Gospel Story Finder

Although there were only three LDS seniors in her graduating class of 800, Karen’s senior government class was given the privilege of hearing four oral presentations on Church subjects. Karen spoke on the United Order, Mike Miller on the nutritional aspects of the Word of Wisdom, and Mark Forsyth on Church government. The bonus came when a nonmember friend, impressed by her visit made prior to the dedication of the Washington Temple, and with help from her LDS friends, reported on the Mormons as temple builders.

When my husband and I lost our first baby, doctors told us I would never have children. I was devastated. I grieved and looked for answers. My husband also grieved. We prayed and knew how important it was to be an eternal family. Eventually, we were sealed in the Los Angeles California Temple.
I was still trying to understand why this loss had happened when I remembered my patriarchal blessing. I started to read my blessing and found a part I had completely forgotten about. It said I would be blessed with sons and daughters. I thought that there had to be something wrong with what the doctors had told me. I went to the doctor and was told again that I was not going to be able to have a baby.
About five years after we lost our first baby, we decided to try in vitro fertilization. At the first appointment, a pregnancy test showed positive. I couldn’t believe it. They ran more tests and confirmed that I was already pregnant. Nine months later, we welcomed our daughter into our family. Now, I am a mom to four incredible kids.

When John Rainer was a young boy in Taos Pueblo, New Mexico, one of his favorite parts of the day was dusk. Like most young Indian children, John would run and play and do chores all day long, with an exuberance typical of those who grow up with space to roam and air to breathe. But at the end of the day, when golden fire filled the horizon, John would pause and listen. He would always hear the song of the flute.
“It was a peaceful, relaxed melody,” John recalls. “The old man would sit near the river half a mile from town and play his tunes. He believed the music would travel with the water. You couldn’t see him, but you could always hear his tunes.” It was a time for rest from the day’s labor, a time of repose and contemplation, a time during which a love for music was born in John’s heart.
John grew up and moved to the city. He lived in a comfortable brick home in a suburb of Orem, Utah, with his wife and children. And every evening, just at dusk, he would take his flute—one he made himself—and play a melody—one he wrote himself—to his family. His neighbors didn’t always see John, but they could usually hear his songs. When they did, the whole world seemed to pause, breathe deeply, then sigh in contentment.
“Playing the flute is my way of sharing something my ancestors shared with me,” John said.

We were packing for a short trip to the mountains of northern New Mexico, and I was loading the last of the children and supplies into the car. My wife appeared at the door and said cheerfully, “Well, we’re all set!” As she was pulling the locked door closed, I realized I didn’t have my keys! I yelled quickly, “DON‘T SHUT THAT … door.” Too late.
In an instant I was irritated. I said to my wife, implying she was to blame, “My keys are in the house!”
Fortunately, a forgotten open window allowed us access to the house without the loss of much time, and my feelings dissipated. I “forgave” my wife for having caused me emotional pain.
Later, as I thought of the experience, I realized I had found it convenient to blame my wife because it was a way of justifying my own failure. By my hostile feelings I could make it appear that she was the guilty one and that I was a helpless victim.
The truth is that my irritation was not due to her behavior at all. It was, instead, the product of my own unwillingness to accept the responsibility of my actions, and obviously, she hadn’t needed my forgiveness—but I certainly needed hers.
The real issue was my need to repent of the feelings I had. Had she been in some kind of transgression, then the solution to the problem would have been for her to repent and me to forgive. In this case, however, only my repentance was necessary to restore us to oneness. I understood also that my repentance, my giving up of my feelings of resentment, would have been necessary whether she had been guilty of anything or not. I saw that I could not be both unrepentant (or unforgiving) and compassionate at the same time. These are two incompatible attitudes.

