Gospel Story Finder

Elizabeth touched the pine chest lovingly. Her fingers sought and found the tiny initials carved into the corner of it: “J.B.” For Joseph Buck. Her father.
“Why can’t we take the chest?” she asked her mother one more time. “It wouldn’t take up much room in the wagon. Papa made it for me. I can’t leave it. I can’t.”
She pretended not to notice the tears that gathered in Mama’s eyes as she continued packing, choosing what to take and what to leave behind.
Elizabeth felt a sudden rush of guilt at her selfishness. But how could she leave such an important part of her father behind? It was the only thing she had to remember him by. “I won’t take anything else, if I can take the chest,” she promised.
“Elizabeth,” Mama began in a tired voice, “it’s not my decision. The Burtons were kind enough to let us travel with them. There’s just no room for the chest.”
Elizabeth knew her mother was right. The Burtons had four small children. Their covered wagon was already filled, with barely room for a few of Elizabeth’s and her mother’s belongings. They would all have to walk by the wagon during the day and sleep under it at nights.
“Do you remember what your father said before … before he died?” Mama asked.
Elizabeth nodded. Just before he died of a fever the month before, he had whispered to her, “Be true to the gospel, child. It will sustain you.”
She’d been eight when she and her parents were baptized three years ago—she could still remember the special glow she felt when she emerged from the water. But what did that have to do with leaving behind the chest? “Did Papa want us to follow President Young’s counsel to go to a place so far away?” she asked.
“Yes, he did,” Mama said, adding gently, “I know that you don’t want to leave the chest behind, but remember that all of us are leaving things we treasure.”
Elizabeth followed her mother’s gaze around their home. It was small but clean and welcoming with its homespun curtains and Papa’s handcarved furniture. “I know, Mama,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry to be leaving our home, too, but there is something even more precious that we are leaving behind.” Her mother led Elizabeth to the window and pointed outside.
Elizabeth saw the roses and petunias first. Though she knew it hurt Mama to leave the flowers she had so painstakingly nurtured, she also knew that Mama was pointing higher, at the Nauvoo Temple.
Elizabeth remembered how Mama had sold her piano and given the money to help raise the walls of the temple that now gleamed softly in the late afternoon sunlight. When Elizabeth had asked Mama how she could sacrifice her beautiful piano, Mama smiled. “It’s no sacrifice, Elizabeth, to give up something precious for something even more precious.”
“What could be more precious than your piano?” Elizabeth had asked. “You loved that piano, Mama.”
“The temple,” Mama had said simply. “I loved that piano especially because my mother gave it to me. But I love the Lord’s house much, much more.”
“Why did we build a temple when we have to leave it so soon?”
“The Lord commanded us to build a temple because it’s an important part of the gospel,” Mama said. “Without it, we couldn’t be sealed together for eternity.”
Elizabeth thought about that as they continued packing. Before she was baptized, she’d asked her father how he knew the Church was true.
He’d taken his time in answering. “I knew that we had found the true church when I learned of the temple.” He’d paused then, and tears had filled his eyes. “And I knew because I felt it here,” he said, touching his heart. “I still do.”
A warmth settled around Elizabeth’s own heart at the memory.
At last they were done. The pile of belongings to take with them to their new home was pitifully small. The house looked empty, forlorn, even though much of the furniture remained. Elizabeth’s pine chest sat in the corner. She trailed her fingers over the design in the pine, her fingers coming to rest again on the initials. After tracing the smooth grain of the wood one last time, she stood. She carried with her something far more precious that her papa had left her. The memory of his testimony, strong and sure, wrapped itself around her heart as she followed her mother out the door.

