Gospel Story Finder

Jed, who is 13, hasn’t started seminary yet, but the example of his older brothers and sister has inspired him to read the Book of Mormon each morning before school with his mother. They read one chapter a day, and they have already read through the book three times. Because of this experience, Jed is sure he’ll have no trouble getting up for seminary when the time comes. As the youngest of this clan he has probably benefited the most from the 3F formula because it was well established by the time he came along. “I think all of these big brothers are great—I get to wear all of their old clothes!” he laughs. You don’t have to ask Jed twice if he thinks the 3F formula works. He has learned its power through example, and it’s not a lesson he’s likely to forget.

After graduating from BYU I entered graduate school to study neuroscience. The first few years of graduate school were difficult. I worked very hard in the research lab but had little to show for it. Results of lab experiments were inconsistent and progress was slow. Because graduating was dependent on research productivity, I was worried that I might never graduate. What was even more discouraging was the job outlook at the time. Getting a job in my field was highly competitive, and many graduating PhDs couldn’t find jobs.

A few years into my graduate program I attended an international scientific conference in San Francisco. Several thousand cell biologists had gathered to share their research results and methods. I hoped to network with these scientists and gather ideas and techniques to help me in my own research.

One evening, after a long day at the conference, my wife and I were relaxing in an open area of our hotel. To my surprise, seated a few feet away was one of my favorite BYU professors. Several years previously I had taken two classes from him. I loved this particular professor not only because he had been an excellent teacher of microbiology but because I had felt the Spirit strongly in his classes. There in the hotel I reached out to him, not expecting him to remember or recognize me.

Also to my surprise, he not only recognized me but knew exactly which seat I had sat in when I had been his student. I had always sat in the very back corner of the classroom. After introducing my wife and updating him about our family, I began to share my concerns about the slow progress of my research and the nonexistent job market. With great anxiety in my voice, I asked him for advice.

He looked at me straight in the eyes and said, “Mike, the best way to prepare for your future is to live by your covenants.”

As he said those words I experienced a great moment of clarity. He was right! The best way to prepare for my future was to live by my covenants. Daphne and I had a great feeling of peace. We were living our covenants. We were striving to be obedient in every way we knew how. We were trying our best to be a loving husband or wife. We were striving to be the best parents we could be to our four young children. We were serving diligently in our church callings. We were keeping the commandments, attending the temple, and living the gospel. We knew we could count on the Lord’s blessings.

Since that enlightening day in San Francisco, I have often reflected on my BYU professor’s counsel. My journal is filled with experiences and blessings that are directly linked to my wife’s and my obedience to the covenants we have made with the Lord.

An example of such service was the missionary experience of Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, who were called to fill a two-year mission in Poland. Brother Fussek was born in Poland. He spoke the language. He loved the people. Sister Fussek was English and knew little of Poland and its people.
Trusting in the Lord, they embarked on their assignment. The living conditions were primitive, the work lonely, their task immense. A mission had not at that time been established in Poland. The assignment given the Fusseks was to prepare the way, that a mission could be established so that other missionaries could be called to serve, people could be taught, converts could be baptized, branches could be established, and chapels could be erected.
Did Elder and Sister Fussek despair because of the enormity of their assignment? Not for a moment. They knew their calling was from God. They prayed for His divine help, and they devoted themselves wholeheartedly to their work. They remained in Poland not two years but five years. All of the foregoing objectives were realized.
Elders Russell M. Nelson, Hans B. Ringger, and I, accompanied by Elder Fussek, met with Minister Adam Wopatka of the Polish government, and we heard him say, “Your church is welcome here. You may build your buildings; you may send your missionaries. You are welcome in Poland. This man,” pointing to Juliusz Fussek, “has served your church well. You can be grateful for his example and his work.”
Like the Fusseks, let us do what we should do in the work of the Lord. Then we can, with Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, echo the Psalm: “My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth … : he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.”

