Gospel Story Finder

I witnessed this truth during a particularly difficult week on my mission. Everything seemed to be going wrong: I wasn’t getting along with my companion, people we had been teaching had suddenly stopped talking with us, and the weather was extremely hot.
I felt like God had forgotten me. As I was walking down the street in the blazing heat, I thought: “How could you forget about me? It’s so unfair. I’m trying so hard!” And in that moment, a drop of water hit me in the eye—right between my eyebrow and glasses. At first, I was so annoyed that I didn’t even consider the cloudless sky. And then, seconds later, another drop of water hit me in the same spot. I stopped and looked up, and the words “Jacob, I haven’t forgotten you” entered my mind and heart.
I began to cry. I knew those words and raindrops were a message from Heavenly Father. I felt His perfect love for me and for all of His children. I was reminded of who I was and that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would never abandon me—or any of us.
Now when I am struggling to remember my divine identity, I ponder this experience to remind myself that I, and all of Heavenly Father’s children, have great worth.

One came in the October 1856 general conference as President Brigham Young announced to the congregation that handcart pioneers were still on the trail and late in the season. He declared: “Your faith, religion, and profession of religion, will never save one soul of you in the celestial kingdom of our God, unless you carry out just such principles as I am now teaching you. Go and bring in those people now on the plains, and attend strictly to those things which we call temporal, … otherwise your faith will be in vain.”2
We remember with grateful admiration the men who headed off to rescue those suffering Saints. But what did the sisters do?
“Sister [Lucy Meserve] Smith recorded … that after President Young’s exhortation, those in attendance took action. … Women ‘[removed] their petticoats [large underskirts that were part of the fashion of the day and that also provided warmth], stockings, and every thing they could spare, right there in the [old] Tabernacle, and piled [them] into the wagons to send to the Saints in the mountains.’”3
Several weeks later, President Brigham Young gathered the Saints again in the old Tabernacle as the rescuers and the handcart companies got closer to Salt Lake City. With great urgency, he pleaded with the Saints—especially the sisters—to nurse the sufferers and feed them and receive them, saying: “Some you will find with their feet frozen to their ankles; some are frozen to their knees and some have their hands frosted. … We want you to receive them as your own children, and to have the same feeling for them.”4
Lucy Meserve Smith also recorded:
“We did all we could, with the aid of the good brethren and sisters, to comfort the needy. … They got their hands and feet badly frosted. … We did not cease our exertions [un]til all were made comfortable. …
“I never took more satisfaction and, I might say, pleasure in any labor I ever performed in my life, such a unanimity of feeling prevailed. …
“What comes next for willing hands to do?”5

“About a year ago I was on assignment in Beirut, Lebanon. While there, I learned about a 12-year-old girl, Sarah. Her parents and two older siblings had converted to the Church in Romania but were then required to return to their homeland when Sarah was just 7 years of age. In their homeland there was no Church presence, no organized units, no Sunday School or Young Women program. After five years this family learned of a branch in Beirut and, just before I arrived, sent their 12-year-old daughter, Sarah, accompanied by older siblings, to be baptized. While there, I gave a devotional on the plan of salvation. With some frequency Sarah raised her hand and answered the questions.
“After the meeting, and knowing of her almost nonexistent Church exposure, I approached her and asked, ‘Sarah, how did you know the answers to those questions?’ She immediately replied, ‘My mother taught me.’ They did not have the Church in their community, but they did have the gospel in their home.”

Amber Martin and Kortney Kline are closer to earning their Young Women Personal Progress Award after organizing all the youth in the Valley Forge Pennsylvania Stake to donate their reading books to an inner-city school in Philadelphia. A stake youth dance was held and the “admission fee” was to bring some books. Amber and Kortney managed to collect over 500 books. These two young women said it was an awesome experience to give youth in their stake an opportunity to donate books to students in need.

