Gospel Story Finder

Entering the United States Navy in the closing months of World War II was a challenging experience for me. I learned of brave deeds and examples of courage. One best remembered was the quiet courage of an eighteen-year-old seaman—not of our faith—who was not too proud to pray. Of 250 men in the company, he was the only one who each night knelt down by the side of his bunk, at times amidst the jeers of the curious and the jests of unbelievers, and, with bowed head, prayed to God. He never wavered. He never faltered. He had courage.

My companion and I were excited to open a new area for missionary work in a small town in Guatemala’s western highlands. Soon after our arrival, however, leaders and members of local churches began spreading wild stories about us. As a result, people began to fear us.
But Elder Todd Hinkins and I remained optimistic, especially after three families agreed to attend an open house about the Church. To help introduce them to the gospel, we planned to show them filmstrips about the Restoration.
When we tested our filmstrip projector before our meeting, however, the projector light bulb blew up. A power surge had apparently damaged our voltage converter. It could no longer convert 220 volts of electricity to the 110 volts we needed to power our projector.
"What now?" my companion and I lamented.
Brother Chavez, the only member of the Church who lived in town, told us that he thought the nuns in town had a voltage converter. So, while Brother Chavez drove to nearby Quetzaltenango to get another light bulb, we said a prayer and walked to the local convent.
We knocked, introduced ourselves, and explained our dilemma, wondering what the sisters would say. Without hesitation, they gave us their converter and wished us well. Brother Chavez soon returned, and we held our meeting.
To thank the nuns, Elder Hinkins and I made cookies for them. Shortly after we delivered the cookies, the nuns surprised us by inviting us to dinner.
We accepted.
A few days later, Elder Hinkins and I sat down for dinner at a beautifully set table surrounded by seven nuns. Five were from Canada, one was from the United States, and one was from Guatemala City.
During dinner we told them about the restored Church and our work as full-time missionaries. Then we gave them a Book of Mormon and bore our testimony of it. They thanked us and complimented us on our efforts to bring people to Christ.
In turn, they described some of the different "orders" of nuns. Then they told us about their labors and adjustment to living in the highlands.
With new eyes, I saw the nuns as kindred spirits with common goals, desires, and challenges. They were serving others, sacrificing for their faith, and dedicating their lives to God.
And our dinner? It was the best meal I had that year—shared by our friends, sisters from the Catholic Church.