When I was 18, I asked my father to help me pay for my mission. At first he said, “No way. It’s too much money.” But a couple of days later, he asked me, “Do you really want to go on a mission?” And I said, “Yes. With all my heart.” My father said he would help me.
I didn’t understand why my father would pay such a great price for me. Then I realized it was because he loved me. It made me think of Jesus Christ’s sacrifice for us. He paid the highest price because He loves us.

To maximize our time with our children, Royden worked in the clinic during the days, and I worked night shifts in the Emergency Room. It was hard to leave my family and go work all night, but I loved the work, and the Spirit would often tell me, “I will take care of your children as you take care of mine.”
Late one night early in my ER days, I heard a loud banging on the door. A few guys were there, and one said he’d just been shot. As we stripped him down, we saw a wound in his right upper arm. I didn’t see any other wounds, so I was worried about where the bullet had ended up. X-rays showed the bullet to have gone through his arm,
chest, diaphragm, and into his abdomen. He was quickly having difficulty breathing as his lungs were filling with blood.
I was scared. It was just the nurse and me. I said a quick prayer asking for help. I hadn’t put a chest tube in by myself before, and thoughts were racing through my mind as to where to insert the tube and what size of tube I would need. I rushed to my desk and grabbed my Emergency Medicine textbook. It was a brand new 2,000-page book without any markings and very stiff. I put it on my lap and randomly opened it. As I looked down, I saw that I had opened the book to the exact page I needed. Not only that, but what I needed to know was highlighted, not with a marker, but with light. It was as if someone was holding a light directly over the paragraph I needed to read and what I needed to know stood out to me. I knew exactly what to do. As I did the procedure, I felt my hands being guided to quickly place the tube through the skin and deep into the chest. A large gush of blood immediately drained out, and our patient was able to breathe again. Once we stabilized him, we transferred him to the trauma center in Seattle. I knew that his life was saved by divine intervention.
A couple of years later, I started spending my free time doing family history. I found that I had many pioneer ancestors on my mom’s side. One in particular was Patty Bartlett Sessions, my great, great, great, great grandmother, who was trained as a midwife. She had been directed by Brigham Young to be in the first group of Saints to enter the Salt Lake Valley so she could care for the sick and injured and deliver babies. Everyone lovingly called her, “Dr. Patty.” She delivered over 4,000 babies and did a lot of general medical care. She was also a mother. As I learned about her, I felt a special closeness to her and had several distinct impressions that she was the one helping me in the ER.

This stone plaque with the photo and narrative of the life of Charles Callis, sits in St Audoen’s park near the centre of Dublin. Elder Callis is the only person born in the Emerald Isle to become a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in this dispensation. His service in the apostleship lasted from 1933 until his death in 1947.
The plaque tells of some of the events of his early life. The second child of John Callis and Susannah Charlotte Quilliam. At the death of his Father, and while Charles was still a small boy, his mother moved the family to Liverpool, where they became Latter-day Saints. In 1875, the family emigrated and joined the main body of the Church in Utah.
The plaque goes on to describe Charles Callis’ “distinguished professional life, practising law and serving in several political positions, including… city councilman and county attorney in Coalville, Utah.”
However, his formal working life began in the coal mines at age 16, and his later success was due to the determined course of self-education undertaken in his spare time, focusing particularly on the law.
From 1893 he served for two years in the British Mission, spending most of his time as president of the Irish Conference. In 1902 he married Grace Pack, and four years later she accompanied him when he was called to serve in the southern United States. He would serve as mission president there for twenty-five years. The Church was still very unpopular in the southern states at the time, but through his eloquence and knowledge of the law, Callis was able to win great respect for the Church in that region.
Charles Callis testified: “From my earliest recollections to the present time I have always had an abiding and intense love for my Savior. I cannot read the story of His sufferings and crucifixion without shedding tears.”
The memorial plaque in Dublin was dedicated by Elder Neal A. Maxwell in 1989.

The Young Women of the Price Ninth Ward, Price Utah Stake, prepared and hosted a valentine dance for the adults of their ward. They decorated the cultural hall and set tables with fine china borrowed from their mothers. Each couple was greeted at the door and escorted to a table. The dinner was prepared and served by the Young Women.
Following the dinner a short program and dance were held. The girls worked hard and were rewarded by many thank-yous from the ward members.