Robert Crookston, a young coal miner, waited eagerly for the passenger steamer to cross the Firth of Forth into Dysart harbour on a beautiful spring morning in 1841. He had walked from his home in Wemyss to meet a special friend: George Darling Watt, a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Robert’s local minister had been unable to satisfy his honest questions on religion so when his aunt and cousin in Edinburgh wrote to invite Robert to hear their minister, he readily accepted. He was thrilled by the preaching of Elder Watt and said, “I believed every word of it [...] I was converted on the spot and went the same night and was baptised in Duddingston Loch.”
Robert felt the sacredness of the occasion as Brother Watt disembarked. He said, “When he took my hand I felt that he was the only man that held the Priesthood on the north side of the Firth. [...] I rented a large hall for him to preach in and the people flocked to hear the gospel and nearly twenty were baptised then.”

In 1962, having returned home from presiding over the Canadian Mission of the Church, I received a telephone call from Elder Marion G. Romney. He advised me that the First Presidency had named me as a member of the Adult Correlation Committee of the Church, which committee had the specific assignment to work on the preparation of a new concept—even home teaching. Thus began a most interesting and rewarding experience for me. Each phase of our work, when completed, was reviewed by the First Presidency and the Council of the Twelve. In the spring of 1963, our work was done and a number of us were called to serve on a new committee—the Priesthood Home Teaching Committee—and assigned to go among the stakes of the Church, teaching and encouraging its implementation.

President David O. McKay met with all of the General Authorities of the Church and with the representatives of the committee. He counseled those assembled: “Home teaching is one of our most urgent and most rewarding opportunities to nurture and inspire, to counsel and direct our Father’s children. … It is a divine service, a divine call. It is our duty as Home Teachers to carry the divine spirit into every home and heart.”

Russ—A student I once knew signed up for a chemistry class because she had to fill a graduation requirement. Her heart was definitely not in it. On the first day of class she noticed that students sitting around her were majoring in chemistry. She knew she was doomed. She was convinced that she would fail the course.

Lolly—So what happened? How did she do?

Russ—We’ll get back to that later.

Lolly—How about the student who knew she was going to fail the chemistry class?
Russ—She had been going along for several weeks pretending to do what she was supposed to do, but her heart was definitely not in it. Then she said,
I woke up one morning and knew that I’d been looking at this class all wrong. I was only concerned about the grade, but then I realized that the grade wasn’t why I’d come to college. I came so that I could learn. So I began focusing totally on my own learning and forgot about the grade. The moment I did that, I began learning more about chemistry than I ever thought possible, and the grade took care of itself.

Lolly—She moved out of the hypocrite box and became a disciple. Motives are so important!