The choppy waters of the North Sea gently rocked the Speedwell anchored at Delfshaven, Holland. Crowding the ship’s deck were the passengers, along with their families and friends who had come to say good-bye.
Roger gathered his little sister Ellen into his arms. “Be happy that you are going to America,” he said. Ellen wrapped her arms around his neck, and her tears wet his cheek. Releasing herself, she ran to her parents, Kathrine and Edward Howard.
“Oh, Papa! Mama!” she exclaimed. “I don’t want to go away and leave my sister and brother behind.”
“Don’t worry, little sister,” Sarah said, comforting her. “Roger and I will come to America before long. Just wait and see. And remember, Ellen, although you’re almost the littlest Pilgrim on board, you must be brave, because you’re going to a brave new world.”
“Sarah, why are Pilgrims so poor?” Ellen asked. “If we were rich enough, our whole family could go to America. Then I wouldn’t feel so awful.”
“Come on, Ellen, dry your tears. I’ll tell you what—let’s play one more game of pretend before you go. Let’s pretend that I have lots of bags of gold,” suggested Sarah.
Ellen liked to play pretend with Sarah. “What are you going to do with lots of bags of gold?” she asked.
“I’m going to buy a whole fleet of ships. I’ll tell all the Pilgrims to get aboard, and I’ll take them across the ocean where they can never be persecuted again.” Sarah’s smile broadened. “Better still, let’s pretend that I’m a genie. I’ll wrap a magic web around King James, and I’ll say, ‘Aye, Your Majesty, you’re going to be banished to a faraway island where you can never rant and rave and thunder at people or throw them into prison or hang them or clap them into the stocks again. Never again will you tell people how to worship, for they will belong to any church they like.’ And then I’ll sit and watch while he flies into a rage. His beard will bristle, and his face will turn red. Then he’ll spin off into the air to an island of peacocks and apes.”
As Ellen giggled, Sarah hugged her and said, “See, it’s better to laugh than to cry.”
Edward Howard had gone down the plank for one more piece of equipment. When Ellen saw him returning with a strange, heavy load, she asked, “Papa, why are you bringing that big iron screw clamp onto the ship?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but something tells me we’re going to need it.” Papa had worked at the docks for the twelve years they’d been in Holland; he understood about ships.
Sarah and Roger were small when their parents had fled from England to Holland with a group of Separatists, or Pilgrims, but they still remembered the persecutions of King James I. Ellen had been born in Holland, and she loved it because it was home to her. The Dutch people were good to the Pilgrims, allowing them to worship as they pleased. But now the Pilgrim children were speaking mostly Dutch, and the older ones were marrying into Dutch families.
“No one would ever know you’re a little English girl,” Mama once said to Ellen.
“We need to find a country of our own,” Papa declared.
In church on Sundays Ellen bowed her head and listened to Elder Brewster pray. He always thanked Heavenly Father for the kindness the Dutch people had shown them, but lately he had been adding, “Please don’t let us lose our English heritage. Guide us to a land where we can worship as we desire and where we can bring up our children as Englishmen.”
Finally, the prayers were answered, and everyone knew that America was to be their land of promise. A London company agreed to pay their passage there in return for furs, fish, and lumber from America. A patent was given them to settle in the northern part of the Virginia colony. What the Pilgrims didn’t know was that the settlers in Virginia were still bound to the Anglican Church, because King James was not interested in granting freedom of worship to any of his subjects anywhere. However, the king was very interested in the wealth that the English emigrants would send back to England from America.
Since not everyone could go to America at once, it was agreed that Elder Brewster would go with the first group. Pastor John Robinson would remain with those who planned to come later.
So on a July morning in 1620, the emigrants gathered on the deck of the Speedwell and knelt with Pastor Robinson. He stretched his hands toward heaven and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, commended them to the Lord. Then he disembarked.
The people on shore were also crying as they watched the departing ship. Aboard the Speedwell, the rails were crowded with excited, heavyhearted passengers frantically waving a last farewell to those still lining the quay. Ellen waved at Sarah and Roger until they were finally lost from view.
They sailed for England where the Mayflower awaited them. From there the two ships started for America but had to turn back when the Speedwell began leaking badly. The passengers on the Speedwell had to board the Mayflower. Finally the Mayflower, with 102 passengers and its crew, set sail for America on September 16, 1620. Of these voyagers, only thirty-five were Pilgrims. The others were either members of the Anglican Church or strangers and had no intention of changing their religion.
Master Christopher Jones was a rough seadog, as sea captains sometimes had to be. He was also good and kind. He loved his stout, chunky Mayflower and said of her, “Aye, she is apple-cheeked, double-decked, and a fine, sweet ship.”
Closely packed below deck were the stores and livestock of the colony—goats, swine, poultry, bread, butter, cheese, eggs, fish, vegetables, clothing, books, cooking utensils, farm implements, muskets, armor, cannon, and goods for trade with the Indians. The ship’s cargo was so heavy that she rode very low in the sea.
While the Mayflower skimmed westward with the breeze in her sails, Ellen played on deck with four-year-old Mary Allerton, the youngest passenger on board.
“Mary,” Ellen said, “shall we play pretend?”