I was skeptical when the missionaries taught me about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. My first thought was that Joseph Smith, like many other so-called “prophets,” may have brought a false book into the world seeking to become wealthy, famous, or heroic.
I had no intention of reading the Book of Mormon. But over time the missionaries’ friendship and their enthusiasm for the gospel allowed my curiosity toward their message to grow.
As I read the verses the missionaries gave me in the Book of Mormon, I found Moroni’s invitation to ask God with a sincere heart, real intent, and faith in Christ if the Book of Mormon is true (see Moroni 10:4–5). I thought, “Who, knowing the book was fake, would dare challenge us to ask God with real intent and sincerity if the Book of Mormon is true?”
Then one day the missionaries explained that Joseph Smith and his brother, Hyrum, were martyred for their testimony. Suddenly, a thought came to me that they would never have given up their own lives for something they knew was false. At that moment, a warm feeling, like a burning fire, spread through me. It was a witness of the Holy Spirit confirming to my heart that Joseph Smith was a true prophet. With this witness, I was baptized and confirmed.

When I was a young man, I accompanied a Protestant friend to his church service. There I heard a minister take on the subject of sin. It was an uneven contest. That minister really beat up on sin. He condemned it. He denounced it. He castigated it. He left no doubt in the mind of anyone that he was against sin. But he didn’t give the congregation one word of definition or explanation about what it was.

Walter Spät was serving as president of the Centro Branch in downtown São Paulo, Brazil, in 1954, when the branch members held a bazaar to raise funds for the ward budget. The party included prizes—fine objects, beautiful paintings, and framed tiles decorated with scriptural quotations. “Hadn’t it been extravagant,” wondered some of the members, “to buy so many expensive and elaborate gifts for a fund-raiser?” They learned later that President Spät had created the gifts himself, using a minimum of expenses and a great deal of effort and goodwill.

Recently I had an experience that made me reflect on that understanding again. My companion and I had been working nonstop the entire day. We had just finished teaching a new investigator and started making our way back home. Along the way, a group of kids came over to talk to us. They gathered around my companion as he began doing some tricks for them while I stood back and watched. Then I noticed a young boy not watching but staring at me. He walked up to me and looked at my name tag. He took his pointer finger and dragged it along each word. He mumbled until he got to one part: “Jesus Christ!” His jaw dropped and he slowly looked up at me.
I can’t describe how I felt at that moment. I looked into the eyes of this young boy and thought to myself, “Was I representing Jesus Christ well?” I felt I had been. How grateful I am that I could stand there and say I had been doing my best to show others the light of Christ.
This experience has stuck with me throughout my mission, and every day I try my hardest to remember who I represent. I know that as members of the Church, we must strive in our everyday lives to represent Jesus Christ. I think King Benjamin said it best in Mosiah 5:8: “There is no other name given whereby salvation cometh; therefore, I would that ye should take upon you the name of Christ.”

On the day of their baptisms, the Shavekos received wonderful news. A member in Kiev told them that while serving as a missionary three years earlier in St. Petersburg, Russia, she had taught the gospel to a Ukrainian family—a single mother named Alla Kurnosova and her young son, Vitaliy. They had joined the Church and returned to live in Chernigov, where Alla works as a tailor.
During the three years since Alla Kurnosova’s baptism, she had corresponded with missionaries she had known in St. Petersburg. “Through letters, they gave me hope and strength,” Alla says. She and 13-year-old Vitaliy had continued studying the scriptures. “It seems Vitaliy knows even more than I do,” says Alla. “He teaches me all the time.” Both prayed that the Church would come to Chernigov.
Their prayers and patience were finally rewarded. Alla and Vitaliy became close friends with the Shavekos. The two families took turns hosting the twice-a-month Sunday meetings with the missionaries. Nikolay and Vitaliy were assigned as home teaching companions and visited both families together.

