Gospel Story Finder

For an eight-year-old, I’ve caught lots of frogs—brown ones, green ones, striped ones, smelly ones—but never a famous one. I hit the jackpot, though, this summer when I caught “Peter Whitmer”! He didn’t start out with that famous name; he started out being “Freddie Frog.” Then someone bigger than I am said that since I’d caught him at a famous place like the Peter Whitmer farm in Fayette, New York, he ought to have a famous name too. So I named him Peter Whitmer. The real Peter Whitmer, of course, was one of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s best friends. He let Joseph Smith live on the Whitmer farm while the Prophet did some translating of the Book of Mormon.

My family (all seven of us) had parts in the Hill Cumorah Pageant, and we’d gone that day to see some of the other historic Church sites. While we were visiting the Whitmer farm, smiling for pictures and trying to understand why the old farm was important, I saw something kind of green with lots of spots on it hopping along in the sunshine. My friend Lynne had caught a frog at the Hill Cumorah, where we were staying, but this one was bigger. I watched it as it hopped and stopped, hopped and stopped. I grabbed for it fast, but it got away. Margaret, a teenage friend, was talking to me at the time and just bent over, scooped it up carefully in her big hands, and handed it to me! I could tell that he wasn’t happy, because he wiggled a lot, and I could feel his squishy stomach! Even though I like frogs, I was afraid that I was going to have to hold him in my hands all the way back to the Hill Cumorah. Yuck!

While I was wondering if I really wanted to keep him, I followed my mother inside a big white church to buy some cinnamon suckers. Lots of ladies in aprons were standing around selling punch and caramels and other homemade stuff that looked really good. And there on the floor was an empty soft-drink cup—just what I needed to put Peter in. What a lucky find! I quickly dumped him into the cup, and somebody made some holes in the lid with a pocketknife. By that time the buses were there to take us back to the Hill Cumorah.

Everyone on the bus wanted to see Peter, and I was afraid that he’d get carsick from being passed around so much. When we got to Cumorah, we asked Brother Killian, who was in charge of our food, if he had any boxes that we could put a frog in. One of his helpers found one just the right size. We put Peter in it and started making him a little “farm” like the real Peter Whitmer had. We put in rocks and grass and sticks and leaves. We put some water in the cup that we’d carried him in on the bus, then put that inside the box with a humongous stick on it for a diving board. He sat on the stick, but I didn’t ever see him jump off. We didn’t give him any food except a big leaf that probably had lots of bugs on it. We couldn’t catch any flies because they’d just fly away.

One day I showed Peter to my friend who played the part of Jesus in the pageant. His name was Brother DeLaMare, and all the kids in the pageant loved him. I showed him the frog Peter Whitmer, and he really liked him.

Well, I only kept the frog Peter Whitmer for a couple more days. One morning on the way to our devotional service, I put him in the bushes by the study shelter. I thought about him a couple of times during the devotional, but when I went back to see if he was still there, he was gone.

He had been a good little friend, and I had had a lot of fun with him. I wish that I could have taught him some tricks, but I don’t think that he was big enough. Brother DeLaMare asked me later where Peter was, and I just answered that he was probably having a froggy feast in the bushes!

In the run-up to the wedding, I took the money I’d set aside for the wedding party and allocated it to going to the temple. We made the decision to totally self-fund our trip to the temple. We set an appointment with the temple in writing, and we traveled to Kinshasa in heavy rain. I couldn’t stop excitedly telling my wife, “We’re going to the Lord’s house and fulfilling our engagement promises”.

On the day of our sealing, while we were having photos taken with the family, I received instant payment from a client who owed me. Long before going to the holy temple, I worked off my contract and applied for a new position. After we were sealed, I was invited for the job tests and interviews, but was unable to go as I had no extra savings for the return ticket.

Three days after the sealing, I received a call from my boss asking if I was willing to work on a new project in Kamako by the border with Angola. After prayer, my dear wife told me that I had to take the job. The savings I had, which did not allow for a return ticket home by plane, were enough to cover the cost of my journey by road to my new job location, without having to take the test and interview. This was made possible by the grace of the Lord. So having a job without going through interviews was one of the first blessings received from the holy temple.

A convert was ministered to by personal example. As a young man, he said he spent his days lounging at the beach. One day, he said, “I saw an attractive girl in a modest swimsuit.” Amazed, he went to ask why such an attractive girl would wear such a modest swimsuit. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and asked with a smile, “Would you like to come to church Sunday?” He said yes.

About a year after my father’s baptism, he became very ill. Early one Sunday morning, he called my mother, my brothers, my sisters, and me to his bedside. There, he looked at me and said, “My son, I hope you will serve a mission.” After saying these words, he died.

My father’s dying words impressed me so deeply that I did wear the “uniform” of a full-time missionary. I served in the Philippines Quezon City Mission.