Mary Connors wiped the sweat off her face with her forearm. Summer in the Oklahoma panhandle was hot. She knew Pa needed everyone’s help to chop weeds out of the corn.
Mary looked sideways to check on her brother James. He was eight years old, two years younger than she was. They had two older brothers and an older sister. Her two little sisters stayed back at the house with Ma and their older sister.
Pa came up the row. “Mary,” he said, “you and James take the pails and get water from the river.” Even at 10 years old, she knew how important it was to keep new corn watered.
She and James walked across the sloping field to the Cimarron River. It was shallow, and Mary knew that it wouldn’t be easy to dig a hole deep enough to fill their pails.
As they waded barefoot into the river, the water curled like bracelets around their ankles. They scooped the pails into the sandy riverbed. As soon as one small hole was made, sand quickly filled it in.
Hearing voices behind her on the bank, Mary turned and saw two young men approaching. They were dressed in white shirts and ties, even though it was only Wednesday. Each carried a small suitcase and a suit jacket.
“Hello!” they called, stopping near the edge of the river to watch Mary and James scooping sand.
“Hi.” Mary wasn’t sure they should be talking to these strangers.
“What are you doing?” asked the taller young man.
“Digging for water,” James said.
“Need some help?” asked the shorter young man.
Mary shrugged, but James stood up and held out his pail with a big smile on his face. “Sure!”
The shorter man pulled off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and stepped into the river. He took James’s pail and quickly made a deep hole. His companion had also stepped barefoot into the river and was using Mary’s pail. The children dug with their hands. Finally, when both pails were full, the men asked if they could help further by carrying the water to the children’s home.
Mary nodded. “We’re supposed to water the corn.”
“We’d like to meet your pa and your ma,” the taller man said.
They walked back to the cornfield where Pa and the boys were still chopping weeds. Pa looked up in surprise when he saw that they had company.
The young men set down the pails of water and introduced themselves. “I’m Elder Watson,” the taller one said. “My companion is Elder Masters. We’re missionaries.”
Pa shook their hands. “Do you believe in Jesus Christ?” he asked.
The elders looked at each other and smiled. Elder Masters said, “The name of our church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A young prophet, Joseph Smith, talked to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.”
Pa’s eyes met his children’s. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to hear more about this young prophet. How about having supper with us?”
Mary could tell that the elders were pleased with the invitation. James was sent to tell Ma that they had company. Then they all pitched in and finished hoeing and watering the corn. When they went to the house, Ma and Rachel were setting out bowls of mashed potatoes, fried squash, sliced tomatoes, and new peas. A stack of hot biscuits stood beside a dish of fresh-churned butter.
Pa gestured to Elder Watson. “We always say a blessing on the food. You probably ought to say it tonight, Elder.”
After supper, Pa showed the elders the hayloft, and James and Mary carried quilts and pillows out for them. Pa asked what the elders were doing in the Oklahoma panhandle.
Elder Watson explained. “We are walking missionaries. We walk through the area looking for people who want to know more about Jesus Christ and about the Book of Mormon.”
Pa nodded. “That’s me. I want to know more. What’s the Book of Mormon?”
The missionaries stayed until Saturday morning. In between helping Pa with the crops, they taught about the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith, and Jesus Christ.
On Saturday morning, Elder Masters asked, “Do you believe that Jesus said that we must be baptized to enter His kingdom?”
Mary nodded her head. She saw each person in her family nod in agreement.
“Do you want to be baptized?” Elder Masters asked.
A chorus of amens answered his question. Soon they were all headed toward the Cimarron River, carrying shovels, pails, and kettles. It would take a lot of digging to make the river deep enough.
They sang hymns as they dug. Mary could scarcely stand the excitement and joy that she felt inside. She was glad that she was 10 years old and could be baptized.
At last Elder Watson pronounced the hole deep enough.
One by one, starting with Pa, the whole family, except for the two little girls, were baptized in the Cimarron River.
Later, dressed in dry clothes, each sat on a kitchen chair while the elders confirmed them members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and gave them the gift of the Holy Ghost. Mary couldn’t remember seeing her parents cry before, but she knew that these were happy tears.
On Sunday, the family attended their first sacrament service out under the apple trees. The elders talked about all that they had learned and how it was now their turn to teach their neighbors.
On Monday morning, the walking missionaries set out to find others to teach.
Mary remained faithful throughout her life, and when she was an old woman, she told the story of how she had helped dig her own baptismal font with her bare hands in the Cimarron River of Oklahoma.

At age 16, I began working as a lifeguard and teaching swimming lessons at an outdoor swimming pool in the center of the town. It was my dream job. Two years later I became the pool manager with a lot of responsibility.
As summer approached, I interviewed and hired all the lifeguards, arranged the work schedules, and organized the swimming lesson schedule. My days were full of lifeguarding and teaching lessons, and each night I counted all the money and took it to City Hall after we cleaned and locked up the pool.
The summer was going well and I loved my job. Then one day, several of the guards came to me wanting the following Sunday off; they all planned to be out of town. The pool had always been open on Sundays, but I had never had to work them because I never scheduled myself and the others weren’t bothered by working on Sunday.
I could almost hear the tempter’s voice in my ear saying, “Just work one Sunday. What’s the big deal?” But I wanted to remain firm in my commitment to never work on Sunday. It took a lot of arranging, but I finally was able to fill that shift and didn’t have to work.
Over the next several weeks, I felt more and more anxiety about the whole Sunday situation. I realized that there might be some day in the future where I would have to work because no one else was available or might call in sick. I had made a commitment to keep the Sabbath day holy, and I didn’t want to break it, but I needed a solution or I would have to find a job elsewhere for the next summer.
I gave the problem a lot of thought and decided I might be able to figure out a way to get the pool closed on Sundays. Could it even be possible? I would have to approach the city council, since they were the ones who were in charge of the city pool.
So I brainstormed all the ideas I could think of to justify closing the pool. I figured out how many people usually came to swim each Sunday and what the average revenue was. I deducted the costs of operating the pool, heating the water, and paying the lifeguards. Typically, Sundays were slow at the pool—and my minor research had confirmed that. Closing the pool could save the city money.
A friend of mine helped me find more reasons why closing the pool on Sundays was beneficial to the city. Together we worked on a proposal, and a few weeks later I took the proposal to the city council. To my great surprise, they agreed and accepted my proposal. Within a short time that summer the pool was open each week only Monday through Saturday.