Ever since I had served my mission in the England London Mission, I wanted to return to live and work there. Having recently finished a master’s degree, I decided it might be the right time for me to move to London. I secured a job and was feeling positive about the move.
One night, however, I prayed to determine the Lord’s will and whether it was right for me to move to London. While I was trying to fall asleep, a thought kept running through my head: “You need to stay in Cape Town.” This thought recurred for several hours. Finally I concluded that God wanted me in Cape Town. So, although I wanted to move, I decided to stay. Immediately afterward I fell asleep.
The next day I began to rationalize what had happened the previous night and continued to wonder if I should go to London, after all. But that night the experience from the previous night was repeated. The thought “You need to stay in Cape Town” played over and over in my mind. As I pondered these thoughts, I became convinced that the Lord really did want me to stay in Cape Town, and I wanted to do what the Lord wanted me to do.
The following week my stake president called and asked me to meet with him. Immediately I knew that the Lord had a calling in mind for me. The Spirit testified that the reason I needed to stay in Cape Town was that the Lord had a work for me to do.
I accepted the calling as the stake Young Women president, and while serving over the next few years, I was able to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands. As a result, my life and the lives of the people I served were blessed. I grew in leadership abilities, and the Lord taught me many things through my service to others.
Since that time I have come to develop greater trust in the Lord. How grateful I am for the quiet promptings of the Spirit that guide me in knowing and doing His will. By doubting less and being willing to follow the inspiration I receive, I am led to experience great joy and peace, knowing that my Heavenly Father is pleased with my life.

Sometimes when President Faust would play football, he wouldn’t button the chin strap on his helmet, so it didn’t always stay on his head. “One time when my helmet came off,” he said, “I got hit so hard that I was knocked unconscious. I was terribly embarrassed when I came to and saw my teammates looking down at me. From that I learned that we always need to keep our physical and spiritual protectors in place. Our spiritual protectors include our obedience to the commandments of God and to the counsel and direction of our parents.”3

It’s been a long time since then but I can still remember the details of the shearing pens, the strong smell of the sheep and the sweating men, the steady soft rhythm of the machines, the men constantly moving, bent over the animals, the wool rolling off in great folds.
There was usually one boy tying fleeces for every three or four men, but I worked only with my father. I was young but my father was also fast, shearing over 200 sheep on his best days.
There was usually a contest, the men chipping in a quarter and the rancher putting up a five or ten dollar bonus, which my father almost always won. Two other men in this camp were also fast. One, a giant, big-boned Scot, worked right next to my father; and before the week was out it was their contest. They were both passing the other men by 20 sheep.
On the last night, after supper, the big Scotsman lit a large cigar and leaned back.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I think I’ll be taking the bonus with me, and I’ll bet you a hundred dollars on it.”
My father smiled and tipped his milk glass in a circle.
“I’ll take another glass, Mama,” he said. He turned to the Scot. “Well, I won’t bet with you, but I will beat you.” He lifted the glass of milk and drank half of it. “You’re pretty good,” he said. “But I got the edge on a man that smokes and takes a drink. You won’t last in a hard contest.”
The Scot looked at the cigar.
“We’ll see about that,” he said. “We’ll see about that.”
Cal Fredricks, the rancher, stood from his chair. “I’m upping the bonus for tomorrow.” He hesitated and rubbed his hand on his pants. He was a short, tough looking man. “To a hundred dollars, just to make things interesting.”
Word got around. “The Mormon and the big Scot are going at it.” Before it was finished there were a hundred men and women and children watching. My father would pass the Scot by one and two sheep, only to have the Scot pass him a little later. They were tied for nearly an hour. Locked into a strange mirrored cadence, hands rose, coming down with choreographed smoothness, cutting thick folds of lanolin-rich wool.
“One hundred and fifty,” someone shouted. “One sixty.”
My arms began to ache and sweat streamed down my face, burning my eyes.
“Three hundred for the Scot.” The Scotsman had broken the cadence and moved ahead one. Then my father did what I’d seen him do before. He picked up his pace and put all his reserve energy into it. Slowly he passed the Scot.
“Three hundred and eleven,” the voice boomed over the drone of the machines and the crowd and the sheep.
When it was over my father had won by only three sheep. The two men, breathing hard and drenched with sweat, collapsed next to each other in a pile of bundled wool.
The Scotsman pulled a small handbag close to him. He took out a small box of cigars, opened it and picked one up looking at it. Raising it to his nose, he sniffed in a deep breath. Then he took the cigars into his hand and threw them out into the mud.
“Next year,” he said grinning, “I’ll give you a real run for your money.”
My father laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead with a red handkerchief. “We’ll just have to wait to see about that,” he said.

