Gospel Story Finder

For the pioneers, caring for their homes required heavy labor and protection from the harsh physical environment. Consider the story of Ann Howell Burt. She emigrated from Wales, married, and lived in a dugout in northern Utah during the summer of 1863. As a young mother she had to work hard to keep order and see to the needs of her family. She recorded in her journal:
“Some days ago, I killed a rattlesnake with my rolling pin, as he came crawling down the steps. I was just cooking supper and the baby was on the floor or rather the ground. … I was badly frightened. …
“… A few days ago, while keeping the flies off the baby’s face as he slept … , I discovered … a large tarantula crawling toward the child. I seized the broomstick, thrust the end of it at the tarantula and when it took hold … I hurriedly put it into the fire.”

After church, Kirill’s mother welcomed their new American friends to their home. She played the piano and sang some Ukrainian songs. The adults ate breads, drank herbal tea, and chatted. Sister Wein from East Germany and Sister Norton translated for them. The two children ate bread and played.
Tanya’s and Kirill’s mothers were thrilled to be able to invite Americans into their homes and allow them to take photos without worrying about getting in trouble with the police. Under Communism, friendly visits with foreigners were not allowed.

“In the Celestial Room, I felt an assurance that I will be healed,” Domingo Servito who faced a fatal health condition testified.
He miraculously survived an eight-hour, high-risk major operation after the Open House, and a few weeks later he was able to attend the Dedication, and celebrated his 68th birthday the day after the Dedication. He bears witness that, “when you feel the assurance of the Spirit, it will truly happen.”

When I was older I found work in a dressmaking shop, and learned how to make nice clothes for myself and for Mama and my little sisters too. Soon after this Jody, my childhood sweetheart, asked me to marry him. Looking closely at the temple-sawdust pincushion one day, I knew I wanted to be married in the temple. But after nearly forty years in building, the temple still was not completed, so Jody’s father solved the problem by giving us railroad tickets to Logan. On a beautiful June day we were married in the Logan Temple for time and all eternity.
The pincushion made from temple sawdust traveled with us to our home in Salt Lake City. It went with us wherever we lived. And it has been a reminder to each of our eight children that the temple is a sacred and important place. Papa was right. It has, indeed, been “a fine thing to have a pincushion made with temple sawdust.”

Since joining the church, I have forged and strengthened my relationships with both friends and family. Prior to my baptism I had not spoken with my family for a number of years, but through understanding the gospel and the atonement of Jesus Christ, I realised that if I was to repair relations with my family I needed to make the first move. I went to them full of apologies and with a sincere intention to mend my relationship. I am happy to say that now the relationship with my mum and my dad has never been stronger.

On several occasions President Boyd K. Packer, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, has described an experience he had during a leadership training meeting in which a bishop indicated he couldn’t get anyone to serve as the ward Primary president. The frustrated bishop said he had talked to nine different sisters in the ward, and not one of them had agreed to accept the call.

President Packer told the bishop he knew why none of the sisters had agreed to serve: “You asked them—you didn’t call them.” President Packer said that if the call had been extended properly, it would not have taken nine attempts to get someone to accept the call.

