Gospel Story Finder

Maria twirled in the pretty new Sunday dress that her grandmother had made for her. It was pink with white ribbons. It was the prettiest dress Maria had ever had, and she felt very beautiful in it. She smiled at herself in the mirror and twirled again to make the skirt fan out. Maria was excited to go to church on Sunday to show her friends her new dress.
At church Maria liked hearing all her friends say nice things about her dress. In Primary she played with the ribbons on her dress instead of listening to Sister Sánchez’s lesson.
Maria didn’t pay attention to the testimonies people gave in sacrament meeting either. She was busy untying and retying each of the bows on her dress over and over again.
When the meeting was over, she noticed that some people had tears in their eyes as they left the chapel.
“Why are those people crying, Mama?” Maria asked.
“They felt the Spirit today,” Mama said as she wiped away a tear of her own. “And sometimes that brings tears to our eyes. The testimonies were wonderful, weren’t they?”
Maria didn’t answer. She couldn’t remember anything anyone had said.
That night as Mama tucked Maria into bed, Maria asked, “Why didn’t I feel the Spirit in church today, Mama?”
“The Spirit speaks in a still, small voice,” Mama said. “We must pay attention to notice it. When we go to church, we need to think about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ—then we can feel the Spirit.”
Maria thought about what she had been thinking about at church that day. She had been thinking about her new dress, not about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
The next week Maria wore her pretty pink dress to church again. But she listened to Sister Sánchez in Primary. In sacrament meeting she tried to think about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Maria left church feeling the Spirit in her heart. She was glad she had gone to church not just to show off her new dress.

“Look!” Danielle lounged against the bed, holding a pencil “cigarette” between her fingers.
“You look like a girl in the magazines,” Sidney said. “Will you smoke when you grow up?”
Danielle frowned. “I don’t know.” They all knew that her mom smoked.
“People die from smoking. Aren’t you worried about your mom?” Jessica asked.
Danielle tossed the pencil down. “Remember the policewoman who came to school and talked about drugs? Well, I went home after school that day and asked Mom to quit.”
“Wow!” Jessica exclaimed. “What did she say?”
“She said that she’d tried to quit when I was a baby, but it was too hard.”
“That sounds like my parents,” Sidney said. “When I told them that drinking alcohol was bad, my dad said, ‘It is a tradition in our family to drink wine, and I’m not about to break tradition!’”
“It’s strange,” Danielle said. “They teach us in school not to do something, but everyone still does it—even our parents and teachers.” She glanced at Jessica. “Everyone but your family.”
Jessica’s face grew hot. She didn’t know what to say. She was relieved when Sidney’s mom called to her. “Jessica, your mom is here!”
Jessica ran for the door. “Bye, Danielle. Bye, Sidney. I had a lot of fun.”
As Jessica joined her mom, she thought, It’s too bad Danielle’s mom smokes. If Mom smoked, I’d worry about it all the time.
Mom saw her frown. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Jessica jumped into the car. “I’m just glad you’re so healthy.”
Mom started the car and pulled into traffic. “I’ll feel healthier after this baby is born.”
“A few weeks, right?”
“Right. That’s why Grandpa is watching you kids tonight. Dad and I are going on a date before life gets too busy.”
“Yahoo! Another late night!”
Mom laughed. “But not too late. Tomorrow is Sunday.”
Later, when Kaylie and Meghan were in bed, Jessica and Grandpa played games and talked.
“You’ve been painting your nails, Popcorn.”
Jessica smiled at her nickname. “Sidney and Danielle painted my nails.”
“I remember them—two little pixies.”
“That was a long time ago, Grandpa. We’re growing up now. I’m graduating from Primary in a few months.”
“A young woman! Not my granddaughter!” Grandpa harrumphed. “Pretty soon you’ll think you know everything—just like your mother at your age. Why, she was the one who persuaded me to become an active Latter-day Saint.”
“Grandpa!” Jessica gasped. “I thought you were an active member of the Church all your life.”
Grandpa shook his head. “I joined the Church when your mother was a young girl. Before I joined it, I smoked and drank. Later, I went back to my old bad habits. It was hard to quit again.” Grandpa shrugged. “I finally just gave up trying.”
Jessica stared at him. “And Mom got you to quit?”
“She came home one day singing about eternal families. She wanted to know which temple we were sealed in. When I told her that I couldn’t go to the temple, she cried.”
“But you were married in the temple, Grandpa! Mom told me.”
“Yes, but only after preparing myself. I had to work at it.”
“Did you ever feel like smoking again?” Jessica asked, remembering Danielle’s mother.
“All the time. But whenever I did, your mother knew. I can see a lot of her in you.”
Grandpa poured them each a glass of apple juice, and they went out to the back porch swing. Something was troubling Jessica, but how could she explain it to Grandpa? Finally she said, “Grandpa, our family is different.”
Grandpa grinned. “Downright peculiar.”
“Grandpa!” Jessica was relieved that he wasn’t angry, but she still needed help. She remembered how embarrassed she had felt when Sidney said that Jessica’s family did everything right. Why was she embarrassed about being good?
Grandpa took a sip of his juice. “So you don’t like being different.”
Jessica shrugged. “Danielle’s mother smokes, and Sidney’s parents drink wine, but our family never does anything like that. Some of the kids at school watch movies that Dad and Mom won’t even see. I just feel like I’m kind of strange.”
Grandpa smiled. “You are strange, Popcorn.”
“Grandpa, I’m not joking. It’s hard to be different. I’m afraid I’ll lose my friends.”
Grandpa got up and went inside. He came back with his well-worn scriptures and thumbed through the pages. “‘But ye are a chosen generation,’” he read aloud, “‘a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light.’”* He looked up. “Do you know what that means?”
“That we’re supposed to be different?”
“Yes, and we are different. You accepted the name of Christ at baptism, Jessica, and you promised to follow Him. Now you are getting old enough to see more clearly what that means and the wonderful difference it makes.”
Jessica thought it over. “My friends see the difference, too, Grandpa.”
“If they are true friends, they’ll stand by you. Some of them may even stand with you.”
Jessica thought, Maybe Grandpa’s right. Mom stood for what was right, and Grandpa quit smoking. What if I stand by Danielle?
She smiled up at Grandpa. “I’m glad Mom helped you quit smoking. Otherwise we might not be a forever family.”
“I’m glad, too, Popcorn. I’m glad, too.”
“Whether we like it or not, each [member of the Church] is set apart from the world. … Though discipleship with the Lord requires times of standing humbly and courageously apart, the Lord will not forsake us. He also gives us the association of others who can edify [inspire] and strengthen us as we go about our work of blessing others in the world.”President Gordon B. Hinckley(Ensign, September 2001, pages 2, 5.)