“Mom, are you sure these seeds are going to grow?” Jason asked his mother, who was kneading a big lump of whole wheat bread dough. She nodded her head.
He was still looking into a little pot where he had planted some green bean seeds, but all he could see was dirt. He wanted to put his finger in the dirt so he could feel or see if the seeds were sprouting, but he knew he shouldn’t do that. His mother had told him that seeds were damaged easily and needed tender care to grow.
“But are you really sure they’ll grow?” he asked again.
Mom stopped kneading and thought for a minute. “Jason, do you remember when we talked about faith during family home evening? We decided that one kind of faith is knowing something is there even though we can’t see it. Well, knowing that those seeds are sprouting is something like that. We can’t see them growing but we know that they are slowly getting bigger and bigger. And if we wait long enough, then we’ll see long, skinny green plants. And eventually we’ll be able to have green beans for dinner.”
“Do you think I’ll ever have any faith?”
“Of course. When you’re in the house and you decide to go outside, you know the sun will be up in the sky when you get there, don’t you?”
“Sure. Even if it’s raining, the sun is just hidden behind some clouds.”
“And you know your daddy loves you, even when he’s gone to work?”
“That’s right!”
“And when he comes home, you know he’ll be so happy to see you, that if you run up to him, he’ll give you a big hug?”
“He always does that,” said Jason, who was still trying to figure out what his mother meant.
“Well, all those things show that you have faith.”
Jason wanted to talk some more about faith, but the telephone rang and his friend, Dustin, invited him to come over to play.
Dustin had a new set of big yellow trucks. Since one of them could hold a whole bucket of sand, Jason and Dustin decided to build a big castle in Dustin’s sandbox. They wanted their castle to have lots of towers and windows and high walls.
The boys moved a big mound of sand to the middle of the sandbox. Then they poured a little water from the hose on it and dug their hands in. They wiggled their fingers. The warm sand mixed with the cool water felt good. Then they began packing sand into Dustin’s bucket, and turning it upside down to make six tall towers. They built a long drawbridge and put towers at each end.
When they were finished, they sat on the edge of the sandbox and smiled at each other.
“Pretty good, don’t you think?” asked Dustin.
“It’s the biggest one we’ve ever made,” answered Jason. “I want to see what it looks like from the top.”
He stepped up and stood on the edge of the sandbox. It wasn’t a high edge, but it was narrow. He started to sway, and reached for something to steady himself. He grabbed and grabbed again and then fell. His chin hit the sharp edge of one of the truck beds, and he felt something sting.
“Your chin’s bleeding!” Dustin cried, and he ran into his house.
Jason sat very still. It really hurt! After a minute, he saw Dustin and his mother come running from the house.
“Oh, Jason!” cried Dustin’s mother. “Let me help you.” She reached down and took him by the hand to help him stand up. “Let’s go in and wash that off. Does it hurt very much?”
Jason nodded his head. He didn’t want to talk, because he thought he might cry. He walked into the house with Dustin and his mother. Dustin’s mother wet a washcloth with cold water, and pressed it gently against Jason’s chin to help reduce the sting.
After she held the cloth there for about a minute, she took it away and looked at the chin again. “That looks a little better. Shall I call your mom and have her come and get you?”
Jason nodded again. He still didn’t know if he could talk without crying. He heard Dustin’s mother tell his mother on the phone to come over. He felt good when he thought about her coming to get him. He knew she would come as fast as she could.
Then Jason remembered what she had said to him that morning—“Faith is knowing something is there, even though you can’t see it.” He knew his mother would come and get him, even though he couldn’t see her leave the house. Jason knew she would take care of his chin so it would get better. Thinking about those things, Jason realized that he did have faith and that he felt loved and safe—so safe that he fell fast asleep on Dustin’s bed.

It was Friday morning, June 28, 1844, and already the summer sun was hot in Illinois. Since about eight o’clock that morning Dr. Willard Richards, Samuel H. Smith, and nine others had plodded along the dusty road between Carthage and Nauvoo, Illinois. Moving along the road with the solemn procession were two wagons heaped with bushes to protect their cargo from the blistering heat of the sun.
Laid out on the wagons were the lifeless bodies of Joseph Smith, age thirty-eight, over six feet tall, and Hyrum, his brother, age forty-four, and even larger in stature than Joseph. Wearily, Dr. Richards and Samuel Smith, brother to the two murdered men, pressed toward Nauvoo and talked of the events just the day before during which Joseph and Hyrum were gunned down by an armed mob with painted faces. The two victims, along with Dr. Richards and John Taylor, were lodged in Carthage Jail, supposedly for their protection, when the mob, numbering from 150 to 200 marauders, stormed the jail and shot to death their intended victims.
Word of the deaths had already reached Nauvoo, headquarters city for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As the wagons and their foot-weary guardians entered the city, several thousand citizens greeted the procession with the most solemn lamentations and mourning.
The bloodied bodies were tenderly removed from the wagons at the Nauvoo Mansion and were carefully washed from head to foot. The various wounds were filled with cotton, soaked in camphor, and death masks were impressed on each face. Fine, plain clothing was then placed on each body. When these preparations were completed, the bodies were viewed that night by the bereaved widows and children of the two men, along with many of their closest associates. Then on Saturday, more than ten thousand mourning Saints viewed the remains of their beloved Prophet Joseph and his brother, the Patriarch Hyrum. The bodies were then secretly and lovingly buried. (See History of the Church, 6:614–31.)

Because paying my tithing was so important to me, I set up a bank account and put my tithing in it each month. I needed the Lord to know that even though He couldn’t take my tithing now, I still wanted to pay it. I was single at the time and raising my three teenage daughters, and I felt that I needed those blessings of showing the Lord my willingness to pay tithing, even though I couldn’t. I have no doubt we were extremely blessed because of it.
I was rebaptized a little over a year after my excommunication. What a relief it was to come up out of the water knowing that Jesus was now my advocate, my partner. He had paid for my sins, and I was again in a covenant relationship with Him. I was filled with gratitude!
I received the gift of the Holy Ghost again. I felt once again a tangible presence: my dear friend was back to stay! I wanted to try so hard not to offend Him again so that He wouldn’t have to leave me.
I closed out the account with my tithing in it, wrote the check, and excitedly gave it to my bishop.
Five years later I was able to have my temple blessings restored. I felt so relieved and grateful. Once again I was covered in love and protected with the power of the covenants I had made in the temple.
I am now sealed to a man who adores me, and I him, and together we are actively working to establish our sealing as a covenant relationship that will last through the eternities.
In the 20 years since, I have sometimes felt a sense of deep guilt wash over me and cause me great unhappiness and worry. I wondered if I had done enough to repent and whether I was truly forgiven. As recently as just a few years ago, my feelings matched those of Alma the Younger, described in Alma 36:12–13:
“I was racked with eternal torment, for my soul was harrowed up to the greatest degree and racked with all my sins.
“Yea, I did remember all my sins and iniquities, for which I was tormented with the pains of hell; yea, I saw that I had rebelled against my God, and that I had not kept his holy commandments.”
One day I knelt down in prayer and asked, “Father, have I done enough? I will do whatever I need to, to have this taken from me.” Then I waited and listened with my heart.
The answer came very clearly: “You have done enough.” I was overcome with pure joy. I couldn’t stop smiling, and happy tears flowed. All that day I found myself giddy with joy. All the shame and guilt was gone for good.
Again I reflected on the experience of Alma the Younger:
“I could remember my pains no more; yea, I was harrowed up by the memory of my sins no more.
“And oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold; yea, my soul was filled with joy as exceeding as was my pain!” (Alma 36:19–20).
My journey to regain my membership in the Church and my covenant relationship with the Savior was heart-wrenching and tender. I came out of this trial knowing that the Atonement of Jesus Christ is most precious. It has taken me almost all of these 20 years to get past the shame and guilt of my excommunication and to find the strength to share my experiences with others. I hope my experience inspires others to find courage to change and to reach out to those who want to change. I can stand and testify without a doubt that the Atonement of Christ is real. His power can change your life not only for the better but for the very best.
I love my membership in the Church dearly. It is a priceless gift and an incredible blessing in my life. I never want to be without it again.

