Gospel Story Finder

The boy watched his father’s horse plunge away into the frigid whiteness. Then he started back toward his tepee, anxious to share the story of his first coup with his mother, grandfather, and little sister. But he had only gone a few steps when someone pulled at his arm. It was Yellow Fox, a village boy. “Your pony is gone too,” he said excitedly. “I saw it run away when the Shoshones first came!”
“My father will find it, with the others,” Little Wind responded confidently.
“He’ll not find your pony!” Yellow Fox insisted. “I saw your horse go toward the high rock county. Your father and the others rode off in another direction. They’ll not find your pony. But maybe a Shoshone will.”
Little Wind gazed anxiously toward the great mountains veiled in glacial mist. His pony had been given to him as a gift by his father before the big hunt. It was priceless to him. He had to find it before the next storm or he might never see it again. If he hurried, he could be back before his mother even knew he was gone. If he waited for his father to return with the horses, it might be too late. I’m well dressed against the weather in this big otter coat Mother made me, he assured himself. Besides, my pony probably hasn’t gone very far.
Little Wind pulled his wrappings snugly around him, gave a quick glance toward his tepee, and hurried off in the direction of the hoofprints in the snow.
What Little Wind did not know was that a new storm was gathering just beyond the mesas. Hidden behind the fog, it crouched like some huge, nameless beast ready to lunge across the sky and engulf anyone or anything careless enough to leave the fires of home.
(To be concluded.)

In His love for us, God has decreed that any worthy man, regardless of wealth, education, color, cultural background, or language, may hold His priesthood. Thus, any properly ordained man who is clean in hand, heart, and mind can connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood. I learned this lesson well as a young missionary years ago in the South Pacific.

My first assignment was to a small island hundreds of miles from headquarters, where no one spoke English, and I was the only white man. I was given a local companion named Feki, who was then serving a building mission and was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood.

After eight seasick days and nights on a small, smelly boat, we arrived at Niuatoputapu. I struggled with the heat, the mosquitoes, the strange food, culture, and language, as well as homesickness. One afternoon we heard cries of anguish and saw a family bringing the limp, seemingly lifeless body of their eight-year-old son to us. They wailed out that he had fallen from a mango tree and would not respond to anything. The faithful father and mother put him in my arms and said, “You have the Melchizedek Priesthood; bring him back to us whole and well.”

Though my knowledge of the language was still limited, I understood what they wanted, and I was scared. I wanted to run away, but the expressions of love and faith that shone from the eyes of the parents and brothers and sisters kept me glued to the spot.

I looked expectantly at my companion. He shrugged and said, “I don’t have the proper authority. You and the branch president hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.” Grasping at that straw, I said, “Then this is the duty of the branch president.”

No sooner had I said this than the branch president walked up. He had heard the commotion and returned from his garden. He was sweaty and covered with dirt and mud. I turned and explained what had happened and tried to give the young boy to him. He stepped back and said, “I will go and wash and put on clean clothes; then we will bless him and see what God has to say.”

In near panic, I cried, “Can’t you see? He needs help now!”

He calmly replied: “I know he needs a blessing. When I have washed myself and put on clean clothes, I will bring consecrated oil, and we will approach God and see what His will is. I cannot—I will not—approach God with dirty hands and muddy clothes.” He turned and left me holding the boy. I was speechless.

Finally he returned, clean in body and dress and, I sensed, in heart as well. “Now,” he said, “I am clean, so we will approach the throne of God.”

That marvelous Tongan branch president, with clean hands and a pure heart, gave a beautiful and powerful priesthood blessing. I felt more like a witness than a participant. The words of the Psalmist came to my mind: “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? …

“He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart.” On that tiny island a worthy priesthood holder ascended into the hill of the Lord, and the power of the priesthood came down from heaven and authorized a young boy’s life to continue.

With the fire of faith glowing from his eyes, the branch president told me what to do. Much additional faith and effort were required, but on the third day that little eight-year-old boy, full of life, was reunited with his family.

I hope you understand and feel these truths. This was a tiny island in the midst of a huge ocean—with no electricity, no hospital, no doctors—but none of that mattered. For in addition to great love and faith, there was a branch president who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, who understood the importance of cleanliness of hand and heart and its outward expression in cleanliness of body and dress, who exercised the priesthood in righteousness and purity according to the will of God. That day his individual power in the priesthood was sufficient to connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood over earthly life.

When I look into the heavens at night and contemplate the endless galaxies therein, I am amazed at what a tiny dot our little earth is and how infinitesimally small I am. Yet I do not feel afraid, alone, insignificant, or distant from God. For I have witnessed His priesthood power connecting with clean hands and pure hearts on a tiny island in a vast ocean.

One day I was preparing to give a talk in sacrament meeting. I was studying the article “The Atonement of Jesus Christ” by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in the March 2008 Liahona. In his article, Elder Holland relates a dream Elder Orson F. Whitney (1855–1931) had in which he saw the Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane. Elder Whitney described the pain and suffering he saw the Savior bear. Then he wrote:
“Presently He arose and walked to where [the] Apostles were kneeling—fast asleep! He shook them gently, awoke them, and in a tone of tender reproach, untinctured by the least show of anger or scolding, asked them if they could not watch with Him one hour. …
“Returning to His place, He prayed again and then went back and found them again sleeping. Again He awoke them, admonished them, and returned and prayed as before. Three times this happened.”1
As I read this, the spirit of revelation entered my mind. In that instant, I realized that the way I could “watch with Him one hour” was in the way I approached sacrament meeting each Sunday. Since then, I have learned that this is an hour in which we can pray to our Heavenly Father in a more meaningful way. Prayer is fundamental at all times, but the Spirit present in that hour of the sacrament is an opportunity to elevate ourselves closer to Heavenly Father and our Savior, Jesus Christ. When we focus our thoughts on the Lord, it is, in a way, accompanying Him at the moment of the agony He endured when taking upon Himself our sins. It is a time to acknowledge the pain He suffered for us.
Sacrament meeting means everything to me. For me it is the hour of infinite salvation. It has become a sacred time in which I remember and commit in prayer and in spirit to honor my covenants and to follow the perfect example of my Savior. I know that He lives and loves me. I know that it is only through His sacrifice and His precious blood that was spilt that we can all be saved. I know this is true because as I have worked at “watching with Him,” my understanding has been enlightened, my life has been blessed, and my vision of eternal life in His presence has been deepened.