Red Moon was searching for duck eggs among the marsh reeds when she found the leather pouch. She would have known it was a white man’s bag even if she had not already seen the hoof marks of a shod horse—a hard-running horse, too, from the depth of the tracks. But they were three days old so she was not afraid.
The bag was as stiff as wood, not soft and pliable like Indian leather. Red Moon found a dry knoll, carefully laid the eggs on soft grass, and sat down to examine her find. She traced the letters USC with her finger, thinking it was only a strange design.
The United States Cavalry messenger’s pouch was closed with a heavy metal buckle and strap. The Indian girl’s eyes sparkled with excitement as her nimble fingers struggled with the stiff leather. She hoped the bag would contain colorful glass beads or perhaps some red or blue lengths of ribbon.
Red Moon sighed with disappointment when only letters and dispatches slid out. She turned the pouch upside down and shook it, but there was nothing more.
Oh, well. It will make a nice carrier for my eggs, she decided with a sigh. She packed the large eggs between layers of grass, slung the strap over her shoulder, and started home.
Red Moon did not know it, but among the scattered papers she left behind was one very important message concerning her tribe. It was a dispatch from Washington, ordering that the peaceful Indians be permitted to remain on their land.
The girl was puzzled and uneasy when she again found the tracks of the white man’s horse. Is he sick or perhaps crazed from the sun? she wondered. She had already crossed his trail several times. He had backtracked and ridden in circles. Not even a white man could be that lost! she thought.
“The pouch! He must have crossed back and forth searching for it,” Red Moon murmured. “But he could easily make another bag.” It must be the paper packets with the strange squiggly marks that he’s so anxious to find, she thought.
It was a long way back to the marsh, but the girl retraced her steps. She gathered up the loose papers and tucked them into her blouse. It wasn’t likely that she would ever meet the man or be able to return them, but she had saved them from being blown into the water and destroyed.
Her heart grew heavy as she approached her village. The tribe would be leaving this beautiful site soon, and not for just a hunting season. This time they would never return! Soldiers had come. They said her people must go farther north than they had ever been and remain there. It was a desolate place where snows were deep and summers short.
Red Moon disliked cold weather. She could not understand why her people were being forced to leave their land. Her tribe had never preyed on wagon trains nor fought with the white soldiers. It was Black Buffalo and his braves from a neighboring tribe who were so troublesome. But the soldiers could not seem to distinguish one red man from another. The powerful white chief had decreed that all the tribes would be moved. It was tragic and unfair for all to be punished when so few were guilty.
An air of gloom and sorrow hung like a cloud over the little settlement of tepees along a sparkling brook. The Indian girl sighed and went directly to her family’s wigwam. No one was there so she put the eggs in a basket. Then she tucked the papers in the pouch, put it under her sleeping robe, and forgot about them.
A week later soldiers rode into the village. The officer in charge told Chief Wetaug to prepare to move his people. The chief’s appeal to stay here had not been answered. The tall white man inquired about a leather bag that had been lost by one of his messengers.
“The pouch! The one I found!” Red Moon gasped from her hiding place behind the chief’s lodge. He can’t have it! she decided. Why should I return it? The white soldiers are cruel. They’re driving us from our land, so I owe them no favors.
But her conscience bothered her as the white officer’s words were translated. The pouch did not belong to her. Keeping it would be the same as stealing it. And besides, some of the papers were letters to lonely soldiers who had not seen their families for one or two years.
Red Moon’s heart hammered with dread as she walked forward with the leather pouch and laid it on the buffalo robe of the surprised chief. Then she turned and ran away into the trees, afraid of the soldiers’ long guns and clanking swords.
It was the throbbing drums and dancing that drew Red Moon back to her rejoicing village. The officer had gone through the bag and discovered the dispatch that would allow them to remain free on their land. Only Black Buffalo’s tribe would be moved.
Red Moon shuddered as she thought how close, out of spite, she had come to keeping the pouch. If she had not returned it, her people would have been relocated in the north by the time another message of reprieve could be sent.
Red Moon would remember the lost pouch all her life!

When Ron was about 17 and I was about 12, his teacher told him that he needed to gain a testimony of his own. He said to me, “I intend to find out for myself if the Church is true. I’m going to pay any price to know for myself.”
Over the next few weeks, I watched him. I’d find him on his knees praying. I’d see him reading the Book of Mormon. I was amazed at how diligent he was.
One morning a few weeks later, I found Ron lying on his bed with his knees tucked up on his chest. He had great pain in his lower right abdomen.
My mom called for an ambulance. As we stood there over my brother, Ron said to my dad through gritted teeth, “Please, I need a priesthood blessing.” I didn’t know if my dad knew how to give a priesthood blessing. I’d never seen him do it. But he laid his hands on my brother’s head and pronounced a blessing of healing. About the time my dad said, “Amen,” Ron jumped off the bed and said the pain was totally gone. He was absolutely thrilled that the Lord had answered his prayer through that blessing.
My parents still took my brother to the hospital to be checked. All the doctors could say was that Ron’s symptoms sounded like he had had a ruptured appendix, but now they could find no trace of a problem.
Later that day, Ron told me, “Gene, I now know that the gift of healing is real. When Dad put his hands on my head, I felt the Spirit of the Lord go through my whole body. I know the priesthood is real.”
Then he said, “I also now know for myself that the Church is true. Not because of the healing, but because of what has been happening to me in reading the Book of Mormon. I’ve got my testimony by reading and praying over every page. I know all that we’ve been taught in the Church is correct, and I am going on a mission.” I’d never heard Ron say that before. It was evident to me, even as a young boy, that he had really been impacted by something.

I had a really bad day at school. As I was leaving, I saw some fifth graders running. They crashed into a poor girl carrying loads of schoolwork, including a school project. The project fell and broke, scattering pieces all over the ground. I ran over to the girl and asked, “Are you OK?” She was almost in tears as she got down on her knees and started scooping pieces of her project into a bag. I noticed that she was carrying glue and asked her if I could help put her masterpiece back together. She nodded in a shy way. I glued it back together and handed it to her. Then I helped her carry her things to her car. Her mom thanked me and gave me a big smile. I ran to my car and hopped in. My mom asked, “How was your day?”
“Perfect!” I said.