Jane’s mother was a wonderful gardener. She could grow beautiful flowers even in a patch of rocky soil. “No matter how tired I get, working in the garden or just looking at a meadow of Maine wildflowers always perks me up,” she had once told Jane.
After Mama got sick, Jane picked flowers for her each day, filling her bedroom with forget-me-nots, daisies, lady’s slippers, and wildflowers of all the colors of the rainbow.
But then autumn came, and there were no more flowers.
“The frost killed the last flowers,” Jane whispered one day as she brought a handful of bright orange and red maple leaves to cheer her mother.
Mama took her hand. “When spring comes, Jane, remember to look at the flowers for me.”
Jane thought that the long Maine winter would never end. The house seemed so cold without Mama. Little Rose and Isaac had been sent away to Aunt Ellen’s. Father was grave and silent.
One day her father said, “Aunt Ellen has found a cousin of your mother’s who can come and keep house for us this spring. If she does, then Rose and Isaac can come home.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kate. Cousin Kate.”
Cousin Kate didn’t look much older than a girl. She was plump and wore her dark red hair in braids piled on top of her head. Rose and Isaac came home. They missed Mama, and so did Jane. But Cousin Kate cuddled Rose and Isaac and made them laugh. Even Papa smiled a little at her funny ways. But Jane still could not laugh.
Finally the beauty of spring touched the world. Mama’s daffodils came up; then the forsythia bushes burst out in bright yellow. There were new leaf buds on the trees. One night Jane caught the sweet scent of lilacs from the bush under her window.
But Jane only wanted to scream and yell at the flowers. How could they be here when Mama was gone?
One morning Kate said, “Jane, we must set about spring cleaning.”
Kate and Jane began a whirlwind of turning over mattresses and shaking out rugs. After the whole house had been cleaned, Kate said, “We haven’t touched your mother’s dresses. Come and help me go through them.”
Reluctantly Jane followed Cousin Kate into her parents’ room. Mama’s dresses still hung in the closet.
“We’ll put some of these dresses aside for you, Jane. Then you’ll have something of hers to wear when you’re grown.”
Kate began to sort through Mama’s dresses. Jane sat on the floor, holding a familiar red wool dress her mother had worn often to church. She felt the tears run down her cheeks and turned toward the window so that Kate wouldn’t see them.
Outside, Papa was just visible near the barn, and Rose and Isaac were playing near the garden. Kate had worked hard in the garden, and it was blooming with the promise of all kinds of flowers and vegetables.
Jane looked down at the dress in her hands. She didn’t want to give it—or any of them—away. They would help her remember Mama during the long, cold winters when there were no flowers. Suddenly she had an idea. “Remember to look at the flowers,” Mama had said. Jane turned to her cousin and said softly, “Kate, could I have one of my mother’s dresses now, before I’m grown?”
Kate stopped and looked at Jane. “These dresses bring her back, do they?”
Jane nodded. “I want to make something to remember her by. I could make a quilt, but I’m not very good at quilting.”
“Did your mama teach you how to make rugs? She made some beautiful ones herself, with appliqué and embroidery.”
“Oh yes! Mama did teach me! I remember she said that if you knew how to make a rug, you could make any house into a home.”
“Well, let’s see,” said Kate, nodding her head. “The red dress you have there would be perfect. Here’s a black wool one too.” She smiled at Jane.
She understands how I feel, thought Jane.
The rug would be made from wool, so it would last. Jane began to plan its design—it must have lots of flowers!
Jane worked on the rug each summer evening. It was big—almost four feet wide and six feet long—perfect for in front of a fireplace or in the kitchen.
She filled the center of the rug with pictures of everything around her that summer: trees, their old cow, birds sitting on their nests in the apple orchard, her father riding his horse to town. She even put in their house, with its two large windows downstairs, four windows upstairs, and two big chimneys. She embroidered a beautiful starflower, and a dozen lovely hearts. In the very center she copied her mother’s favorite vase filled with a bright bouquet.
“You don’t have any more room in the center,” Kate laughed one evening. “Now what will you do for the borders?”
“Vines and more flowers,” Jane said.
“That’s quite a project for an eleven-year-old,” her father observed. “I don’t recall ever seeing anything like it in the whole of Maine.”
“Oh, Papa!”
“Well, in Wiscasset, anyway. It’s sure to win a prize at the Harvest Fair,” he said.
“Jane has put a lot of love and memories into the rug, and it shows,” Cousin Kate agreed.
Jane cut out over one hundred flowers to appliqué around the border. She used her mother’s brightest clothes. She embroidered curving leaves, vines, and flowers trailing up and down the sides of the rug. Each night when she went to bed, she had to shake her hand because her fingers were so tired and sore from holding the needle. But each morning she looked around her more eagerly, wanting to capture the beauty her mother had taught her to see.
Finally it was done. Cousin Kate helped her press it with a warm iron the night before the Harvest Fair.
They took the wagon to the center of Wiscasset to the big churchyard. Quilts and rugs and samplers of all kinds were already displayed.
Jane hesitated.
“Come,” said Cousin Kate, taking her arm. “Let’s enter it.”
“What have we here?” Mrs. Kingsbury asked.
“A rug made by Jane Gove, age eleven,” said Kate proudly, while Jane stood shyly to one side.
In the morning sunlight the bright cloth and the colored threads shone and sparkled on the black wool.
“Why it’s almost like being in a garden! You’re Mary Gove’s oldest, aren’t you? Your mother would be proud!” Mrs. Kingsbury exclaimed.
As they walked around the churchyard, looking at jams and jellies and animals and pumpkins, it was almost like being a family again. Cousin Kate couldn’t ever take Mama’s place, but Jane was glad that she had come to live with them. It was good to see Isaac and Rose laughing again. And Papa seemed to walk with a lighter step. But we haven’t forgotten Mama. She is still in our hearts.
After supper, the winners were announced. After seeing the display of needlework, Jane didn’t really think her rug would win. But suddenly she heard her name!
“For the 1845 Wiscasset Harvest Fair, first prize for needlework, the winner is Miss Jane Gove. This young lady is only eleven years old, but she has created one of the most extraordinary pieces of needlework our judges have ever seen!”
Although Jane grew up and made other rugs for her own family, she always kept this special rug. It stayed in her family for a long time, and finally someone decided that it should be seen by other people as well. It is now recognized as a masterpiece of American folk art and is displayed in the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County, California.
As long as she lived, Jane kept the joyful memory of her mother in her heart. And she never forgot to smile each spring when the flowers came back to the gardens and meadows.