“How do we play pretend?” Mary asked.
“Well, first, you make believe you’re my sister. Now I need to find a brother. Let me see … John Howland will be just right.” Walking briskly up to him, she said, “Ahoy, mate. A jolly good day it is.”
“Righto!” replied John, grinning. “That it is.”
“Aye, and a jolly good day for pretending,” Ellen added. “Would you like to pretend you’re my brother?”
“I’d like that very much,” the boy answered.
“Then it’s all settled. We are a family. Families stick together on ocean voyages and help each other.” Pretending helped ease Ellen’s homesick longing for Sarah and Roger.
One day a gale came shrieking out of the north. It tugged at the rigging, and the ship strained and groaned. Below deck, the passengers huddled together and comforted each other.
Clinging to her father, Ellen cried, “Papa, is the ship going to sink?”
“No,” he replied. “The Lord wants us to arrive in America.”
“How do you know, Papa?”
“Because He saved us once before when we fled from England and were driven by storms on the North Sea. When the water washed over us, the mariners cried out, ‘We sink! We sink!’ With divine faith, Elder Brewster cried, ‘Yet, Lord, thou canst save!’ The ship recovered, the violent storm ceased, and the Lord filled our minds with much comfort.”
Just then a wall of water lashed across the deck of the Mayflower. Wood cracked and splintered, and the main beam buckled, pulling deck boards with it. Water seeped through to the lower deck.
Cries of terror went up. “The ship is sinking!” a seaman cried.
“Brewster,” a stranger sneered, “I’ve heard about the miracle on the North Sea. See if your prayers can save us now.”
Elder Brewster looked the man in the eye and said, “We know for a certainty the Lord can save. But right now we need to combine work with faith. Come, let’s be up on deck.”
Strong and lusty seamen were struggling against the winds and the waves. The passengers ran to help them push boards against the fractured beam, trying vainly to press it up and together again.
“This iron muscle will help!” Edward Howard shouted. He came forward carrying the great iron screw clamp he had brought from Holland, and the mast was soon repaired. In gratitude the Pilgrims knelt while Elder Brewster committed them once more to the Lord.
For several days the Mayflower wallowed in the subsiding storm. At the first hint of sunshine, Ellen tugged at John Howland’s hand. “I need you to walk on deck with me,” she said.
“All right, little sister, we both need the fresh air.”
On the upper deck, Ellen admiringly patted the main beam so securely mended with her father’s clamp. At that moment a capricious wave sloshed over the deck, and John was washed overboard. Clinging to the mast, Ellen screamed and screamed. Swiftly sailors came. Miraculously John had caught hold of the topsail halyard (rope) that was dangling over the side. The halyard ran out at length, but John held on tightly, and the sailors hauled him in.
Relieved, Ellen buried her face in her hands. “Lord, thank Thee for helping John get hold of the halyard,” she whispered.
Waves and wind were gentle at last. Sailors climbed rope ladders up the mainmast and loosed the sails. While the Mayflower sailed smoothly under the stars, the passengers sweetly slept.
When Ellen awoke, she heard the cry of a newborn baby. Her feet swiftly pattered past the cabin doors until she came to the bedside of Elizabeth Hopkins. Wrapped in a blanket beside her lay the tiny baby. Ellen stared in wonder.
Little Demaris Hopkins grinned and announced, “He’s my brother!”
“Just imagine, Demaris, having a brother born in the middle of the ocean!” Ellen exclaimed.
Steven Hopkins, the baby’s father, patted Ellen on the head. “Guess what we’re going to name him! We’re going to call him Oceanus (Latin word for ocean).”
“Oh, my!” Ellen exclaimed and ran swiftly to tell her mother.
Every day Elder Brewster led the daily prayers, in spite of jeers and complaints. If mighty King James had not intimidated the Pilgrims, however, surely the strangers on board could not.
One of the worst tormenters was a huge, brawny seaman. “Aye, I’ll be burying half of you praying psalm singers at sea,” he taunted. Often he cursed and swore at them bitterly. Then one morning he was stricken. By afternoon he was dead, and his lifeless body was lowered over the side of the ship.
For sixty-six long days and sixty-six long nights, they sailed westward. On the dawn of November 10, 1620, the lookout spied a faint dark line off the starboard bow and raised a cry: “Land, ahoy!” Excitedly the passengers crowded the rail, peering toward the horizon. “Aye, there she is!” Edward shouted. Encircling his wife and little daughter in his arms, he said, “We’re almost home. There is our first glimpse of America.”
All about them people were laughing and crying. As the promised land came closer into view, the Pilgrims burst into songs of joy.
The Mayflower now dropped anchor in Provincetown Harbor, at the tip of Cape Cod. The Pilgrims were heartened, for they had reached the land they had sought so long. But winter was approaching, and they knew they must find a place to settle before the storms came.
A party of men set out to explore the coast. They found a sheltered harbor and a spot where a brook met the sea. There they chose to build their homes. On December 25, they began erecting the first house, and before long the settlement was called Plymouth.
There, through the long, cold winter, the Pilgrims endured hunger and sickness. Many died, but the survivors helped one another and kept their faith.
In the spring, the Pilgrims met the Indians, who taught them how to plant corn and hunt. By autumn the harvest was plentiful, and Governor Bradford proclaimed a day of thanksgiving to the Lord for their blessings.
And so the little girl who had played at pretending with her brother and sister had lived to see her people’s prayers answered. The Pilgrims had found a home where they could worship God in freedom.