My dad insisted he was not an alcoholic. He said he only drank beer and you couldn’t be an alcoholic if you only drank beer. I believed it for a long time because I loved him. Maybe he believed it himself.
My dad would sometimes disappear for two or three days and then come home drunk.
He never just smiled and said, “I’m going to go get drunk.” He always left when he was angry.
Many things made him angry.
If I cried he would get angry.
If I asked too many questions he would get angry.
If I didn’t say the right thing he would get angry.
Sometimes I didn’t say anything for fear I would say the wrong thing. Then he would be angry because I wasn’t talking.
Usually he started drinking Friday night. Toward the end of each week I tried very hard to be good. I thought if I didn’t do anything wrong he wouldn’t get angry and go drink.
Occasionally he didn’t drink on Friday. I thought it must be because I had been good.
My mother encouraged this way of thinking.
I tried very hard to be good, but he kept on drinking. I thought it was all my fault.
I prayed he wouldn’t get drunk again. He kept drinking. I thought my Heavenly Father didn’t make him stop because I wasn’t good enough.
I remember trying to do everything perfectly. I didn’t want to “make trouble” at home. As I look back, I realize I have always tried to earn people’s acceptance. If I did things well enough, they would like me in spite of my father’s drinking.
My mom came from a very religious family. They went to church together. They did a lot of fun things together. I loved to hear her talk about when she was a child. I would pretend that I had been a child then too. It must have hurt her a lot to live with a man who got drunk.
She was ashamed of his drinking. She told me over and over not to tell anyone. “It’s a secret,” she’d say.
I loved her. I kept her secret. But it was lonely. I thought I was the only young person in the Church who had this kind of home.
What a relief it would have been for me to share the burden, to know that I was not alone.
At sacrament meeting I watched other families sit together. I watched them smile at each other. I wanted my dad to be there. I wanted our family to sit together.
But he never came to church. He said they didn’t like him because he drank beer. My ward had parties for fathers and their children. I helped plan these parties. I never got to go to them.
On Father’s Day our ward gave rosebuds to all the fathers. I helped pick every rosebud in our garden. My dad didn’t come to the meeting.
I hated it when they talked about temple marriage at church. I hated hearing my family was different. I knew as long as my father drank we could not go to the temple. I loved my mother. I loved my dad. I wanted to be with them forever. It’s very difficult to sit in class when they are teaching about the temple.
I just kept going to church. I decided I would not drink. I decided I would be married in the temple.
I’m an adult now, and I definitely don’t drink. I have been married in the temple, and I’m happy that my children are sealed to me.
I was afraid a lot.
I was afraid my dad would kill himself while driving drunk. I was afraid he’d kill someone else when he was driving drunk.
Late at night I would lie in my bed with all the lights out. I would wait and wait to hear his car pull in. I’d pray over and over, “Please help him get home safely. Please don’t let him hit anyone.”
In the morning I’d look at how the car was parked in the driveway. Sometimes it would be barely an inch from the house. Sometimes it would be over into the neighbor’s flowers.