My neighbor came across the street and said, “Hey, guess what we’re doing for youth conference? We get to build two barns.”
I grunted. “Two barns? Thrill city. Whoever came up with that dumb idea? Youth conferences are supposed to be fun.”
“We’ll have fun working.”
“Get real,” I told him. “I have a hard time cleaning my room.”
Maybe the adults thought I was Laman or Lemuel at the next stake dance committee meeting. I asked them, “Whatever happened to white river rafting for youth conference? Do you really expect us to get up at 5:00 A.M. on the first three days of our summer vacation?” One of the girls on the committee decided she wouldn’t go as she’d wreck her fingernails. She threatened to organize something for her own ward. None of our complaining did any good. The stake youth leaders stuck to their plan.
A fierce hailstorm pelted Duvall, Washington, the night before the conference. “Bummer, now they’ll have to cancel our exciting barn building extravaganza,” I said sarcastically.
Miraculously, the weather cleared, and I found myself standing with 180 kids in carpenter aprons, pockets full of nails and wearing a T-shirt that read, “You Love Who You Serve.”
We were given the choice of helping to build a barn/shed or a barn/house. I picked the barn/shed. It sounded easier. We banged nails. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t awful. Ward Roney, the to-be-owner of the barn/shed was a sturdy man, weathered by long hours on the tractor. He told me his favorite sound was the belch a cow makes when she’s in a warm shed eating hay. His old shed blew down in a bad storm, and the insurance wouldn’t pay to replace it. He was either brave or foolish to let a bunch of teenagers build his shed. Surely he realized we’d never finish the huge thing. If we could do it, one observer noted, it’d be an Amish barn raising by Mormons for Catholics.
Brother Beecham, the builder in charge of our shed, held the American Homes world record for the fastest home framed. The old record stood at 36 hours, and Beecham’s crew accomplished it in four. I got a kick out of watching him stroll across thin high timbers like they were sidewalks. With the construction boom in Seattle, I knew Brother Beecham was passing up a lot of money to teach us.
Normally, when I work I look at my watch every five minutes. Before I knew it, the walls were up, and we were ready for a crane to position the giant trusses of the roof. But there was no crane. Instead of machine power, we’d use muscle power, and some of the muscles were mine. The ground crew strained to position one truss. Then three of us on the roof pulled up the point with a rope as the ground crew hoisted. We cheered when the truss was securely nailed into place. What a team. Up there, 30 feet off the ground, a great sense of brotherhood developed between the “roof crew.” It was great up there. It was fun. I really developed a closeness to all of them as we worked and sweat and hammered our thumbs hour after hour.
The first day some of the girls were afraid to hit the nails on the head. By the second day they were mean. They’d developed aim and aggression in their hammering. Unfortunately, the girls used their new skills on the boys at the pie eating contest, which turned into a pie throwing war.
Meanwhile the people at the barn/house site made decent progress on the first floor. They were laboring for an LDS family of eight who’d used their savings to drill a well that turned out to be dry. The Dazey family was packed into a small trailer. They’d obtained a small, portable sawmill and cut logs into lumber. Building their barn/house was a dream come true. One of my friends who worked on the site said, “We were digging a ditch for the septic system. After a few hours, it got to where I started taking pride in the ditch and I thought the straight sides were kind of pretty. I’ve never felt that way about a ditch before.”
I added a word to the theme, “You Love Who You Serve.” I thought it should also say, “You Love Who You Serve With.” I didn’t know 75 percent of the people the first morning. We’d lived in the same stake for years and never spoken to each other. On a construction site, you have no choice. You have to say to the person next to you, “Grab the end of that board.” “Watch your head!” “Help me nail this down.” And people were great. If you asked them for an 18-foot board they got it. True, the physical structures were impressive, but even better were the structures built between each other.
There were lag times when there was no work for me, and I thought I’d have fun if I had nothing to do. But I really amazed myself. It got so I wanted to work.
Mr. Roney told us the quality of our work was A-1, top-notch. The look on his face as this place went up taught me I’m happiest when making someone else happy.
It appeared that there was no way we could finish two such big projects in just three days. We poured on the steam. At first a few people hung around the first-aid station and in the hay, drinking pop. But even the “resters” helped when the TV and newspaper reporters came out with their cameras. We wanted to work through dinner, but after a half hour, the adults made us come down. Funny, I’ve never refused food before. Dusk was stealing precious light. There were just a few things left to do. Thirty of us stayed to finish instead of going back to the city to clean up for the dance.
That evening we had a victory celebration! We danced in a barn we had built, and it didn’t fall down. After seeing each other at our worst for three days, our appearance mattered very little. The last day we had a testimony meeting in the barn/house, and 200 people sat on benches on the top floor. The sun streamed into the room, bathing everyone in the warm blond reflection of new wood. I thought, “We built this; we really did it.” We had saved the Dazey’s and Roney’s more than $20,000.00 in labor costs.
When the sacrament came to me, I thought of Jesus Christ in a whole new way. He was a carpenter. I remembered working along with my friends and feeling something. I glanced around. It wasn’t just my friends; the Savior was there too.
When I’m 82 I’m going to take my grandkids out to Duvall, Washington. I’ll hobble out to “my barn” and whap it good and hard with my cane to demonstrate how sturdy it is. And I’ll say, “This is the barn my friends and I built at youth conference in 1986. I don’t know what’s wrong with these young whippersnappers today. Why don’t they do something worthwhile?”
Following the barn raising, we asked ourselves, “What made the difference? Why did this youth conference work when other years we came up short? Why did one of our young men feel confident enough to build a shed for his grandfather? Why did the stake dance committee youth say, “Let’s do the same thing next year!” Why had we spent so much in previous years when this year’s costs were cut by one-half? Here are a few guidelines we followed that we feel made the difference.
1. Prayerfully decide on an activity.
In the beginning, a counselor in the stake Young Women presidency was given the assignment of prayerfully searching six years of New Era magazines for youth conference ideas. As she studied, she reflected on the flashy and expensive activities our youth had planned in the past. They seemed so unsatisfied, always wanting more and bigger the next year. She came to the realization that our stake could no longer compete with the world’s standards of fun and entertainment. It was chilling to speculate on a conference as dramatically different as a service project.
Coincidentally, when the adult specialists were called they had independently focused on the same idea as the Young Women counselor—a barn raising.
2. Prayerfully select specialists.
The Tanners were a new couple in the stake. No one was aware that he was a builder. Their expertise was crucial when setbacks developed. The manufacturer of the trusses wouldn’t assemble and deliver until three days after youth conference. Brother Tanner knew how to apply just the right pressure to get the trusses there on time. The plans for the barn/house were submitted with the standard load of 40 pounds per square foot, but the city said the structure had to have the barn specifications of 120 pounds per square foot. Five days before construction was to commence, Brother Tanner had to scrap the blueprints and completely redo the engineering, foundation, etc. He and another builder burned midnight oil to get the plans back to the city. Since no plans were approved, he couldn’t get the trusses. What a mess. It was a miracle to finally have everything approved and ready and be able to begin the projects. The Tanners started a new business and moved out of the stake soon after youth conference. They were there when we needed them most.
3. Prayerfully locate recipients.
The Roney’s are prominent members of the Catholic faith and the community. It was possible they might not accept help. Sometimes it is harder to receive than to give. When the high councilor approached Mr. Roney and suggested rebuilding his fallen barn, he was overwhelmed. A few minutes later he said, “I knew the Mormons took care of their own, but I had no idea they’d extend the help to others.” The Roney family showed profound appreciation toward us, allowing their daughter to attend girls’ camp, encouraging the stake to hold functions at their farm, and setting up a scholarship fund for our youth.
4. If the event is newsworthy, involve the media.
When the TV and newspapers were informed about the barn raisings, they said they’d send someone out for a few minutes. Although reluctant at first, the reporters were so impressed they stayed for up to three hours. Favorable segments appeared in newspapers and on local newscasts.
5. Publicize and recruit.
Getting the first registrations for the conference was like pulling bent nails. Then the committee held a fireside to drum up enthusiasm. One young man who put up a bit of a struggle when we tried to recruit him completely surprised us with his enthusiasm. The builders showed him what needed to be done, and he caught on like a pro. He worked up such an appetite that when we saw him in the chow line he held a plate loaded with vegetables. The Young Women counselor said, “Todd, I’m amazed you eat so many vegetables.” He turned to show his other plate of food. And this was only his first time through the line. It really touched us to see Todd, a young man with so much going for him, sit down with another boy who felt like he was somewhat of an outcast. The lonely boy had been struggling all day until Todd showed him the way to use his hammer and worked with him. Working side by side, the youth not only established bonds between themselves but with the adults as well. It was worth any effort to encourage each person to attend.
6. Meet often.
The committee met every two weeks from March to mid-June. We needed the meetings to try to tie down all the loose ends because so many unexpected ends unravel—like the T-shirts that weren’t ready, or the huge barbecues we borrowed which turned our hotdogs into charcoal strips, still frozen on the inside. The greased pig contest slipped away from us. The piglets were raised on a concrete floor. When released, they would only root in the grass and refused to run. The kids stood aching for action, but what’s the challenge in tackling a pig sniffing the ground?
7. Plan evening diversions.
After the games and climbing the greased pole, the bonfire featured an original song by Allen and Leony Hunt. The lyrics grew on us like muscles as we hammered:
“You love who you serve who you love,
Like a ripple in a pond it goes on and on,
We follow in the footsteps of the one who showed us how
To love who you serve who you love.”