When I was a new convert, I attended a class where a missionary couple taught about the temple. As the elder taught, he mentioned that in order to receive exaltation, you needed to attend the temple to receive temple ordinances. I did not even allow him to finish before I asked, “Do you mean those of us who live many miles away from the temple will never receive exaltation?”
In an instant, the teacher walked toward me. He placed both his hands on my shoulders and, looking straight into my eyes, declared, “If you live the gospel, you will enter the temple.”
I wondered how true his words could be. If all the belongings of my family were sold, the money would not be enough to buy the ticket to the temple and back, so I did not take him seriously.
A few years later I was called on a mission. Guess where? Cape Town, South Africa. I would have the opportunity to go through the Johannesburg South Africa Temple before and after my mission. I couldn’t believe it!
I was humbled to recall the words of the elder. I learned never to doubt that “with God all things are possible” (see Mark 10:27).

In the Locality File, Rebecca found that Rebecca Burdick Winters had an article written about her in the July 19, 1958, Deseret News. It was on a microfilm and was titled Lonely Grave of a Pioneer Mother. Reading it, she learned that in August 1852, Rebecca Winters and her family were traveling by wagon train to Salt Lake City. When deadly cholera invaded the wagon train outside Scotts Bluff, Nebraska, Rebecca helped care for the sick, and she watched her friends die until she herself was stricken with it and died.
As the family prepared to bury Rebecca’s body, a band of starving Indians rode into the camp, demanding food. When told that there was no food to spare, they became desperate and threatened to kill the pioneers.
Hiram Winters explained to the Indians that there was a terrible sickness among the wagon train. When the Indians failed to believe him, he removed the blanket from Rebecca’s body. The Indians quickly fled, leaving the pioneers to bury their dead in peace.
Rebecca’s lonely grave was marked only by an old metal wagon tire inscribed Rebecca Burdick Winters, Age 50.
Years later a survey party for a railroad discovered the wagon tire that marked the grave. The railroad track was to have gone over it, but the officials decided to reroute it around the grave of the brave pioneer mother.
The article went on to tell about Gideon and his family. Then Rebecca found a paragraph about Rebecca Burdick Winters. It said that in 1902 her descendants, in loving memory, erected a monument made of Salt Lake granite beside Rebecca’s grave. In 1964 a national patriotic organization erected another monument by the grave, naming Rebecca Burdick Winters “The Pioneer Mother of America.”