Another very important principle involved is that of service. When we speak of service, we speak of person-to-person type service, the kind of service that was experienced in the lives of a group of Mia Maids. These young ladies had determined that they were going to visit one of the homes for elderly folk. They spent hours baking, cooking, trying new recipes, planning a program, writing new songs, etc.

At the appointed time the girls arrived at the home a little nervous and somewhat less enthusiastic about their idea. (Every one of you who has ever visited an old folks home cannot help but have a vivid picture of lost souls.) After the bags of cookies had been placed on a nearby table to ease the strain of the first few moments, the girls began to sing. As they did so, one or two patients raised up from their slumped positions on beds, and a few in wheelchairs pushed closer to the group. At that moment a miracle was taking place as the elderly responded to the sweet voices of youth. The girls then hummed a familiar tune while a foreign exchange student sang the words in German. From a bed in the next room, in soft but audible tones, an elderly gentleman joined in the words of his native tongue. A few quiet words of appreciation were expressed, and a different group of girls walked almost reverently down the steps of the old building.

While his mother was the dominant influence in Heber’s life, the Lord placed many others in his path to help guide and direct him. One of the first of these associations was with President Brigham Young (1801–77). Young Heber, too poor to own a sled, entertained himself in the winter by catching hold of passing vehicles, sliding on the snow a block or two, and letting go. One day when he was six years old, Heber caught hold of President Young’s sleigh. As Heber later told the story, President Young “was very fond of a fine team, and was given to driving quite rapidly. I therefore found myself skimming along with such speed that I dared not jump off, and after riding some time I became very cold.”
Finally President Young noticed Heber, told his driver to stop, tucked the cold child under buffalo robes, and then asked who he was. When President Young discovered that the boy was Jedediah M. Grant’s son, he expressed his love for Heber’s father and the hope that Heber would be as fine a man. Before President Young dropped Heber off, he invited the boy to visit him in his office. Thus began a friendship that lasted until President Young’s death. Of this friendship, Heber said, “I learned not only to respect and venerate him, but to love him with an affection akin to that which I imagine I would have felt for my own father, had I been permitted to know and return a father’s love.”5

Romaine, seventeen, and his teammates on the A-l basketball team from the Church College are well known nationally in New Zealand. The school had won the national schoolboy basketball championship five years in a row—until two years ago. Romaine doesn’t like to talk about it, but that year the team came in third. They had the painful experience of having to come back to school and explain the loss to the other students. They didn’t want to go through that again. The team was determined to regain the top spot. And they did. The next year, the A-1 boys’ and the girls’ basketball teams both took first place in the national basketball tournaments.

A lack of action is a choice. Whether we choose by acting or not acting, those choices have consequences. Branch President Jonathan Joel Torres Santos, and counselors Carlos Ortiz and Hilario Beltre, together with Young Women president, Sister Juana Lissette Falcón Saba, and counselors Vivian Guzman and Ana Luisa Valdez chose to act and make a difference.
In a monthly branch missionary meeting, the topic of discussion was a group of boys in the Don Gregorio neighborhood who would frequent the church to play ball, socialize, and on occasion venture into one of the Church’s activities. As leaders, it was decided to make a plan to involve these boys and others. Included in the plan were eight steps:
Get to know their names and their families.
Help others in the branch get to know them.
Encourage youth members with common interests to get to know their needs, passions, and goals.
Every week assign a youth to invite them to Church and offer to drive or walk with them.
Invite them to activities of all kinds, including games, seminary, even trips to the temple.
Opportunity given to the youth to speak in Church and to share their testimonies.
Opportunities for service offered, allowing each person to be aware of others.
Always follow Church guidelines.
Over time, many boys of varying ages came to play basketball at the church court. They weren’t members of the Church but were welcomed with open arms. It started with an evening of games in the parking lot followed by treats. Soon after, information was shared, and invites were given and accepted. One by one, nine boys came to Church and felt the Spirit. The boys were baptized, and as they came of age, received the priesthood. Today those nine boys wear a white shirt and tie as they perform priesthood ordinances and serve together in the Don Gregorio Branch.
This effort was a success because everyone in the branch felt that a choice was a call to action.

When I was in seventh grade I decided to participate in a running competition against the other middle schools. What I didn’t know was that the area we were running in was hilly, and so running would be a lot harder than I was used to.
When I was a little over halfway through the race, I slowed to a walk and just decided that I couldn’t do it. Tears came, and I felt weak and embarrassed.
As I was about to stop and sit down, two eighth-grade girls from my school caught up to me and started encouraging me to keep going. I reluctantly started to slowly jog with them, with one on each side of me. My whole body was aching, but I kept on going. When we were finally in sight of the finish line, my youngest sister came to run with me too.
When we crossed the finish line, I was relieved. I received a ribbon for seventh place, and I felt embarrassed since there were only seven girls who ran. But now it reminds me of how I completed something that seemed so impossible.