I remember sitting in the mission home at the end of my mission, sharing a testimony meeting with 13 elders and one sister who were also going home. I don’t remember what I said. I don’t remember what the other elders said. But I will never forget Sister Thorpe’s testimony. She explained that in the interview with her stake president 18 months earlier she had revealed a secret desire: “I want to see miracles on my mission,” she had confided to him. Then, almost apologetically, she had asked him if it was wrong to seek miracles. He had assured her it was not wrong. After relating this conversation to us, she testified, “I’ve seen miracles on my mission.”

I suddenly realized I had also seen miracles, but I hadn’t sought them or expected them. I had just let them happen. By failing to seek them and expect them, I probably prevented quite a few. Miracles come by faith, and faith has something to do with expecting certain things to happen and actively working to bring them to pass.

A few years ago, I was afforded the privilege to serve as a mission president and became intimately acquainted with more than four hundred missionaries. We had one young missionary who was very ill. After weeks of hospitalization, as the doctor prepared to undertake extremely serious and complicated surgery, he asked that we send for the missionary’s mother and father. He advised there was a possibility the patient would not survive the surgery.
The parents came. Late one evening, the father and I entered a hospital room in Toronto, Canada, placed our hands upon the head of the young missionary, and gave him a blessing. What happened following that blessing was a testimony to me.
The missionary was in a six-bed ward in the hospital. The other beds were occupied by five men with a variety of illnesses. The morning of his surgery, the missionary’s bed was empty. The nurse came into the room with the breakfast these men normally ate. She took a tray over to the patient in bed number one and said, “Fried eggs this morning, and I have an extra portion for you!”
The occupant of bed number one had suffered an accident with his lawnmower. Other than an injured toe, he was well physically. He said to the nurse, “I’ll not be eating this morning.”
“All right, we shall give your breakfast to your partner in bed number two.”
As she approached that patient, he said, “I think I’ll not eat this morning.”
Each of the five men declined breakfast. The young lady exclaimed, “Other mornings you eat us out of house and home, and today not one of you wants to eat! What is the reason?”
Then the man who occupied bed number six answered: “You see, bed number three is empty. Our friend is in the operating room under the surgeon’s hands. He needs all the help he can get. He is a missionary for his church, and while we have been patients in this ward, he has talked to us about the principles of his church—principles of prayer, of faith, of fasting wherein we call upon the Lord for blessings.” He continued, “We don’t know much about the Mormon church, but we have learned a great deal about our friend; and we are fasting for him today.”
The operation was a success. When I attempted to pay the doctor, he countered, “Why, it would be dishonest for me to accept a fee. I have never before performed surgery when my hands seemed to be guided by a Power which was other than my own. No,” he said, “I wouldn’t take a fee for the surgery which Someone on high literally helped me to perform.”

Christmas was coming, but this year we were not going to celebrate with an abundance of food and toys. Papa had passed away, and Mama had begun receiving a small pension as a widow, along with a little rent money.
We were in the living room of our apartment, in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The room was quiet. Then suddenly we heard a sound as if someone had arrived outside the building.
I got up and looked through the blinds of the window, from which I could see the entrance to our building. I saw a homeless woman. She had a few bags and wore tattered clothes. I observed her for a few moments, curious to see what she would do. She opened a small paper sack, took out a few cookies, and began to eat them. Soon afterward she opened another little sack that contained a few coins and began to count them.
My young heart was moved, and I softly called to my mother, “There’s an old woman outside. Come and see.” My mother looked, and she also was moved. She asked me to get the can where we kept a little money, and without making a sound, she left our apartment and silently dropped the bills from the building’s hallway window.
I stayed by our window and watched the bills fall. The old woman saw one fall and then another and another. Trying to discover where the money had come from, she looked at the windows of the building. They were all closed. Then something wonderful happened. She looked to heaven and extended her wrinkled hands. Then she placed her hands on her chest and gave thanks for the gift she had received.
Behind the blinds of the window, we wept in gratitude that the little we had was enough to give joy to someone who had less.