The first and most important truth about navigating this journey is that you are not alone. Heavenly Father and the Savior will always strengthen us as we turn to Them. There were times when Kay was struggling so much, and I (Stephen) was so exhausted. She didn’t know who I was for three years, and every day was painful. Sometimes I look back and wonder how I managed to get through those difficult times, and then I realize I was only able to endure the pain by fully relying on the Savior (see Matthew 11:28–29).

Always remember that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are very much aware of what you are going through. President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, reminded us of this truth: “You are being nourished and comforted by a loving Savior, who knows how to succor you in whatever tests you face.”1 Regularly make time for prayer and temple attendance, and invite the Spirit into your home. As you do, you will find guidance, peace, and the sustaining strength you need to keep moving forward.

On Sunday, March 29, we fasted for peace in the world and healing from COVID-19. This was my first time fasting for 24 hours, and it was hard. I was hungry, but my mom told me to remember the reason we were fasting and that God will hear my prayers and accept my fasting. I grabbed my Book of Mormon and started reading. It brought me peace and filled me spiritually. God lives, and Jesus Christ loves us.
Yaretzi L., age 10, California, USA

Brother Wakolo’s Disciple’s Soul
While serving in the South Pacific, I received a letter from the First Presidency with an assignment to travel to Fiji and deliver a letter to Taniela Wakolo, president of the Nausori Fiji Stake. After I handed the letter to him, he read aloud the call from the First Presidency to serve as an Area Seventy, and tears flowed freely from his cheeks and those of his lovely wife, Anita.

After discussing with him the nature and duties of his new calling, I observed the tattoo on Brother Wakolo’s large right hand. Now, tattoos are very common throughout the South Pacific, and long before he joined the Church, Taniela Wakolo had the back of his hand tattooed with a large, garish design.

I said: “Brother Wakolo, in your new calling as an Area Seventy, you are going to be speaking to the youth on many occasions. I would suggest before such meetings that you put a large Band-Aid on the back of your hand to cover your tattoo. It’s hard to discourage our youth from getting tattoos when the speaker has one himself.”

He smiled a broad smile, and with a radiant expression he said, “I’ll take care of it. I want to be a good example.”

A few weeks passed, and the next time we met, his hand was heavily bandaged as if he were preparing for a boxing match. I asked, “What in the world happened to you?”

He smiled with glistening eyes and said, “I followed your counsel and had the tattoo removed.”

“Was it laser surgery?” I asked.

“No,” he replied with a big smile, “they don’t remove tattoos with lasers in Fiji. I had it surgically cut out.”

A month later Elder Wakolo and I were assigned together to reorganize a stake presidency in American Samoa. As we met at the airport, I immediately noticed an unsightly scar on the back of his hand where the surgeon had removed several square inches of skin and then very crudely sutured the gaping wound closed. This had not been performed by a plastic surgeon.

I apologized for having been the cause of the large scar on the back of his hand. He responded with a radiant Christlike countenance: “Not to worry, President Condie; this is my CTR ring. Now the Lord knows where I stand! I’ll do anything the Lord asks of me.”

Elder Wakolo has become a disciple who keeps his covenants and strives to do good continually.

The New Era is a great comfort to me. I am a convert to the Church, and I have learned many wonderful things this past year just by reading this great magazine! I go to a Catholic school, and I have to take a course in religion. In this class I was assigned to give an oral report from a magazine or book on “My Personal Happiness.” I chose the article “The Business of Being” in the July 1983 issue of the New Era. Elder Cuthbert really knows the meaning of maturity. When I gave that report, I know that the Spirit was with me. He helped me to touch the hearts of many in my class, and I am grateful for that. By the way, I got an A!
Linda VillaromanSan Francisco, California

