cook, and I always looked forward to eating my fill of her good cooking.
My sister and I would do small chores around the place, and on that particular day we were helping Aunt Jane clean out the turkey coop. She and Uncle Harry usually raised about sixty turkeys each year for the market.
I was only five, and Grace seven, so we naturally had a lot of questions about how turkeys were raised. Aunt Jane was patient with our questions, and she showed us a turkey egg and explained that the mother turkey sat on the eggs for about twenty-five days before the baby turkeys hatched.
When we got ready to go home that evening, with full stomachs and smiling faces, Aunt Jane gave us two turkey eggs. She told us that if we put them under a setting hen, we would soon have two little turkeys of our own to raise.
Papa put the eggs under an old setting hen when we got home, and we sat back, hoping that the baby turkeys would soon appear. Twenty-five days seemed like a lifetime to us, and every morning we’d lift the old hen to see if our baby turkeys were there. By the end of three weeks we were sure that the eggs had gotten cold and weren’t going to hatch.
On the morning of the twenty-sixth day, as we entered the chicken coop, the old mother hen was down on the floor, scratching in the straw. Right behind her were two balls of fluff, chirping and looking bewildered! As the days passed and the young birds lost their fuzz and started sprouting feathers, I noticed the mother hen looking at them quizzically, as if to say, “I never had any babies that looked like you two before.”
The baby turkeys were hatched in mid-April, and by the end of May, you could tell that one was a tom and the other a hen. We named them Tom and Alice.
We had an old doghouse that wasn’t being used, so Grace and I cleaned it out, placed fresh straw on the floor, and moved the old hen and two poults into it. Tom grew rapidly, but Alice hardly grew at all. Papa told us that turkeys were hard to raise and caught many diseases and that they were the dumbest birds there were. He’d heard it said that sometimes they’d tip their heads back in a rainstorm, open their mouths, and drown themselves. I don’t know if that’s what happened to Alice or not, but one morning after a hard rain we found her dead in the mud.
When Tom was about three months old, he chased the old hen out of the doghouse and took it over for himself. He wouldn’t associate with our flock of chickens, but went off by himself to feed. He liked to ramble in the woods and scratch around the rotted logs for grubs. There were still some chestnuts that the blight had missed that year, and Tom ate his fill of them. He grew into a magnificent bird with a long wattle, and he strutted around importantly.
Papa kept telling us that we would have Tom for Thanksgiving dinner, but we never fully realized just what he meant until the first of November, when Mom told Papa to pen Tom up and feed him nothing but corn so that he’d be nice and plump for butchering the day before Thanksgiving. This really upset my sister and me, and we went around with long sad faces, thinking of Tom’s fate. Papa explained to us that turkeys were raised for people to eat and that next year we would raise a whole bunch of them. But this explanation didn’t make us feel any better.
One sunny afternoon Grace and I sat under Tom’s favorite chestnut tree, making plans on how to save Tom from the dinner table. Suddenly Grace snapped her fingers and said, “What if Tom wasn’t here the day before Thanksgiving?”
I said, “What do you mean?”
Grace replied, “You know that small cave back in the woods that we play in? Why don’t we hide Tom there till after Thanksgiving?”
So that’s what we did. We prepared for Tom’s abduction by rolling up a piece of chicken wire to put over the mouth of the cave and filling a sack with corn for Tom’s feed. There was a small stream of water running through the cave, so we didn’t have to worry about him getting thirsty. Late the next afternoon, when Tom was feeding in the woods, we herded him to the cave.
We put an ample supply of corn and some chestnuts in the cave with Tom, then secured the chicken wire across the front and piled brush over it so that anyone passing by would have a hard time even seeing the cave. Nobody missed Tom till the next evening, when Mom asked if anybody had seen him. Finally she and Papa came to the conclusion that Tom must have wandered too far into the woods and that a fox probably got him.
Every day after that, Grace and I would tell Mom that we were going out to look for Tom; then we’d head for the cave to feed him and talk to him and pet him for a while.
A couple days before Thanksgiving there was a big snowstorm, and Grace and I worried about how Tom would manage without us feeding him each day. The storm continued, and it was cold and windy into December. On the first warm day, Grace and I hurried to the cave with some corn for Tom. When we got there, we discovered that the brush had blown away, the chicken wire had been pushed aside, and Tom was missing.
I started to cry. “A mean old fox has found Tom and eaten him.”
Grace said, “No, he broke out himself. See how the wire is pushed out from the inside?”
We decided that Tom had become so hungry that he went hunting for food and had probably joined a flock of wild turkeys and was all right. When we returned to the house, Mom told us to wash up for dinner. When we told her that we weren’t hungry, she said, “All right, kids, what’s troubling you so much that you don’t want to eat?”
Tears started running down our faces, and we told her the whole story.
Papa laughed and was proud of our ingenuity. He tried to ease our minds by agreeing with us that Tom had, indeed, probably joined a flock of wild turkeys and would probably make it through the winter.
The cold winter months passed, and we had all but forgotten Tom. Then one day in early April, when everything had turned green once more, Mom was in the yard getting her flower beds ready to plant. As she straightened up to rest her back, she looked out toward the woods. “Come quick!” she called.
We all ran outside and looked where Mom was pointing. There was Tom! And with him was a fine-looking wild turkey hen. You could tell that Tom had taken her for his bride by the way he was strutting around her and displaying his fan-shaped tail feathers.
Grace and I yelled, “Tom! Tom! You’ve come home!”
Tom looked at us, then put his head next to the hen as if he was telling her to follow him and let him do the talking. With the hen behind him, Tom headed straight for his old home in the doghouse. The hen waited outside while Tom went in and scratched out all the old, wet straw. Grace and I quickly ran to the barn and brought back fresh straw for the honeymoon cottage. After we’d spread the straw in the doghouse, Tom stepped aside to let his bride enter first.
To make a long story short, Tom and his mate raised twelve young turkeys that year, and dozens more in the next five years.
One day when Tom didn’t come back from the woods, we went looking for him. We found him dead under his favorite chestnut tree. He had died of old age. Grace and I buried him by the side of the cave where we had hidden him so long before.