by Glenn Latham
This is a true story about a Wonderful Pest.
We have six children, four lovely daughters and two fine sons. All of our children have progressed nicely through the programs of the Church, including the Scouting program for the boys.
Unfortunately, we parents never caught Scouting fever, so neither did the boys. Consequently, our oldest son graduated from the Aaronic Priesthood program having attained the rank of Life Scout, falling several merit badges short of the coveted rank of Eagle (coveted by his parents, that is).
Like older brother, like younger brother, number two son saw Scouting primarily as an avenue for fun, with some resentment reserved for “all the clunky requirements.” And true to form, his parents were only a mild irritant to him to “get with it”; hence, the weeks and months toward the end of eligibility flew past with little hope of an Eagle landing. “After all,” we reasoned, “how influential can we hope to be when, after making several very attractive offers to encourage our son, he replies, somewhat disdainfully, ‘I don’t even want to be an Eagle Scout.’”
Enter our Wonderful Pest.
At the height (or depth) of our son’s lethargy and our resignation, Jeff Sessions, our Wonderful Pest, moved into our ward, the Third Ward, North Logan Utah Stake. He is an unassuming, determined, soft-spoken young fellow, married, the father of four precious children, and a graduate student at Utah State University. His talents were soon recognized, and before long he was called to be the priests quorum adviser—and to him that meant Scouting.
Our Wonderful Pest is one of those goal-oriented, management-by-objective types. For the priests quorum the goal was clear—100 percent Eagle Scouts (much to the dismay and discomfort of the quorum members).
With goal in hand, W. P. wasted no time. The strategy was simple: divide and conquer. None of this “let’s all get an Eagle together” stuff. He went after each boy individually. Then the phone began to ring, every day and twice on Sunday, at least. It went like this:
Ring, ring.
“Allen, it’s for you. It’s Jeff.”
(Mutter, mutter) “That pest. I’ll get it down here. Hi, Jeff. At your place? Now! Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes. (Grumble, grumble) I’m going to Jeff’s. I’ll be back in a while.”
Not infrequently, W. P. was found at our front door following up on an assignment, just checking, or picking up our son to take him to some merit badge activity with, of course, a stop on the way home to get some pizza, doughnuts, a root beer, or whatever. In which event it was “grumble, grumble; munch, munch.” Allen always returned with a smile on his face, and he always returned one step closer to another merit badge. And so it went:
Ring, ring
Knock, knock
Grumble, grumble
Munch, munch
Merit badge, merit badge
Recently through the front door bounded our 17-year-old bundle of young male energy. “Guess what, Dad?” he proudly exclaimed with animated enthusiasm. “You’re looking at an Eagle Scout! And to think that only a few months ago, I didn’t even want to be an Eagle Scout. It’s all because of that pest, Jeff.”
“Yep,” I replied, “our Wonderful Pest.”
This scenario was duplicated in the homes of ten other priests resulting in the accomplishment of Jeff’s goal, all members of the priests quorum receiving the Eagle Award.

We bowed our heads as Travis said the closing prayer in our Sunday School class.
I had only lived in the ward for a few months, so I did not know much about Travis. I eventually became aware of his slurred speech and slightly awkward walk. From what I understood, he had been hit by a car when he was a small child. As a result, he had suffered some permanent brain damage.
From my first day in the ward, Travis had always been kind to me. He was happy, outgoing, and sincere. He never hesitated to strike up a conversation with me. Because his speech was sometimes slurred, I found it difficult to understand him at first. But gradually I became a better listener, and conversation became easier. However, every once in a while, Travis’s speech was nearly impossible to understand.
This was the case one day as he began to say the prayer. His words were garbled and incomprehensible. I felt a giggle swell up inside me. I sensed a chorus of laughter about to erupt from my classmates. It seemed hilarious that we couldn’t understand the prayer.
But the inclination to laugh suddenly ceased. Instead I felt tears pushing on my closed eyelids. I still could not understand Travis’s prayer, but I realized Heavenly Father did. Heavenly Father heard each word with perfect clarity. Travis knew this. He knew Heavenly Father understood his prayer. Travis prayed with sincerity and, I believe, a knowledge that he was in communication with God. Then I knew I could not understand Travis’s prayer with my ears, but I could with my heart.