The binding and strengthening power of covenants in our lives became very real to me recently as our dear friends experienced a tragic loss in their family. While Catherine and Kimball Herrod and their four young children, ages nine months to seven years, were driving home from a family dinner at their grandparents’ place, a double wheel from a huge semitruck on the opposite side of the freeway suddenly sprang loose, flew across the median, and pounded into the driver’s side of the family van. Kimball, the driver, husband, and father, was severely injured and unconscious. Catherine somehow guided the car to the shoulder and called for emergency help. While she watched the paramedics work on her husband and two older children, she sat in a police car with her two little ones on her lap and prayed vocally, “Heavenly Father, we know that Thou hast the power to heal Kimball if it is Thy will, but if not, we have faith that somehow Thou wilt sustain us through this.” Kimball was life-flighted to the hospital, but he did not make it there alive.

After the children were treated for cuts, bruises, and other minor injuries, dismissed from the hospital, and safely home in bed, Catherine returned to the hospital to say her final earthly good-bye to her husband. As difficult as it was, she declared to her parents, who were with her, “I know that Kimball and I are sealed by our temple covenants, and we will be together again someday.” In the most terrible trial of a young mother’s life, her covenants sustained her.

At the funeral, we were reminded of the power of covenants to sustain us in moments of distress and grief. As we joined in the closing song, we all heard above the crowd the voice of Taylor, the five-year-old son, loudly singing, “Families Can Be Together Forever” (Hymns, no. 300). It was joyous for the congregation to know that a child had been taught of the sealing covenants that would bind him to his father and mother.

We were also taught the power of covenants in the sermon offered by Catherine’s father. He quoted a scripture from the precious record that Moroni had sealed up and then brought forth to the Prophet Joseph, reminding us that the gospel promises us a rock in the storms and whirlwinds, not an umbrella:
“Remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, … it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery … , because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation” (Hel. 5:12).

The profound strength the family exhibited comes from the knowledge that they are eternally bound to each other as a family, and they are bound to Heavenly Father and cannot be separated from Him.

Two of my own great-grandparents fit the mold of many. Gibson and Cecelia Sharp Condie lived in Clackmannan, Scotland. Their families were engaged in coal mining—at peace with the world, surrounded by relatives and friends, and housed in fairly comfortable quarters in a land they loved. They listened to the message of the missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and were converted to the depths of their very souls. They heard the call to journey to Zion and knew they must answer that call.

They sold their possessions and prepared for a hazardous voyage across the mighty Atlantic Ocean. With five children, they boarded a sailing vessel, all their worldly possessions in a tiny trunk. They traveled 3,000 miles across the waters, eight long, weary weeks on a treacherous sea—night and day nothing but water—eight weeks of watching and waiting, with poor food, poor water, and no help beyond the length and breadth of that small sailing vessel.

In the midst of this soul-trying situation, their son, Nathaniel, sickened and died. My great-grandparents loved that son just as much as your parents love you; and when his eyes were closed in death, their hearts were torn asunder. To add to their grief, the law of the sea must be obeyed. Wrapped in a canvas weighed down with iron, his body was consigned to a watery grave. As they sailed away, only those parents knew the crushing blow dealt to wounded hearts. Gibson Condie and his good wife were comforted by the words “Not my will, but Thy will, O Father.”

My father was the most excited among us to learn and share the truth. He used to wake up early in the morning to study the scriptures for over two hours every day. After work he went with the missionaries to visit our family, friends, and neighbors nearly every day. Seven months after we were baptized, 23 of my family and relatives became members of the Church. That was followed by the miracle of seeing 130 people baptized in the following year through my father’s member missionary work.

When I read in the Book of Mormon about how Nephi always supported his visionary father, I concluded that most youth in the Church were probably like Nephi. But when my family decided that we needed to move to the desert, I felt more like Laman and Lemuel. I didn’t want to leave my home.
Like Nephi and his brothers, I was “born of goodly parents” (1 Nephi 1:1). Both joined the Church when they were teenagers, and my mother waited for my father while he served a mission. They were active, hardworking members of the Church.
When I was in high school, the economy slowed down in our region of Concepción, Chile. Jobs dried up, and my father began having trouble finding work. Finally, he began looking for a job out of town.
His job search took him north to the city of Calama, in Chile’s mining region. He is a construction engineer, and he found a good job there. But he was alone and far away. We saw him only when he could afford the 32-hour bus ride home.
After a few years of seeing my father only two or three times a year, my mother felt that it was time to make a change. My parents concluded that the rest of our family needed to move north.
My younger brother had no problem moving. And my older sister, who was in college, set a good example for me.
“I’ll sacrifice my studies,” she said. “We need to be with our father.”
Everyone supported the decision to move except for me. I wanted to be with my father too, but I resisted making changes and personal sacrifices. I had my friends, I knew my surroundings, I enjoyed my lifestyle, and I wanted to go to college in Concepción. I did everything I could do to convince my mother that we shouldn’t go.
Finally, she said, “Son, your father is alone. He wants us with him. I wish you understood, but you’re too focused on yourself.” Then she reassured me, “We will have opportunities there.”
In my heart, I knew she was right—even though my head wasn’t convinced. I didn’t have a strong testimony at the time, but I decided to pray about whether I should go with my family. A clear answer came to me: “You need to leave this place.” I was sad, but I told my parents I would go.
Concepción is a green place with lots of trees. It receives 50 inches (127 cm) of rain per year. Antofagasta, the city near Calama we were moving to, receives only 0.1 inch (0.25 cm) per year.
The most shocking thing for me about the move was the actual trip. As we made our way north by bus, watching the transition from green to brown was agonizing. I wondered, “Where are the trees? Where are the cows in the countryside?” All I saw was dirt, rocks, and hills.
Obviously, northern Chile is a desert, so what else could I expect? I was reminded of how Laman and Lemuel felt when Lehi’s family left the land of their inheritance and headed into the wilderness.
I had a lot of fears when we arrived in Antofagasta. What would happen if I didn’t make any friends? What would happen if I couldn’t get used to the area? What would happen if my hopes for the future didn’t come true?
In the end, I shouldn’t have worried. My mother was right about the opportunities awaiting us—especially the spiritual opportunities.
Before our move, the gospel wasn’t a priority for me. The Lord was in the background. But in Antofagasta, people came into my life who helped me see the beauty of the gospel. I received help from special priesthood leaders. I made friends who remain a treasure to me. My spiritual life changed completely.
I’m grateful I listened to my mother. I’m grateful the Lord answered my prayer. I’m grateful I had the courage to move north with my family.
Here in the desert is where I made the changes that helped me become who I am today. Here is where I committed to embrace the gospel, serve a mission, marry in the temple, and dedicate my life to the Lord. Here is where I determined that I no longer wanted to be like Laman and Lemuel.
For my family and me, the wilderness turned out to be our promised land.
The author lives in Antofagasta, Chile.