“I used to spend a lot of time with my friends,” says Orlando Irizarry, a cabinetmaker in Cabo Rojo, “but I felt something was missing from my life. I wondered what my wife, Irma, and I could give our three daughters that would be of lasting value. I began to pray about these feelings, and so when the missionaries came to our home, I felt as if I had been waiting for them and their message. Now the gospel brings joy into our lives, and my daughters have that which matters most.”

When I was young, falling and getting up seemed to be one and the same motion. Over the years, however, I have come to the unsettling conclusion that the laws of physics have changed—and not to my advantage.
Not long ago I was skiing with my 12-year-old grandson. We were enjoying our time together when I hit an icy spot and ended up making a glorious crash landing on a steep slope.
I tried every trick to stand up, but I couldn’t—I had fallen, and I couldn’t get up.
I felt fine physically, but my ego was a bit bruised. So I made sure that my helmet and goggles were in place, since I much preferred that other skiers not recognize me. I could imagine myself sitting there helplessly as they skied by elegantly, shouting a cheery, “Hello, Brother Uchtdorf!”
I began to wonder what it would take to rescue me. That was when my grandson came to my side. I told him what had happened, but he didn’t seem very interested in my explanations of why I couldn’t get up. He looked me in the eyes, reached out, took my hand, and in a firm tone said, “Opa, you can do it now!”
Instantly, I stood.
I am still shaking my head over this. What had seemed impossible only a moment before immediately became a reality because a 12-year-old boy reached out to me and said, “You can do it now!” To me, it was an infusion of confidence, enthusiasm, and strength.
Brethren, there may be times in our lives when rising up and continuing on may seem beyond our own ability. That day on a snow-covered slope, I learned something. Even when we think we cannot rise up, there is still hope. And sometimes we just need someone to look us in the eyes, take our hand, and say, “You can do it now!”

Once I had my family history computer disk in my hands, I realized that the most important part of the work was still missing. I needed to go to the temple and provide my family beyond the veil with the ordinances that would enable them to be saved and join my family’s generations for eternity.
I was able to go to the temple when I went on my mission to Cochabamba, Bolivia. I began preaching the gospel in October 2000. A few months later my companion and I visited the temple with the youth from the ward where we were serving. I took my disk and was able to provide 599 names for ordinance work.
While I served as witness, my companion baptized the young people on behalf of my ancestors. What great joy I felt. The Spirit was with me, testifying of the truthfulness of what we were doing. I could feel my ancestors’ happiness and gratitude.
But there were other ordinances that still needed to be done. Because there were so many names, I turned them over to the temple. But I kept the names of my great-grandparents and their children, and later that month my companion and I, with the help of other missionaries, performed the work for them.
I am grateful to my Heavenly Father because, although I was far from my country and perhaps thought that I would baptize only the living, I was also able to participate in the work of redeeming the dead.

President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008), writing about the association said, ”The British Mission Association is active in keeping alive the happy memories of saints and missionaries who have lived in Britain. More than that, it is endeavouring in every way possible to cultivate the spiritual interests of its members.“
To the latter end of President Hinckley’s statement, its first annual winter social recreated a traditional British event—the fish and chip supper. At the door, the members paid 15 American cents and received in exchange one British penny, to be placed on a counter between vinegar bottles and salt shakers in payment for fish and chips, served in a piece of the previous day’s newspaper. That was the easy bit. In order to buy fresh suitable fish, it was necessary to telegraph to Seattle and import it by special delivery, a distance of 800 miles!
Dancing followed and the evening closed with the singing of “God Save the King.”
As one lad from Lancashire left, he opened the kitchen door slightly, took a deep breath and remarked, ”Eh, ba gum, ’twas a good party.“3