I grew up in Coronel, Chile. When I was seven years old, I memorized a poem of fourteen verses and recited it before an audience of twelve hundred people. After that experience, I developed an increased desire to read more. I read about four little books a week. At that time my mother gave me a Bible. When I was twelve, I read the Bible in about ten months. I was impressed with the history of the Old Testament, and with the Atonement of the Savior in the New Testament. All my life I tried to find another book of scripture that would teach me more about these things.
When I started meeting with the missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, they used a spectacular way to motivate me to read the Book of Mormon. Whenever I had a question, they opened it and read the answer from it. I wondered what kind of book it was. Finally they asked me if I wouldn’t like to read the book. I said, “Yes, I would!” They gave me a Book of Mormon as a gift, and I was extremely glad. I read it in three weeks and was very impressed with its teachings. At the end of that time, I was baptized into the Church. I have a great testimony about the influence of the scriptures in the life of a person.
My wife, Blanca, and I have three children and six grandchildren. We love our children and all children. One of the greatest expressions of love for children that I have seen occurred when I was serving as a stake president in Chile. President Spencer W. Kimball visited Chile for an area conference. Members of the Church from four countries met together in a stadium that held about fifteen thousand people. We asked President Kimball what he would like to do after the conference. His eyes full of tears, he said, “I would like to see the children.” One of the priesthood leaders announced over the microphone that President Kimball would like to shake the hands or bless each of the children in the stadium. The people were astounded—there was a great silence. President Kimball greeted about two thousand children one by one, crying as he shook their hands or kissed them or put his hands on their heads and blessed them. The children were very reverent and looked at him and cried too. He said he’d never felt this kind of spirit in his life. It was a tremendous moment in the lives of all the Church members there. We felt closer to our children, too, because of this experience with President Kimball.
I love President Gordon B. Hinckley very much. He called me to be a Seventy in 1990. I was the first Chilean called as a General Authority. It was a beautiful moment in my life. However, when I was called, I didn’t speak any English. President Hinckley, who was then First Counselor in the First Presidency, blessed me when he set me apart that I would learn English quickly.
I have two gifts that helped me to learn English quickly. My first gift is a good memory. That has been my salvation in many jobs. The other gift is my persistence. If I have a job to do, I work and work at it until it’s done. When I began to learn English at age fifty-two, I studied it five hours a day, when I had time. I listened to audio tapes every morning, then studied grammar for an hour, which was difficult for me. After that, I read the conference talks in English and listened to them on tape at the same time. I memorized about ten new vocabulary words per day. Then I read aloud in English to practice pronunciation, and I listened to English on an international news station so that I could test my understanding of what was said.
Six months after being called as a General Authority, I prepared intensely for giving my first general conference talk in English. My talk was on the Word of Wisdom.
I have had experiences with seven prophets of the Church, from President David O. McKay until now. They have all been great leaders. Now it is a blessing for the Church to have the presence of President Hinckley. It is easy to love him and to express our love to him. He is very warm with us, and he loves us.
I am grateful for all you marvelous children in the Church, and I ask you to follow Jesus Christ, our beloved Leader.

In early July 1829, with manuscript in hand, Joseph knew the Lord wanted him to publish the Book of Mormon and spread its message far and wide. But the publishing business was unfamiliar to him and his family. He had to keep the manuscript safe, find a printer, and somehow get the book in the hands of people willing to consider the possibility of new scripture.
Publishing a book as long as the Book of Mormon would also not be cheap. Joseph’s finances had not improved since he started the translation, and all the money he made went toward providing for his family. The same was true for his parents, who were still poor farmers working land they did not own. Joseph’s only friend who could finance the project was Martin Harris.
Joseph set to work quickly. Before he completed the translation, he had filed for the book’s copyright to protect the text from anyone who might steal or plagiarize it.1 With Martin’s assistance, Joseph also started looking for a printer who would agree to publish the book.
They went first to Egbert Grandin, a printer in Palmyra who was the same age as Joseph. Grandin declined the proposal at once, believing the book was a fraud. Undeterred, Joseph and Martin kept searching and found a willing printer in a nearby city. But before accepting his offer, they returned to Palmyra and asked Grandin once more if he wanted to publish the book.2
This time, Grandin seemed more willing to take the project, but he wanted to be paid $3,000 to print and bind 5,000 copies before he even started work. Martin had already promised to help pay for the printing, but to come up with that kind of money, he realized he might need to mortgage his farm. It was an enormous burden for Martin, but he knew none of Joseph’s other friends could help him with the money.
Troubled, Martin began to question the wisdom of financing the Book of Mormon. He had one of the best farms in the area. If he mortgaged his land, he risked losing it. Wealth he had spent a lifetime accruing could be gone in an instant if the Book of Mormon did not sell well.
Martin told Joseph his concerns and asked him to seek a revelation for him. In response, the Savior spoke of His sacrifice to do His Father’s will, regardless of the cost. He described His ultimate suffering while paying the price for sin so that all might repent and be forgiven. He then commanded Martin to sacrifice his own interests to bring about God’s plan.
“Thou shalt not covet thine own property,” the Lord said, “but impart it freely to the printing of the Book of Mormon.” The book contained the true word of God, the Lord assured Martin, and it would help others believe the gospel.3
Although his neighbors would not understand his decision, Martin obeyed the Lord and mortgaged his farm to guarantee payment.4
Grandin signed a contract and began to organize the massive project.5 Joseph had translated the text of the Book of Mormon in three months, assisted by one scribe at a time. It would take Grandin and a dozen men seven months to print and bind the first copies of the 590-page work.6
With a publisher hired, Joseph returned to Harmony in October 1829 to work his farm and be with Emma. Oliver, Martin, and Hyrum, meanwhile, would oversee the printing and send Joseph regular updates on Grandin’s progress.7