This story took place in Tonga in 1981.
Silioti walked home from school past trees of yellow papayas and rosy ripe mangoes. When she saw the fruit, she remembered how hungry she was. She also remembered that today was a special day. Today everyone in her stake in Tonga was fasting for the prophet, President Spencer W. Kimball. The prophet was sick and needed an operation. Tonight everyone in the stake would meet to pray and end their fast together.
When Silioti reached her house, she smelled food cooking in the ‘umu, the pit oven. Her stomach grumbled. Silioti was glad she was old enough to fast now, but fasting on a school day was so much harder than fasting on a Sunday.
Silioti tried to forget how hungry she was. She found firewood and cleaned up the leaves that had fallen from the tall breadfruit trees that shaded her yard.
“Heavenly Father will understand if I take a tiny sip of water,” Silioti thought as she washed her hands after chores. Then she thought of how much she loved President Kimball. She wanted him to be well again. She decided she would wait.
Silioti sat down on the porch and laid her head in her mother’s lap. She was so tired.
“You can end your fast if you need to,” Mother said.
“But I want to fast,” said Silioti. “I can do it.”
When Father came home from work, everyone in the family helped uncover the ‘umu. They took out the pork wrapped in leaves, the fish, and the breadfruit baked in coconut milk. Then they wrapped the food in cloth and carried it out to the road to wait for the bus.
They met other families on the road, all with their own dishes of food. They all smiled and talked as they climbed on the bus together. Silioti found a little space next to Mother. She smelled the good food as the bus bumped along.
It was dark when the bus reached the chapel. Inside, Silioti knelt with her parents, her brothers and sisters, and hundreds of other members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
During the prayer, Silioti prayed in her heart, “Please let President Kimball get well again.” She knew every person in the room was praying for the same thing. A calm feeling inside told her that President Kimball would be OK.
When she opened her eyes she saw tears on the faces of the people around her. All of these people had fasted, and she had fasted with them. It had been hard, but she had done it!
President Kimball survived his operation and served as the prophet for four more years.

About a year ago, some friends of our family were hospitalized in very serious condition. Rosana and Angel Blanco Rodrigues and two of their children were in their kitchen when they smelled gas. Brother Rodrigues went to investigate. When he touched a gas hose, a small leak exploded, igniting a fire. Seeing his two small children in danger, Brother Rodrigues used his own body to extinguish the flames. He was the most critically injured of the four.
When Mama told our family about the accident, she told us of the love she and Papa felt for their dear friends. She explained that because we live far away, we could not help Brother and Sister Rodrigues by taking care of their other children, their house, or their business matters. But there was a special way we could help them, she said. We could have a family fast and pray that the Lord would bless the Rodrigues family. All of us, even we younger ones, could participate. Our parents had always fasted on the first Sunday of the month and on other occasions, but we had never fasted as a family before. We decided to try it.
We began Saturday at lunchtime. We all fasted—Papa and Mama; Dougles (13), Francini (11), Debora (7), and me (9). We said a prayer and asked the Lord to bless our friends. Mama put a reminder—“Our First Family Fast”—on the refrigerator, the water faucet, the microwave, and the kitchen wall so that we would remember not to eat or drink anything.
I did not feel thirsty during those hours, even with the intense heat here in Amazonas, Brazil. I didn’t feel hungry, either. I was able to understand a little how Jesus Christ might have felt when He fasted for forty days. I felt how good it is to do something to help others.
On Sunday, Papa gave each of us an envelope for our fast offerings and helped us fill out the form. At church that day, we gave the money to our branch president. We ended our fast at lunchtime.
The Rodrigues family eventually returned home with some injuries. As we and many other friends continued to fast and pray for their recovery, the Lord continued to bless them. After several months of care, they were completely healed and were left almost without scars.
Each month since our first family fast, we have fasted and prayed for a united purpose.
I am grateful to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and to learn about Jesus Christ and how much He did for me. I want to follow His example always.

“While interviewing for my present position as a senior vice president of a large international company, I told my direct manager of my religious beliefs about drinking. I said that I would not be able to accept the job if abstaining from drinking would be problematic in fulfilling my responsibilities.
“At the time, social drinking was very important in the corporate culture and considered good stress therapy. It was commonly understood that social drinking was a part of a successful career. My manager, though disappointed that I would not be able to join him in many executive social circles, offered me the position, with respect for my beliefs.
“Since I joined the company, the corporate culture has changed so that abstaining from drinking is rarely a problem anymore. My firm testimony is that I will be ahead in my life, including my career, when I follow the values of Jesus Christ.”—Yong-In S. Shin, South Korea

I would like to take you back four and a half years ago to the 2002 Olympic Winter Games held in Salt Lake City. Jimmy Shea, from the United States, competed in the sport of skeleton, where the athlete lies on his stomach on a sled and goes head first down the track at over 80 miles per hour. Jimmy had been one of the leaders on the World Cup circuit in previous years, but in the season leading up to the Olympic Games, his results were disappointing.
Jimmy came from a unique family of Olympians: the first three generation Olympic family. His grandfather, Jack Shea won two gold medals in speed skating in the 1932 Games. His father was also an Olympian. Jimmy was hopeful of having them both there to cheer him on. Tragically, his grandfather died shortly before the Games as a result of a car accident with a drunk driver. Jimmy pressed on in the memory of his grandfather.
I was fortunate to be there the day of the event to watch history unfold. During the skeleton competition, the athletes make two runs and the total time determines the final standings. No one expected much from Jimmy due to his recent results on the World Cup circuit. Everyone was stunned when after the first run when he held the lead by a fraction of a second. For the second run, they go in the reverse order of their standing. Jimmy would go last. A light snow was falling, potentially slowing the track for the later competitors.
The competitor just before Jimmy, who was in second place, had a great second run. Next up: Jimmy. As he went down the track, the gap between him and second place narrowed. An expert commented, "Jimmy's going the wrong way." Near the bottom, Jimmy lost his lead by one one-hundredth of a second. Then came Jimmy's 'Moment of Truth.' Turns 13, 14 and 15 were Jimmy's specialty. He stunned the crowd by regaining the lead through those turns and winning the gold medal. As he jumped from his sled, he removed his helmet and pulled out a picture of his grandfather for all to see. The crowd erupted in celebration. His mother took out two security guards to get to her son for an embrace. This was one of the great stories of the Olympic Games.
Now, let me tell you the rest of the story. The reason Jimmy had trouble on the World Cup circuit in the season leading up to the Games was due to a circulatory disorder in one of his legs that left it at only 70% in strength. This would greatly affect his running start, a key element to a successful run. Jimmy didn't want anyone to know of his injury to avoid excuses. But he knew he had to do something different to prepare. He dedicated himself like no other athlete to know the Olympic track. He arose very early every morning to walk the track at 6:00am step by step to find the perfect lines to run. Through his dedicated preparation, he found a unique line to run through turns 13, 14 and 15 that would allow him to compete for the gold medal. It paid off. When Jimmy's 'Moment of Truth' came, he was prepared.