If Mom’s sweet tooth was a problem, her real teeth gave her fits! She had one stubborn tooth that was constantly ragged and broken. Fred had tried hardening it, sawing it off, and filing it down. Nothing worked. It kept breaking and cutting her cheek. Finally, Old Mom took matters into her own hands. She found an old rag and packed the offending tooth. Then, apparently knowing that there was danger in swallowing the rag, she unpacked the tooth at mealtimes and laid the rag at her feet. After eating, she carefully repacked it. From then on, Fred always saw to it that Old Mom had a fresh supply of clean rags.

Caylen made a special fast, too. His grandmother had written a letter to us, telling how she had prayed following a Relief Society lesson and asked Heavenly Father to help her find a new way to serve. She soon met a woman who had struggled seriously with infections made worse by foods with yeast in them, like most bread. Grandma Craven makes delicious bread with hardly any yeast. She knew that this was the way Heavenly Father had answered her prayer, and she now makes bread for this sister regularly.
I had shared this with my children, showing them how Grandma Craven had received an answer to her prayer. Prior to the next Fast Sunday, Caylen said, “I want to fast for the lady Grandma bakes bread for.” So without even knowing her personally, he fasted for this sister.

My sister’s name is Buster.
There’s no need to adjust your glasses or blink your eyes. You read correctly. My sister’s name is Buster. Actually, her name is Anne Marie, but when she was five years old, she announced at dinner one night that she preferred to be called Buster because it was a good boy’s name.
“But you’re a girl!” my mother pointed out.
“That isn’t my fault,” retorted Anne Marie, now Buster.
“I rather like girls,” my father said.
“Sure, you can say that because you’re not a girl!” she pouted. “I want to be tough!”
“We are not calling you Buster and that’s that. Anne Marie is a perfectly lovely name. It was my great-grandmother’s name.” Mother thought the issue was closed.
It wasn’t.
My father gave in first. Frankly, he’s a sucker where daughters are concerned, and if Anne Marie wanted to be called Buster, he would call her Buster.
She wore me down next. She wouldn’t talk to me at all unless forced to: “Go ask Susan if she’s finished with the scissors,” mother would say to her. She would stare at me in the left ear and ask coldly if I had the scissors. I got tired of the snub. The day I began calling her Buster she beamed at me and said, “Thanks, kid.” I just about fell on my face laughing.
Mother was more determined. She thought the name Buster was a travesty. If Buster didn’t answer when mother called “Anne Marie,” mother would make her sit in her room for half an hour and then demand an apology. Buster apologized this way: “I’m sorry I disobeyed.”
“Next time will you come when I call?” mother would ask.
“Will you call me Buster?” Buster was brazen. I have seen my mother shake her fists at the air and in a strangled voice say, “What have I done to deserve this?”
After a long while, mother also succumbed and called her Buster. At first she hissed it to show her disapproval, but later she said it quite naturally as if she herself had chosen the name.
So it was that my mother, who grew up with ballet lessons and felt most at home with chintz draperies and delicate Queen Anne furnishings, had to raise Buster, who sat mostly in trees or on garage rooftops. Mother collected recipes. Buster collected bottlecaps and baseball cards. Mother wanted to own a hundred antique dolls. Buster said it would be nice to have eleventy Tonka trucks like Billy Weinberg.
One of the more unnerving events of the following few years was when Buster, unilaterally, cut off her two pigtails that had grown to her waist. I thought we’d have to give mother mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But mother learned patience and long-suffering and, like Job, waited for the right moment, hoping yet to instill in her daughter Buster some kind of feminine identity, however modest.
The “moment” came when Buster was 13. The bishop asked her to give a five-minute talk in sacrament meeting on one of her ancestors. Buster was disgusted.
“What a can of worms!” she exclaimed after telling my parents about the assignment. They were eating ice cream in the kitchen.
“Who are you going to talk about?” asked my father.
Buster shrugged and rolled her eyes back in her head as only she could do.
“Why don’t you talk about my Great-Grandfather Wheatley? He was a real pioneer and went on three missions for the Church. I don’t like looking at the whites of your eyes, Buster,” he said somewhat irritably.
“Sorry,” she returned laconically and clanked her spoon into her dish. “Everyone in the ward already knows about old Ezra Wheatly. You’ve talked about him before, and besides he’s a …”
Bore is, I believe, what she had in mind there but she evidently thought better of it and after a pause said, “He’s a pioneer. Everybody talks about his old pioneer ancestors. Don’t we have any ancestors who weren’t pioneering it all the time?”
I thought my father was going to roll his eyes back in his head, but he restrained himself.
Tactfully, my mother handed my father a plate of cookies and turning to Buster said, “Why don’t you tell them about your Great-Great-Grandmother Anne Marie McIlhenny. She wasn’t a pioneer.”
“She was a wrestler!” My father lost all cool.
“Was she? Was she really?” Buster was ecstatic.
“Not exactly,” corrected my mother, giving my father a try-not-to-help-me-look. “But she did set up an athletic program for the girls in her town. They competed in track events, arm wrestling,” she eyed my father, “and soccer.”
“Did she live around here?” Buster remained interested.
“No, in Nova Scotia, outside a city called Yarmouth.”
“Was she a professional athlete?”
“No, she taught school.”
Buster’s face fell.
“But she loved sports!” my mother continued anxiously. “She thought girls should be allowed to enjoy and participate in sports as much as boys. Wait a minute and I’ll get the book of remembrance. There’s a picture of her in there and a story of her life written by her daughter.” Mother left the room and returned shortly with a large black volume opened up to the picture of Anne Marie McIlhenny. She was a pretty woman wearing a lace dress.
“She doesn’t look like any athlete there!” complained Buster.
“Oh she was feminine, but she was strong.” My mother made a ridiculous looking fist. “Read her story,” she urged. “She did all kinds of amazing things, yet she remained feminine too!” Mother had to have her nickel’s worth of preaching. Her face reddened with excitement. Here, at last, was the opportunity to teach Buster that one could be feminine and enjoy tree climbing too. Maybe she would even drop the name Buster!
My father winked at me.
“You were named after her, you know,” my mother was saying to Buster. “Of course, we didn’t know you would be so much like her then—when you were a baby, I mean. See, you even look like her. If you had a lace collar like that, you’d look exactly like her!” There was a remarkable resemblance.
Buster was skeptical but took the book of remembrance to her bedroom.
On Saturday morning mother, armed with pen and pencil, went into Buster’s bedroom to help her with her talk. To her surprise, Buster didn’t want help.
“Are you sure?” mother asked.
“Positive,” Buster replied. “I know what I want to say. I can write it myself. Did you know,” she raised her eyebrows, “that Anne Marie McIlhenny finished building a barn with her own two hands after her husband broke both his legs?”
“Yes, I know.”
“She was sensational,” Buster muttered, forgetting mother was there. “Simply sensational.”
“She doesn’t want any help,” mother told father and me in the kitchen, “and she thinks Anne Marie McIlhenny was sensational!” She clapped her hands. “Maybe she’ll want us to call her Anne Marie again. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
My father laughed and shook his head. “Don’t count on it,” he grinned.
Mother went downtown to celebrate Buster’s “growth into womanhood” as she dramatically put it. Her celebration took the form of buying Buster a new dress to wear for her talk. Buster hated dresses, especially new ones.
“Did you know,” Buster began as mother unwrapped the box, “that Anne Marie McIlhenny had her own horse and rode bareback whenever she could? And she loved the wind.”
“I’d forgotten that,” said my mother. “How do you like this dress?” She held it up. It was, every inch, white eyelet. I kid you not.
I thought of Anne Marie McIlhenny in her lace dress.
Buster stared at the dress for what seemed an hour and a half.
“It’s okay,” she said finally.
Mother knew good luck when it clobbered her on the head like that and quickly hung the dress in the closed before Buster changed her mind. She hummed steadily through dinner. She was victorious. Here was Buster giving a talk all by herself and about her own great-great-grandmother and not her usual favorite—Goliath. And she was going to wear white eyelet doing it. Mother was sure that any moment now Buster would demand that we call her Anne Marie!
That evening Buster did not want to rehearse her talk for us. She said she could do it herself. She sat on the garage roof and practiced. I could see her lips moving from the kitchen window.
“Do you think it’s safe to let Buster give a talk without our hearing it first?” my father asked.
“I think she can handle it.” murmured my mother. “After all, she’s Anne Marie McIlhenny’s great-great-granddaughter.”
On Sunday I sat with my parents in sacrament meeting. Buster sat on the stand dressed in white eyelet, as feminine as orange blossoms, and looking for all the world like our great-great-grandmother. I noticed my mother’s foot swing back and forth in nervous rhythm. My father’s face was deadpan, but he swallowed frequently. Finally, the bishop introduced Buster as one of the prettiest Scouts in the ward. My mother winced slightly.
Buster stood behind the pulpit without any notes and in a clear voice began to speak. “I would like to tell you about my great-great-grandmother, Buster McIlhenny!” Then she looked down at my mother’s stricken face and said to her alone, “A lady as strong and fine as Great-Great-Grandmother McIlhenny deserves a good name like Buster, and since she shared her name with me, I want to share my name with her. And one day,” she added softly, “maybe I’ll even be as neat a lady as she was.”