I don't know how I can possibly convey to you, dear students, the feelings that enter my heart as Sister Hammond and I return to this remarkable campus.
Almost everything has changed since that incredible Fall of 1951. There were really only two structures of any significance here then, the old Gym and the Spori building.
I was completely intimidated by the ponderous size of the student body, a whopping 384 eager bodies, scattered through the four academic levels. Some of you might smile at my timidity, until I reveal to you that there were only six of us in my graduating class from high school. My children were very impressed with the fact that their father was the salutatorian of his graduating class- then they found his yearbook.
Although slightly nervous with the prospect of entering college, I still felt great surges of exhilaration and anticipation because I had come to play basketball! I live for basketball! After a rather remarkable high school career, Ricks College gave me a scholarship to do the thing that I loved most - play ball. Nothing could have been better! I was on top of the world!
That summer I had worked on a section crew for the Union Pacific Railroad swinging a spike mall and shoveling gravel. I felt strong and healthy, besides the pay was good and I had saved nearly every penny that I had earned - more than $1500.00.
It was in late October. Another athlete and I had found part-time work loading beets onto railroad cars at a facility just south of Rexburg. We had finished our shift, jumped on his Harley-Davidson motorcycle and started back toward town. I sat behind him on the bike. The night was stormy, windy and cold. Rain with intermittent snow blew into our faces making it extremely difficult to see anything ahead of us. Then it happened!
A car traveling south on Highway 91 began a left turn at the Lyman junction. It was not his fault. He could not see us. We slammed head-first into the grill of that car. Still to this day, I sometimes see in my minds eye those two head-lights getting closer, closer and closer and hearing that horrible mind-shattering crash.
As though from a sling-shot, I was catapulted over that car. My right foot was thrust through the wind-shield, nearly cutting the foot off. Then, I flew more than seventy feet through the air, finally landing on my back in the middle of the highway. I tried to get up! I wanted to run! Frantically, my arms lifted my body slightly up from the wet pavement, but it was no use, my pelvis was broken and my back and legs battered and twisted. I slumped back down. I was cold. I began to slip in and out of consciousness.
At the hospital the doctors debated whether to amputate my injured foot or try to save it. An inspired priesthood blessing was given by my father and my bishop. In that blessing, I was told that my foot would heal and that eventually, I would be able to walk and run again. Following the blessing, my wonderful mother informed the physicians that she would not allow them to amputate, that they were to sew the torn foot together and the Lord would do the rest. I am so grateful today, for the power of the priesthood and the absolute faith of a mother. In the days that followed, the reality of my horrible situation became shockingly apparent.
For two months I lay, virtually immobile, in a hospital bed in St. Anthony, Idaho. Just before my eighteenth birthday in mid-December I returned home. Christmas that year was not a happy one. My basketball scholarship was revoked. I had missed a full semester of school. All the money I had saved was gone. The prospect of six months on crutches had left me discouraged and miserable.
But, miracles do happen! The tender mercies of Jesus Christ are extended to His children! In the succeeding months my mangled foot did heal! I returned to Ricks in the Fall of '52' and actually I played ball on the Junior Varsity team. I met a beautiful girl who changed the entire prospect of my life. She encouraged me to serve a mission, assuring me that she would wait faithfully for those two and half years while I preached the gospel to the Spanish-speaking people in Texas and New Mexico.
My whole attitude changed in the mission field! Out of tragedy and pain, depressed, and beaten there emerged in me an inner Spirit of excitement - a desire to move forward and upward, to learn, to progress, and to accomplish something of worth to the Lord and to His Church. The Holy Ghost came into my life. I discovered that I loved to teach the gospel. I found immense joy in my interaction with the Mexican people.
After returning home, that wonderful girl, who by the way had waited faithfully, and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. And so began our journey in life together, not without its bumps, but an UPWARD journey of joy and gladness.

Sister Sharlene Aland of Sacramento, California, divides her time between a demanding job, church callings, and caring for a chronically ill sister. “I never seemed to find time to read Church magazines and do other things I wanted to do,” she recalls. Then her stake president challenged each member of the stake to hold family home evening every Monday. “I realized that even though I live alone, I need to provide for myself the same opportunities for spiritual growth that I would provide for a family.” Since then, Sister Aland has spent at least an hour every Monday night nurturing her spiritual growth. “I’ve held that time sacred. Sometimes I’ve read the Church magazines and Church books. Other times I’ve worked on food storage or watched Church videos. Doing this has given me the time I was always looking for.”