In contrast, seniority is honored among ordained Apostles—even when entering or leaving a room. President Benson related to us this account:
“Some [years] ago Elder Haight extended a special courtesy to President Romney while they were in the upper room in the temple. President Romney was lingering behind for some reason, and [Elder Haight] did not want to precede him out the door. When President Romney signaled [for him] to go first, Elder Haight replied, ‘No, President, you go first.’
“President Romney replied with his humor, ‘What’s the matter, David? Are you afraid I’m going to steal something?’”

Paola Fava has been a member of the Church for 10 years. Her home is in Genoa, a beautiful port city on the northwestern shore of Italy that is famous for being the birthplace of Christopher Columbus and of a traditional Italian food called pesto. Her husband passed away in 2009. She has a little dog, Bak, and she stays busy serving in the Church and doing family history. Here is her conversion story.
A number of years ago, I knew a girl who worked at the London branch of the same company I worked for. She was brilliant in her job and delightful as a friend. I didn’t know she was a Mormon. For many years we kept in touch by letter, and every time she said that she had a lot of work to do for her church, I never understood what sort of work it might be. Then one day she wrote that she was doing “baptisms for the dead,” and this made me curious.
Some years passed, and I went to see her in England. One day during my visit, we sat on the grass and she asked me if we could talk a little bit about God. “How strange,” I thought, but I told her yes. She said to me, “Did you know that a boy in America found plates of gold that told the story of ancient Americans to whom Jesus Christ appeared?” She told me that the boy was also given the message to restore on the earth the ancient Church of Jesus Christ, and he did this despite many difficulties.
This message struck me profoundly. I felt it was indeed true, and that night at her house, I found a copy of the Book of Mormon on the nightstand. But I didn’t want to involve myself with a different church at that time, even though I didn’t feel spiritually well.
One day in another letter she told me that her husband had become a member of her church and things had never been better. “OK, I really must get to know this church!” I said to myself. I called the mission office and arranged to meet with the sister missionaries.
After I received the lessons, I entered the waters of baptism. I shed many tears and felt immense joy, and I experienced innumerable blessings, which continue to this day. My conversion was the fruit of the patience and perseverance of a special friend. She had conviction that her message would deeply impress my heart. I experienced a great change in my life, and I am finally happy in the faith, truly knowing who I am, where I come from, and especially where I want to go.