My eyes filled with tears as I drove to the hospital for more testing. I had been diagnosed with cancer after the birth of my daughter two years earlier. I had undergone surgery and received treatment, and I was about to find out if the treatments had worked. “Heavenly Father, I have learned a lot from this experience. Please take this trial from me. I want to raise my daughter and one day serve a mission with my husband. Please heal me.”
The tears rolled down my face. Suddenly my prayer changed to the words of the song “A Child’s Prayer.” Something compelled me to speak out loud.
Pray, he is there;
Speak, he is list’ning.
You are his child;
His love now surrounds you.
He hears your prayer.
An overwhelming feeling of love came over me. I felt that Heavenly Father knew me and was concerned about me and was listening to me. I felt that everything would be OK.
I received the results the next day. The tests showed no signs of cancer. I felt a huge burden lifted from me. The following day, however, my doctor called and explained that although the earlier results were clean, the blood test showed I still had significant cancer activity. “How could that be?” I questioned. If this was really what was going on, why had I felt that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer?
I tried to put my doubts aside as I returned for more testing. These results showed not only that I still had cancer but also that the cancer had spread. I couldn’t help but wonder about my experience in the car. I couldn’t deny what I had felt, yet I started to doubt my interpretation.
The new information was overwhelming and caused serious reflection. I felt that I still needed to learn something from this trial. As I pondered, I realized that I had been going through all the motions of an active Latter-day Saint, yet I often did things out of habit rather than sincerity. I was not at the spiritual level where I wanted to be. I needed to return to the basics, so I began focusing on areas that would bring me closer to Jesus Christ. I needed His strength to make it through my trials.
As I put more effort into spiritual matters, my faith in Jesus Christ and His plan for me increased. I realized that my experience while driving to the hospital really was an answer to prayer. As I acknowledge and accept that answer (that everything will be fine), I recognize that Heavenly Father does not always specify when everything will be taken care of. I may never be completely healed physically, but I am learning to accept His will. My life is truly in His hands.
Seven years have passed since I was diagnosed with cancer. I have had numerous surgeries and treatments, yet I still have cancer. Life, however, goes on, and I’m grateful for that. With my trials have come blessings, including a second daughter. Most important, the Lord’s answer that “everything will be fine” still comforts me.
Update: Sister Coston’s latest checkup, at eight years since diagnosis, showed no signs of cancer.

My friend Donna grew up desiring to marry and raise a large family. But that blessing never came. Instead she spent her adult years serving the people in her ward with unmeasured compassion and counseling disturbed children in a large school district. She had crippling arthritis and many long, blue days. Yet she always lifted and was always lifted by her friends and family. Once when teaching about Lehi’s dream, she said with gentle humor, “I’d put myself in that picture on the strait and narrow path, still holding to the iron rod but collapsed from fatigue right on the path.” In an inspired blessing given just before her death, Donna’s home teacher said the Lord “accepted” her. Donna cried. She had never felt her single life was acceptable. But the Lord said those who “observe their covenants by sacrifice … are accepted of me.” I can envision Him walking the path from the tree of life to lift Donna up with gladness and carry her home.

It was a hot day in July. I remember it well. After working hard in our yard all morning, Dad wiped the sweat from his face and neck with his handkerchief and looked up toward the east mountains.
“It would be nice and cool at Fish Lake. It’s going to be a scorcher here all day, that’s for sure.” Dad looked tired. He’d been up since dawn.
“What if I packed a lunch and we went to Fish Lake for the rest of the day?” Mama suggested.
Lorraine, the oldest of the children, was sent to Berthelson’s store for a can of deviled ham and some cheese to make sandwiches. The rest of us scurried to get ready to go. We put the camp quilt Grandma made for us in the trunk of our new 1952 Chevrolet. Now we would have something to spread out under the trees. We could put our tablecloth on it for our picnic, and Dad would have a soft place to lie and rest during the afternoon.
“If only I had time to stir up a cake,” Mama wailed. “We don’t have a thing for dessert.”
“Take some bottled fruit,” Dad advised. “It’s too hot to heat up the oven.” He was always in a hurry it seemed. Maybe he was anxious to get started so he could see how well our new car, that we had saved so long to buy, would climb steep Oak Springs Hollow Road.
Lorraine was back with the deviled ham and cheese. “They had watermelons at the store, but they cost a whole dollar.”
“Oh, let’s stop and buy one for dessert,” the rest of us chanted. We hadn’t tasted watermelon yet that year.
We counted out our money. “If we buy the watermelon, there won’t be enough left to buy gasoline,” Mama reasoned.
“Maybe we could charge it until our milk check comes?” Lorraine offered. “Mrs. Berthelson let Sue Ellen’s mama get one and pay for it later.”
“Now you know how your dad feels about buying and paying later.” Mama packed a bottle of peaches and a jar of apricot marmalade from the cellar into our lunch basket.
Daddy knew the exact spot to eat our lunch over on old Sawtooth Mountain. He’d been there when he was a Boy Scout and had never forgotten the fun he had. We couldn’t drive all the way up, so we parked at the foot of the steep trail and carried our things up the mountainside. We found a place where tall trees grew, and shade was as dense as green velvet. There on a little plateau, by a trickling stream fed by snowbanks, near the top of the mountain, we spread out the quilt.
Mama sent us upstream to fill the water jug. Lo and behold, what did we spy but a plump watermelon nestled among wet gray rocks in the water!
“Come and see,” we shouted. “Come see what we found.”
The whole family came immediately to the spot. Everyone stared in amazement, taking turns touching the melon. It was icy cold.
“Heavenly Father must have known just how much we wanted a watermelon for our lunch,” little Geraldine laughed, clapping her hands for joy.
That melon was as crisp as a September morn. It would crack when we opened it. We could just see its ripe perfection, taste its juicy sweetness.
“Heavenly Father knew how much we like watermelon,” Lorraine added.
“Heavenly Father doesn’t have melons grow in water,” Dad remarked. “He makes them grow on vines. No, somebody put that melon in this creek to cool, and somebody will be coming back to get it.”
We looked all around. We couldn’t see anyone, not even footprints. We listened. We couldn’t hear a thing except the gurgling of water tumbling over rocks. Yet in our hearts we knew it would be wrong to take something that did not belong to us.”
“Oh, Dad, you’re such a killjoy. Maybe whoever put it there forgot where it is, and if we don’t eat it, it might just lie there and spoil.”
Disappointment showed in our faces.
“What is the matter with bottled peaches?” Dad coaxed back our smiles.
Bottled peaches would be just fine.
We left the cold melon where it was. We ate our lunch, including peaches for dessert, and while we were eating no one mentioned watermelon. As we walked down the trail back to the car and all the way home, we wondered if anyone would come for it.
Sometimes I think about that watermelon. Whenever I cut into a crisp melon that cracks open to reveal a deep red heart, or I eat a bite of the sweet, juicy fruit, I remember that day in the mountains when Dad taught us simply by his example a lesson in a long line of lessons that have shaped our lives.