We also visited my widowed Aunt Dorothy before she died. She had been very ill for some time, yet she lived on. She waited patiently to be with her husband again after this life. She depended on help from others but lived as fully as possible. She often read the scriptures. A small sign in her home expressed Dorothy’s attitude. It simply said, “Joy.”
Some of the happiest people I know: my mother, Ramona (top), my cousin Dave and Penny Barnes (center), and my Aunt Dorothy (above).
Photographs courtesy of the author
The Keetch family, my mother, Dave, Penny, and Aunt Dorothy are examples of being joyful during trials. They simply live the gospel and look to better days ahead. In doing so they show joy that exceeds the temporary, though painful, trials they face. With faith in God, they follow His plan for them and rely on Jesus Christ and the blessings of His Atonement. This brings joy and peace.

Illustrations by Craig Stapley
There’s a hospital for cancer patients in my area called City of Hope. I never knew this hospital existed until I advanced to the office of a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, when I learned that the LDS chaplain at the hospital was a member of my ward. One day he asked me and another member of the priests quorum to help him take the sacrament to some members of the Church who were receiving treatment at City of Hope.
When we arrived, I was shocked by the number of people who were really sick. The care they received at the hospital really was their last hope. We entered the first room and met a woman from Missouri, USA, who had just started treatment. She was surprised to learn that the hospital had a connection with the local ward and that young men would take the time to come and administer the sacrament.
We returned again the next week and found there were now eight members checked in to the hospital. Not only did we administer the sacrament to them, but we visited with each one as well. I felt a deep sense of gratitude for my own health and for the opportunity to help the patients.
The following week I was on a family trip, so another quorum member went in my place. He told me that the members at the hospital had asked where I was. It made me feel happy to know that my service mattered to them, and it motivated me to continue to go when I’m needed so that my service will bring peace to people who “stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9).