Shiloh W., age 18, Chihuahua, Mexico
My mother died when I was only 12 years old. At that time I was not a member of the Church. When she was sick, I prayed a lot that my mother would be well. I had much faith, and I trusted in God in the hope that her health would return. Sadly she did not recover. I questioned why she had to die at such a young age and leave me while I was still a teenager. I was angry and came to the point where I doubted that God existed. Now that I am a member of the Church, I understand the plan of salvation. I know that she is waiting for me and that our family will be reunited.

When I was a mission president, I learned that the best missionaries were often those who had to make big sacrifices to serve a mission. I knew one young missionary who earned the money for his mission by delivering newspapers. While he was serving his mission, his younger brothers sacrificed for him, too. Without telling him, they kept doing his job and saved all the money that they earned. When he returned home, they gave him the money so he could attend the university. He is now about to graduate.

On July 27, 2013, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease, my life partner of 25 years passed away. Jay Eldredge was a world-renowned cardiologist. We had both served missions for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when we were younger but then distanced ourselves from the Church because of same-sex attraction.
Jay’s death, although not unexpected, was devastating. I felt heartbroken and lost and alone.
While driving home after making the funeral arrangements, I felt the influence of the Spirit overwhelm me so strongly that I had to pull over to the side of the road. I knew that God was speaking to me, calling me back to Him, but I was resistant. “Can’t you see that I’m suffering?” I said aloud. “I can’t face going back to church right now.”
But the more I protested, the more the Spirit pulled at me, inviting me back to church.
I was deeply worried about returning to church. I hadn’t been to a sacrament meeting in 25 years. Would they even accept me? Would I accept them? What would the bishop say? I felt anxious and unsettled and still heavy with grief.
But my testimony of the gospel had never wavered in all those years. Jay and I loved the Church and its guiding principles—namely, charity, mercy, and forgiveness. I knew that Christ was my Savior and that His Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had known that since my conversion and baptism at the age of 14. I wasn’t about to deny that now.
Finally, after mustering the necessary courage, I called the Linwood Ward in New Jersey, USA, to find out what time sacrament meeting started.
As Sunday approached, the adversary put many obstacles in my path that could have easily prevented me from attending. How grateful I am that the Holy Ghost persisted.
I felt nervous as I entered the building, but the opening hymn in sacrament meeting reassured me that I was home again. The hymn “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30) invited the Spirit so powerfully that tears flowed down my face. I knew in that instant that Heavenly Father was aware of me and the deep sadness I was feeling.
That hymn has become an unofficial anthem of sorts for the Church, but it has become my personal anthem as well.
“Come,” the hymn invites me. “Though hard to you this journey may appear, grace shall be as your day.”
My journey was hard. But grace did attend me as promised.
Bishop Darren Bird and the rest of the congregation were wonderful and welcoming. They accepted me as their brother in Christ.
The words of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” took on greater meaning to me, however, as I felt Heavenly Father directing me on how I should proceed.
We’ll find the place which God for us prepared,
Far away in the West,
Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid;
There the Saints will be blessed.
I went west and bought a home in Fountain Hills, Arizona, USA, where I met Bishop Jerry Olson. When I requested to meet with him and shook his hand, the Spirit impressed upon me that this man would help bring me back into full activity in the Church.
As I began visiting with the bishop and embarking on this reconciliation with Heavenly Father, I witnessed many spiritual miracles. I was open with the bishop, for which he was grateful. He said that helped him better understand where I had been and where I was now in my relationship with God. He also lovingly informed me that this was the first time that he had had an opportunity to minister to someone with same-sex attraction, and he asked for my patience and forgiveness if he said or did anything to offend me throughout the process.
I thanked him for his honesty and said, “Well, this is my first time as well. We’ll learn together.”
Thus began a wonderful journey and friendship!
Soon I had an action plan on how to become a member again. I accepted the loving and prayerful counsel with a grateful heart and began the process.
Illustration by Jenna Palacios
Later, as I followed that counsel and worked hard to draw closer to Christ, I received the restoration of my priesthood and temple blessings and accepted a call to serve in the elders quorum. In the holy temple, as I communed with Heavenly Father, He showed me how much He loves all His children. I felt solace and a deep desire to please Him.
Months later, a new bishop was called, with whom I have also developed a loving friendship. Bishop Larry Radford knew of my circumstance and appreciated my service in the elders quorum, where he said I had served with love and devotion not only for the quorum but also—and more importantly—for God. His kind words and encouragement helped me feel that the Lord and my fellow Saints were pleased with my service.
I now faithfully serve as the ward clerk.
Having same-sex attraction and being an active member of the Church is not always easy. But as I put all my faith and trust in God, I can feel Him strengthening me. Critics will no doubt say that I’m not being true to who I am or that I’m disappointing the LGBT+ community.
I understand their frustration, and I obviously don’t have all the answers. I can only speak of my own experience. And that experience has taught me this: I am Heavenly Father’s son, a child of God. That’s the one and only label that matters to me. As a result, I try not to allow the world’s labels to define me. I fear that will limit my potential and eternal progression.
Satan is very clever. He knows that by using labels, he can divide us as a community and as a church.
With that perspective in mind, the choices I make are not based on my same-sex attraction but on how to be a true disciple of Christ with same-sex attraction. As Nephi said:
“O Lord, I have trusted in thee, and I will trust in thee forever. I will not put my trust in the arm of flesh. …
“… I know that God will give liberally to him that asketh. Yea, my God will give me, if I ask not amiss; therefore I will lift up my voice unto thee; yea, I will cry unto thee, my God, the rock of my righteousness. Behold, my voice shall forever ascend up unto thee, my rock and mine everlasting God” (2 Nephi 4:34–35).
Throughout my return, I felt the loving companionship of my leaders and fellow Saints, including active and less-active LGBT+ members. I found a place where I could thrive. I found among them the attributes of Christ that I had always associated with my faith: mercy, compassion, understanding, and, above all, love.
As I struggled along the path with my Savior, I felt comfort and peace as I turned to Him, knowing that I wasn’t walking that path alone. Several bishops were there beside me. Members of my quorum. Sisters in the ward. I even had a young man in the ward ask me if I would ordain him a priest. His kind invitation deeply moved me. He saw me as a man who holds the priesthood of God and who can exercise that priesthood in service to others.
These opportunities to serve and worship with my fellow Saints have lifted me and—along with the many blessings I’ve received from the Lord—helped me experience the love, understanding, and acceptance that I needed.
The Savior said, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you” (John 14:18). Those words are true. I needed comforting, and He came to me, more abundantly than I could have imagined.