Josefa Parada is a case in point. She was a former nun who had left the convent to marry. She had no desire to investigate other religions, but when she noticed a definite change in the lives of her neighbors, the Prieto family of the Barcelona suburb of Badalona, she asked them the reason. Their response wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear: “We’ve been baptized members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

The Prietos visited Josefa’s family until her son, Enrique, was baptized. Josefa felt the influence of the Spirit, but she had difficulty contemplating breaking away from he religious traditions. Not until 1979, when her third son was about to be baptized—and by then she was attending Church meetings and reading the Book of Mormon—did she gain a strong enough conviction to be baptized herself. Two years later, her husband, Aurelio, also obtained a testimony through fervent prayer, quit smoking, and joined the Church. The family has been to the temple a number of times since then.

Writing of the traumatic experience of seeing her murdered sons, Joseph and Hyrum, Lucy Mack Smith bore fervent and powerful witness of Joseph’s prophetic mission.
After the [bodies of Joseph and Hyrum] were washed and dressed in their burial clothes, we were allowed to see them. I had for a long time braced every nerve, roused every energy of my soul and called upon God to strengthen me, but when I entered the room … , it was too much; I sank back, crying to the Lord in the agony of my soul, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken this family!” A voice replied, “I have taken them to myself, that they might have rest.” …
As I looked upon their peaceful, smiling countenances, I seemed almost to hear them say, “Mother, weep not for us, we have overcome the world by love; we carried to them the gospel, that their souls might be saved; they slew us for our testimony, and thus placed us beyond their power; their ascendancy is for a moment, ours is an eternal triumph.” …
This much I will say, that the testimony which I have given is true, and will stand forever; and the same will be my testimony in the day of God Almighty, when I shall meet them, concerning whom I have testified, before angels, and the spirits of the just made perfect, before archangels and seraphims, cherubims and gods; where the brief authority of the unjust man will shrink to nothingness before him who is the Lord of lords, and God of gods; and where the righteousness of the just shall exalt them in the scale, wherein God weigheth the hearts of men.

Tim was a good hiker. But this hike seemed very long. He and his family had hiked all the way to a lake. Tim liked seeing the little fish in the water. He liked throwing rocks in the lake. But now he was tired and hungry. Hiking was hard!
“Will you carry me?” he asked Dad.
“I’m sorry,” Dad said. “I have to carry your little brother.”
Tim started to cry. He was so tired. He did not want to walk anymore.
“Will you carry me?” he asked Mom.
“I have to carry baby Mia,” Mom said. “But I can hold your hand. We’ll walk together.”
Mom held Tim’s hand. “You can do it, Tim. We can do hard things.”
When Tim got tired, Mom pointed to the colorful flowers. They stopped to drink some water.
Then they hiked a little more. “We can do hard things,” Mom told Tim. “You are doing such a good job.”
Soon Tim could see the car. “Look! We’re almost back!”
When they got back to the car, Mom gave Tim a big hug. “You did it!” she said. “You really can do hard things.”
Tim smiled. He felt so proud. He had hiked the whole way!

“I wondered how this new program would bring sisters together if we met in smaller groups, but I was willing to try it,” writes Richelle Pearce of the Shadowbrook Ward, Kaysville Utah South Stake. “I make bread a couple of times a week, so after making the proper arrangements, the Relief Society leaders invited anyone who was interested to come to my home for an activity.
“The next Thursday five sisters showed up at my door. They were from all different stages of life: one new mother, one working mom, one senior sister, and two with large families like mine. What happened over the next two hours was a testimony to me of the inspiration of this program. The sisters not only learned how to grind wheat and make bread, but they also talked, laughed, shared ideas, and really connected. By the time they left with their bread and wheat flour, I knew this program could bring sisters together in a wonderful way.”