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.
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.
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.

Our children’s great-grandfather J. Leo Seely received a mission call in 1914 to the British Mission and served the Lord in Ireland. He left his wife and little children for two years. The depth of his sacrifice has become clear to us as we read their letters. Because of the power of this man’s example and that of his noble wife, his son served a mission, and over 50 of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren have gone forth to serve the Lord in missions that cover the world.

A friend of mine told me recently of his family vacation this past summer. A long distance was being driven, and the children, who ranged from preschoolers to high school age, grew restless. The parents had wisely taken along the scriptures, and when these restless times came, family members read chapters and then everyone talked about what had been read. The teenagers who did most of the reading quit teasing the little ones, and the little ones seemed very interested in what the older ones had to say. This family read a sizable part of the New Testament while traveling on their vacation.

The biggest question on Luke’s mind has been about what to decide regarding his mission. Like so many others in his situation, Luke has to choose whether to defer his mission call for a year or more, or wait and see if he can go as soon as possible with the original date.
Nothing is certain yet.
For Luke, direction came after watching general conference. “President Nelson and the other leaders were so optimistic,” Luke said. “It makes me optimistic too. So, at least for now, I’m going to plan on serving during my normal time.”
Luke knows that nothing is certain where COVID-19 is concerned. Even so, he’s absolutely certain about something else. “God is at the wheel,” Luke says. “He isn’t going to let us fail.”

Consider this example of the blessings that flow from giving of yourself. I know of a young man who came to BYU after having skipped his senior year at high school. He was younger than usual. You can understand why his parents were concerned. In the dorm there were returned missionaries and young men who had resolved to go on missions. They spent the early hours of the morning and late hours of the evening talking together, reviewing the teachings of the Savior, singing hymns. They served one in need. His life will never be the same nor will ours, for he is our missionary son.

After World War II, our prophet President George Albert Smith, had a goal. He wanted to send food, clothing and bedding to the war-torn Latter-day Saints in Europe. He also had a plan on how to get those supplies to their destination. He went to Washington D.C. and met with Harry S. Truman, President of the United States, and asked if the U.S. Government would provide railroad cars to transport the supplies. As a result, The Church was able to ship 133 railroad cars of food, clothing, and bedding to our brothers and sisters in Europe.

When they talked to their parents about going on missions, the two young men expected sterner opposition. Perhaps the elder Moreiras did not withhold their permission because they were grateful for the Church’s influence on their sons. Nevertheless, the parents—particularly Tino and Quim’s mother—resisted the idea of changing religions themselves.
But the influence of the gospel continued to work in the lives of Quim and Tino’s family. Shortly after Tino entered the mission field, their father was ready for baptism. Tino, who was working nearby, had the privilege of baptizing him. Their mother declined at first even to read her sons’ letters from the mission field. Quim sent one letter home, however, with a special prayer that she would read it and be touched. His prayer was answered, and it was not long until she was baptized by her husband.

I first met Luan in February 2001 at a Young Men camp in Recife, Brazil. In Brazil, it was the time of carnival—a holiday that has become four days of unruly partying. During carnival, stakes often hold youth conferences and camps to give Latter-day Saint youth a fun and wholesome alternative. In my assignment as president of the Brazil North Area, I was visiting one such Young Men camp in the Recife Brazil Boa Viagem Stake.
When I first saw Luan, I noticed he was quite thin and did not have even a single hair on his head. I also noticed that he had many friends. And I learned that he had just turned 12 and was going to be ordained a deacon during the camp.
I also learned Luan had bone cancer in his left leg. In fact, just before camp, he had learned the cancer was progressing so rapidly that his leg needed to be amputated immediately. But because Luan wanted so badly to receive the Aaronic Priesthood at camp and to play soccer with his friends one last time, his doctor had agreed to postpone the surgery for a week.
Now, surrounded by his brothers in the Church, Luan beamed with happiness. After his priesthood ordination on Sunday, Luan bore a beautiful testimony about his faith in the gospel and his gratitude for the Savior’s love.

All my life I had been taught that the Church was true. When I decided to gain a testimony of my own, I thought I needed to approach things from a different angle than my teachers and friends did. So I asked: What if the gospel is not true? What if my well-meaning friends and parents have been misled? What if the Book of Mormon is a work of fiction? What if there is no living prophet today and families aren’t forever?
As such questions filled my mind, darkness clouded my thoughts. I felt as if doors were closing inside me, and for an entire day I wandered around in a depressed stupor of thought, thinking and acting unkindly toward others.
The next morning I realized I was getting nowhere. Then I remembered a seminary lesson I’d had on prayer. I knew that in Doctrine and Covenants 9:7–9 [D&C 9:7–9] there were some guidelines on getting answers. As I read these verses, I could see that I had asked the wrong questions. When I studied my questions out in my mind and in my heart, I sincerely believed the things I had been taught were true. So I prayed again, this time asking if my beliefs were right: Was I really a child of God? Was there a celestial kingdom? Was the priesthood the power of God?
Light replaced darkness. The Spirit confirmed that my belief was not in vain. I felt as if doors were being flung open, and I could see things more clearly.
I gained a desire to serve and to share my testimony. The Lord had heard and answered my sincere prayer. Now I know for myself that what I had believed all along was really true.