The air was cold in the barn, and Dave Peters’s breaths came out in white puffs. “Magdalena Katalena Hoopensteiner Walleniner Hokum Mokum Pokum was her name!” Some of the notes were a little high, but he sang them out anyway, trying to fill his mind with them. “She had two hairs on the top of her head; one was alive and the other was dead.” The cow swished her tail back and forth and chewed slowly on some hay. The cold didn’t seem to bother her much.
“Won’t be long now, lady,” he said, and pinched his first two fingers against his thumb to strip the cream out.
Dave’s hands were getting awfully cold—they weren’t yet used to the fall chill and he never had been able to get the hang of milking with rubber gloves on.
Now Rod Wilson—that was a different matter. Dave laughed to think of how Rod could milk a cow with gloves on, ride a calf without a rope, swim across the narrow part of the lake and back in less than two hours. But not for long—the lake would be frozen up before long. He thought how they would have to go out boating again a time or two before it was too late. No—it was already too late.
He stood up and lifted the heavy bucket over to the can. One more cow and then—warmth! He turned to their big holstein, who had been waiting in the adjacent stall. “She had two teeth in the front of her mouth;” he sang, a little off key, “one pointed north and the other pointed south. Oh, Magdalena Katalena Hoopensteiner Walleniner Hokum Mokum Pokum was her name.” And he leaned his loose blond hair against the cow’s tight black and white hair and breathed his white breath down toward the bucket as he milked. The singing stopped—it was useless—and he shut his eyes against the cold air, pushing his head against the cow’s flank and trying to lose himself in the rhythm of the tug, tug, tug, squirt, squirt.
Rod Wilson, Dave thought, sounding the words in his mind. Why? And he thought of that morning at school when between the second and third periods he overheard in the hall, “Rod’s not sick. He died last night.”
The cow was warm, and Dave hunched himself closer. He wished he could use gloves like Rod. It hadn’t taken long for the story of what had happened to sweep through the school; it went like a fire in the wind. Dave heard all the details, even though he didn’t want to: out late at night in his boat, dropped something into the water by accident, dove out to get it, never came home. It was all conjecture anyway, Dave thought. How were all those people who weren’t there supposed to know what happened?
Just a few more minutes and he would be done. It was so cold. Dave picked up the rhythm, listening to the changing sound of milk squirted against milk as the bucket filled. If the cats would come in, he would give them a taste. They were experts at catching the stream of milk in their mouths—Dave didn’t have to be a good shot. But sometimes he deliberately missed and hit them on a leg, the tail, or their bodies. Then they would lick it off fastidiously. Real economists, those cats.
Rod was a better shot at it than Dave. Dave thought of the summer night a couple of years before when Rod had been helping him with his chores so they could go out on the lake together. Rod had the holstein, and Dave had the jersey, and things were going along pretty fast before Rod started shooting him with milk. But Dave had the advantage—he had a cow between him and Rod, and Rod was in clear view. At least the last pint from each cow, before stripping, landed not in the buckets but on the cows, on Rod and Dave, on the walls and floor. They had started laughing so hard that Dave’s dad came out to see what was up. He failed to see the humor in their battle.
Dave started stripping the big cow and tried to swallow the lump that kept rising in his throat. It made it a little hard to breathe. He had to open his mouth to let the air in, and that made it seem a lot colder than breathing through his nose would have done.
In a few moments he was finished. He lugged the bucket over to the milk can that stood in the corner. This cow gives entirely too much milk, he thought. He tipped the bucket and drained it into the can, watching the milk seep down through the filter. Then he put the bucket on the floor and removed the filter. It would go into the trash pile; the rest would go into the house for washing. Next summer his dad promised to pipe hot water into the barn. Dave wasn’t sure he liked the idea. That meant more minutes in the cold during the winter—and that his mom would no longer offer to wash up the equipment.
The filter dripped warm milk down his fingers and onto the floor. That milk-squirting battle he and Rod had had was nothing compared to what happened after Dave’s dad left that night, Dave thought. He remembered he had started it that time. They were just finishing Dave’s chores—Rod’s parents were wealthy, and he never had many chores to do—and were still damp from the squirting. It was then that Dave had thought, I wonder if this filter will stick to Rod’s back. The moment of thought became the moment of action, and the barn was soon filled with flying filters, milk-drenched; their clothes started dripping, a few filters hung on the ceiling and walls. And yes, Dave smiled, the first one had stuck on Rod’s back. It had taken him completely by surprise. In fact, Dave had won that battle. They were teachers back then; and Rod almost had his Eagle award in Scouting. Dave had taken a little longer to get his.
Now they were priests and almost ready to graduate from school. Almost every Sunday they sat together to bless the sacrament. But next Sunday, Dave thought—and he threw the filter as hard as he could against the wall. Then he let the cow out. After their filter war there had still been some hanging on the walls the next morning when Dave had gone out early for the morning milking. Maybe this one would freeze and harden and hang there all winter. Rod would have gotten a kick out of that.
Some friend you are, Dave thought. Here your best friend dies and the next day all you can think of are the milk wars you had and some silly thing he would get a kick out of.
He was finished early and almost impulsively went out of the barn through the cow’s door, and instead of heading to the house across the lawn, he headed toward the lake through the corral. Rod always ran to the lake, Dave thought, and started to run himself. Not too much longer and it would freeze over. Then he could go out and skate on it.
Rod’s mom hadn’t liked the idea of them skating on the lake. “What if the ice isn’t thick enough?” she wanted to know.
It had been Rod’s idea, and he had the answer. “We have a safe and scientific answer,” he said. “A certain depth of ice will support a certain amount of weight. We drill down and see how deep the ice is at different points of the lake. If it’s well over the danger point, we know we can go out on it.”
Dave stopped running and started to walk. It was too cold to run; the air burned his throat and lungs. Rod had all kinds of crazy ideas and they always seemed to work.
He wouldn’t have stopped to walk, either, Dave thought. He would have run all the way and then would have been waiting cool and comfortable at the boat when you came up. Dave could keep up when he wanted to; he could even sometimes win their races. But not in the cold. Dave never could run in the cold.
I wonder if it gets cold in the spirit world, Dave thought. I wonder if Rod can run there.