When he was only a year old, our son Nolan suffered a stroke related to complications from spinal meningitis. Now 14, he struggles with a low-pressure shunt, learning challenges, and paralysis of one side of his body.
Despite his rocky road, Nolan has surpassed our expectations. Every milestone he reaches brings us much joy. He has developed patience and a determination worthy of emulation.
My husband, Ryan, and I, along with our five other sons, have all grown spiritually from our experiences with Nolan. At times we get discouraged and worry about his future, but then we count our blessings, recognize the love and concern our Father in Heaven and His Son have for each of us, and remember a prayer that was answered when Nolan was six.
One evening when we were unsure how to handle Nolan’s challenges, my husband and I knelt to pray about his welfare. As we petitioned the Lord, we expressed particular concern about Nolan’s behavior as related to his perception of his self-worth. We sincerely asked for Nolan to feel the love of our Savior and know of his great worth as a child of God.
The next morning Nolan came directly into the kitchen, where I was cooking breakfast. Before breakfast he would usually play with his brothers or plop on the couch. But he seemed intent as he climbed a stool at the breakfast bar, looked up at me, and said, “I had a dream last night.”
I sensed his seriousness, and my interest was immediately piqued.
“Really?” I asked. “What happened in your dream?”
“Jesus was there,” Nolan replied simply, “and He held me.”
I have a testimony that our loving Father in Heaven hears and answers our prayers and that our Savior is our advocate with the Father. They know us individually. They are aware of our needs and our capabilities. They know how to succor us.
Moroni tells us, “If ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth … unto you. And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” (Moroni 10:4–5). I have learned that this scripture pertains not only to obtaining a testimony of the Book of Mormon but also to any question for which we are sincerely seeking an answer. When we face challenges, heartache, and trials, our hearts are keenly sincere and our intent intensely genuine.
How grateful I am to be a member of the Savior’s Church, where I have learned much of His gospel through study, service, and the Holy Ghost. How grateful I am to know our Savior will help, comfort, and guide each of us. I know that we can all be encircled “in the arms of [His] love” (D&C 6:20) as we come unto Him.

Nancy Lovern was excited. It was June 27, and today she turned five years old. In some ways, the day had been just like any other. She’d fed the chickens and collected their eggs, slopped (fed) the pigs, and helped Mama clean the house. But in some ways, it was different. Everyone had sung “Happy Birthday” at breakfast and paid extra attention to her all day long.
Now it was late afternoon, and Nancy couldn’t help peeking out the window every few minutes. Papa had promised to bring her a surprise from Nauvoo. Mama was making a special dinner and a dried-apple molasses cake. There would be a grand birthday party.
The hour grew late. Long shadows spread across the barnyard, and still Papa didn’t come. Nancy thought that she would burst. Mama just laughed and said, “Staring out the door won’t make Papa get home any sooner.” When Nancy could wait no more, she went out to the road that led to Nauvoo. She was swinging on the gate when she finally heard the clippety-clop of horses’ hooves and the rattle of wagon wheels. She saw a lone figure driving slowly down the dusty road. It was Papa! He must be dawdling to make me wait longer for my birthday surprise, she thought, running to meet him.
She was stopped short by the sadness on his face. And he was crying! Nancy didn’t know what to do. Papa never cried except when he bore his testimony. She was surprised to feel tears in her own eyes. “What’s wrong, Papa?”
He climbed down from the wagon and held her close. “They did it, Nan—they killed Brother Joseph!”
Nancy completely forgot her birthday. She loved the Prophet. He always took time to talk with her whenever he visited her parents. She truly felt that he was a prophet of God.
Sorrow was thick in the house as Papa gathered the rest of the family around him and told how an angry mob had stormed the jail in Carthage, killing their beloved prophet and his brother Hyrum, and seriously wounding Brother Taylor.
The next day Nancy’s family filed through the Mansion House to pay final respects to the slain leaders. Later they listened to Brother W. W. Phelps preach the funeral sermon. Sorrow hung like a heavy fog over the whole community.
Nancy celebrated seventy-nine birthdays after that eventful day, but never without some melancholy recollection of her birthday in 1844.
More than one hundred fifty years have come and gone. Nancy has thousands of descendants, most of whom faithfully sing praises to “the man who communed with Jehovah”*—the prophet and martyr who was killed on her fifth birthday.
Nancy Francis Lovern Oliver was a real person! She was my great-great-grandmother. When my grandmother, Lenna Kathryn Bryce Blain, was a little girl, she sat by the fireplace on cold winter nights and listened to pioneer stories told by her Grandma Nancy. Grandma Lenna said that she couldn’t remember all the stories, but she would never forget the one about the death of the Prophet. This fictional account is based on that true story.

Matthew Rancie of Eaglehawk, Victoria, Australia, has a rich LDS heritage, and he is setting an example for his eight younger brothers.
At school, Matthew has been taunted and teased to try to get him to swear, but he refuses to do so. His classmates also tried to bribe him with money to try a cigarette saying, “I suppose you won’t even do it now.” They were right.
Matthew’s father, uncles, and grandfathers have served as bishops, in high councils, in stake presidencies, and in mission presidencies. He has 32 cousins, all active in the Church. As the oldest, he plans to set an example by being the first to serve a mission. In his ward, he serves as pianist for the priesthood.