A second experience concerns an elder serving in our mission, who gave this account of his conversion:
“During my first year in high school I became aware of a small group of fellow students who seemed to have a tightly knit bond of fellowship between them. They acted differently from the rest of the students. Their language was clean, their standards were high, even their appearance was different. They were not on drugs, and they did not smoke or drink. I admired them and tried to become acquainted with them.
“They were always having such a good time together, holding their own parties, dances, and other socials. I was told by someone that they belonged to the LDS church, but that did not matter to me. I still wanted to belong to their group.
“I hinted as much as I dared that I would like to attend some of their socials, but they didn’t take the hint. Finally in my senior year, I summoned the courage to ask them outright if I could possibly attend some of their socials, even though I was not a member of their church.
“Within a few weeks I was baptized into their church, and here I am now, about a year and a half later, on a mission for our church. When I see how difficult it is to find converts in the mission field, I wonder why these fellow students of mine found it so difficult to invite me to go with them.”

At last Benito reached Oaxaca. It had taken him three days to walk down the mountain from the hut where he had lived with his uncle for the past nine years. Benito was only three years old when both of his parents died, and he could not remember either of them. Nor could he remember having had enough to eat or to wear. Benito spent each day herding his uncle’s sheep near the pool at the bottom of the towering snow-capped peaks while he dreamed of some day going to Oaxaca to find his sister Josefa who lived there. In Oaxaca there might also be hope of good food, decent clothing, and a chance to go to school. There was so much Benito wanted to know!
His bare brown feet were blistered from the three-day journey. His clothes were almost in tatters. Benito carried with him only a gourd from which to drink, and he ate the few berries he picked from the bushes along the way.
When Benito reached the city he found that the people in the market place spoke a language he did not understand and so they could not answer any of his questions. Benito Juarez was a Zapotec Indian, and he had never heard Spanish spoken before he reached Oaxaca, Mexico. For a moment he almost wished he were back with the sheep. But when Benito remembered how often his uncle had beaten him and how he had sent him to find a sheep that had either strayed or been stolen, Benito pushed back his thin shoulders and kept walking and asking questions until he found someone who helped him find his sister.
Nearly thirty years later Benito was elected governor of Oaxaca. In 1861, when he was fifty-five years of age, Benito Juarez was elected president of all Mexico.
The story of the ragged shepherd boy who was always proud of his Indian heritage, who ignored the cruelty of his schoolmates because he was so eager to learn, and who suffered many hardships all through his life is a thrilling one to read. It is well known to children throughout Mexico, and a statue of this great man stands in almost every city and village. Even streets and schools and cities have been named after him.
Benito Juarez lived during a very crucial time. Many historians believe the dream of liberty and education for all that Benito carried with him down the mountain from his uncle’s hut did more to shape the destiny of Mexico than anything else. Benito Juarez is honored as the liberator of his country, and these words he spoke long ago are still found painted on walls throughout Mexico: “For nations, as well as for individuals, respect for the rights of others is peace.”

I remember when I was about 16 years old overhearing Mom talking to Dad. She was concerned about some choices I was making. I was not guilty of any sin more serious than the immaturity of youth, but Mom was worried. What Dad said seared into my heart. “Don’t worry,” he said to Mom. “I trust Sharon, and I know she’ll do the right thing.” Those hours in the hayfield paid off then and there. From that moment on I was bound to those loving, trusting parents.

Many years ago my family and I visited Arches National Park in Utah, USA. One of the most beautiful and famous arches in the park is Delicate Arch, and we decided to climb the mountain to reach it.
We started enthusiastically, but soon the others wanted to rest. I wanted to get there sooner, so I went on alone. Without paying attention to the path I should take, I began following a man who seemed to know where he was going.
The path became harder to climb. I was sure my family could not have made it. Suddenly I saw Delicate Arch, but to my surprise, I couldn’t reach it. The path I had taken didn’t lead to the arch.
I was frustrated and turned back. I waited impatiently until I met my group again. They told me they had followed the signs showing the right way and, with care and effort, had reached Delicate Arch. Unfortunately, I had taken the wrong way. What a lesson I learned!

He once gave an order that no one could enter the munition lab wearing military boots or spurs, for fear that a spark struck by the iron might cause an explosion. A guard was stationed at the door to enforce the order.
One day José appeared wearing both boots and spurs. The guard stopped him. “You cannot pass, my general,” he said.
“I was the one who gave the order,” answered José, “so I can change it.”
“True,” replied the guard, “but up to now the order stands. You cannot go in.”
The next day José came back but again the guard refused to let him enter the lab wearing his boots and spurs. José left and later returned wearing a pair of sandals.
In a few minutes the guard was summoned to the general’s office. José de San Martín put out his hand in greeting and said, “I have brought you here to congratulate you. It is always good to know a man who obeys orders.”