Ten days after Mary Ann gave birth to Emma Alice in Montrose, Iowa Territory, on 4 September 1839, duty again called her husband away—on a mission to England. Brigham was so ill that he could not walk without help; his whole family languished with sickness as well.

At their sad parting, Mary Ann said to Elder Young, “Go and fill your mission, and the Lord will bless you, and I will do the best I can for myself and the children.”9 She trusted in God and rejoiced that she had the strength to see her husband off on his journey.

He takes advantage of trips to do missionary work, trying to fulfill his father’s challenge of giving away a Book of Mormon every time he travels.
Ed took advantage of a track opportunity to place a Book of Mormon in some of the most prominent hands in the world. He and fellow LDS runner Farley Gerber were competing in the World University Games in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. They were excited to see that Prince Charles and Lady Diana were there as dignitaries, and even more excited to learn that the royal couple would be greeting the athletes individually. Ed and Farley decided it wouldn’t hurt to present them with a copy of the Book of Mormon, so they wrote their testimonies in one and presented it to the prince when it was their turn to shake his hand.
“He was very cordial about the whole thing,” Ed recalls. “He said, ‘Oh, you chaps are Mormons, are you? So that’s what keeps you going.’ When he walked off, he tucked the Book of Mormon in the crook of his arm, and seeing him carrying it, if you didn’t know who he was you might have thought he was a representative of the Church,” Ed recalled.

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

Almost anyone has a hard time pinning Kenneth Marsh down.

Ken represented Colorado and Nebraska in international wrestling meets held in Turkey. He grappled in the 143-pound class with a 3–2–0 record. Two of his wins were over Turkish national champions.

En route home Ken participated in the U.S. AAU Junior Nationals in Chicago. He competed there in both free-style and Greco-Roman wrestling, placing fourth in Greco-Roman.

The Littleton, Colorado, priest also compiled an impressive record in school athletics. He was chosen team captain and placed first in a 10-district meet.

Ken’s school wrestling career started in the seventh grade when he was the only member of his class to make the varsity team, competing in the 68-pound division.

Six years and some 75 pounds later, Ken was seeded first in the 10-district championship that he won.

Ken is a member of the Littleton Colorado Second Ward.

Jude comes from a family of ten children. Two of his siblings have passed on and he was able to submit their names via FamilySearch and take part in performing their proxy baptisms, as well as for many others, in the Preston England Temple on 16 January 2025. He relates his experience:
“I must say I was overwhelmed with excitement at the thought of visiting the temple and the excitement continued upon my arrival. Aside from the welcoming ambience, the inside was heavenly, with workers in completely white suits and a warm smile welcoming you into the temple. I felt a bit out of place with my coloured suit. But on getting into the baptistry, clothed in a completely white suit, I felt the presence of the Holy Ghost. I knew instantly: “This is truly a house of God. This is where I’ve always wanted to be.” I felt a greater peace like I’ve never felt before. It was like I was home again.
Performing my first baptism was an experience I would never forget in my entire life. I think I wasn’t too sure of myself or something, but as I went on, I felt this unusual boldness within and I carried on and didn’t feel like stopping one bit. I was a bit reluctant to leave. I believe that was the power of God working within, and not me.
To be honest, I’m lacking the right words to express my feelings and the miracle I received. It’s just amazing what one can do when you’ve got the Spirit of God within you. When you feel its presence it’s just wonderful. I’m already planning on going back to the temple for a week. I felt I didn’t get enough in just a day or few hours. And I can confidently say that God dwells in our hearts, just as in the temple.”