I looked at the photograph of her in my mother’s scrapbook, pasted in next to Grandma’s certificate of blessing. She wore plaited hair wound in a crown above her oval face. Her eyes were fine and slanted.
“That’s your great-great-grandmother Totshauna.” My mother used to point her out to me when I was a child and the relatives first started saying I favored her. “She crossed the plains with the pioneers, pulling a handcart for more than a thousand miles.”
“Is a thousand miles farther away than Grandma’s house?” We lived in Salt Lake, and my grandmother Harris lived in Spanish Fork.
“Oh, lots farther, honey. A thousand miles is … is almost as far away as the moon.” Mom was proud of her pioneer heritage, and she wanted to be sure her children appreciated their ancestry sufficiently. I still remember at five years marveling over the woman with the funny hair who pulled a cart to Utah from as far away as the moon. Now I’m 20, and three nights ago when I looked at the photograph (faded, and taped in one corner), I remembered again, and marveled.
I was born in Salt Lake City, the city that she, and others like her, built more than a hundred years ago with adobe bricks and irrigation systems fed from the streams of the Wasatch. The call to gather to Zion brought tens of thousands of Saints from the East and converts from Europe, mostly England, to the Great Salt Lake Valley between 1846 and 1900. The Church in those days, struggling for its existence, desperately needed the strength found in unity, for a scattered church stood little chance of developing into the powerful organization that would be necessary to carry out the Lord’s latter-day work.
Twenty-three-year-old Totshauna Svenstrup, her husband, Christian, and their two small daughters were four of those who responded to the call. They came out of Denmark and, after sailing to the United States, joined one of two ill-fated handcart companies that headed westward to Zion. Totshauna’s daughter, Anna Karil, at that time only five, years later wrote briefly of the trek in her journal:
“Father died just outside of Florence [Nebraska] in a wagon accident. Mother pulled the cart, and she with child. We buried Gury in the snow by the Sweetwater [Wyoming]. She froze one night next to me and Mother in the tent. We reached the Salt Lake Valley in October. In December Mother delivered a son.”
In the old museum on Temple Square there used to be a statue of two pioneers, husband and wife, their cloaks windswept, standing together beside a small grave. My seminary class once took a tour of Temple Square. We stopped and looked at the statue, and one girl said, “Isn’t that so sad?” and the girl next to her solemnly agreed, “It’s awful. How did they ever stand it?” Then we continued on to the Assembly Hall to exclaim over how beautiful the stained glass windows are.
My seminary class saw the granite temple that day, too. Totshauna died three years before its completion. Every summer thousands of tourists park their heavily loaded automobiles in the spaces posted “Out-of-State Cars Only” that surround the temple block. They go inside and listen attentively to how the seagulls ate the crickets, then flick coins into the fountain. They file into the Tabernacle where once she, too, shifted her weight on the hard, narrow benches, and they lean a little forward in their seats to hear a pin drop. They snap photos of the spired temple and murmur with admiration: “Forty years to build. Imagine that!” Totshauna’s second husband, Samual Hoopes, was killed while quarrying granite for the temple up Little Cottonwood Canyon in June 1872.
Sometimes when I stand outside the temple, my fingers clutching the iron gate, my head thrown back as I stare at the golden words “Holiness to the Lord,” I remember a widow with eight children. Anna Karil, by that time married, wrote: “Mother embroiders linens for pay. Her fine Danish needlework is admired by many. The children work as they are able. Mother also takes in boarders and washing.”
The spires of the temple and Moroni sounding his trump no longer dominate the Salt Lake skyline. The modern Church Office Building across the street now holds that position of prominence. The office building, 28 stories high, took three years to build. The project was financed by the tithes and offerings of Church members. Totshauna, I think, would be proud to see the tall building. (I can picture her craning her neck toward the top: “Twenty-eight stories high. Imagine that!”) I am proud, too, but sometimes I think of the days when a temple cost 40 years, and even lives, to build. I will be careful not to forget.
After reaching the Salt Lake Valley, Totshauna settled in what is today known as Holladay. Not long after her arrival, she became the plural wife of Samual Hoopes. (I wonder if Samual was as enchanted as I am by her plain and lovely crown of plaits.) She had nine children by Samual; only seven lived past infancy. Her husband, at one time, was two and a half years absent from his family, which included three wives and numerous children, while serving a mission for the Church in the British Isles. Totshauna later sent three sons on missions after Samual’s death, with each son proving an added hardship, for her boys were among the eldest of her children and were depended upon to aid in the support of the entire family. Her own sketchy journal (now kept treasured in soft cloth in my grandmother’s bureau), which she kept for a brief period following Samual’s death, reads: “Hyrum left with elders Whitney and Williams in a wagon and went to take the rail to Canada. I packed him two beef tarts and two loaves bread with chokeberry jam, and Samual’s Book of Mormon, and an extra shirt and pair socks. He is seventeen.”
When my older brother, Jeff, left on his mission to Quebec, we stood in the airport terminal and watched the big jet take off. In his two large suitcases he carried a missionary Bible and leatherbound triple combination, three new suits, five white shirts, and a brand-new woolen coat that Mom saved for three months to buy. He had a notebook with the missionary discussions in it, and he’d already memorized them in French. I asked my mom if we could pack him beef tarts and bread with jam for his send-off, but she just smiled and said, “Oh, don’t be silly,” and baked him a shoebox full of tollhouse cookies instead.
As I reflect upon Totshauna’s life, I can’t help but contrast her harsh and simple life-style with my own. I attend Brigham Young University (named for the prophet-colonizer she followed and revered) where I study English and music and religion. Occasionally I may wash a pair of socks in the sink (she washed all her clothing with a scrub board and lye soap) or take a break from my daily routine by baking wheat bread, but these interruptions are rare. I often wonder while buzzing down the freeway in my Volkswagen or listening to the prophet at conference time on television or radio, what part of her remains in me.
Somewhere inside me I feel a bittersweet ache as I reflect upon those early days of Mormonism. There is in me a kind of wistful longing to return to the days of seagulls and crickets, days when temples took 40 years to build, days of missionaries who traveled on foot or by rail with neither purse or scrip, days of adobe bricks, and martyrs. Such days formed my roots and the roots of my church. They are a part of me in ways that I feel though do not fully understand.
Yet, despite my shadowy longings for past times and things, I am immersed in modern Mormonism—the organization she spent her life building a foundation for. That it is an exciting and marvelous age I live in I cannot deny. (Totshauna would thrill to hear about the 25,000 missionaries who now tract the earth. I thrill, too.) But as the modern church grows in strength and size, and I grow along with it—full of vast and varied possibilities for personal development and eager to discover what part in the growth and development of today’s church I might play—I will be careful to remember and strive to understand that part in me that is Totshauna, that part that is there because of her. I will go to Brigham Young University and exert my mind in the study of Faulkner, Hemingway, and Shakespeare. I’ll learn how to be a writer and maybe one day write for Church publications. I’ll practice my violin for at least one hour each day, and I’ll study the scriptures and struggle to comprehend, as well as live, the gospel of Jesus Christ. But in the mornings as I prepare to meet each day of work and study, I will plait my hair and sometimes even fashion it in a crown above my oval face.