When Juliana Circe da Costa, a member of the Colônia Branch, Jundiaí Brazil Stake, turned 18, she was worried about attending Relief Society. “I was afraid I would be alone and wouldn’t be comfortable with the adult women in the branch,” she says. “In the beginning it was strange, but the Lord has a purpose for everything. I’m not saying it was easy, but I’m grateful to the Lord and the sisters who were so wonderful to me.”
Juliana’s Relief Society president, Rita Ribereiro Pandolfi, played a key role in Juliana’s transition. “In our branch we receive the young women with open arms,” she says. “We know they face many changes when they leave Young Women and begin attending Relief Society.”
Like Juliana, many young women find that entering Relief Society can be an adjustment. However, not all young women are apprehensive about joining Relief Society. For some, entering Relief Society is a welcome rite of passage. “I felt ready for the change,” says Rachel Kramer of the Chapel Hill First Ward, Durham North Carolina Stake. “I was just as ready to leave Young Women at 18 as I had been to become part of it at 12. I felt that the women in Relief Society were wise, brimming with the virtue of a life in harmony with the gospel. And I was glad to go on to the ‘meatier’ gospel discussions and to be around so many women I could look up to.”
Ready to attend or not, young women entering Relief Society need the same thing—to be loved and valued, have friends, learn, feel the Spirit, and be a part of the organization. Experience shows that there are ways to make the transition easier. Proper planning between Young Women and Relief Society presidencies, fellowshipping, and a strong support system of caring ward or branch members can help.

One such family with four young children writes: “We decided to start small because of our children’s short attention spans. Our oldest child was not yet reading, but she could repeat our words, so we began reading the Book of Mormon, just three verses each night. My husband and I would read one verse each, and then Sydney would repeat a verse. We progressed to four verses and then five verses as the boys began to repeat their own verses. Yes, it was tedious, but we kept going. We tried to focus on consistency instead of speed. It took us three-and-a-half years to finish the Book of Mormon. It was a great feeling of accomplishment!”
The mother continues: “Daily family scripture reading is a habit in our family now. Our children are comfortable with scriptural language, and my husband and I take opportunity to bear testimony of truths. Most important, the Spirit has increased in our home.”

Sister Paula Thomas of Sandy, Utah, discovered for herself that Heavenly Father does indeed speak to His children. She remembers:
“I was raised in a less-active home. Because of the influence of friends, I began attending Primary. When I was nine years old, my Primary teacher gave a lesson on personal prayer. I knew that I could pray at mealtimes and in meetings, but I had never thought of praying to Heavenly Father on my own.
“After the teacher dismissed our class, I approached her and asked her to teach me to pray. Kindly, she pulled out a piece of paper and began to write and talk at the same time. ‘You always begin by thanking Heavenly Father for all you have,’ she said, ‘and then you tell Him the desires of your heart. Is there something special you want to ask for, Paula?’
“I knew exactly what I wanted—I wanted to make my mother happy. I did not recall ever seeing her smile or laugh. Life was hard, and Mother cried often. I loved her so much that I would write poems, put on programs for her on Mother’s Day, and buy her gifts with my baby-sitting money. She was always grateful, but I knew her burdens were heavy.
“I left Primary that afternoon with those written instructions from my teacher. That night, when the house was quiet, I knelt at my bed and began my very first personal prayer. I prayed that I would be able to make my mother happy. I offered the same prayer every night for seven years.
“When I was 16, I received my patriarchal blessing from a patriarch whom I had never met. In my blessing he said: ‘Paula, the Lord has heard the prayers of your heart. A time will come in your life when you will be able to return with a deep feeling of love the gifts that have been so graciously given unto you by your mother. You will not only bring your mother happiness, you will give her the gift of joy.’
“As he was giving me the blessing, I received a powerful witness of God’s desire to communicate with us through personal revelation. Heavenly Father had heard my prayers, and He let me know he was aware of me.
“Years later, after my mother’s death, I went through the temple to receive sacred ordinances in her behalf. While there, I received an impression that I had truly given my mother the gift of joy—that day and on many other occasions.”