Carrie’s older brother tugged one of her thick blond braids. “Hey, Freckles, you ought to have the sheepshearers do you too.”
“Yeah,” chimed in her twin brother, “you have more wool than old Tim Buck.”
Nine-year-old Carrie made a face at her brothers. All three children were perched on top of the strawstack at the far end of the sheep shed. Sheep, waiting to be sheared, milled about below them, blatting nervously. The shearing clippers buzzed, and men shouted orders as they threw the fleeces up into the wool bag.
Tim Buck, the huge lead ram, seemed to be the only calm one amid the confusion. He was penned apart and was munching on hay. Whenever he shook off flies, the large bell around his neck jingled.
“Carrie Helen!” shouted her dad. “Carrie Helen Shultz, please come here.”
Always anxious to please her father, she hollered back, “Coming—on the double!” Scooting off the strawstack, she ran to meet her dad.
“Carrie, I need you to go with Tim Buck to lead the sheep we’ve already sheared over to the south pasture. There are about a hundred ewes or so, plus the lambs. We have to make room for the next ones.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, grinning up at her brothers and throwing her shoulders back proudly.
Dad fastened one end of a stout rope to the lead sheep’s collar and handed the other end to Carrie. “OK, Carrie, Tim Buck’s ready. Remember what his job is.”
Without hesitating, Tim Buck started out of the holding pen. Once an orphan lamb, he showed no fear of Carrie and looked up at her with soft brown eyes, eyes filled with warmth and wisdom.
Confident of her own importance and of Tim Buck’s love, Carrie stepped out in front of the old sheep. She walked through the noisy ewes, which responded immediately to the sound of the lead sheep’s bell. As they followed Carrie and Tim Buck out of the corral gate, she felt their excitement as they rushed forward. They seemed to know that they were free now to go to the south pasture. Sensing their anticipation, and sure of her responsibility, Carrie tugged at the rope fastened to the sheep’s collar, pulling him toward the narrow bridge and her favorite shortcut to the south pasture.
But Tim Buck resisted Carrie’s tugging and headed toward the hill and the longer, usual route. Again Carrie pulled at the rope, trying to head the old sheep toward the bridge. Again Tim Buck resisted.
“Oh, why can’t you do it my way!” Carrie stamped her foot impatiently as Tim Buck firmly planted his feet, refusing to move. Though she pulled hard, her sixty pounds were no match against the weight of the huge sheep. When her arms began to tire, Carrie glared at Tim Buck and grouched, “All right! I’ll do it your way this time. Come on. Let’s go up that long hill. At least we can cut across the hayfield and not have to take the long road around it.”
The ewes, confused at the delay, had begun to push forward, baaing worriedly. As Tim Buck moved forward, his bell started jingling, and the sheep quieted. When Carrie, walking a couple feet in front, quickened her step, Tim Buck quickened his. The hungry ewes also increased their pace. Out of breath, Carrie rushed to the top of the hill. “Now’s my chance,” she said, pulling tightly on Tim Buck’s rope, forcing his head toward the hayfield.
Tim Buck butted Carrie gently, loosening her grip. Then he moved toward the well-used road.
“Why, you ornery critter! Can’t you see how much easier it would be to cut across that field instead of going around it!” She yanked at the rope, trying to drag Tim Buck toward the hayfield. He looked at her questioningly, then shook his head forcefully. The bell jangled, and the ewes pressed forward as Tim Buck pulled away from the hayfield and moved quickly onto the familiar road. The rope started to slip through Carrie’s hands, but she held on tightly.
Half running, Carrie tried to get ahead of Tim Buck. But he only walked faster. The more she tried, the faster he went, and the faster he went, the faster came the ewes and lambs. Soon Carrie was sandwiched between Tim Buck and the rushing sheep, and the rope was slipping out of her grasp. She clutched it desperately, even though it was burning her fingers.
Familiar with the road and quickened by hunger, the sheep hurried toward the open gate to the south pasture, where Tim Buck saw his own shortcut! He swerved suddenly from the road and down a steep slope. The sudden movement sent Carrie sprawling, and the rope was jerked out of her hands. The sheep quickly moved away from her and down the slope, following Tim Buck through the open pasture gate.
Carrie lay bewildered, hurt, and defeated. Sobbing, she struggled to her feet. With skinned knees and stinging hands, she stumbled back toward the sheep shed. With each step, she imagined her brothers’ teasing and her father’s disappointment.
Her dad met her in his truck before Carrie reached the shed. Stopping his truck, he got out and hurried over to her. Then, tilting her tear-stained face up for him to see, and putting one hand on her shoulder, he said, “It looks like you’ve had some troubles, honey.” He looked at her intently, but his voice was gentle and matter-of-fact. Seeing Carrie’s ropeburned hands, he dampened his bandanna in some clean water and gently patted them while she blurted out her story.
“So you wanted the sheep to take the shorter path across the bridge?” her father said when she had finished.
“It would have been much faster.”
“Do you think that all those sheep could have safely crossed that narrow bridge together?”
“Well,” Carrie hesitated. “I—I guess not. But they would have had plenty of room to cross the hayfield.”
“But, Carrie, do you remember how sick the sheep get when they eat too much hay? Do you know that most sheep can’t stop eating fresh hay once they get started?”
“Oh, Dad, I’m sorry,” Carrie sobbed.
“You’re lucky, Carrie, that Tim Buck wouldn’t allow the sheep to take a dangerous path.”
“Yeah, he’s really stubborn,” Carrie said, starting to fume again.
“Perhaps he’s not as stubborn as he is committed to doing what he knows is right. Remember, Carrie, that he’s the lead sheep. He guides the others in the paths that will get them safely to where they want to go, just as Mom and I try to lead you along the right pathways so that you can return to live with Heavenly Father.
Dad and Carrie got into the truck and he looked at her hands again to make sure that they weren’t seriously hurt. Then he drove toward the south pasture and stopped. Carrie was surprised when he got out of the truck and lifted her out too.
“All right, Carrie Helen. Now that you know why Tim Buck behaves as he does, do you think that you can take him back to get another bunch of sheep?”
“Yes, Dad. And this time I’ll let him lead the way.”

For my family and me, the cold winter of 1944 was a time of fear and uncertainty. With my father far away on the western front, my mother struggled to keep her four children fed and warm as war threatened our home in Czechoslovakia.
Each day the danger grew closer. Finally, my mother decided to flee to her parents’ home in eastern Germany. Somehow, she managed to get all of us on one of the last refugee trains heading west. Nearby explosions, worried faces, and empty stomachs reminded everyone on the train that we were traveling through a war zone.
One night after our train had stopped for supplies, my mother hurried off to search for food. When she returned, to her horror, the train carrying us children was gone!
Fraught with worry, she turned to God in desperate prayer and then frantically began searching the dark train station. She ran from track to track and from train to train. She knew that if her train departed before she found it, she might never see us again.
On a dark night in a grim railroad station many years ago, my mother faced a choice. She could sit and bemoan the tragedy of having lost her children, or she could put her faith and hope into action. I am grateful that her faith overcame her fear and that her hope overcame her despair.
Finally, in a remote area of the station, she found our train. There, at last, we were reunited. That night, and during many stormy days and nights to come, my mother’s example of putting faith into action sustained us as we hoped and worked for a brighter future.

Sue was extremely quiet as the family drove home from fast and testimony meeting. So quiet, in fact, that her father sought an opportunity within the hour to talk with her alone. To make a long story short, Sue was laboring under the illusion that she really didn’t have a testimony of the gospel. Two or three members that day had expressed “sure knowledge” that the gospel was true, and in tears Sue said, “Daddy, I can’t say that I know it’s true, and that troubles me.”
Sue’s dad was patient and understanding, for his mind was remembering clearly his teenage years of developing testimony.
“Sue,” he asked, “why do you pay tithing?”
“Because I know it’s a commandment from the Lord,” she replied promptly.
Sue’s dad then led her mind through a quick rerun of some basic principles, including the Word of Wisdom, the law of the fast, partaking of the sacrament, high moral standards, and prayer. To each of these Sue was able to relate positively and promptly. Soon she smiled at her father and said, “Gee, Daddy, I guess I do have a testimony of sorts about everything you mentioned. I suppose I could bear my testimony about the things I understand.”
And that’s the way it is with all of us. Sue had certainly felt a lack of security in this Church, which she loved, but not after her father had proven to her that she was on schedule with a developing testimony about many truths. Real security comes with a developing testimony. Hopefully, we’ll be spending much of our time here in mortality developing our testimony, improving our testimony, and sensing the wonderful security that comes with each new truth riveted securely in its place. We all have an urgent need for security.