As I was coming home this afternoon, I saw a bride and groom coming out of that pretty little church on Spring Street. I thought, “That could well be one of my own children soon: beautiful, strong, happy, and in love—but marrying for only “until death do us part.” As I did. The thought made me feel wistful—it would be so beautiful to look forward to being forever with the one you love. I would like my children to be married in the temple, even though the Spring Street church is charming and a thousand miles closer to home.
By the time I got to the driveway my mind had turned to more daily thoughts: “Tomorrow is Sunday. I wish my love would even just go to church with us, to say nothing of going to the celestial kingdom. I hope he won’t be annoyed about using the car and the money for gas to drive the kids to the stake dance tonight, where I will sit alone and wait for them while he goes bowling.”
Our three teenagers were eating egg sandwiches and drinking lemonade on the deck and invited me to join them. They had been teasing Beth about her crush on a boy who had grown tall and handsome over the summer. He is a very nice person, but he is not at all interested in the Church. This was a perfect excuse for me to talk about those things which I had on my mind right then.
Our children have always chosen friends we felt we could trust, and I told them I was proud of them for that. But I also told them, “It is possible to find a lifetime love even while you’re a teenager, so it is important to date members of the Church.”
Melody said, “Well, Mom, I’m quite sure the Church is true, but I’m not really into it. So why should I date just members?”
“The gospel and the way of life it teaches will be more important to you than you realize now,” I told her. “It is important for your earthly happiness as well as your eternal happiness to marry someone who cares about the things you care about. Can you believe that life-style can ruin a relationship with someone you live with? You know how hard it is to get along with Beth just sharing a room, and you already have the same beliefs!”
They both laughed and told about the agreement they had finally come to this morning about tolerating each other’s noise and clutter. (Let’s hope it works!)
Then I said, “I know you each will marry people who we will be proud to take into the family. However, because of the painfulness of an interfaith marriage, it is important to date people who share your values. Becoming seriously involved with someone who would not go to church with you, much less the temple, could lead to temptations, lowering your standards, and interfaith marriages.”
Billy saw the pained look on Beth’s face, and turned to me and asked, “Why couldn’t we marry out of the Church, like you did?” (Ouch!) “And we could each believe whatever we want?”
I felt surprised by the question. After all, Billy has lived with this dilemma all his life. He used to wait to ask his questions about religion until his father wasn’t around. He did not like to hear that annoyed sigh when a gospel topic came up.
I chose not to remind him of these things. So I said, “The most important reason for marrying a Church member is so you both can love and be loved for who you truly are. Isn’t that better than loving someone in spite of who they are? When you marry a member you will be able to love and admire each other and respect the beliefs that are so much a part of you. Otherwise you have to make too many compromises. Have you noticed how hard it is to work out acceptable compromises here about how much time, energy, and money we should be giving to Church activities? Once one begins compromising it gets easier to slip about reading scriptures, going to meetings, paying tithing, even praying.”
They all agreed that the families they know who are all active members do seem to be more strongly founded in the gospel, support each other in activities, and help each other with challenges.
“Yes, a person’s belief is a person’s way of life, values, and understanding,” I pointed out. “Every decision is based on your belief. A marriage should begin with at least a common base for problem solving and goal setting.”
“Hey! I know what to do!” Beth said, brightening. “Marry them; then convert them!”
“Hey, yourself! That’s unfair!” I answered quickly. “Like I said, you have to marry someone for who he is, accepting each other; not planning to change him. Anyway, the only person you really can change is yourself. Besides, very few who marry nonmembers ever get to the temple with them. Some go inactive and lose the blessings of the gospel, many get divorced, and some remain somewhat active, at a price.”
Billy had turned away and been so quiet that I asked him what he was thinking about.
“Dad,” he answered slowly. “He’s been a good sport for us. I know Church things bother him, but he’s never said anything bad about it. I wonder what it’s like for him to be living with us, having us go off without him to meetings and activities and, well, you know.”
Oh, how I knew! “He has been a good sport,” I agreed. “And as sad as we are about not having him with us at church, he is sad that we are not with him at those times. And along with his feelings of sadness or annoyance, how do you think he feels about our loyalty? Could you imagine how scary it must be for a nonmember to worry whether the people he loves might love the Lord, His Church or His people more than they love him? So while the nonmember is sad, annoyed, and worried, the member is yearning and praying for him to join the Church.”
Melody said, “Yeah, but—,” which made the rest of us chuckle and join in our family chant of, “yeah, but; yehbut!”
“But we do have to be realistic, Mom. It’s not like there are even any kids in seminary with us. We will be dating nonmembers unless we move to Utah or somewhere out there. So what would you suggest if one of us does fall in love with a nonmember?”
I did have to be realistic; out here there are very few LDS people to date, and they are scattered. So I answered what I had been thinking over for months.
“I would hope that by then you would have realized your beliefs were important to you. You should plan to go to all your meetings during your courtship and invite them to activities and meetings. Also, if there is talk of marriage between you, ask them seriously to take the discussions.”
Melody looked annoyed and said, “Oh, Mom, that would scare them off!”
Beth suggested, “Maybe we could just cool the activities and meetings while we’re getting to know one another.”
I felt like she hadn’t really understood; then I remembered that people have to hear things at least three times before they remember and understand. “It would be important to continue your normal way of life during courtship so that anyone you’re going to marry gets to really know you and how you want to live. It would not be fair for you to drop it now to keep the peace, then plan to pick it up later. That’s like changing the rules in the middle of the game.
“Besides,” I reflected, “you may not be able to get yourself back to Church activity, for many reasons.”
“I have heard of people getting too busy or living too far away, or even just getting out of the habit of going to church,” said Bill. “I guess if staying active meant giving a rude surprise to someone you love, you’d probably decide not to do it.”
“Yes, then blame them for the sadness you’d feel about not going, like Sister Z.,” said Melody, who was friends with this inactive, part-member family.
Beth said thoughtfully, “Isn’t there some way to keep your love and your activity? What did you do, Mom?”
Bill’s face flushed and he looked a little sad as he blurted, “Why doesn’t he—?”
I interrupted because I did not want to feel emotional. “Dad doesn’t talk about religion, and it has to be between him and Heavenly Father. Just keep praying and loving. But to get back to your choosing someone—”
Beth interrupted this time. “What would you do if one of us was going to marry a nonmember?” “I would ask you a lot of questions and ask you to talk with each other about your life-style, hopes, and compromises before you married. Would you pray together? Could you plan to remain active in the Church and magnify callings? Could visiting teachers, home teachers, and missionaries be welcome in your home? Could beliefs be openly discussed? What would you have to do to accommodate his beliefs? What would you do about religion for the future children? You would probably think I was too nosey, so I would ask our home teachers and the branch president to help you with these things. I might even ask Dad to help; he knows the other point of view! And, if worse came to worse, I’d consider talking to your intended.”
“Boy, you’d sure make a big deal of it!” exclaimed Melody, sounding exasperated.
“Of course,” I replied. “It is necessary to plan how to make each other happy while being true to yourselves. After all that, if you still went through with the marriage, I would remember how Dad has blessed my life and I would be happy for your happiness. I promise, too, that I would stand back and try to be a good mother-in-law like both of your grandmothers are. You know I will always pray for your happiness and for the happiness of those you love. Each of you has the potential of bringing joy to someone’s life; you deserve the best.”
While we were speaking, Dad drove in. Billy went to greet him. I gave Beth a quick hug as she and Melody went to get a piece of cake and some lemonade for their father. When I caught his eye, I blew him a welcoming kiss, and waited.