Wait for me, Holly Noel Hunt!” shouted her older sister, Sarah. Ten-year-old Holly stopped in her tracks, squinting into the late afternoon sunlight, glad for the chance to catch her breath.
“Where do you think you’re going—to a fire?” Sarah teased, when she caught up to Holly. She linked her arm through Holly’s. “Keep it down to a fast crawl, and tell me what you want for Christmas and your birthday.”
Holly had been born eleven years ago, two days before Christmas. She had always loved celebrating her birthday so close to the Savior’s, and she had been named Holly Noel in honor of Christmas.
Marching in step as they laughed and talked, the two girls soon burst through their front door. Mother was on the phone, a worried frown creasing her brow. She motioned for the girls to be quiet. “I’ll have to discuss it with my family first, of course,” Mother was saying. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”
Holly grabbed an apple and flopped into the nearest chair. “Ask your family about what?” she mumbled between bites.
“That was Mrs. Ortega from the Crippled Children’s School. Their vacation is starting, and they have a little girl your age, Holly, who has nowhere to go for the Christmas holidays. Debbie grew up in a foster home in the country, but her foster mother died last fall. They would like us to take her for the holidays.”
“Oh, let’s do!” Holly and Sarah chorused.
“I’m glad you’re so willing to share your home and Christmas with someone who needs us,” Mother said. “Debbie has some special problems, however. Mrs. Ortega said she is one of the most severely crippled children at the school. They wouldn’t even consider us taking her if I weren’t a registered nurse.”
Sarah and Holly looked surprised, and Mother continued, “She can only move her neck and head. The rest of her body is paralyzed and deformed. There is very little she can do for herself.”
“It’s hard to imagine a girl my age like that,” Holly whispered.
A look of steely determination settled over Sarah’s face. “Well, I’m certainly willing to help you take care of her, Mom. If it’s OK with Dad and Greg, I think we should take her, don’t you, Holly?”
“Yeah, I guess so, but it scares me a little.”
“I guess we all feel a little scared, honey,” Mother said, giving both daughters a hug.
That evening as they ate bowls of steaming homemade soup with hot, crusty french bread, the Hunt family decided unanimously that they wanted Debbie as part of their family for Christmas.
Holly had butterflies in her stomach as they pulled up to the school in their old brown station wagon, got out, and entered the building.
“Here she comes,” whispered Sarah, as a nurse came down the hall pushing a wheelchair.
Debbie was smiling at them, showing two deep dimples on each side of her face. Her clear, bright blue eyes were framed by soft yellow curls. She looked like the fairy princess in one of Holly’s old storybooks. Holly looked down at the rest of Debbie’s little body, then quickly looked away, hoping Debbie hadn’t seen her shocked expression. Nothing had prepared Holly for the little stub arms and legs coming out from Debbie’s twisted body.
“Would you like to come down to the physical therapy room with me before we go?” Debbie asked. “I’d like to show you some of the things that I’m learning to do with my teeth. Miss Durrant made me a special stick that I can type with, and I’m learning to paint and draw with some other special tools. I’d like you to meet some of my friends too. Oh, and I hope you can come to our Christmas program tonight! I’m supposed to be in it.”
By the time they reached the physical therapy room, Holly was starting to appreciate Debbie as a person.
When Miss Durrant proudly showed them some of Debbie’s accomplishments, Holly said ruefully, “I wish my schoolwork looked this neat.”
“Well, I think it’s time to get you settled at home if you’re going to be in a program tonight, Debbie,” suggested Mother. “Otherwise, you’ll be too tired.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you can come! I was afraid I might have to miss the program. I’m one of the angels in the choir.”
“Oh, we’ll all come. None of our children are in a Christmas program this year, so we’ll be happy to see yours.”
Later that evening the family sat together in the darkened auditorium, waiting for the program to begin. The curtains opened, and the program began with angels singing familiar Christmas carols. As she watched row after row of children from the audience around her go with their braces, crutches, or wheelchairs to perform on stage, Holly thought about how hard it must be for them to do things—and to do some of them in front of all these people too! She wasn’t at all surprised to see silent tears sliding down her mother’s face. Somehow after listening to Debbie all afternoon telling about her friends and the tricks they played and about how they got in trouble for racing down the hall in wheelchairs, Holly had nearly forgotten about their physical problems.
After the choir sang, a play about Santa Claus began. Santa had a bad case of gout, and he had to have physical therapy and treatment at the School for Crippled Children before he could go on his usual Christmas Eve rounds.
The part of the doctor was played by a handsome, humpbacked teenager who walked with a cane. Suddenly he lost his balance and went crashing to the floor. The audience gasped with concern. Holly felt Greg’s shoulder moving against hers, and she realized that he was struggling with the boy to stand up. Finally the boy got to his feet.