I was afraid he’d embarrass me. He did. He’d wake up from sleeping off a drunk and not really be sober. He’d stumble out of the bedroom. He’d stink of beer. He’d say dumb things. I hated it.
My real friends still liked me. Still, it was embarrassing.
I was afraid my parents would get a divorce. Many times they would have fights when my dad drank. He had a black leather suitcase in his closet. He’d get it out and start packing his clothes. If it were daytime I’d run out of the house. One day I took my dad’s white pocketknife with me. I wanted to have something of his if he left.
Sometimes I was afraid my parents would not get a divorce. I was afraid they would keep living together and I would never have a home that was nice. I thought my mother and I could go live with my grandparents. It sounded so safe.
The movies and television show handsome men and beautiful women drinking. These people do clever and funny things.
My dad didn’t do clever things. He did disgusting things. He would wet the bed. I would have to strip off the sheets and blankets. Then it was my job to turn over that big, blue, wet mattress. I would grab hold for all I was worth. I pulled. I pushed. It would spring back at me. The wet smelly thing would be in my face.
He threw up. He threw up and then threw up some more. My bedroom was next to the bathroom. I would bury my head in my pillow. I didn’t like that sickening smell.
Sometimes my dad would walk around without clothes on when he was drunk.
He never hit me when he was drunk. But lots of people do get mean when they drink. They hit their children and abuse their families.
Now I’m an adult I can forgive him. I know now that alcoholism requires treatment. He did the best he could do without help. But I didn’t forgive him while we were living in the same house.
It was Christmas Eve. I sat by our tree. I remember the sparkling icicles and the glowing red and white lights. I was sad my dad wasn’t home. He was drinking at some bar.
It’s not the way I wanted Christmas to be.
Drinking ruined birthdays. It ruined Thanksgiving. It ruined New Year’s and Easter and other days.
Holidays were often the saddest, loneliest, most painful times of the year. On those days the contrast was sharp and bitter between how life could and should be and how it really was.
Most people do the best they can.
I believe my dad did his best. Maybe he could have done better if he had joined Alcoholics Anonymous. Perhaps a hospital for alcoholics might have helped. Maybe going to a counselor would have helped. But he didn’t get help.
Living with him was very difficult. Living with him was disgusting sometimes. Living with him was embarrassing sometimes. Living with him was sad many times.
Sometimes I was ashamed of him. Sometimes I was scared of him.
Other times I felt angry when our Mormon neighbors didn’t seem to like him. I knew he was a good person when he was sober. Why couldn’t other people see it?
One of my children asked me what I did for fun when I was a child. Initially I didn’t have an answer. Of course, I had some good times. But the strongest memories all involve alcohol.
Alcohol steals childhood. Instead of a parade of carefree days, there is premature responsibility. Instead of happiness, there is anger and fear and guilt. Instead of openness and trust there is secrecy. Often there is estrangement from the Church.
But I survived, and others can too, if we all help. I hope we will.