I pursued an education, both undergraduate and a law degree. I was married midway through my legal education. I had my first son the year after I passed the bar. I had babies, and my husband and I loved and nurtured them while we were both working. It was busy, sometimes hectic; we were stretched and sometimes tired. I supported him, and he supported me. Family was, and still is, our top priority. My husband and I sought inspiration in these choices and in the timing. It was what we felt impressed to do. We were trying to let God prevail.
From a financial and professional perspective, it would have made sense to put off having children until I was more established in my career. But in letting the Lord author our stories, we sometimes do things that the world can’t make sense of. I juggled pregnancy, birthing babies, nurturing children, carpools, little league, Church responsibilities, being a supportive spouse, and my professional pursuits. It was a joyful juggle I wouldn’t change. We felt confident in our course because we were letting God prevail.

Let me tell you a story of something that happened in my life in the last few months which illustrates, to a degree, the difficulty men sometimes have in looking for short-run pleasures versus long-run joys. (Sometimes long-run means only a few hours in contrast to the moment.)

This last Thanksgiving there was quite a snowstorm here in Utah. I don’t know how much snow fell in Provo, but there was a lot where I live in Bountiful. I as an individual don’t especially enjoy the snow—particularly when it’s in my driveway. That doesn’t impress me at all. That morning I looked out the window and saw about a foot of snow in our driveway. I gathered up two of my boys, Troy and Travis, who were seven and five, and convinced these boys how happy they were going to be to help their dad shovel all that snow. As you know, that takes some doing, but you can make work fun because that does happen to be one of the real sources of joy: employment, a good job, doing something of worth. I took them outside with me and we shoveled the entire walk.

After we finished we were cold, and I was ready to go in. But I saw a teaching moment, and so I said to these two boys, “I wonder if we shouldn’t go shovel Phil’s walk.” (Phil is our neighbor next door.)

I was pleased as one boy said, “That sounds good, Dad.” The other boy said, “I’m cold.”

I looked again for that moment to teach and said, “I wonder how Phil would feel as he awakened this morning if he opened his door and saw his entire walk all finished.” Then the other boy caught the spirit of it and said, “Well, I think, Dad, that he would really be happy, wouldn’t he?”

I took that as the moment to say, “Well, what do you think, Troy, that Heavenly Father would have us do?”

He said, “Well, I think we had better shovel the walk.” We went over and we shoveled the entire walk. By that time we were tired, and the youngest boy said, “Let’s ring the doorbell now and tell Phil what we’ve done.” He was going for some short-run pleasure, wasn’t he? Again there was a great teaching moment as I was able to say, “No, Travis, I think it would be best if we didn’t tell him and left it a surprise. Heavenly Father likes us to do things anonymously.” I had to tell him what that meant—that we do things without anyone’s knowing that we’re doing them. The next thing I knew my other boy had caught the spirit of it and said, “Well, what about the Jackmans’ walk?” Before we finished that morning we had done three other walks. There was great joy later in the day as we had some phone calls come to the house. These boys saw the joy that comes to the heart of one who was attempting to do good anonymously and thereafter was found out.