“Nurse, see that something is done about that floor!” the boy commanded, thumping the offending floor with his cane.
Waves of applause filled the auditorium along with relieved laughter. It was a Christmas program that none of them would ever forget.
The morning of her birthday, Holly carefully closed the bathroom door, then tried drinking a glass of water without using her hands as she had seen Debbie do. She only managed to soak herself and drop the plastic glass with a clatter into the sink. She looked into the bathroom mirror, and solemn brown eyes looked back at her.
Yesterday she had come in from building a giant snowman with her friends and found Debbie watching from the window, her usually merry blue eyes shadowed with sadness.
“I wish I could run and play like other kids,” Debbie had said with a long sigh. “I wonder why I was born like this.”
Holly had put her arms around Debbie in silent sympathy but had had no answer for her. She thought about her birthday three years ago when Grandfather had become very ill and had been in the hospital. Holly had heard her parents say that he would never get well. She had sat in a corner by the Christmas tree, sobbing and tightly clutching the hand-carved cane Grandfather had made especially for her. Her father had picked her up and wiped away her tears with the back of his big, gentle hand.
“Remember when you became separated from us in that crowded store last Christmastime, Holly?” he had asked. “You were so frightened—just sobbing when we found you.”
Holly had nodded solemnly.
“I wiped the tears from your eyes, and you were safe and happy in my arms. When Grandfather goes back to Heavenly Father, it will be a safe and happy time for him too. We may all feel lost at times, but because Jesus came to earth and died for us, there will be a time when all our tears will be dried.”
Holly had felt the truth of her father’s words then, and she longed now to find a way to tell Debbie how she felt.
“Hey, come on, birthday girl—Greg’s famous pancakes await you!” her brother shouted from downstairs. Holly shook away her thoughts and ran downstairs.
“Boy, are your missionary companions going to love you when they find out about these pancakes,” she said as she pulled up her chair. Greg was going to leave on his mission right after the Christmas holidays.
“Every year on Holly’s birthday we have a tradition of giving her some special gift that we do or make ourselves,” Mother explained to Debbie. “Her birthday is so close to Christmas that we wanted to make sure it wasn’t overlooked in the holiday excitement. Greg’s gift is his special pancakes.”
“And I’m going to be her slave for the day and do all her chores,” groaned Sarah, rolling her eyes in a gesture of mock despair.
Holly’s eyes were twinkling as she said, “Tonight Mom and Dad are going to tell the Christmas story, wearing robes my uncle brought back from a trip to Israel.”
Debbie seemed unusually quiet all afternoon. She spent most of the time alone in her room with only Mother going in and out.
After dinner everyone watched as Holly blew out eleven flickering candles with one big puff. Then they all sang “Happy Birthday.” Mother and Father disappeared for a moment while Greg built a fire, and everyone gathered around the fireplace, waiting expectantly.
All the lights were extinguished except the tree lights and a few candles flickering around the room. The fire glowed and crackled in the fireplace, and soon Mother and Father returned, dressed in flowing robes. As Father and Mother told the age-old story of the first Christmas, a feeling of love and contentment surrounded the little group.
When the beautiful story had ended, they watched the fire in silence for a few minutes. Then Greg jumped up to get more wood. Just as he threw a log onto the fire, Holly noticed that one of her new furry white mittens was snagged on it. She hurried to fish it out of the flames with a poker, but the thumb already had a hole burned in it. Swallowing her disappointment, she laid it carefully on the mantel and went to open her birthday presents.
When the gifts had all been opened and Holly had thanked each giver, Debbie said shyly, “If you’ll come here, I have something else for you, Holly.”
“But you already gave me a beautiful red sweater,” Holly said as she walked to Debbie’s side.
“I wanted to give you something of myself, like the others,” Debbie said shyly, nodding to an envelope on her lap.
Holly opened the envelope and looked with amazement at a button sewn on a little square of cloth.
Debbie smiled proudly. “I sewed it on myself!”
Everyone but Mother looked at her in wonder.
“She did,” Mother affirmed. “I watched her do it.”
“But how?” Holly asked.
“I stuck myself a lot,” Debbie admitted cheerfully, “and my mouth is quite sore, but I wanted to do it for you.”
Holly’s eyes pricked with tears at the enormity of Debbie’s gift. Her eyes wandered up to the hand-carved nativity scene nestled among the pine boughs on the mantel. She walked over and reverently touched the Babe in the manger, then looked over at the charred mitten.
Turning to Debbie she said softly, “I think because of you, I understand more about giving and about Christmas than I ever did before. Debbie, I want to give you something too. She grabbed her ruined mitten and ran out, returning immediately. “Look, Debbie,” she said, holding out the burned mitten, “the part of your body that’s crippled may seem like this to you.” She tugged gently and pulled its mate from inside the burned one. “But the real you inside is just as perfect as this.”