“For I remember the word of God which saith by their works ye shall know them; for if their works be good, then they are good also” (Moroni 7:5).
My bishop, a great friend and example to me, continually invited me to minister with him even when I was no longer attending Church. He was such an important person to me that I couldn’t refuse his invitations. We had countless wonderful experiences serving those whom we visited, and he always offered to share gospel insights with them so that I would not be uncomfortable.
He served me while also inviting me to serve others, and that made a huge difference in coming back to Christ.

After church one Sunday, I took home some pass-along cards. I had some friends at school who weren’t LDS, and I wanted to give them a card the next day. That night I started to feel nervous, so I got on my knees and said a prayer. I felt better and braver, and the next day I gave the cards to my friends. They really liked them, and I felt very happy that I gave the cards to them.
Ava M., age 8, Utah, USA

“Why did I ever listen to those Mormon missionaries, anyway?” thought Johanna Anderson, as the boat rocked wildly beneath her feet. The voyage had been a difficult one, and today was especially rough. Just about everyone she knew on board the boat was ill, and her faith began to falter as she thought, “Why must this journey be so long and hard?”
She could, at this very moment, have been home in her beloved Sweden with her caring parents. They had been converted by Latter-day Saint missionaries in the early 1800s, and it was their greatest desire to send their family to the Salt Lake Valley. When their eldest son, Neils, earned enough money for passage to America for himself and his wife, his parents decided it would be a wonderful opportunity to send fourteen-year-old Johanna with them.
Johanna remembered the care her mother had taken in packing her trunk, and the surprise package she’d hidden in the bottom of it. “Johanna,” her mother told her, “when you are far from home, when your faith in God is low, or when you most need help, open the package in the bottom o your trunk. It will cheer your spirits and give you faith to go on to Utah.”
Well, Johanna’s spirits were certainly low at this point. Not only had they suffered because of heavy storms, but the drinking water for the three-month journey had gone stale. Many passengers were terribly sick, and some had even died and been buried at sea. Perhaps now was the time to open the package her mother had sent.
She went to where the luggage was stored on board the boat and found her trunk. She opened it and felt inside for her special package. Tears formed in her eyes when she saw what it contained. It was the most beautiful red coat she had ever seen. Her mother must have spent hours making it for her. She slipped into its warm softness and did a little dance of excitement.
She hadn’t been this happy in a long time. She wanted to show her beautiful coat to all the others on the ship, but she thought again. This was her secret. This red coat was for Utah. She would wear it again when she arrived in the new land. Carefully she returned the coat to her trunk.
The knowledge of her beautiful secret gave her courage for the rest of the journey. When no one else seemed able to eat, Johanna found herself hungry. She had become a special friend of the ship’s cook, and he would prepare her the Swedish pancakes she loved. He would place the big bowl in her lap while he added the ingredients.
Finally, after three months, the ship reached America. It took another three months for the Andersons to travel to St. Louis, Missouri. There they purchased a wagon, ox teams, and supplies for the long trek across the plains.
While Neils and his wife drove the team, Johanna walked. She was young and strong and loved the wilderness, with its birds and animals. Every day she saw some new sight that surprised and excited her. Occasionally she would see friendly Indians in the distance. And always, as she walked, she would think of the secret in her trunk—the soft, beautiful red coat—and how she would wear it when she reached her new home in Utah.
But unknown to the company of pioneers she traveled with, hostile Indians had been following behind them. Johanna sensed things were not right and felt a little frightened. Finally, when evening came, the captain of the company moved the wagons together, forming a tight circle. The cattle and oxen were driven into the center, and there was no campfire, music, or dancing as there had been on other nights. The Saints were told to go to bed and stay quiet.
Johanna, exhausted from her long walk, fell into a deep sleep. But just at daybreak, she was awakened by voices and stamping horses’ hooves. Her sister-in-law motioned for her to lay quiet. Neils was not in his bed.
The voices grew louder and nearer, and Johanna noted the language was different. Her people were talking to the Indians.
She could hear men moving around in the wagon above her. Her trunk was at the end of the wagon, and she could tell it was being opened. She heard Neils talking to the Indians.
Suddenly the voices stopped, the men jumped down from the wagon, and she could hear the Indians riding away.
Neils returned and took Johanna to the front of the wagon. He said to his sister, “Johanna, stay here. Don’t look back or go to the rear of our wagon. You have faith and the Lord will take care of all of us.”
The temptation was too great for Johanna, and she turned to look at the Indians riding away, single file and bareback on their ponies. Heading the warriors was Chief Walker, yelling and screaming and riding at top speed. Around his shoulders he wore her beautiful red coat.
Neils caught his sister in his arms. “Johanna, your coat saved your life—not only yours, but the lives of all in our company. The bright red color caught the chief’s eye. When he saw your coat, he was satisfied and then left us all unharmed.”
The Andersons soon reached Salt Lake City, and Johanna eventually married James Hansen, a Danish convert. They had ten children, and her descendants still tell the story of her red coat to their children today.

I ran and ran, trying to get away from it. I ran up the hill by our house and sat down at the base of a giant tree.

The mountains were sucking down the purple and pink clouds and orange sun like pancake batter sucks down an egg. I stopped crying, finally. What was I going to do? Maybe I’d never see my mother again. For the first time I felt alone in the universe—like in the movies when they try to add something in the picture that doesn’t really belong. You can tell it’s fake because its edges are too black. I had black edges; I could feel them.