The people of Anaa, on the other hand, came to greatly love Elder Grouard. He was the first white missionary of any religion to come to their island, and many of them accepted the truth he taught. He baptized over 600 people, organized five branches, and called local officers to serve. He wrote to Elder Pratt and asked him to come to Anaa, as there was too much work for him to do alone.
Elder Pratt responded to his companion’s invitation, and a conference of the Church was held on Anaa with more than 800 in attendance. At this time Addison Pratt decided to travel back to Church headquarters to request more missionaries to help in the work in the South Pacific. Leaving Elder Grouard behind, he traveled first to California, then to the Salt Lake Valley, arriving in September 1848, one week after his wife and four daughters had arrived there from Winter Quarters.

When I joined the Church, I didn’t fully understand the deep significance of the law of tithing. However, I knew and trusted you, Elder Dan Hawkley, and I made a promise to you to pay tithing. I could tell you were anxious that I should keep that promise.
In 1964 there was only one mission in Japan, the Northern Far East Mission. A few months after you taught me, you were transferred to a place far away from my small branch. As you left by express train, these were your parting words: “Dear Brother Hotta, pay your tithing and keep the Sabbath day holy.”
I could not forget the challenge I had been given. However, to be honest, I must admit that I was anxious to buy a beautiful and glittering Japanese Bible like the one you had. I wanted it to help me remember what I had been taught, as well as to remember the elder who had helped to teach me. But it was too expensive for me to buy one.
I reasoned that if I didn’t pay my tithing, I could obtain the Bible. Satan spoke in a whisper: “Buy it. It’s your money. Don’t worry.”
But, dear elder, I couldn’t forget your challenge. I knew it had come through the power of the holy priesthood and the Holy Spirit. I didn’t buy that Bible. I paid my tithing instead. And because I overcame that challenge, I came to really understand the meaning of tithing as a covenant between the Lord and myself.
A few months later, the postman paid us a visit. He left a gift parcel for me. It was the size of a cake box. I opened the package and removed the Japanese Bible, beautiful and glittering, that you had sent me as a wonderful gift. I cried for joy at your deep love. Then I saw your note written on an inside page of the book:
“Dear Brother Hotta, hope you had a Merry Christmas. The work is really going well here in Gunma. Study hard. You can make elder real soon now. Do me a favor and try to make it to the temple in Hawaii. Isn’t the gospel wonderful? Love, Elder Dan Hawkley.”
Ever since that time, I have always paid my tithing. I have also been to the temple with my companion. And part of the reason I have been able to do so is because of the challenges and promises you made to me as a representative of the Lord.

Rebecca had to contend not only with her father’s disbelief but also with problems in her husband’s commitment to the faith. During 1837 and 1838, her husband, Frederick, then a member of the First Presidency, was repeatedly at odds with other Church leaders. He even left the Church for a time and was excommunicated. However, not long after, Frederick humbled himself, rejoined the Church, and died in full fellowship. We do not have a record of Rebecca’s feelings at the time, but she would not regret her allegiance with the Saints and remained committed.
When rumors of Frederick’s dissent reached Rebecca’s father in New York, Isaac hoped that Rebecca would renounce the faith as well. However, Rebecca sent him a letter that demonstrated her continued fidelity. After reading her response, Isaac slowly shook his head and said, “Not one word of repentance.”12