As Krista helped her older sister prepare dinner, she often stopped and looked out the window at the rain. She didn’t mind the storm, but the girls were anxious for Father to return with word about Mother who had taken the baby to a hospital hundreds of miles away for surgery.
Dinner was all ready when Father finally arrived home. Before eating, however, he suggested that they kneel down for a blessing on the food and a special prayer for health and protection for each one in the family.
The storm seemed to grow worse every minute. While the girls were doing the dishes, a patient of Father’s called. He needed emergency treatment for an aching tooth.
Krista wanted to ride to the office with Father so together they splashed through heavy water to the car and then headed toward his office.
It was still raining when Father finished treating the man’s tooth and they all left the office. Just as Father made a turn off the freeway, someone on a high bank above them frantically honked a warning horn, but the warning came too late!
Rushing floodwaters poured onto the car, lifting and turning it. Father managed to roll down a window and push Krista partway through so two boys on the bank could pull her out and carry her to safety, but it was impossible for him to climb out of the car as it swept along on the crest of the flood.
Then he felt himself being torn out of the car. The last sound he heard before he was sucked into a long dark drain-tunnel was Krista screaming, “Daddy, Daddy,” as she struggled to get away from those who held her. Gasping for air he was washed through the drain. Strong arms lifted him out of the whirling water at the end of the tunnel.
After long moments of frantic suspense, Krista and her father were together again, cut and bruised but somehow miraculously alive.
Safe in her father’s arms, Krista breathed with relief.
“We certainly had a quick answer to our special prayer, didn’t we?” Father asked.
Krista looked up at him and smiled. She couldn’t find the words to express her feeling of love and gratitude so she just nodded in full agreement.

When I was growing up in Lehi, Utah, USA, my family had a garden large enough that we rotated the corn and potatoes every year. One day my father told me to weed the corn while he weeded the potatoes. As I worked my way down a row of six-inch-high (15 cm) corn, I found a solitary potato plant growing larger and more beautiful than any of the potato plants on Dad’s side of the garden. I called to him and asked, “What should I do with this?”
Dad barely looked up. “Pull it.”
Believing he hadn’t realized I was pointing to a potato plant, I objected, “But Dad, it isn’t a weed. It’s a potato.” Again, without looking up, he said, “Not this year. This year it’s a weed. Pull it.” So I did.
Since then I have often pondered the wisdom of my father’s words. I have come to realize that obedience is not just making a right choice but making a right choice in the right season. When I consider all the things Heavenly Father would have me do in this life, doing them at the right time seems as critical as doing them at all. For instance, serving a mission, dating, getting married, having children, gaining an education, and beginning full-time employment are right choices. Yet when people do these good things in the wrong order, the consequences are often disastrous.
King Benjamin taught that we should “see that all … things are done in wisdom and order” (Mosiah 4:27). Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Faith also includes trust in God’s timing, for He has said, ‘All things must come to pass in their time’ (D&C 64:32).”1
I believe Satan deceives us by convincing us to do the right things in the wrong order: sexual intimacy before marriage, dating before age 16, becoming a parent and then getting married, and so forth. The greatest commandments of God, when compromised or polluted, become plants grown out of season—weeds. When I have been tempted to justify doing the right thing in the wrong season, I have been grateful for my father’s important lesson: “Not this year. This year it’s a weed. Pull it.”

During World War II, several Latter-day Saints moved through the islands with advancing Allied forces. In 1944 and 1945, military groups held Church meetings in many locations, and numerous LDS service members and service workers were still in the Philippines when the war ended. Among them were Maxine Tate and recent convert Jerome Horowitz. Both helped introduce the gospel to Aniceta Fajardo. While helping rebuild Aniceta’s house in a bombed-out area of Manila, Brother Horowitz shared his newly found faith with Aniceta and her daughter, Ruth.
Aniceta gained a testimony and desired baptism, but the Church did not authorize baptisms for Filipinos at that time because there were no permanent Church units in the islands. Elder Harold B. Lee (1899–1973) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles became aware of Aniceta’s desire, and in his capacity as chairman of the General Servicemen’s Committee, Elder Lee approved Aniceta’s baptism. On Easter morning in 1946, Aniceta Fajardo was baptized by serviceman Loren Ferre and is now acknowledged as the first known Filipino to become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