“Are your chores done, Jesse?” Ma called as I grabbed the old baseball and darted for the open front door. The fellows were waiting for me down at the churchyard.
“Mostly done,” I answered. “I’ll feed the chickens and pigs when I get back,” I promised.
I looked at the tattered leather ball with the frayed red string. Ma had tried to repair it a half dozen times. Last time, she had muttered, “I’m just repairing the repairs now.” But in 1892, it was the best baseball we had in Snowflake, Arizona.
I’d been playing baseball ever since Uncle Rupert had given me the ball when I turned five. He had played with that same ball on the Deseret Territory championship team years before.
“We’re burning up our afternoon,” Hal Kartchner grumbled to me when I finally arrived at the churchyard. The meetinghouse was right in the middle of town. We boys had fixed up a nice baseball diamond close by, but we were plagued by prairie dog holes dotting the field. We had to be careful to not step in one and drop to our knee in a prairie dog’s front room.
I looked over at Winston Hatch, who owned our only bat. It was scarred and had nicks everywhere except where we gripped it, which was smooth and polished from all the sweaty hands clutching it. I was the youngest one there, but I could play as well as anybody because I practiced every chance I got.
I was about to throw the first pitch, when Willie Flake yelled, “Hey, fellows, look who’s coming.”
Riding slowly down the street were six cowboys from the Aztec Land and Cattle Company. Hardly anybody made us as nervous as they did—the Hashknife Cowboys. The Aztec Cattle Company claimed thousands and thousands of acres around Snowflake and ran more than fifty thousand cattle on that land. They didn’t have much use for us “Mormons.” The Hashknife Cowboys seemed as happy to argue and fight as to tip their hats and say hello.
“That’s Red Martin on the black horse,” Heber Ballard whispered. “I hear he’s really mean and ornery.”
“Just keep playing,” I cautioned. “They won’t bother us.”
Heber missed my first two pitches, then sent that old ball flying out to center field over Mel Rogers’s head. As the ball rolled to the far end of the churchyard, Red Martin galloped across the street. Holding onto his saddle horn, he scooped up our ball, and charged across the field toward me.
I stood frozen to the ground, my eyes bulging, my heart pounding. A few feet before his horse trampled over me, Red pulled back on his reins. The horse slid to a stop in a cloud of dust. Red laughed raucously, holding my ball over my head. “That’s how you play ball, Mormon boy.”
“Could I have my ball, sir?” I rasped, trying hard to hide my fear.
Just then, his five buddies charged across the street whooping and hollering, and suddenly I wished I was home feeding the chickens and pigs.
Those six cowboys crowded their horses around the pitcher’s mound and grinned down at me. “Do you fellows want to play a little baseball?” Red asked his buddies, still clutching my old ball. “I used to play baseball back in Texas.”
“That was probably before the Rangers ran you out of the territory,” a big burly cowboy howled.
“Hush up your face, Chappy,” Red growled.
“I never saw much sense to baseball,” Chappy grumbled. “It’s too much of a city boy’s game—whacking a little ball around with a stick.”
Red frowned, tossed me the ball and jabbed a finger at him. “Get off your horse, Chappy. This here city boy is going to pitch you the ball.”
“I sure ain’t afraid of no dog-eared ball that some little Mormon weasel will throw my way,” Chappy snapped, glaring down at me.
“I bet us city boys can take you cowboys any time,” I challenged. “We’ll even spot you five points.”
The cowboys looked at Red. He twisted his thumb in his beard, thinking. “I never knew a Mormon who could beat a Hashknife Cowboy at anything. We’ll chew them up and spit them out before the supper bell rings. We bat first.”
My buddies looked a little scared. “Why’d you have to invite them to play?” Mel Rogers grumbled.
The cowboys tied their horses to a juniper tree, but every single one of them kept his guns, chaps, and spurs on. They stomped over to home plate.
“Give me that there stick,” Chappy ordered. He spit once in each hand and gripped the bat. “Let her fly, city boy.”
Red and the other cowboys hooted and hollered. Had Chappy not called me a city boy, I’d have thrown him a nice slow pitch. Instead, I burned that tattered baseball across home plate. Chappy swung with all his might—and missed that ball a mile. In fact, he swung so hard that he twirled around and fell in the dust in a heap.
“Don’t let an itty-bitty bat buck you,” Red cackled while the other cowboys beat their hats against their legs, laughing loudly. Chappy sprang to his feet and glared at me. I burned another one so fast that the ball had already passed him when he swung. I barely lobbed the third one. He swung before the ball was halfway to home plate.
“Give me that there bat,” Red stormed, stomping over to home plate.
Red hit my first pitch. The ball sailed clear over Mel’s head, and Red charged for first base. But he was so wobbly in his high-heeled boots that he wasn’t very fast. And halfway there, his spurs got caught in his chaps and he fell flat on his face. Mel snatched the ball and threw it to first before Red could untangle himself.
A wiry little fellow named Flaco was the next batter. He got two strikes, then connected on the third pitch. He would have had a double had he not been packing his guns, chaps, and spurs. To make matters worse, he stepped into a prairie dog hole and took a tumble worse than Red’s.
The game was never close. We Mormon boys took our turn at bat and hardly missed a pitch. Those cowboys chased all over the field, stepping in prairie dog holes and getting their spurs tangled in the grass, their chaps, or each other. In frustration, some of them started to cuss.
“Nobody’s allowed to cuss when we play,” Willie Flake called out, feeling suddenly brave. “If you cuss, we have to go home.”
Chappy started to protest, but Red growled, “Hush up, Chappy. They have us down by fifteen runs. I ain’t losin’ to any Church-going city boys.”
We ended up beating the Hashknife Cowboys by a good twenty points. The score might have been closer if they hadn’t been determined to play with every bit of their gear.
Two days later, we boys were down at the church playing ball again. Red, Chappy, and their buddies rode up. “We came for a rematch,” Red declared, tying off his horse to a juniper tree. Frowning, he unbuckled his gun belt, hung it in the tree, and pulled off his chaps. “You others do the same,” he ordered.
Grumpily Chappy stripped off his gun belt and chaps. “I ain’t playing without my spurs, though,” he growled. “I’d feel undressed without ’em.”
This time we beat them by only eight runs. They still had a hard time racing around the bases in their boots and spurs, but they were getting better at dodging prairie dog holes. We had to remind them about cussing, because they kept slipping.
“You won’t ever beat us as long as you cuss,” Heber taunted Red with a grin.
The following Saturday afternoon, they were back. “Today we’re going to beat you!” Red declared. Turning to his buddies, he roared, “The first one of you boneheads that lets slip a cuss word is going to walk back to camp in your stocking feet!”
That day the game was a terrible fight. After six innings, the score was 10 to 9, our favor. The cowboys had two outs. Flaco was on second, and Chappy was up to bat. Although sometimes the cowboys had to almost bite off the end of their tongues, they had managed to play the whole game without a single cuss word. I wound up and burned my battered ball over home plate. Chappy reared back and smacked it with all his might, and it exploded in a dozen different directions. Uncle Rupert’s championship baseball was history.
Muttering bitterly the cowboys rode out of town. “I guess that’s the end of baseball with the Hashknife Cowboys,” Mel complained. “I was getting so I kind of liked them. I think they liked us, too.”
Three days later, I trotted out of the barn and almost bumped into three horses. Red, Chappy, and Flaco were frowning down at me. “So you’re hiding out here, slopping the hogs,” Chappy snarled. “You Mormons flat cheated us last time.”
“Cheated?” I protested. “We don’t have to cheat to beat you!”
“You didn’t finish the game,” Flaco snapped. “It’s the same thing.”
“You busted our ball to powder and string.”
Red reached inside his shirt and pulled out a brand-new white leather baseball with bright red lacing. “You have one now,” he growled. “Chappy rode all the way to Holbrook to buy it.” Then all three of those cowboys busted out in big grins as Red tossed me the ball.
Staring down at the smooth ball, I could smell the new leather. “M-Mine?” I stammered.
“It is if you and your city buddies can beat us. But we pick up right where we left off. The rest of our boys are at the churchyard warming up.”
The cowboys beat us that afternoon, but Red still let me keep the baseball—on condition that whenever the Hashknife Cowboys came to town, we’d let them play.