After my wife died of cancer, I became a single father to our five children—two girls and three boys. Raising children on my own presented challenges, but it was especially challenging for me to raise my two daughters. There were so many things they needed that only a woman could truly provide. As President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, said, “Mothers and daughters play a critical role in helping each other explore their infinite possibilities, despite the undermining influences of a world in which womanhood and motherhood are being corrupted and manipulated.”1 How could I compensate for that?
Yet several gospel principles gave me strength as I sought to guide my wonderful daughters and also my terrific sons. These principles might help other single fathers of daughters, single mothers of sons, and all single parents.
I learned that for all my children (and for me), remaining faithful to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ was, as it had always been, where I should start. “Trials have long been a seedbed for the growth of faith,” said President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency.2
As we exercised faith, we found it was important to do several things:
Remember the small, simple things. Through family prayer and scripture study, we received “great things” (Alma 37:6) in our lives, like hope and joy.
Strengthen each other. Spend time together, talk, and cheer each other on. Simple words of support can make a big difference.
Set an example for each other. Encouraging my children to be good examples meant I needed to set an example for them too. I needed to continue to “talk of Christ [and] rejoice in Christ, … that [my] children may know” (2 Nephi 25:26) that they should also look to Him.
Trust in Heavenly Father. His plan for each of us is a plan of happiness. Even in tough times, “men are, that they might have joy” (2 Nephi 2:25), and families are meant to be together forever. These truths brought us strength each day.
Accept and magnify callings. I knew it was important to continue to serve in callings, to minister, and to associate with other Latter-day Saints. When I found out one of my daughters wanted to sing in the ward choir, I joined the choir too. We had a lot of fun singing together.
Listen to general conference. Once, just before general conference, I was feeling discouraged and prayed to know if anyone understood my situation. That very conference, Elder David S. Baxter of the Seventy said: “There are, of course, some single families where it is the father who is the single parent. Brethren, we also pray for you and pay tribute to you.”3 That helped me understand that the same love and support given to single mothers is available to single fathers too.
Just the same, I was a father trying to raise daughters on my own. I sought to create one-on-one time with both of them to strengthen our relationships. Yet how could I help them prepare to be women? I soon found there were more resources than I imagined:
Family members. I thank the Lord for a sister-in-law and a daughter-in-law who lived nearby and came to my rescue. They attended maturation meetings with my daughters. They helped my daughters get ready for dances. Most of all, they listened. They shared my daughters’ hopes, fears, longings, and desires. They helped them transition from child to adolescent to adult with a different understanding of that process than I could provide, never having experienced it in the same way.
Neighbors. Good neighbors watched my daughter with their daughter after school until I got home from the office. Other neighbors took my children to school when I had early meetings. One neighbor with a lawn-care business had his crew mow my lawn regularly for free so I could spend more time with my family.
Ministering brothers and Church leaders. My ministering brothers coordinated with the ward council, and it seemed that everyone in the ward, especially Primary and Young Women leaders, went out of their way to help my girls. I learned that one of the great things about the Relief Society is that they offer, well, relief. Once, a group of them cleaned my whole house, top to bottom. And at Young Women activities, someone always made sure my daughters felt included.
Not everyone will experience this same level of support. But I’ve learned that until we let others know the gaps we see our children experience without a mother, those individuals may not understand how they can help.

Permit me two illustrations. In the Transylvanian Alps of Romania, a man, with his wife and two children, was baptized into the Church. He became the leader of his branch; however, due to economic and family pressures, he became inactive for a time. Upon his return to activity, he reported that as he had stepped out of the water at the time of his baptism, someone whispered in his ear, “I love you.” No one had ever told him that before. His recollection of that expression of love, and the loving and charitable acts and expressions of members of his branch, brought him back.

My father had a unique experience when he was the age of a priest. There were no high schools where he lived, and he wanted an education. He received permission from his father to leave the farm and seek his education elsewhere, but he had to make it on his own. Arriving in Salt Lake City, he heard of an employment position being offered in the home of President Joseph F. Smith. He was hired to care for the prophet’s two cows. In our family home evenings we would want Dad to relate experiences about his early life of living in the home of the prophet. We would hear him make reports like this:
Sister Smith instructed my father in his duties, explaining that the cows “were aristocrats, and you must treat them well. You are to keep them so clean and train them so well that if I should ever at any time conclude to move them into the parlor, they would be clean enough to enter.” Dad said he understood milking but not laundering cows.
Before milking each morning and night, they were thoroughly washed and dried with hot water, soap, and towels prepared for that purpose. They were fed the best of hay and milked at exactly the same hour twice a day.
In addition to his duties with the Smith family and their “aristocratic” cows, my father was asked on occasion to do some housework. He would tell us stories like this: “One frosty morning I washed the steps leading to the official residence of the President of the Church. It nearly led to his downfall, for I let the water freeze before drying. Then I had to take boiling water and thaw the ice and take towels to dry the stones. The steps were nearly clean, but my classmates were passing on their way to school before the job was completed. It was a humbling experience.”
By telling these stories, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that my father was a male twin to Cinderella. The Smith family took this poor farm boy from Idaho into their home while he finished high school and attended the University of Utah. They included him in their family activities, around the dinner table, and at family prayer. My father shared with us his witness that the prophet Joseph F. Smith was truly a man of God: “When I kneeled with the prophet, in family prayer, and listened to his earnest supplications for the blessings of the Lord upon his family and their flocks and their herds, I realized that those same humiliating cows were the subject of his blessings, my feet were brought solidly to earth. … Most great men I have known have been deflated by intimate contact. Not so with the prophet Joseph F. Smith. Every common everyday act added inches to his greatness. To me he was prophet even while washing his hands or untying his shoes.”
The lessons learned taught us a great appreciation and love for a prophet of God.