“Yuck,” I said, grimacing at the reflection of my silver braces. My friend Rachelle sighed. “You aren’t feeling sorry for yourself again, are you? Braces aren’t the end of the world.”
“But, Rachelle,” I exclaimed, “you heard what my dad said about Halloween. Since I got these stupid braces, he’s not letting me near candy. He says that I’ll just have to stay home tonight and help Mom pass it out to everyone else.”
Rachelle thought for a moment. “Why don’t you see if he’ll let you just dress up and come with us for the fun of it.”
“No thanks,” I replied. “It wouldn’t be the same. I guess it’ll be OK handing out goodies to the little kids. Some of them are really cute.”
“I’m going to the grocery store,” Mom called as she walked out the door. “Your dad is in the garage if you need anything.”
“OK,” I replied. Just then the phone in the kitchen rang. I hopped up and ran full tilt down the hallway. Just as I rounded the corner, I crashed into my little brother, Nathan, who was carrying Mom’s coupon box. Up in the air flew the box, and down on the floor we fell. It didn’t hurt us, but the once-organized coupons were scattered everywhere. “Oh no, Marta!” my brother exclaimed. “Mom’s going to be mad at you!”
“Well,” I retorted as the phone stopped ringing, “don’t just stand there looking at them. Help me get them back into the box.”
Quickly we gathered up the coupons. One for a free jewelry-cleaning at a local store caught my eye. “I have it!” I shouted. “I have it!” I stuffed the remaining coupons into the box and herded Nathan out the door. By this time Rachelle had joined me in the hallway. “Come on,” I said as I hurried into the kitchen for a pencil and paper. “I have the greatest idea for trick or treat.”
That evening everyone was dressed in their costumes. Nathan had chosen to be a pirate with a green face; Dad wore his usual scarecrow costume, and Mom was dressed as Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. They were really surprised when I entered the room as Little Red Riding Hood.
“Where are you going?” Dad asked. I opened my trick-or-treat bag, and he looked inside. “So that’s what’s been keeping you so busy. It looks like you’re going to have an interesting Halloween.”
Rachelle and I picked up our friends Bobbie and Linda and started out. I was so excited that I could hardly walk.
“I didn’t think that your parents would let you go,” Linda remarked.
Rachelle laughed. “Well, they changed their minds after Marta spilled the coupons all over the floor.”
There was no time for further explanation right then because we were already at the first house. Mrs. Perry, an elderly widow, lived there. “Oh my, what do we have here?” she exclaimed. When we shouted, “Trick or treat!” Mrs. Perry smiled and handed us each a small candy bar. Instead of taking mine, though, I gave her a small, hand-printed card. “What’s this?” she questioned. “A coupon good for one free lawn mowing? Is this some sort of trick?” “No,” I laughed. “Instead of tricking tonight, I’m treating. I’ll see you and your lawn next summer.”
Brother and Sister Marker lived next door to Mrs. Perry. Again, when we rang the doorbell and the Markers tried to give me a treat, I pulled a card from my sack and gave it to Sister Marker. She looked at it and laughed. “You have to be kidding! An evening of free baby-sitting all six of our children?” My friends chimed in, “Well, we’ll help her. Just give us a call when you need us.” Sister Marker laughed and waved as we went on.
That evening we delivered coupons for free bread, baby-sitting, and car and window washing. I say “we,” because my friends were really getting into it too. They even started turning down candy that they were offered! It was a lot of fun, and before we knew it, we were at the last house. I had saved a very special coupon for this one. The people who lived there had moved in just before school started. “Trick or treat!” we shouted when Mrs. Bybee answered our knock.
“Well, let me see if I can find any candy for you scary creatures,” she laughed, starting back into the house.
“No—wait,” I said. “We’re treating tonight. Is Crystal home?”
Mrs. Bybee looked at us hard. I knew that she was wondering why we wanted to see her daughter. You see, Crystal was born blind and with several other birth defects. Although she’s a year older than we are, she still has a hard time, and kids sometimes make fun of her. Slowly Crystal emerged from the room where she had been sitting. “Who is it, Mom?” she asked shyly.
“It’s Marta,” I told her. “And my friends Rachelle, Linda, and Bobbie are with me. We’re treating instead of tricking tonight, and we have something for you.”
I reached into my sack for the very last card and handed it to her. She felt it and asked, “What does it say?”
Rachelle spoke up this time. “It says, Crystal, that if you don’t mind, we’d like to come to your house every week and read with you.”
“Wouldn’t you like that?” asked Bobbie anxiously when Crystal didn’t answer right away. “We want to be your friends.”
“Oh yes!” she said. “Oh, please come!” She turned to her mother and said, “They really are my friends, aren’t they?”
“Yes, we are,” we exclaimed together. “And we’ll see you every week.”
Crystal and her mother stood on the steps of their porch and waved good-bye until we were out of sight.