Angela stormed into the house, slamming her books onto the kitchen table. Her fifth-grade math book fell to the floor at her mother’s feet. Seven-year-old Caleb, who had run home from the bus stop, sat in shocked silence.
“I’m never going back to school again!” Angela yelled. Her anger turned into tears as she dropped into a chair. Between sobs, Angela wailed, “Sheela is making life miserable for me. I tried to be nice to her when she called me names. I ignored her when she teased me about my clothes. Then today she told everyone that I told her secrets about Ammon Young. Now Ammon’s afraid to talk to me.”
Mom sat down and put her arm around her daughter. Angela raised her tear-streamed face. “Mom, Ammon’s my best friend. He’s the only other Church member in my grade. We always help each other choose the right.” She laid her head against Mom’s shoulder and cried for a long while.
Caleb, uncomfortable with the silence, said, “My Primary teacher said that Jesus taught us to pray for our enemies. Maybe you should pray that Sheela gets really sick and misses lots of school.”
“I don’t think that is what Jesus meant,” Mom gently corrected.
“Then, maybe you could pray that Sheela moves to another country,” Caleb suggested.
Mom shook her head. “No, Caleb—but you’re right that we should pray for our enemies. In fact, this Sunday is fast Sunday. Let’s use this opportunity to fast for Sheela. When we combine faith, prayers, and fasting, miracles can happen.”
Angela, who had calmed down a bit, sniffled and added, “Like the time we all fasted and prayed for cousin David when he was born two months too soon?”
“That’s right, Angela,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father blessed us for our faith. He always does.”
Angela prayed many times throughout the weekend that Sheela would stop being mean to her. As she fasted, she hardly noticed when her stomach growled.
Before leaving for school on Monday morning, Angela knelt by her bed once again. “Heavenly Father, please help Sheela to stop being mean. I’ve fasted and prayed. I have faith that Thou canst change her. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”
Angela bounced happily down the stairs. “Good-bye, Mom.”
“Have a great day,” Mom said, kissing her and Caleb good-bye.
“Oh, I will—I just know it!”
She was sure she would when she arrived at her class and found that her teacher had rearranged the desks. Angela was no longer sitting next to Sheela. She was on the opposite side of the room. Angela silently offered a prayer of thanks. Ammon even smiled at her as he walked past her desk. This really is going to be a great day! she thought.
After lunch, she stopped by the rest room to make sure that no food was stuck in her braces. Her heart raced when Sheela walked out of one of the stalls. Summoning her courage, Angela smiled and said, “Hi, Sheela—do you have fun plans for the weekend?”
Sheela just smiled—not exactly a friendly smile, but a smile. The two girls left the bathroom at the same time.
“Hello, Sheela. Hello, Angela,” Mrs. Keiter, the music teacher, said as she passed by.
“Hello,” the girls answered. Angela was glad Sheela had not said or done anything mean in the bathroom. She was happy, too, when Sheela went to the office instead of out to the playground. Again, Angela offered a quiet prayer of gratitude to Heavenly Father for His help.
A few minutes before school was over for the day, the secretary spoke over the intercom. “Mrs. Winn, will you please send Angela Valencia to the office. The principal would like to see her.”
Angela stood and walked across the room, wondering what the principal wanted. As she passed Sheela’s desk, Sheela smirked and cooed, “Good luck.” It made Angela feel cold all over.
The principal, Mr. Cooper, was waiting for Angela when she arrived. He shut the door behind her. “Angela, I’ve received a report that you have been defacing school property. Someone scratched ‘Angela Valencia loves Ammon Young’ on one of the stalls in the girls rest room. The student who reported this said that Mrs. Keiter saw you leaving there during lunch recess. I’ve checked with her, and she said that you were there at that time.”
Angela was stunned. How could this be? Hadn’t she fasted and prayed and used all her faith that Heavenly Father would make Sheela be nice? Sheela had been in the rest room at the same time. She must have scratched the names on the stall.
“Mr. Cooper,” Angela said softly, “I did go into the rest room after lunch, but I didn’t scratch anything on the stalls.”
“I’m sorry, Angela, but I have your word against another student’s and a teacher’s. You will help the janitor, Mr. Hamblin, during recess for a week. Maybe that will help you respect school property more.”
Caleb knew by the look on Angela’s face when she got on the bus that things had not gone well. He walked silently beside her on the way home from the bus stop. Entering the kitchen just ahead of her, he blurted, “Angela’s faith didn’t work.”
“Caleb! That’s not nice,” Mom scolded.
“No, Mom, Caleb’s right,” Angela sighed sadly. “I must not have enough faith for Heavenly Father to make Sheela be nice.” She told Mom about her day.
Taking Angela by the hand, Mom led her into the living room. “Angela, we can’t pray away another person’s agency, no matter how much faith we have.” Mom explained, “When we pray for our enemies, it changes how we feel about them and brings us peace. We change for the better, and sometimes our goodness helps our enemies to change. Sadly, some never change. But we should never let our enemies choose how we will act.”
“So what does Angela do about Sheela?” Caleb interrupted. “How does all this faith, prayer, and fasting help her if Sheela is still mean?”
Angela nodded, tears starting to spill over her eyelashes. “I thought faith could produce miracles.”
“It does. I promise you that it does,” Mom assured her. “Do you remember from family scripture study last week the story of Alma and his people in the land of Helam?” Mom reached for her scriptures sitting on the end table.
“A little,” Angela said. “Alma’s people were being good, but they still were captured by the Lamanites. Things got even worse when the Lamanites put Amulon, one of the wicked priests of King Noah, in charge over Alma’s people.”
“And Amulon was Alma’s enemy,” Caleb added. “He knew that Alma had believed the prophet Abinadi and had tried to save him from being burned.”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Amulon made slaves of Alma and his people and gave them hard work. He even put guards over them to kill anyone caught praying.”
“But they still prayed in their hearts, didn’t they?” Caleb asked.
“Yes, and the Lord answered their prayers,” Mom replied. “He didn’t help them escape right away, but He helped them with their trials. Let’s read what happened in Mosiah 24:15:
“‘And now it came to pass that the burdens which were laid upon Alma and his brethren were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord.’
“So, what do you think you should pray for now?” Mom asked gently.
Angela sat quietly, then, breathing deeply, she answered, “To endure my trials cheerfully.”
The next day, after sanding and painting over the writing in the bathroom, Angela was emptying trash cans from the classrooms when Sheela walked by. Loudly she said to the girls with her, “It looks like we have a new janitor at our school.” The group left, giggling.
“Please help me to be cheerful and patient,” Angela prayed in her heart.
Just then Mr. Hamblin walked up. “Angela, you’re a good worker. I appreciate your help.” Then he smiled a big smile. “You didn’t scratch those words on the bathroom stall, did you?”
Angela shook her head.
“That’s what I told Mr. Cooper. And while we were talking, Ammon Young came to report that he’d overheard Sheela Kelly bragging about doing it herself and getting you in trouble. Ammon even volunteered to take your punishment himself if the principal didn’t believe him.” Mr. Hamblin smiled again. “So, Mr. Cooper wants to see you again in his office. He’s a fair man, young lady, I think you’ll be happy to talk with him again.”
Patience and cheerfulness, prayers and faith, Angela thought. They really do produce miracles. I don’t think my troubles with Sheela are over, but I’ll keep trying to do what’s right. Maybe I’ll try to talk with her again. And as she hurried toward the principal’s office, she silently prayed, Thank Thee, Heavenly Father, for helping me with my trials.