Last year the Williamsport Pennsylvania Stake Laurels hiked through the little village of Nauvoo—but not in Illinois. They hiked through Nauvoo, Pennsylvania, and learned about its history. The Williamsport stake covers a large area encompassing 11 counties, and some of the girls are the only members in their entire high school. So learning about once-thriving congregations of early Latter-day Saints within their present-day stake boundaries is inspiring to them.
The young women stopped to talk to an elderly man at the edge of the road on the outskirts of Nauvoo. Earl, age 70, a lifelong resident confirmed that his Nauvoo community was a Mormon settlement during the 1840s and named after the Mormon city in Illinois. “Our borough was named Nauvoo by a prominent Mormon leader,” he said. When asked what he thought the word Nauvoo meant, he was unsure and thought it might be a Native American word. Earl seemed pleased to learn that Nauvoo is Hebrew and means beautiful, a place of rest and beauty.

A few months ago I was having troubles with the commandments and keeping them. I found this scripture one morning as I was reading 1 Nephi 10:18–22. Verse 18 says, “The way is prepared for all men from the foundation of the world, if it so be that they repent and come unto [Christ].” That verse stood out and gave me courage I needed to meet with my bishop. One of my closest friends who was also struggling spoke with her bishop as well. A few weeks ago we were able to go to the temple. I know Christ loves us and that He did atone for our sins. I love Him and I’m grateful for this knowledge.

“What can I get Mom for Mother’s Day?” I asked the same question again and again, but still no answer came. Because it was the last year I would be living at home, I wanted to give Mom something extra special. When she unwrapped this gift, it had to say, “Thank you for taking care of me and loving me for the last 20 years.”
“Well, if there is such a gift, I should be able to find it here,” I said out loud as I pulled the car into the shopping mall parking lot. Each little store seemed inviting, but I felt drawn into the pet shop. The fluffy dogs and cuddly hamsters had always been irresistible to me. As I walked around the fish tanks, there it lay—a green, scaly lizard! My thoughts hurled back through time, and for a moment I was a child again.
“Can I help you?” asked the clerk in the stationery store.
“No, just looking,” I mumbled. I lifted a piece of fine embossed stationery from a box. It felt smooth and cold in my hand.
“Should I wrap that up for you?” the sales clerk asked.
“No,” I said shaking my head.
“It’s not quite what I’m looking for.”
As Mom received each gift, her bright face and sweet words of gratitude made me feel absolutely confident that I had picked out the perfect present.
“The mall is now closing,” announced the voice over the loud speaker. Slowly, I walked out to the car. My hands were empty. The evening was gone, and still I had not purchased a gift for my mother.
“What is wrong with me? Why doesn’t anything seem right? What is it that Mom really wants?” I asked myself. Then suddenly I had the answers, and I knew the gift I would give to my mother this last year that I would be living at home. It didn’t have to be written down, nor did it have to be wrapped up. It wouldn’t take as much effort to get as the lizard nor cost as much money as the gold watch. But still it was the perfect gift.
This year I would give to my mother my sacred promise to always love the Lord and keep all his commandments and serve him by staying active in his Church, all the days of my life. Peace and happiness filled my soul as I pictured my mother’s joyful expression when she received this gift. In my heart I knew she would say, “It’s just what I have always wanted.”