Kacey doesn’t remember the accident that took his legs and changed his life. He remembers attending a sacrament meeting as a six-year-old with his cousins in rural Utah. He remembers waiting to cross the highway between the church and his grandmother’s house. And he remembers waking up in the hospital—without his legs.
His parents, on the other hand, probably wish they could forget. As they waited for an 18-wheeler to pass so the family could cross, Kacey suddenly darted into the highway to catch up with his brother, who had crossed moments earlier. Kacey almost made it.
“He shouldn’t have lived,” says Julene McCallister, Kacey’s mom.
“He had zero blood pressure,” his father, Bernie, says. “He lost massive amounts of blood.”
But then the miracles began. Amazingly, local paramedics had recently learned emergency procedures for treating critically injured children. And despite stormy December weather, Kacey made it—first by plane, then by helicopter—to one of the top children’s hospitals in the nation, where the medical staff was able to save him.
“It’s most definitely a miracle, a modern miracle,” says Brother McCallister.
“There’s some purpose Heavenly Father has him here for,” Sister McCallister says. “In the hospital, the Holy Ghost told me, ‘Sit back and watch Heavenly Father work.’ We’ve been watching the miracles ever since.”

“Oh, Grandpa, isn’t it the neatest thing you’ve ever seen?” Jeff peered through the noseprint-smudged store window at a shiny red wagon. Sleek white letters on the side spelled Starlight Flyer.
“It’s a dandy, right enough.” Grandpa leaned closer to the glass. “It should be, for $49.95.”
“That much?”
“That much—plus tax.”
The corners of Jeff’s mouth drooped as he turned away from the window and headed home, followed by Grandpa. When they reached their driveway, Grandpa put a hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “I think your mother’s old wagon is still in the garage. Shall we take a look?”
Jeff followed Grandpa into the dark garage. Grandpa reached for the light switch, and piles of dusty toys appeared on shelves along the back wall. Grandpa rummaged through them. “I know it’s here somewhere. Let’s see—doll house, baseball mitts, pogo stick … wagon!” Grandpa pulled a shabby-looking wagon off the middle shelf and set it on the floor.
Jeff eyed it doubtfully. “It’s pretty beat-up, Grandpa.”
“Well-used, I’d say. Your mother loved this wagon. Your Uncle Matt would pull her in it around the yard for hours.”
“It doesn’t look nearly as nice as the one in the window. I sure would like to have that one.”
“It was a beauty, but $49.95 is a heap of money.”
“I could earn it, Grandpa. I know I could.”
“How?”
Jeff pondered silently a moment, then snapped his fingers. “I could use Mom’s wagon to run errands for people!”
Grandpa nodded slowly. “I reckon you could.”
Jeff scurried around the garage until he found a can of red paint. “I’ll give it a new coat of paint to impress my customers. Will you help me?”
Grandpa slapped Jeff on the back. “What are we waiting for?” They oiled the wheels until they rolled without a squeak, then carefully cleaned and painted the whole wagon. They were sitting on the back porch steps, admiring their handiwork, when Jeff’s mother came out of the house.
“My red wagon!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, ma’am! Jeffy’s going to use it to earn money for a brand new one.”
She walked around the wagon admiring the paint job. “Very nice! Tomorrow when the red paint’s dry I’ll repaint the white letters on the side, and it will look like new.” Jeff had noticed that there were raised letters on the side of the wagon, but he couldn’t read them under the red paint.
The next morning when Jeff went out to the garage, his mother was making one last stroke with her paintbrush. Jeff stared at the white letters. They leaned forward as if with speed and spelled Starlight Flyer. “Mom!” he said. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that you had a Starlight Flyer?”
She laughed. “I guess I’d just about forgotten. It’s fun seeing it again, though. A lot of wonderful memories are riding in that red wagon.” She sat down on the porch and started telling stories about her childhood and the old Starlight Flyer. Jeff tried to imagine her little enough to ride in the wagon while her brother pulled her around the yard. She smiled as she remembered, and Jeff smiled with her.
“You love this old wagon, don’t you, Mom?”
“Yes, Jeffy, I truly do. I didn’t realize how much until I saw it in the driveway yesterday.”
“I promise I’ll take real good care of it, Mom.”
“I know you will, Jeffy. And now I’d better go get some breakfast for my businessman son.”
Jeff hardly tasted his pancakes. He was too busy planning how he would earn $49.95. I’ll ask Mrs. Gallagher if I can help her bring her groceries home on Thursday. She always walks to the market.And maybe Mr. Corbett could use some help hauling his trash out to the street. Jeff’s thoughts raced faster than Dad’s computer. He would earn that brand-new, shiny, red Starlight Flyer.
Day after day Jeff pulled his mother’s old wagon through the neighborhood helping neighbor after neighbor, saving every cent he earned until one day he finally had enough.
“Grandpa! Grandpa!” he shouted. “I’ve earned $59.95—enough to pay tithing and still buy the Starlight Flyer. Can we go to the store and get it right now?”
Grandpa looked at the money in Jeff’s outstretched hands. “Well, if that don’t beat all.”
“I told you I could do it.”
“You did at that. Let’s head down to the toy store and see about getting you that wagon.”
At the store, Jeff pressed his nose against the window again, staring at the bright red wagon. Grandpa’s head was right next to his. “Sure is a dandy, right enough,” Grandpa said. “And it’s only $39.99. You’re in luck, Jeffy—it’s on sale!”
Jeff let out a whoop and ran inside the store. He stood by the wagon display, running his hand over the smooth red paint and the white, slightly raised letters. He examined the wheels and the axles, the tongue, and the bed of the wagon. His hand moved more and more slowly.
Grandpa came in and stood beside Jeff. He watched as his grandson took a step back and frowned at the wagon. “What’s wrong, Jeffy? Don’t you like it anymore?”
“Yeah, Grandpa, I like it. But … it just doesn’t look as good as I remembered.”
“It looks pretty good to me. Clean and shiny, no dents anywhere.”
“I know, but Mom’s wagon just feels better to me. And besides, I took really good care of it, and I think it’s built better than this one. Look at these wheels—they don’t look nearly as strong as the ones on Mom’s wagon. And see how the tongue is hooked to the front axle—that isn’t as good either.”
Grandpa examined each part of the wagon, rubbed his chin, and smiled. “I think you’re right, Jeffy. Your mother’s wagon is better than this one, and not only because it’s built better. It’s better because you fixed it up with your own hands and because you took such good care of it, and because your mother’s childhood memories are still being pulled around every time you take it out of the garage. Your mother loves that old wagon, Jeffy, and I think you do too.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” Jeff looked down at the new wagon one last time and turned toward the door. “Let’s go home, Grandpa. I want to take my sister for a ride in my Starlight Flyer.”