When Scott woke up in his grandfather’s den, he recognized the creaking noise even before he opened his eyes: Grandpa Max was hoisting his flag up the wooden flagpole in the front yard.
Today was the Fourth of July, but that wasn’t the reason that Grandpa Max was putting up the flag. He had hoisted “the old Stars and Stripes,” as he called it, to the top of that pole 365 days a year for as long as Scott could remember.
Two minutes later Grandpa was standing at the bottom of the stairs, hollering the familiar words, “Hey, buddy boy, get yourself down here. You’re on spud-peeling detail in five minutes.”
Scott groaned and rolled over. In a few hours about thirty-five relatives would spill onto the front yard for the big picnic that Grandpa Max hosted every year. This was Scott’s year to be cohost. His older cousin Jeff, who had held that title the year before, had told Scott that “cohost” translated into “free help,” and Scott believed it. His body ached from hours of washing windows, mowing the lawn, and carrying tables yesterday. And Grandpa evidently had much more in store for this morning.
“Well, it’s about time!” Grandpa Max grinned at Scott while sliding three slices of golden french toast onto a plate and passing the maple syrup to his grandson.
“I heard you out there with the flag, Grandpa,” Scott said between bites. “I guess it’s just another day for you.”
“Ooooh no, no, buddy boy. I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t ever say that.”
“Well, you do put the flag up every day. Why is that, Grandpa?”
Grandpa Max didn’t answer immediately. Instead he stood up and grabbed a ten-pound bag of potatoes off the counter. “Tell you what, Scott. You peel these; I’ll quarter ’em. You listen; I’ll explain.”
Scott shoveled in the rest of his breakfast and silently picked up the vegetable peeler. He knew that tone of voice, and it meant “Listen up.”
“First,” Grandpa began, “you have to imagine the place that I call ‘the old country,’ the place where I was born. My village wasn’t a town as you know it, but a small cluster of cottages and shops built along seldom-traveled dirt roads. Everywhere there were poor, shabbily dressed people. Why, they would’ve thought that I was a king if they could have seen me dressed like this.” And he snapped the strap of his bib overalls for emphasis.
“And speaking of kings, the leader of the old country taxed and imprisoned the people unfairly, sometimes forcing them to join his private army. Because of this, many people began to talk against him. They gathered at secret meetings where they talked of ways to overthrow him. The ruler knew that they hated him, so periodically he sent his soldiers throughout the country to show his strength and to question the people, hoping to discover his enemies.
“In my village every family, no matter how poor, had a flag because a flag was considered protection against the soldiers. If a house had a flag hanging from it, it was not as likely to be searched.
“I have a picture in my mind,” Grandpa Max continued, “of my last day in the old country. I was only four years old, but it was a day that I will never forget. My parents had been packing all night, loading our wagon with all our possessions. We were going to make our escape early in the morning.
“The next morning, of all days, the king’s soldiers rode into town to make one of their searches. Our closest neighbor came to warn us.
“Mother had us take off our traveling clothes and put on our everyday work clothes so that we wouldn’t look suspicious. Father pulled the wagon around to the back of the house and hid it in the trees. “Suddenly Mother remembered the flag. Nearly everything inside our small home had been packed into the wagon, and though we searched frantically, we couldn’t find the flag.
“I remember that that’s when I began to cry. Far down the road I could see all our neighbors’ houses draped with the hated flags. Hurriedly my father dumped a bundle of linens on the ground. Rummaging through it, he found the flag. He raced around to the front of the house and hung it up. That picture of my father hanging the flag is my last memory of the old country.”
Grandpa Max smiled at Scott. “A few months later I was living a very different life. My family had come to America, to New York City. We lived in an apartment building with more apartment buildings on both sides of us. On the bottom floor of most of the buildings were shops of all kinds. The street outside was always a busy place, filled with peddlers selling their wares, children playing noisily, and people doing their marketing. Women leaned out their windows and carried on loud conversations with each other.
“One hot, sticky morning I woke up to an unusual quiet. I knew that it was not the weekend, but the street was nearly empty. I heard no peddlers’ cries, no shouting or bargaining as on every other morning. The only sounds were those of a few children playing.
“As usual, I hurried through breakfast, anxious to go downstairs and join my friends. But when I bolted out the front door of our apartment building, I immediately stiffened, and my heart started to pound violently. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t open my mouth. I wanted to run back inside, but my feet wouldn’t move.
“Attached to every shop front, hanging from dozens of windows, stuck into window boxes, and tacked onto mailboxes were hundreds of flags. I stood trembling with fear, waiting for the soldiers to appear and search our homes.
“Laughing and chattering, several children asked me to join in a game, and I numbly followed along. Soon men and women joined the children outside. They sat on the steps of their apartment buildings, talking and joking. Aren’t any of the men going to work? I kept asking myself. Why is everyone so happy? I thought that perhaps they were all just pretending, trying to keep each other cheerful.
“All day long I felt as if I were in a nightmare. By afternoon I was too miserable to even join my friends in their games. I just sat on the curb and watched and waited. At suppertime the men set up long tables on the sidewalk, and the women covered them with tablecloths and began bringing platters and bowls of food to be shared by everyone. I couldn’t eat anything at all.
“Just before dark, Mother took me up to bed. While she was tucking me in, she told me that she was going back outside and that I could call her if I needed anything. I started to cry.
“‘No,’ I yelled, ‘you can’t leave me here alone!’ All day I had tried to be brave, but finally I just broke down and sobbed.
“My father raced up the stairs. ‘I heard you crying clear downstairs. Why are you sad after this wonderful day?’ he asked.
“‘How can you say it’s a wonderful day,’ I cried. ‘How can you pretend, when the soldiers will be here any minute?’
“‘Soldiers?’ he asked. ‘What soldiers?’
“‘The soldiers everybody put their flags up for,’ I sobbed. ‘They’ll be here soon, and we don’t even have a flag!’
“‘Oh, my poor frightened boy,’ my father said softly. He sat me on his lap. ‘First of all,’ he explained, ‘there are no soldiers coming to search our home today or any other day.’
“I stopped crying and looked up at him. Then he told me the story of America’s birthday and explained that all the flags were for the celebration.
“I went back outside with my parents and watched the fireworks to end the big birthday party and thought and thought about what my father had told me, trying to understand it all.
“I did understand one thing, though. My father said, ‘Someday we will be able to buy a flag, and I will be very proud to fly that flag. In fact, I will be so proud that when I am an American citizen, I will want to fly it every single day. And I hope you will, too, Max.’”
The potatoes were all peeled, quartered, and ready to boil, and Scott was still listening intently to his grandfather. “How come you never told me that story before, Grandpa?”
“Well, buddy boy, you never asked me before.”
“I think you should tell everyone today at the picnic, Grandpa,” I told him.
“Maybe I will, buddy boy. Maybe I will.”