Speaking of the power of prayer and the power of fasting and the redemption of souls, let me share this story. Recently I interviewed a prospective missionary with a very unusual history. At age seventeen she ran away from home and lived with a man without bothering with a formal marriage. Her partner was an evil, conniving, conspiring businessman. He used the young lady in various ways to gain business advantages. On many occasions he arranged for her to sleep with clients. After two years of such wallowing in sin, the young lady woke up with a start one morning, wondering, “What am I doing? What is this doing to my family? Where is this leading?” She had not entertained thoughts like this before—it came new. It bothered her to the point that she dressed, left the apartment, and wandered the streets. She was confused and wondered what she should do. Finally, she determined that she should return home, like the prodigal son, and seek help from loved ones. Upon her return home she learned that her parents, brothers and sisters, and others were fasting and praying at that moment that she would find her way home. A loving father and serviceable bishop accepted her confession and did what was necessary to help her clean up her life. In fact, they put her on a cleanup program that lasted three years.

As this young and beautiful lady completed her program and was accepted back into the Church in full fellowship, her one desire was to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary. She explained to me that she had received many proposals, but that she had turned them down because, as she stated, “I have a debt to pay. I was reclaimed through the grace of God and I want to do something in return.” There is power in fasting and prayer and it should be applied in our efforts to redeem souls. We should fast and pray that all of God’s children will find their way home.

When Brooke Sattley heard her stake was going to build two houses in two days, she decided to do something more. “I heard about the youth conference at the same time I was looking for a Laurel project,” says Brooke.
One thought led to another, and before long Brooke had a project. If the people needed a house, she concluded, they might need some things to go inside it too.
“I went to the youth conference’s main coordinator and he gave me a list of things the families needed—mostly small stuff,” she says. “He also told me the people needed a washer and dryer, but not to worry about the big things.”
Well, she did worry. And before long, members of the Frederick Maryland Stake were notifying her they had a washer and dryer, a microwave, a dresser, a box spring and mattress, as well as smaller kitchen appliances and silverware they were willing to donate.
Initially, Brooke printed a list of items she needed to get the project rolling. She then included the list with a letter she wrote to each bishop in her stake explaining the project. The bishops read Brooke’s letter to their congregations, and before long, people were calling her to find out where they could drop off their stuff.
“I had no idea so many people would get involved. I think it’s so wonderful how the Saints of the Church can just pull together and totally give their all,” she says.
“It has been frustrating at times,” she adds, “but I’ve been so glad I could put forth my entire effort to help these families out. Nothing beats the feeling you get inside.”

Squanto taught the people how to plant corn, and everyone helped with the planting. “If you want to get crops from these old grounds,” Squanto advised, “you must fertilize the fields with fish.” When the herring began their spring run, he showed the settlers how to trap them. Then the men spaded holes in the hillocks, and the boys dropped in three herring, spokewise, with their heads toward the center. Ellen and the other little girls put four kernels of corn into each hill, then covered them. Squanto told the settlers to guard the crops against animals. The children kept watch by day and the grownups by night.
Squanto also showed the villagers how to tap maple trees for the sweet sap, how to trap deer and other game, and where to find eels. Thanks to him, the colony began to thrive.
The six acres of wheat, barley, and peas the settlers had planted with seed brought from England scarcely produced seed enough for the next year. But with the pumpkin and corn from the Indians, the harvest was bounteous far beyond their expectations. And because of the peace treaty with the Indians, the children could gather wild plums, berries, and grapes in the woods as safely as they could have walked the sidewalks of Holland.