“You should go talk to a mental health counselor.”
This advice came as a huge surprise. I had just told a close friend about how stressed I was about getting into a prestigious accounting program, maintaining relationships, and dating as a recently returned missionary. I had never even considered the idea of therapy, and I felt like talking to a counselor was only for people who had big problems or were too weak to deal with challenges on their own. My friend had only good things to say about his own experience talking to a counselor, so I began to consider it.
Soon my anxiety got worse. After sleepless nights of worrying, I decided to schedule an appointment. I was nervous about what other people might say or think if they knew I was going to see a counselor, but at that point my anxiety was affecting my ability to function, so I went.
At the appointment, the counselor asked lots of questions that helped me come to answers on my own. The counselor didn’t give me a magic solution to my struggles. He also didn’t treat me like I was crazy—he had seen a lot of people with struggles similar to mine. In some ways, it felt like going to a medical doctor. He was a professional with experience in diagnosing the problem and had the expertise to teach me how to prevent and treat anxiety.
Along with other suggestions, the counselor suggested that I write my feelings and thoughts in my journal. This was a huge help in overcoming my anxiety. I also kept exercising, spending time with friends and family, eating healthily (or as healthily as a guy in college who was cooking for himself could), studying the scriptures, attending church, and praying.
After meeting with the counselor a few times, two things changed for me: First, I had new, healthier perspectives on my anxieties, myself, and other people; and second, I felt like I had helpful tools I could use in future anxiety-provoking situations. I wasn’t completely cured of anxiety, but I felt like I could deal with it better when it flared up again. Since then, I haven’t had to go back to the counselor, but if I ever needed to, I wouldn’t be worried about getting help—I’ve learned that there’s no reason to suffer in silence or be embarrassed of seeking professional help for a mental health issue.

The simultaneous use of over-the-counter remedies and prescription drugs is a more serious problem.10 An unusual case of this kind of drug misuse was recently seen in the outpatient service of a teaching hospital. During the course of taking the drug history, the clinical pharmacist inquired if the patient was taking any over-the-counter drugs. The patient indicated that she was, but when queried as to what she was taking, she could not remember. A similar answer was given when she was questioned with regard to any prescription medication she was taking. Further discussion extracted the promise that she would bring the drugs she was routinely taking to the clinic on her next visit. When she returned, she brought a basket containing 26 over-the-counter remedies and 25 prescription drugs, a total of 51 drugs that she was taking each day and often simultaneously, including seven depressant drugs and two stimulant drugs.