Dave reached the boat and squatted in the dirt beside it. I wonder who put the boat back, he thought. I wonder how they found him and how they knew where to put the boat. He thought of how that had been his idea, to build the boat, and how he had shown Rod how to do it. Now that was something Rod wasn’t good at—he had wasted a lot of good lumber trying to build his share of the boat. Dave remembered what Rod had said when Dave had mentioned it once: “I’m not too good at this, and I need to learn. What if you die or something? There wouldn’t be anyone here to show me how to build things. I need to learn.” And then he had laughed and shoved Dave, and they had started wrestling. That was another thing Rod was good at. Dave could beat him almost all the time when it came to pure grapple; but if beat meant pin, Dave was the sure loser.
I wonder what Rod’s doing right now, Dave thought, and then he began to whistle softly to himself. He was a little afraid. The quiet night, black and starless, the black and quiet lake where his best friend had drowned the night before, the thoughts of spirits and ghosts—he began to whistle the tune to “Magdalena Katalena” very softly to himself. But as he did, he thought to himself, I’ll bet Rod wasn’t afraid last night. And then he thought, as he shoved the boat out into the lake and jumped in after it, wetting only one leg and that only to the ankle, that it all wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t fair.
He turned his back to the front of the boat and began to row in deep and heavy strokes. It isn’t fair, he thought to the rhythm of his work, that Rod should have to die when he was so capable and so happy and so spiritual—how could a guy like that drown anyway?
He rowed on out to the spot where he heard that Rod had drowned and sat back in the boat and looked up into the sky. It was as black as the water beneath him, but the water scared him. If it could get Rod, he thought, what would it do to me? And he saw in his mind Rod’s face, white in wet blackness, a pale oval beneath the boat, clawing up to air but never finding it. Dave tried to shut the vision from his mind. He thought of the roadshow earlier that year, in the spring, when Rod had played the turnip and Dave had been the dwarf. Rod had been in Dave’s garden, a turnip almost as large as the gardener. They had laid him on Dave’s kitchen table up there on the stage, and Dave had brought out a knife to cut through his red and whiteness.
No, Dave thought to himself and sat up in the boat. You’re really morbid, aren’t you, Peters? So he tried to see Rod somewhere else, and where he saw him was at a special stake meeting as one of the youth speakers. “I’ve been assigned to speak on why I’m going on a mission,” he had begun, and Dave had groaned. What an awful way to start a talk, he had thought. But he did have to admit one thing: even if Rod wasn’t the best speaker in the world, when he spoke people listened because they knew he meant every word of what he said.
Dave gripped one oar by its end and squeezed it hard. What happened here last night? he thought. How could you let yourself drown? It’s unfair! And then Dave finally leaned over the edge to look into the clear black water. He thought of the legends that always circulated around the town in the summer that the lake was bottomless—and that giant prehistoric fish had been seen by skin divers again that spring.
The lake had been where Dave and Rod spent their free time. That blackness was a deep blue during daylight hours, the kind of blueness whose color by itself invited one to enter. Dave could see Rod, standing on the bow of the boat, clad in cut-off jeans and no shirt, saying, “See ya later, pilgrim!” and then jumping in. He could stay underwater longer than anyone else Dave knew.
He dipped his hand into the water. It was terribly cold, the kind of cold, he thought, that could cramp a person’s muscles in a moment. Why had Rod jumped in? Dave wondered. He knew better. He should have been more careful. They had lots of plans together—plans that would make him be careful. Like Ricks College next fall, where they would room together in the dorms; like the missions they had planned. Rod would be glad to see him make it. Dave remembered the long talks they had had about missions and girls and the gospel and their parents. They had shared fears and doubts. But later Rod became set and firm, his doubts gone. He knew where he was going. And he always knew the right things to say to help Dave make up his mind to do what he knew he should do—even though it sometimes took a lot of discussing before those right things came out.
Dave looked back up at the sky—there were stars out now; the clouds had parted some—and he felt the lump growing in his throat again, and thought, Don’t be stupid. Crying won’t bring him back. And he thought, I’ll bet Rod wouldn’t cry over you. He’d just smile and touch your hand at the funeral and whisper, “Take care, buddy. See ya before too long.”
But those thoughts didn’t help, and Dave’s throat swelled until he felt he couldn’t really breathe, and the white puffs that had been coming from his mouth and nostrils nearly stopped for a moment. And then the hurt pushed itself up and out his eyes so they glistened in the darkness and his breath caught, then rushed out, then caught again, and his eyes glistened.
And he lay back in his rowboat and sobbed in the dark over the lake.
“Why did it have to be you, Rod?” he said out loud. “You were the good one, the strong one. I won’t do much good here. But you were good; you could even milk with gloves on—” and then he smiled through his tears and laughed a little even while he was crying.
“Rod would think you’re a pretty dumb guy,” he said to himself. Then he whispered. “We were pretty good friends, weren’t we, Rod?”
He leaned over the edge of the boat. The white puffs of air floated over the water. They were coming more freely now. Heavenly Father, he said in his mind, Rod was a pretty good guy, and I’m sure you were proud of him. You know we were close friends—best friends—and I’m really missing him. I think we did everything together. I’m feeling kind of alone.
Then he closed his eyes tight, and felt the cold tears on his cheeks, and thought. All I ask of thee is to help me become the kind of person Rod was. I want to see him again.
Dave sat up straight on the boat’s crossbar. He and Rod had had a boat race once. A neighbor had loaned them his boat. They were going to go two out of three, but they didn’t need to. Dave won the first two races. They had laughed and teased each other, and then Rod had jumped out of his boat and swam in four or five quick strokes over to Dave’s boat and started rocking it till he had swamped it.
We haven’t had a good tussle like that for a long time, Dave thought.
And then he said, half aloud, “Beat you to shore, Rod.” He started rowing as hard as he could, puffing out the white air until his lungs felt raw. Getting a little out of shape, aren’t you, Peters, he thought to himself. Maybe you ought to go out for basketball this winter.
The boat hit the bank and he clambered out, getting both feet wet and not caring. He pulled the boat up completely onto the bank and left it there without looking back. His house was over a mile from the bank, and his folks might be getting worried, he thought. He took off in an easy run, singing under his breath, “Her lips stuck out like two big weiners; she used them round the house like vacuum cleaners. Oh, Magdalena Katalena Hoopensteiner—” his white breath clearing the way through the black night before him.