Tamika curled up under the soft blanket and took a deep breath. The quilt smelled sweet, like the cherry lotion her grandma used. She loved that smell.
“Gram, I’m glad Mama and I came,” Tamika said.
Gram sat on the bed next to Tamika and stroked her hair. “I’m glad too. Do you want a bedtime story?”
Tamika nodded. “Tell me about when Grammy Rose escaped.” Tomorrow they were visiting a place where her great-grandma Rose might have stayed, and she wanted to hear the story again.
“Again?” Gram laughed. “All right. That’s one of my favorites too.” She leaned back and got comfortable.
“Your great-grandma Rose lived on a big farm called a plantation with her mama and daddy. They were slaves, and they wanted to be free,” Gram said. “One day, Rose’s mama died of a fever. Her daddy decided it was time to escape with Rose.”
Gram’s fingers traced lines along the quilt as she talked, like she was tracing a map of the journey.
“They left at night and followed the North Star. It’s part of a constellation called the Big Dipper,” Gram said. “Back then, slaves called it the Drinking Gourd.”
“What’s a gourd?” Tamika asked.
“It’s like a squash. Slaves would use hollowed-out gourds as spoons to scoop water from buckets to drink,” Gram said. “Rose and her daddy followed the Drinking Gourd north. People from the Underground Railroad helped them along the way.”
Tamika nodded. She knew that the Underground Railroad wasn’t really a railroad. It was a name for the people who helped slaves escape to safety. Tomorrow Tamika and her mom were going to a house called Slave Haven, where some of the slaves hid on their journey north.
“But we don’t know for sure if Grammy Rose stayed in Slave Haven,” Tamika said.
Gram looked thoughtful. “That’s right. Rose couldn’t write, so we don’t know the exact places she stayed,” Gram said. “But when I was a girl, Rose told me her story, and I wrote it in my journal.”
Tamika sat up. “Can I read what you wrote?”
Gram nodded. “We can look at it tomorrow—”
Just then, Mama came in to kiss Tamika goodnight.
“Are you two still talking about Grammy Rose?” Mama said. “Tomorrow you can explore secret passages and trap doors at Slave Haven. But right now, it’s time for bed.”
As Mama tucked the blankets around Tamika, Gram told her one more thing about Rose.
“Grammy Rose always said that miracles from God brought her safely north. That taught me to look for miracles every day,” Gram said. “Like warm sunshine.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mama said, looking at Gram. “Or a beautiful smile.” She turned to Tamika. “Or the miracle of Tamika finally falling asleep!”
Tamika laughed. She had never thought about sunshine and smiles as miracles, but the world would be pretty dark and sad without them!
Tamika felt happy and warm thinking about how brave her great-great-grandma was. Just before Gram shut the door, an idea popped into Tamika’s head.
“Gram? Can I have a journal? I want to look for miracles and write them down too,” Tamika said.
“We’ll get you one tomorrow,” Gram said.
“I know what my miracle is today,” Tamika said.
“What?” asked Gram.
“It’s you,” Tamika said. “And Mama, and us coming to visit, and learning about Grammy Rose …” Tamika’s words became softer and softer until she finally fell asleep, curled up beneath the warm, sweet-smelling quilt.