Realizing that adversity can include suffering, destitution, affliction, calamity, or disaster, how can we best use it as an opportunity for personal growth and development? For one answer, let me share with you an incident in the life of a special friend, which he tells in his own words at my request. I find his experience a powerful sermon.
“It was the third Saturday in January a few years ago. I was excited to attend a seminar that morning. It was an agricultural seminar at the Brigham Young University, where I had been attending school. I had been home from my Honolulu Hawaii Mission six months and was going through all the adjustments of a returned missionary. The challenge of family, girls, school, and the fact that there were twenty-five thousand other students who were bright and aggressive—some with plenty of money; others, like myself, who were pinching every nickel—didn’t make things easier.
“I landed a job running a hydraulic press earlier that week in a machine shop. We made seals for hydraulic equipment. Following the seminar that morning, I went to work. Kimball, my roommate and former missionary companion who had gone to work earlier that morning, instructed me in how to make a new seal. After approximately twenty minutes, one of the smallest seals stuck on the face of the plate. I struggled to get it off with my left hand. As I turned back to give it my full attention and use my right hand, the machine closed on my left hand, causing a horrible noise as it crushed my hand just below the wrist. After what seemed an eternity, the huge press finally opened. My first thought when looking at my hand was ‘What a mess!’ Then that inner voice which I had come to know, love, and appreciate, whispered, ‘Jerry, you won’t have your hand.’
“Four hours of surgery followed. The first thing I remember hearing was the surgeon’s voice in the recovery room.
“‘Jerry,’ he said, ‘Can you hear me?’
“‘Yes,’ I said.
“‘We had to take your hand off.’
“The following four days were filled with tears, aches, friends, cards, letters, and family. Concerned people made it so much easier for me, especially Kimball. He let my parents and others close to me know and helped in every way he could. Never did I have to ask for one thing. It was already done. By his example and support, he gave me courage to face this new challenge.
“The days in the hospital were filled with painful, sleepless hours and nights. Those nights gave me an opportunity to think about the Savior and Joseph Smith as I had never done before. I reviewed the Prophet Joseph’s life from everything I had learned. He faced physical, emotional, and spiritual trial upon trial. How I marveled at his well-won victories. At this difficult time I promised the Lord I would try to accept all of my challenges as the Prophet Joseph Smith had accepted his.
“Of course, during the first night there were thoughts of ‘Why me? Was it something in my past? What have I done to deserve this?’ Then I thought, ‘No more rodeo, football, or skiing,’ and I wondered what type of a woman would want a one-handed husband. I hadn’t developed a good self-image or a great deal of self-esteem, so these thoughts magnified my concerns.
“Mom came to school and drove me home for the weekend. One thing she said that made me again appreciate her greatness was, ‘Jerry, if I could only give you my left hand and make it work, I would.’
“Sunday was fast Sunday. As I stood favoring my bandaged, shortened arm, I thanked everyone for their thoughts, prayers, and cards. I realized as never before that good friends and faithful family members make challenges less difficult.
“After the testimony meeting, an admired friend gave me a special blessing. So many questions were answered during his blessing. He told me this accident was not punishment for anything I had done but, rather, an opportunity to help me become a better person and to amplify those particular traits which needed to be developed. He shared the thought that this challenge could make me more understanding of people, problems, and life. As I look back now, each point of his blessing and encouragement has helped in a very fulfilling way.
“One of my greatest fears was the constant thought of how people would accept me. Would they be afraid of me, question my ability, or write me off before I could prove myself? Would girls turn down dates because I was different? Would it make them feel uncomfortable to be seen with me?
“I had dated several girls since my mission but had only dated Julie a couple of times. When I awoke the day following the operation in the hospital, she was there with other friends. I asked everyone else to leave the room, and I then proceeded to give her what I thought was the perfect speech. I told her that they had to take my hand off. If she felt embarrassed or ashamed to be with me or be seen with me on future dates, she need not feel obligated to continue in any future courtship. At that moment I could see fire in her eyes. She let me know in no uncertain terms that she was not there out of pity or duty, but only because she cared for me. She indicated she would help me but never feel sorry for me. Six months later we were married in the Salt Lake Temple.
“There were many job interviews, prejudices, and rejections of employment; but with continued encouragement, the Lord blessed us in innumerable ways. When our first little girl, Bracken, arrived, it left us short of money to go to school. So after a major decision, we went into business, which proved to be another learning experience. After a couple of years—with many reverses—I was able to find a career in personnel management, which not only fulfilled my goals but also answered my prayers.
“Today as I look back, I see the challenge of adversity as something upon which to build. Of course, I cannot say the experience was pleasant; it was horrible. However, I hope I have used this adversity in a positive way. When I see others in trouble, in pain, when real adversity is knocking, I have an opportunity not only to feel something of what they feel but perhaps I can also help them because they can see that I have challenges of my own.”

When Bobby Collins (name has been changed) sent his mission papers off, he was surprised that he did not get back a large white envelope containing his mission call. Instead, he received a letter from the Church’s Missionary Department asking about his tattoo.
When Bobby graduated from high school, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go on a mission. He moved away from home to work, and he liked the independence of not having his parents around all the time. At about the same time, his best friend and his cousin both got tattoos. “That kind of lowered my guard,” he says.
Bobby had always been good at art, so he designed his own tattoo. He knew tattoos were discouraged by the Church and that his mother wouldn’t like it, and before he went to get it, he asked his brother what he thought about it. His brother had some good advice. He said, “Life already gives us so many scars. Why would you want another one?”
But Bobby had already made up his mind. Six weeks and 700 hard-earned dollars later, he had a huge tattoo all the way up one leg. “It was really painful. It was bloody,” he remembers. And “getting one made it easier to think about getting more.” He didn’t get any more, but after strengthening his testimony of the gospel, he did decide he wanted to serve a mission.
As painful as getting his tattoo was, the pain of regret that Bobby felt was much worse. He was very worried about whether or not he would be able to serve a mission. He wanted to get the tattoo removed but couldn’t afford to. He worried what his future spouse and children might think of it.
“That letter from the Missionary Department scared me a lot,” Bobby says. “My biggest fear was that this one thing was going to hold me back from serving a mission.”
Bobby had to do what the Missionary Department asks all missionary applicants who have tattoos to do. On his original application he told them a little about his tattoo. The letter he received later requested a few more details, including an explanation of when and why he got it and where it is located on the body as well as a description or photograph of it. He was also asked to describe how he felt about it.
When a missionary candidate with a tattoo applies, General Authorities review each case and decide whether that candidate will be allowed to serve a mission. Some cannot.
Bobby did receive his mission call. He is grateful to be a missionary and sorry that, now a representative of the Lord’s Church, he once decided to get a tattoo.
“I just hope people will follow President Hinckley’s counsel,” Bobby says. “I know that he is a prophet of God. If he says it’s important, then it’s important.”
Bobby has some counsel of his own too, the same counsel his brother gave him: “Even though we can be forgiven through the Atonement, why do something else that’s going to leave us scarred?”