Nine-year-old Amber Donohue didn’t want to get out of bed. I have four good reasons not to, she reasoned, and only one reason why I should: It’s Sunday and church starts in an hour.
She thought hard about why she shouldn’t: In the first place, I’m too tired. It isn’t fair that bears can sleep all winter but people can sleep only at night. In the second place, it’s too cold to get up. Judging from the way the snow was piled on the limbs of the maple tree outside her bedroom window, Amber was sure that it had snowed all night. In the third place, she thought, if I get up now, I’ll be cross with everybody for having to get up. It wouldn’t be fair to others. And in the fourth place, … Amber couldn’t think of a fourth reason yet, but she was sure that if she stayed in bed long enough, she’d think of something!
Amber knew, though, that her one reason for getting up was more important than all the ones for staying in bed put together. It was Heavenly Father’s day, and she knew that He wanted her to be in Primary. She also knew deep down in her heart that she wanted to be there too. She glumly crawled out from under her covers and sat on the edge of her bed. “What are you staring at?” she snapped at her pet white rat, Cuddles, that sat looking at her from its cage in the corner. “You don’t have to get up!”
Amber’s five-year-old brother, Arnie, knocked, then skipped into her room, his shoes untied.
“What do you want?” she snarled at him.
“I want to get out of here,” Arnie said, deciding not to ask her for a favor, after all. He hurried down the hall back to his own room.
As Amber slowly got her Sunday shoes from her closet, she heard her mother’s voice calling from the kitchen. “Breakfast is ready, everyone. We have to hurry, or we’ll be late for church.” Then she added, “Don’t forget to wear your warmest coats and put on your best singing voices.”
“I’ll wear my warmest coat, that’s for sure,” Amber grumbled, “but nobody can make me sing! I don’t feel like singing any more than I feel like getting out of bed!”
Suddenly Amber heard singing outside her window. It was a bird on the tree limb. Amber stared at it with surprise. “It’s gray and windy and cold out there,” she muttered. “Why is that bird singing such a happy song?”
“Maybe it’s counting its blessings,” came a small voice from behind her. Amber turned and saw Arnie standing a safe distance from her, his shoes still untied. “Mommy says that whenever she’s sad or just wants to feel better, she either counts her blessings or sings a song. Especially about Jesus. Like we do in Primary. And sacrament meeting. She says that she sings when she’s happy too.” Then Arnie added, “Heavenly Father likes singing. A lot. Otherwise why would He put so many birds in the world?” As Arnie turned and started to leave the room, he said, “Maybe you should sing a song, Amber. Maybe you should sing lots of them.”
Alone again in her room, Amber looked at herself in her dresser mirror. The first song that came to her mind was the one about no one liking a frowny face. She looked at the bird in the tree outside her window again. It was still singing. It’s happy, Amber thought. Maybe it’s counting its blessings and praising Heavenly Father too. If birds can sing on gloomy days, she thought as she started toward the kitchen, why can’t I?
Amber was ready for church on time. Well, almost on time. She stopped halfway through brushing her hair just long enough to help Arnie tie his shoelaces. And she sang every Primary song that she could think of all the way to church.

“Why are you wearing your Sunday clothes, Ashley?” her mother asked as she stepped into her seven-year-old daughter’s room. “We’re just going to the cemetery to put flowers on Grandpa’s grave, honey.”
As she slipped into her shiny black shoes, Ashley looked up at her mother. “Grandpa Eli is not a ‘just,’ Mama. He’s Grandpa Eli. That makes him someone in particular. Besides, he’s a child of God—that has to take the just right out of it, doesn’t it?”
Mama smiled warmly at her daughter’s understanding. “That it does. You know,” she added, “for such a young lady, you sure have a handle on things.”
Ashley grunted as she tried to collect their big old cat in her arms and lift him off her bed. “I wish Mister Worthington had a handle. He’d be a lot easier to carry!”
While at the cemetery, Ashley noticed an elderly woman not far away, sitting on the grass in front of a tombstone. She was pulling out the crabgrass that was climbing up its base. As she studied the white-haired lady in the leafy swirl of soft sunlight, Ashley thought that she’d never seen so much loneliness bunched up on a single face. She seems more weighed down by it than by all her years stacked up together.
Ashley looked at the flower that Mama had given her to place in the vase at the foot of Grandpa Eli’s grave. The vase is already filled with fresh flowers, she decided. Grandpa wouldn’t mind if … She looked again at the old woman, then at her parents. “Mama? Daddy? May I go talk to that lady for a minute?”
“Why, honey?” her mother asked curiously. “Do you know her?”
“No.”
“Sometimes people like to be alone, pumpkin,” her father warned. “It wouldn’t be right to impose on her privacy.”
“Sometimes some people are too alone, Daddy,” Ashley coaxed. “And I think she’s one of them.”
Ashley’s parents looked at the woman. “She does look pretty sad and lonely all right,” Daddy agreed. He glanced at Mama, who nodded. “I guess it will be all right for a minute, pumpkin. Then we want you to come right back, is that understood?”
Ashley smiled. “Yep.”
The elderly woman felt a shadow pass over her. She looked up into the face of a small girl.
“Hello. My name is Ashley Donohue.”
A frail smile fell across the old woman’s face.
Ashley held out her flower. “Here.”
“That’s quite all right, young lady,” the elderly woman quavered. She pointed to a jar of fresh flowers next to the headstone. “As you can see, I have quite enough.”
“Oh, it isn’t for … for …” Ashley’s voice trailed off.
“Mr. Blakely, honey. He was my husband.”
“Oh. Uh, well,” Ashley stammered out. “The flower isn’t for him—it’s for you.”
“For me? But I’m no one to you, dear. I’m just an old—”
“You’re someone to God,” Ashley broke in. “So that means you’re not a just. It means you’re someone in particular. And you have a name, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, of course. My name is Nora. Nora Blakely.”
Ashley held out the flower closer to the elderly woman. “Everyone with a name is someone in particular, don’t you think so, Mrs. Blakely?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Mrs. Blakely acknowledged with a smile.
Ashley smiled back as a wrinkled, quivering hand reached out and accepted the flower.
“How do you know I’m someone to God, young lady?”
“Do you have any children, Mrs. Blakely?”
“Yes. Well, at least I did. Two sons.” Mrs. Blakely’s voice faltered. “They both died in a war. They’re buried west of here, in a military cemetery.”
“I bet you loved them bunches and bunches, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes,” the old voice was stronger now. “Very, very much. They were, and still are, most important to me. As is my husband here. Eugene and I were married for sixty-three years, you know,” she added, her eyes glowing like two little stones in sunlit water.
“Well, just like you love your children, Heavenly Father loves you, Mrs. Blakely. Because you are one of His children. So am I, and so is everybody else. Except Mr. Worthington. He’s our cat. But he’s still important, because he’s someone in particular, too.”
“I’m sure he is,” Mrs. Blakely chuckled.
Over by Grandpa Eli’s grave, Ashley’s father shook his head. “Well, I’ll be—would you look at that!”
Mama looked over her shoulder. The old woman was laughing and hugging Ashley, who was laughing and hugging her back. A moment later, the girl skipped over to her parents, then turned and waved to the elderly woman—who was heartily returning the wave with a smile as big as the red and gold autumn around them.
“What did you talk to her about?” Daddy asked as they started back toward the car.
“Oh,” Ashley teased, “stuff. “Important stuff,” she added as she skipped on ahead.
“If it was anything like what she told me this morning in her room,” Mama said, catching up to her husband, “it’s just that.”
“Just what?”
Mama squeezed his hand. “Important stuff.”