My dad and grandfather gave me many priesthood blessings. Whenever I had to go in for surgery, I would ask for a blessing. The blessings helped me and my family feel calm about the procedure. One time I had a high fever, and we had to go to the hospital. I received a blessing from my dad and a neighbor before we left. By the time we pulled up at the emergency room door, my fever was gone, and I didn’t have to stay the night in the hospital. I know that priesthood power is a gift from a loving Heavenly Father.

Q: You surprised a lot of people when you joined the Church. Could you tell us something about your conversion?
Kresimir: I had never heard about the Church before I came here. In Yugoslavia most of the young people are completely atheistic, and that’s the way I lived. When I came to Provo I didn’t change. I was an atheist for two years while I was in Provo. Nobody was farther from becoming a Mormon than I was. I just lived my way, and people lived their way. I obeyed all the rules of BYU, tried to be as good as I could, and tried to play ball and do my studying and other things. When I was a junior, I decided to figure out a few things. I had things I wanted to know.
I didn’t decide to join the Church because of any one thing. There were some things that I wanted to know. I had a few questions that no one could answer. It just happened. We as Mormons believe in personal things everyone can know by himself. It all depends on how bad you want to know something. That’s the whole point. If we have a desire in the Church to know something, we will know it; there’s no question about that. If something is really bothering you, you probably go to somebody for advice. If it’s football you want to know about—what kind of a play you are going to play—you can ask me, and I don’t have any idea. I just can’t help. It’s the same if you’re going to the wrong church. They can’t give you an answer. So you ask, and find out, and you join the true church. So I just decided to join the Church.
Q: I’ve heard that the Book of Mormon impressed you very much when you were studying the Church. Is this true?
Kresimir: Of course. You just read the book and want to get baptized—and that’s it.
Q: Who gave you the book?
Kresimir: You can buy those books for 50 cents.
Q: What impressed you about the Book of Mormon?
Kresimir: Well, it’s certainly the best book I have ever read. There’s no question about that. The book applies to today’s people much more than in the days when Joseph Smith translated it, because it speaks about the way it is now. I was traveling all over the world, and I saw many places, and I saw most of the prophecies being fulfilled; it’s amazing. That really is a good book. There are many things in it that are coming true now.
Q: Were your friends in Yugoslavia surprised when they learned you had joined the Church?
Kresimir: You bet they were surprised. That’s the last thing they thought was going to happen.
Q: Did joining the Church change your goals in life?
Kresimir: Of course. We talk all the time about being born again. Especially if you have lived the way I did, you better be born completely. You don’t just get in the middle. You’ve got to change all things.
Q: Have you been happier since becoming a member of the Church?
Kresimir: Of course. And if I hadn’t known I would be, I wouldn’t have been baptized.

For Cathy Antonsson of Helsingborig, Sweden, saying no was not always easy or pleasant.

“It was rough. It’s not easy, but you have to pay the price for who you are. Sometimes I cried my eyes out because I had to stay home. It was difficult because many people here just aren’t religious.
“I went to Rome for two weeks on a school trip. In Italy, they always offered us wine. They have wine with most of their meals, so my friends kept offering me wine, and I kept saying, ‘No, I don’t drink that.’
“My friends spent so much money on drinks. Everytime we went out, I would put the same amount of money in my purse that they spent on their drinks. Before we left, I went to an exclusive dress shop and bought a very expensive designer dress. All my friends were really surprised when they saw it and said, ‘Hey, how could you afford that?’ I told them what I had done and that that was one of the advantages of not drinking.”
Despite the hardships, Cathy was glad she upheld her standards. “After I graduated from junior college (in Sweden, students 16 to 19 attend junior college), a boy that I used to date told me that when we started school he had set a goal that before we graduated he would get me to break my standards. He said it always bugged him that I was so moral.
“When we used to go out on dates, I always said, ‘Hey, no way. I want to be your friend, but I don’t do that.’ After it was all over, he told me, ‘I have never respected a girl as much as I respect you.’”

A crafted red and pink paper heart frame holds a picture of the entire family dressed in white. In April 1993, the Richards family was sealed in the St. George temple. It was Mom and Dad’s tenth wedding anniversary. “It made for a special day,” Mom said. Emily says she remembers that everything in the temple was white and that she felt nice inside. “The children didn’t want to leave,” Mom said. They loved the beautiful chandeliers and the pictures of Jesus Christ inside the temple.
The family had driven for five days to get to St. George. Why did they travel so far to be sealed? On a previous vacation they had driven into St. George, and the city was covered with a thick layer of gray fog. They couldn’t see anything except the white glow of the temple. This experience made them want to return to St. George to be sealed there.
They stopped at four other temples on that trip. “Each time we visited a temple grounds, we felt a family togetherness,” Mom said. On the way home, they stopped and ate at a hotel. The hotel employees were so impressed with the children’s polite behavior and kind manner that they gave the entire family free dessert.