The missionary journey took great physical courage as well as faith. While jumping onto a ferryboat in New York, Brigham slipped and fell against an iron ring on the deck, severely dislocating his shoulder:
“I directed brothers Kimball and Hedlock to lay hold of my body, and Brother Pratt to take hold of my hand and pull, putting his foot against my side, while I guided the bone with my right hand back to its place. … When I came to a fire I fainted, and was not able to dress myself for several days.27

I learned this formula in my own life. I started working for a big oil company shortly after I was baptized. These truths about work came into my life and led to my progress in the company.
One manager in particular at the company had a lot of power. He requested that each department send two people to help him do an inventory. And he said the only requirement was that the people knew something about accounting.
I had studied at a trade school, and I had a certificate from my accounting classes. My department boss said, “Go tell him that you are going to help with the inventory and that you are an accountant.” He wanted to see the reaction of the other man because I was so young.
When I arrived, the manager asked what I wanted. I answered, “I’m going to help you do the inventory.” I did as I was instructed by my boss and told him I was an accountant. He laughed.
Then he said, “Well, Mr. Accountant, come to my chair. Take this adding machine, and add everything in every column as fast as you can.”
I started with one finger, very slowly. He pushed me out of the chair and said, “You don’t know anything; you are going to be punished. You are going to sit there in a chair in front of me for two weeks, watching how I do the work.”
I moved to another chair. He said, “Watch me.” He started adding so fast, not even looking at his hands. I was amazed. I thought he was joking about having me watch him work for two weeks, but he wasn’t.
That first day I sat there for six or seven hours. That evening I stayed after work and waited for everyone to leave the building. Then I went to his office and changed the roll of paper in the adding machine and started practicing adding the same columns he did. For hours I worked and got faster and faster and faster. When I felt I was doing it as fast or faster than he did, I went to sleep for an hour or two.
The next morning I just washed my face and went out the front doors when they opened early, then walked in again after the manager arrived. I knocked on his door. He said, “OK, you sit there and watch what I’m doing.”
When he started on the adding machine, he seemed slow to me. I had practiced for seven hours straight. I gently pushed him aside and asked him to sit in my chair. I started adding so fast. He was surprised.
He said, “What did you do?” He forced me to tell him. He said, “From now on, because you learned this, you will work with me, and I’m going to teach you everything I know.”
I switched departments. After a few years he resigned, and I was able to take his place because of his recommendation. I used effort and concentration, and I was happy in what I was doing. I was not angry because he punished me at first.

Tate lay awake in the darkness, blinking back tears. He had prayed for help, but it seemed like a heavy black cloud hung over him, shutting out the Spirit.
“What if I never forget that awful TV show?” he worried.
A few days ago, he had finished his homework early and flipped on the TV. But he hadn’t expected to see something like that on the screen. Tate was so shocked that he forgot to turn off the television as quickly as he should have.
It was an accident. He hadn’t meant to watch a scene like that, but now he couldn’t forget it. Sometimes it popped into his head in the middle of school, at the dinner table—even during church. At times like that, he was glad Mom and Dad couldn’t read his mind. Tate’s parents had taught him not to look at pictures of people without clothes on. He knew that they also expected him to avoid violent TV shows, movies, and video games.
“Now I know why,” Tate mumbled to himself.
Tate got out of bed and onto his knees again. What could he do?
“Heavenly Father,” Tate whispered. “Please help me stop thinking about what I saw.” He wiped away the tears that had been forming in his eyes and listened. His heart beat faster. He thought he felt the Holy Ghost prompting him, but it wasn’t the answer he wanted.
He needed to tell his parents.
“Why?” Tate wondered. He would feel like a baby going into his parents’ room in the middle of the night. And to tell them? He felt embarrassed and sick all over again.
Then a clear thought came into his mind: Heavenly Father wanted him to be happy. Heavenly Father wanted him to feel the Spirit again, to think about good things, and to be honest with his family. He especially wanted Tate to become a worthy Aaronic Priesthood holder when he turned 12 in a few months. Tate realized that if he held on to what he had seen and kept it a secret, he would stay unhappy about it.
Tate knew he needed help—and the Holy Ghost had just told him where to find it.
Tate looked at the digital clock’s glowing numbers beside his bed. It was nearly 1:00 in the morning. He stood up and headed into the dark hallway toward his parents’ room. Swallowing nervously, he tapped on their door.
“Mom? Dad?”
“Tate, is that you?” came Mom’s sleepy voice.
“Is something wrong?” Dad asked.
“Yeah,” Tate said. “Can we talk? And can I maybe get a blessing?”
Dad clicked on his bedside lamp and invited Tate inside. For the first time in days, Tate felt warmth, hope, and light.