“When I think of Grandpa Hunter, I think more than anything else of an example of a loving husband,” says Robert, his oldest grandson, manager of a branch bank in a Salt Lake City suburb. Family members watched with love and admiration for more than eight years as Elder Hunter nursed his beloved Claire through the illness that finally took her life in 1983.
“You could really sense a loving bond between the two of them,” Robert says. Elder Hunter insisted on caring for her as much as possible himself during the years when a series of strokes left her increasingly dependent. Meanwhile, he continued to handle his Church assignments. He suffered a minor heart attack, but it did not seem to slow him down, his sister says. She and others helped care for Claire as he would allow it.
When finally he was forced to leave his wife in a nursing care facility, he called the place often to check on her, even while he was traveling on Church assignments. Stopping to see her was his first priority after leaving the Church offices for the day or when returning from an out-of-town trip. When she could no longer converse with him, he continued to talk to her during visits.
“He was always in a hurry to see her, to be by her side, and take care of her,” Robert says.
“He did so much for her—so much,” Sister Rasmussen emphasizes.

I was a newly arrived full-time missionary in Connecticut, and my companion and I were serving in a small ward during the first round of holidays I spent on my mission. I hadn’t yet learned the dietary value of becoming friends with a few of the members, and my first Thanksgiving resulted in no invitation and no dinner. Our mission president took pity on us, and we ended up being the only missionaries to spend Thanksgiving at the mission home. We were grateful but a little embarrassed.
We started putting ourselves out there early for the coming Christmas. Our shameful solicitations landed three full meals at three different homes. Pancakes for breakfast, Lithuanian food for lunch, and a Jamaican feast for dinner. Our stomachs were bursting. I was still an inexperienced missionary and thought that was what Christmas on a mission was all about.

May 26, 1853 I went to Fourchu, a place 6 or 7 miles from Gabarouse. On my way along the beach I saw a large duck on the waves, picking among the kelp. This was a desolate place, no houses for 6 or 7 miles. The Spirit said to me, “You are going among strangers. No Saints there. Take the bird with you.” So I sat down right where the wave broke and the bird floated straight towards me, picking among the kelp and sea weed. When it got close to the shore it put its head under its wing, so I jumped and caught it. It was lively enough then and tried to get away. So when I got to Fourchu (6) I went to a house, asked if that was Mr. Cann’s. They said yes. I told them I had come over from Gabarouse to preach the Gospel to them. I had forgotten the duck. I then happened to notice them looking at it. Says I, “Here is a bird. I saw it out on the water and I thought I would bring it along, that it might be good to eat.” Says he, “Is it hurt?” “No, Sir.” I handed it to him. Heexamined it very close and said it was all right. It was cooked. We ate it. It was fat and good. A few came in. We had a meeting. The sectarian minister had poisoned the minds of the people, but Mr. Cann and family treated me very kindly … and spoke favorably to others of me.

Sammy opened his eyes. It was a new day! He yawned. There was a yummy smell in the air.
Mmmm, Papa is making bread! Sammy thought.
Papa baked bread for the family every Saturday. Sammy liked to watch him take the crispy brown loaves out of the oven. Papa always gave Sammy the first slice.
But today isn’t Saturday, Sammy thought. Why is Papa baking?
Sammy decided to find out. He walked to the kitchen and asked Papa what was going on.
“Do you remember what the bishop asked us to do?” Papa asked.
Sammy nodded. “He asked us help other people. And I helped Sister Martin take her bag upstairs, remember?”
“You did a good job,” Papa said. “I decided to pray about how I could help someone. I had the idea that I could bake bread to share.”
Sammy looked in the oven window. He counted the loaves of bread.
“One … two … three … four. Who will you give the bread to?”
“That’s something I need your help with,” Papa said. “I thought one loaf could go to Sister Martin. And two loaves could go to the Miller family. Who do you think we could give the fourth loaf to?”
Sammy thought about it.
“What about Mr. Lee?” Sammy asked. Mr. Lee lived in their apartment building. He didn’t go outside very much. Mostly he just watched people from his window.
“That’s a great idea,” Papa said.
After the bread was done baking, Sammy helped Papa wrap the bread. Then Sammy got his wagon. They put the loaves inside.
“The bread wagon is ready to roll!” Sammy said.
Sammy helped Papa pull the wagon. Sammy’s heart felt nice and warm, just like the bread they were about to share!
See Come, Follow Me for Mosiah 18–24.