At the bottom of the hill was a little girl. I was close enough to see the dirt streaked on her face. Even the dirt couldn’t hide her big grin. She had an old car tire and was pushing it up the hill. It broke loose from her and rolled away, then fell over. She went back and picked it up, then started rolling it up the hill again. She couldn’t have been more than four or five. It made me sad to see her tire keep getting away. I was even sadder that she kept patiently picking it up again and rolling it up the hill. I wanted to shout to her: “Little girl, don’t do it, don’t try. It will just keep rolling down the hill. No matter how hard you try, that tire will roll and roll until you’re finally too tired to pick it up again. That’s the way life is.” I was so sad I almost bawled again. I buried my head in my arms. I couldn’t watch anymore.

When I finally looked up, there was a little boy, older than the girl, running down the hill. He reached her and picked up the tire. Both of them began to push. Maybe, I thought … maybe. Both kids just kept pushing that old tire up the hill. If it got away from one of them, the other would catch it before it rolled down the hill. Boy, I wanted those kids to get that tire up the hill! It was such a dumb thing, but right then it was the most important thing in the world. C’mon, kids, roll that tire! C’mon! They kept getting farther and farther up the hill. By the time they reached the top, I was crying again. It was stupid, but I was so glad.

I hadn’t seen the rest of them, but there were nine kids at the top of that hill, including the girl and boy. They all began running down the hill, rolling the tires with them.

“Roller-O! Roller-O! Roller-O!” They shouted again and again as they raced the tires down the hill. “Roller-OOOOOO!”

I closed my eyes and laughed. Maybe there was someone there to help when you needed it after all. I watched those kids for a long time as the gold streaked across the sky to meet the sun. I watched while the purple clouds turned blacker and blacker until it was dark.

“Roller-O!”

When it got dark, the kids’ mom called them in for the night. I got up and walked down the hill. There was a sliver of a yellow moon just rising in the sky. Millions of stars were beginning to shine. I walked into our garden and right there decided to kneel down. The ground was damp. I thought about those kids for a while, then about dad, then about Dan. I started bawling again. Boy, I was sorry I’d yelled at him.

“Dear Father, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I went to the show. I’m sorry I yelled at Dan and called him names. I’m sorry I do bad stuff. I wish I didn’t. Father, I’m sorry I said all that stuff. I don’t really hate you the most. I love you—the very most! I really do, and even if you don’t answer my prayer, I’ll wait, forever if I have to.” I started sobbing.

“Heavenly Father, I’m so, so sorry, but it’s hard. Please, God, it’s hard, so hard.” I cried, and the stars came out one by one to watch me.

Something changed. It was like a light that’s slant is bent, just a little different. It was like rays going through a prism: when they hit the right angle, they split into every color making a rainbow. Somehow, I couldn’t explain it. He knew it was hard, and he loved me. I breathed deep and sighed. The stars twinkled in the sky.

After a while I got up, brushed the dirt off my pants, and ran into the house, right past dad and into Dan’s room.

Dan was still sitting on the bed holding that basketball. I didn’t even know if he’d had supper.

I stood there in the doorway until he looked up. I probably looked awful to him, all swollen around the eyes and dirty besides.

Danny jumped up and ran toward me. Before I knew what was happening, we were hugging the breath out of each other. My lungs were bursting, and I was afraid I was cracking his ribs. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t have any tears left. I guess they were just all gone.

Dan sat me down on the bed. He really was good-looking. I loved his big brown eyes.

“Danny, are you glad, now, that we took that record back that one time?”

I knew it was dumb to ask him, but it was important to me.

He shook his head. “Am I glad? Yeah … I don’t know … I guess we’ll see.” He grinned. “Mauri, you know what? You are so weird sometimes.”

I was so glad, just so happy. I picked up Dan’s pillow off the bed and clobbered him; then I ran out the door with Dan right behind me. Boy, oh boy, was I in for trouble.