“Circle up!”
The wagon master signaled the wagon train of Danish immigrants to form their evening circle. It was a bit early to make camp, and it was sunny there in the valley, but black clouds had been pouring their wet fury on the Rocky Mountain range rising grandly before them, for a good while. It would be miserable to make camp in the rain, so everyone quickly began their assigned duties.
Maren dropped her last armful of limbs onto the pile of firewood. As she brushed at the bits of bark clinging to her dress, she heard happy peals of laughter, then an impatient exclamation from her mother. Turning, Maren felt like laughing, too, as her mother tried to brush away the dust that made a squirming little boy look more like a coal miner after work than her four-year-old brother.
“Maren,” Mother pleaded, “please take Rasmus down to the stream and clean him off as best you can.”
Wearily Mother turned back to her cooking, only to see her six-year-old poking a handful of dry grass into the fire. Too late, the curious boy dropped the flaming grass and shook a burned finger in the air.
“Mor (Mother),” Maren quickly said, “let me take Jens down to the stream, too, while you finish supper. I’ll watch them there, and you can call us when it’s ready.”
Mother’s face softened. “Thank you, dear. It shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”
On her way across the circle of covered wagons, Maren saw Annie sitting on an overturned bucket, idly scratching lines in the dirt with a stick. Maren had been thrilled to find another eleven-year-old girl in the company of covered wagons. Together they shared their dreams of what they thought Zion would be like, and they had become close friends despite being very different. Maybe Annie would like to go down to the stream too.
“Ya, Annie may go with you,” Sister Christensen said, eyeing the dust-covered Rasmus Maren clutched by the hand. “It looks as if you could use some help, anyway. Be sure to stay together, and don’t be late for dinner.”
The climb down the high bank of the ravine was steep. Years of spring flooding from the great mountains beyond had slowly cut deeper and deeper into the rolling plain, carrying the dirt far away to some distant river valley. But it was midsummer now, and only a thin trail of water wandered down the streambed. The ravine would probably be completely dry by fall.
“Surely there’s deeper water than this!” Annie made a face at the shallow stream. “Maybe there’s a pool around that bend.” She headed downstream. Whooping, Jens slapped his make-believe horse and galloped out of sight behind her.
“Wait for us!” Maren shouted. She hoisted little Rasmus up onto her hip and struggled along as fast as she could. But her brother and her friend weren’t just around the bend when she got there. They weren’t around the next one, either.
When Maren finally found them, Annie was joyfully wading through a lovely pool. Jens was staring at frog eggs he’d found clinging to the grass at the edge of the water.
Annie splashed water at Maren and laughed. “Come on, slowpokes. There’s even a sandy bottom.”
In no time at all, there was not a sign of a grimy child. Rasmus’s cheeks were pink from the scrubbing, and his hair was shiny in the sun.
Contented, the two girls sat in the soothing quiet and watched the boys toss pebbles into the pool, making ripples that rocked leaf boats across the crystal surface. If it hadn’t been so quiet, they never would have heard the whistle. It drifted ever so faintly down to them—two shorts and a long.
Annie looked up curiously. “What kind of bird was that?”
At once alert, Maren stood up. “It sounds like Far (Father). In Denmark that was his signal for me to herd the cows back to the farm. We’d better go back now.”
“But it hasn’t been near an hour since we left camp,” Annie protested. “Just think how long it’s been since we’ve been able to enjoy water like this!” Annie’s pretty mouth was beginning to pout.
The whistle came again—two shorts and one long.
Maren searched the top of the ravine. She put her fingers to her lips and blew a piercing whistle in reply. “I’m sure that’s Far. We need to go and find out what he wants. Come on, Rasmus,” she coaxed. “You, too, Jens. Far must have some reason for us to come now.”
Annie’s face was as dark and cloudy as the western sky. “No!” she protested again. “You go if you want. I’ll stay here a while longer. Your far has work for you to do, not me.”
“But your mor said we must stay together. I can’t leave you here alone. We must go. Please come, Annie. Please?” Maren’s kind eyes begged Annie.
They heard the whistle once more. It was closer now.
Annie could not resist Maren’s worried expression. “Very well,” she finally said with a sigh. “You’re probably right. You usually are. Let’s go.”
With a relieved smile, Maren led the way to the wall of the ravine. With some difficulty the four children scrambled up the steep bank. At the top, they could see three men running toward them along the lip of the ravine.
As the children paused to catch their breath, even above their own puffing, they could hear a grating roar. Frightened, they looked everywhere but could not tell where the terrifying sound was coming from. Seeing that two of the three men hurrying toward them were their fathers, they ran to meet them.
Then they saw what was making the strange noise.
Rushing and crashing down the ravine was a ten-foot-high wall of water! The heavy rain of the mountain thunderstorm had funneled into the ravine and tumbled trees and boulders before it as if they were feathers. Ripping out sagebrush and whole chunks of earth from the steep banks that normally confined the stream, the raging torrent swept up everything in its path, roaring past the seven immigrants and around the bend to where the cool, quiet pool lay with leaf boats floating on its glassy surface.
Far knelt to gather his shivering children into his strong arms. “I thought we’d never find you,” he choked, blinking his eyes to clear the wetness.
Annie tearfully hugged her own father closely and whispered, “It was Maren who saved us. She heard and obeyed.”