John Lloyd Stephens, a New York lawyer, and Joseph Smith never met, nor is there any evidence that Stephens ever read the Book of Mormon. Yet Stephens’ most important achievement in life would later stand as a physical testimony to that spiritual book translated by his fellow New Yorker, Joseph Smith.
That achievement began in the Honduran jungle on a hot, steamy November day in 1839 when John Stephens and his two native helpers dug up a statue from the forest floor. “Francisco found the feet and legs, and Bruno a part of the body,” wrote Stephens, “and the effect was electric.” Victor W. Von Hagen wrote that on that date, “a new world, a new science—American archaeology—came into existence.” John Lloyd Stephens was its founder.
No stranger to travel or fame, Stephens had already rambled through and written about Europe, the Near East, Egypt, Arabia, and the Holy Land. But he still had itchy feet and visions of the past and had not yet discovered his real destiny.
On a visit to London, Stephens first stumbled over his future in the form of Descriptions of an Ancient City, by a Capitán Del Rio, who had visited a strange, ruined city in Mexico called Palenque. He later learned of a second lost Mexican city, Uxmal. In 1835, he eagerly pounced upon a professional journal describing a ruined Honduran city, Copan.
Palenque, Copan, Uxmal. His mind now stirred with visions of nebulous civilization that had existed in Central America. Amazingly enough, he seemed the only one interested. “Instead of electrifying the public,” he wrote, “little notice was taken [of the Copan article].” Nonetheless, he announced his intention to search for those lost cities.
“Nonsense!” roared scientists and public alike. Indians had never progressed beyond savagery. Americans of that age could believe in almost anything other than an “Indian” civilization, in spite of evidence from the conquest. Such proofs were either ignored or downgraded as Spanish public-relations puffery. Scholars and historians held fast to their antiquated beliefs and scorned Stephens’ efforts.
There was, in truth, little documentary evidence to counter what scholars supposed. Joseph Smith’s detractors would vilify him for plagiarism, for example, when there was nothing to plagiarize. Even in 1839, the very well-educated—and rich—Mr. Stephens had great difficulty scraping up any real evidence of an ancient American culture. His meager references were poor in detail. And in Joseph Smith’s time, records were even poorer—or nonexistent.
This dearth of information made even the irrepressible Stephens a bit skeptical, but he had high hopes. In company with a kindred spirit—and accomplished artist—Frederic Catherwood, he set sail for Central America.
Their first goal, Copan, was a sickly village of mud-walled huts. But discovery loomed near. A native guide led them through the jungle to a riverbank. Opposite reared a hundred-foot-high stone wall—the edge of ancient Copan and of a new era in history. Quickly crossing the river and scaling the wall, they found themselves amid the fallen relics of a forgotten civilization.
“Working our way through the thick woods,” Stephens wrote. “we came upon a square stone column, about fourteen feet high … sculptured on all four … sides … in very bold relief … they were works of art … some equal to the finest monuments of the Egyptians.
“America [said historians of the 1830’s] was peopled by savages; but savages never built these structures, savages never carved these stones. When we asked the Indians if they knew who made them, their dull answer was ‘Quién sabe? [Who knows?]’”
The scholars and historians of the Western world could not have answered any better. Copan—and the Mayas—surged to their lofty level of art and culture while Europe descended into the gloom of the dark ages. They conquered the jungles and strung their cities through Yucatan like sparkling gems on a jeweled collar. But for the Old World, their deeds and histories were as quiet as the silent jungle they lived in.
Sometime before A.D. 900, however, the Mayas abruptly and mysteriously stepped off the stage of history. For a thousand years, Copan lay buried by the thick, heavy Honduran jungle until disturbed in 1839 by Stephens and Catherwood.
The pair could not see it all—the jungle was too thick. They concentrated on the unburied “idols,” or stelae. These were huge, thirty-ton monoliths carved with an incredible profusion of figures, flowers, and animals. Erected on set dates to commemorate events unknown to us, they climaxed the Mayan genius.
In a two-year journey, Stephens and Catherwood discovered and rediscovered Copan, Palenque, Uxmal, Chichén Itzá, and forty other ruined Mayan sites. The mystery deepened, and Stephens’ reactions were rhapsodic. At Palenque, he said:
“Here were the remains of a cultivated, polished, and peculiar people, who had passed through all the stages of the rise and fall of nations; reached their golden age, and perished entirely unknown. The links which connected them with the human family were severed and lost, and these were the only memorials of their footsteps upon earth … In the romance of the world’s history, nothing ever impressed me more forcibly than the spectacle of this once great and lovely city, overturned, desolate, and lost; discovered by accident, overgrown with trees for miles around, and without even a name to distinguish it.”
The dedication of the two explorers in uncovering these mysteries baffles the modern mind. In an age when gentlemen stayed at home, these two suffered hunger, malaria, myriads of insect attacks, extreme physical discomfort, and near brushes with death. To accomplish what?
History judges Stephens among the great. His contribution is rated equal to Jean Francois Champollion (1790–1832), French Egyptologist who discovered a stone that had writing in three languages. From the stone, he was able to decipher ancient Egyptian writing; or to Heinrich Schliemann (1822–1890), German archeologist, who excavated the city of Troy in Anatolia, proving this legendary Greek city actually existed.
From our point of view. Stephens’ importance is momentous: John Lloyd Stephens and Joseph Smith never met, but the Book of Mormon’s cry in the wilderness was now reinforced as Stephens’ physical testimony of Lehi’s people swept over the world.