One of the greatest lessons in devotion to the gospel came when George T. Benson received a mission call. “I was about thirteen years of age when father received a call to go on a mission. He went, leaving mother at home with seven children. The eighth was born four months after he arrived in the field, but never did we hear a murmur of complaint from Mother; she was so supportive of Father.

“The letters we received from Father were indeed a blessing. They seemed to us children to come halfway around the world, but they were only from across the country. There came into our home, as a result, a spirit of missionary work that has never left it.

“Father returned home and while we would sit each day milking the cows, he would sing over and over again, ‘Ye Elders of Israel,’ ‘Israel, Israel, God Is Calling,’ ‘Come All Ye Sons of God,’ ‘Ye Who Are Called to Labor,’ until I learned every word of several of these great missionary songs. Today I don’t need a songbook when we sing these great songs that Father sang to us morning and evening.”

My next example is Carol McAdoo Rehme of the Loveland First Ward, Greeley Colorado, who spreads happiness among the elderly with a weekly sing–along at the neighborhood nursing home. She found they needed a pianist and immediately volunteered. Twice weekly, she played music in the dining room during the lunch meal. It was a low–pressure opportunity to practice hymns and sight–read new music. But one day an elderly resident recognized “Bicycle Built for Two” and sang along as she played. Others spontaneously joined in, so when the song ended she checked in her music book for other old favorites.

That was all it took. She had a new program: a weekly sing–along that moved to the comfortable confines of the lounge room. Her bag of music expanded to stacks of sheet music and pounds of books. The repertoire grew, ranging from Gay Nineties melodies to wartime songs, from familiar hymns to show tunes, from patriotic marches to nursery songs. As word spread, both the program’s popularity and resident attendance increased.

What a revelation it was to hear their chorus of memory–to see eyes light up, toes tap, and hands clap. Ninety-eight-year-old Gladys couldn’t recall what she ate for lunch an hour earlier but knew the words to nearly every song Carol played! Eleanor, limited to her wheelchair because of a degenerative disease, kept rhythm by nodding her head, the only part of her body she could control. Betty, a double amputee unable to do but able to tell, was instrumental in explaining phrases like “tootsie wootsie” and “wiffle tree.” And Carol? She witnessed the pleasure the songs brought. She listened to venerable voices ringing out. Her voice lifted with theirs as they all joined together to “make a joyful noise” (Ps. 66:1).

A few months ago, members of the Daveyton Third Branch, of the Benoni South Africa Stake, experienced firsthand the thrill of researching their own family histories and performing sacred ordinances for their ancestors in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple.
The project began in earnest last April as branch members became at first interested and then determined to discover the spirit of Elijah in their own lives and in the lives of their families. The Church’s family history tools—especially the new and easy-to-use Family Tree Lite website at lite.fs.org—enabled the branch members to research their ancestors’ names and key dates and then record those individuals as branches in their own family tree.
Branch members were aided by Elder Gordon and Sister Susan Foote, who are a senior missionary couple assigned to the Daveyton Third Branch. “We got behind this effort and supported the goal of the branch president (Edward Mtshali) for branch members to find at least one of their own family names and then perform baptismal ordinances in the Johannesburg Temple,” Sister Foote explained.
Elder Foote began by helping more than 40 branch members register online and obtain individual FamilySearch accounts. Then an Africa Southeast Area senior missionary couple, Elder Dennis and Sister Merrily Bird, who are area family history specialists, traveled to the branch several weeks in a row, helping complete registrations, teaching key concepts, and assisting members with their questions. They also taught branch members how to enter family history information themselves through the Family Tree Lite website on their personal cell phones.
Once members had properly entered the names and information of their ancestors, they scheduled a day trip for Saturday, April 21, 2018, to travel to the Johannesburg South Africa Temple to complete proxy baptism and confirmations. With the distance from Daveyton to the temple being about 50 kilometers—and with few members owning cars—transportation was a key issue. Branch members made and sold African greeting cards to pay for public transportation to and from the temple.
All their hard work and planning paid off and on that very special day, 25 branch members journeyed to the temple and completed baptisms and confirmation ordinances for 66 of their ancestors. The spirit of Elijah poured forth.

Another young woman decided that one of the stakes in her life was to observe the Sabbath, regardless of her circumstances. One year after she was baptized a member of the Church with her family, her ward was divided. Her family was assigned to the newly formed ward, and she was the only young woman in the new ward. Her parents resisted the change and stopped attending church, but she wanted to follow the guidelines in For the Strength of Youth on “Sabbath Day Observance.” She decided to go to church in the new ward whenever she could, even though it meant attending all of her meetings alone.

On Sundays she read her scriptures and worked on Personal Progress. Her decision to be “steadfast and immovable” in observing the Sabbath encouraged her mother and younger sister to begin attending church again. Her mother testified that her daughter’s steadfast example of living the gospel and her goodness helped them return to activity.

Age 16. From Alberta, Canada. Likes laughing, learning, and cooking the perfect hamburger.
Growing up, my parents were very active in the Church. I often felt like I was dragged to service projects without a choice. As I’ve grown older and continued to participate in service, I’ve found that it has changed me for the better. As I focus less on myself, I’m happier.
Once, I had an opportunity to go to the inner city with a few other youth to help the homeless. One man from El Salvador told me about how he had to leave his home country due to violence and ended up on the streets in Canada. I also met a man who reminded me to stay in school and not to take my opportunities for granted.
Hearing their stories and seeing their perseverance and humility had a profound effect on me. It’s easy to ignore the homeless and assume that they brought their situation on themselves. But Isaiah talks about how Jesus Christ bore our sorrows and was rejected of men (see Isaiah 53:3). I believe that as disciples of Jesus Christ, we shouldn’t ignore those who are rejected like He was.
While I may not be able to solve all their problems, I know that even the smallest acts of service can make a big difference in someone’s life.
“Even the smallest acts of service can make a big difference.”