Gospel Story Finder

It had only been two weeks since Dad had died. I hadn’t gone back to school yet. My little brother Jamey and little sister Tammy were attending school again, and Mom encouraged me to go. “It’ll be easier if you stay busy,” she said, but the emptiness I felt made the thought of being among all my cheery friends repulsive.
“Would you talk with a counselor?” she asked. “No,” was all I could answer.
I spent most of the day in my room among the things I knew so well: my poster of the Great Nebula in the constellation Orion, my collection of Louis L’Amour and Ray Bradbury books, my stake softball trophy, a picture of Dad and me heading out for a fishing trip to Molly Lake in the Sawtooths, and next to that the scriptures Dad had given me on my 12th birthday.
On a blank page in the fron Dad had written: “These scriptures are the word of God; they contain the truth. If you will study them and follow what they say you will know what you need to know for salvation and find the peace you seek. … I love you, Your father.”
I loved the scriptures. During the two years since Dad had given me that set I had read the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants and Pearl of Great Price, the New Testament, and about a third of the Old Testament. Since Dad’s death I had read every scripture I could find on death and the resurrection. I understood as well as any LDS 14-year-old that only Dad’s body had died and that Dad was alive and busy in the spirit world, but the pain and loneliness wouldn’t go away.
During the days after the funeral I prayed to Heavenly Father often for faith and strength, but my sorrow remained. I thought God might be displeased with me for feeling so bad about Dad’s death because I knew the plan of salvation. I asked for forgiveness. I told God that I knew that if I lived right I could be with Dad again in the celestial kingdom, but that I just couldn’t stop missing him so much right now. I privately hoped that Dad would come visit me in a dream or vision and tell me that everything was okay, but it never happened.
I felt a strong need to cry, but I didn’t, not even that first day when the principal got me out of geometry and took me to his office where Mom was waiting to tell me Dad had been killed in a tractor accident. Not during the funeral when everyone was watching to see how I would react. And not when I was alone, because I knew death wasn’t really anything to righteous people, and to cry about it would be weak. I found that not crying took a lot of energy.
It was on a Wednesday night when Mom told me Grandpa Anson was coming to stay for a while. He had been one of the speakers at the funeral. He had told how his son had been a little rebellious when he was young but had turned his life around and gone on a mission, of how wonderful it was to see his son married in the temple, and of the joy it brought him to hear the good things people have to say about Rodney because of the service he had given them. There had been no sorrow in Grandpa’s voice. I guessed that Mom had asked Grandpa to come now because of me. I resented that. I just wanted to be left alone.
Thursday afternoon, when Grandpa was supposed to arrive, I went out for a walk. I wanted to avoid Mom calling me from my room like she always did to formally greet Grandpa. I walked across the back lawn, jumped the cement ditch, and crossed the rows and rows of sugar beets that covered 200 acres. The green leaves were just pushing out of the dirt. I knew I would be spending my afternoons and Saturdays thinning them soon. At the lower southeast corner of the field I came to a pile of large rocks that had been taken from the field years before. This is where Dad’s tractor had turned over. I couldn’t understand it—Dad knew about these rocks. He had warned me not to drive the tractor over them.
“Sometimes it only takes one mistake,” he had said.
I walked out of the field into the sagebrush. Dad said that a lot of people thought sagebrush was ugly and that he couldn’t understand why. He loved the way it smelled.
After about an hour I climbed the fence and began walking up the road that led to my home. When I got closer I could see Grandpa’s car in the driveway. A surge of anger flowed through me. The anger was so strong it scared me. Grandpa was a good man. Mom said he had done nothing but spoil me ever since I was a baby. “You’re his first grandson. He’s proud of you!”
I stopped and tried to get a hold of myself. Why? I thought. Then it came to me. Grandpa is 85 years old. He’s the one who should have died, not Dad. It was a mean thought, but there it was. Forcing my feet to move, I began walking home.
At dinner Grandpa didn’t have much to say to me. He asked Mom about the affairs of the farm, whether Uncle Barney was able to spend enough time here to get things done right. Grandpa had been a farmer and a good one. He had survived two droughts and numerous hail storms. The index finger on his right hand had been cut off at the knuckle by a combine.
After dinner Mom took me aside and asked me not to go straight to my room. I sat in the family room and watched TV with Grandpa for a couple of hours. He held Tammy in his lap and spoke with Jamey, but he pretty much ignored me. I guess that’s what I wanted.
The next morning I slept in until almost eight o’clock, which was unusual. There was a knock on the door and in walked Mom.
“How’re you feeling this morning?”
“Fine.”
“Grandpa would like to go for a walk with you along the river today. That is ‘if he’s feeling up to it,’” she said, trying to imitate Grandpa’s deep voice. Then she smiled.
“Okay,” I said. Mom’s smile faded. She looked long into my eyes, then left. She had cried in the principal’s office when she told me about Dad. She had cried since then too, but she hadn’t neglected the family. She had even made breakfast the day of the funeral.
We drove in Grandpa’s car to the recreation area—a picnic table underneath a shelter amid the sagebrush. The Snake River moved slow and deep in its lava channel, but just downstream a half mile it went over a falls and roared for the next 20 miles though a narrow canyon. We could hear it as we sat and threw rocks into the water. You could see them sink for a ways, but then they disappeared in the murky green. As we walked up the old Oregon Trail he told me some Indian stories that had happened in the area and about the pioneers that had traveled this way “not so long ago.” I already knew the stories, but listened anyway. As we ate the lunch Mom had packed, he told me how to cook biscuits on a stick and how to cook fish over a fire without a pan. Dad had done those things with me on our camping trips.
It wasn’t until we were on our way home that he actually talked about Dad.
“Your dad was a great farmer,” he said looking over the beet field.
“I know,” I said.
“I taught him everything he knows.” I realized too late that he meant that as a joke.
“It’s ironic the accident he had. That kind of avoidable accident seems to happen only to the best farmers. I can name five other good farmers something like that has happened to.”
You’re making me feel a lot better, I thought.
“Shoulda happened to me years ago,” he mumbled.
Suddenly I felt guilty. “No …” I said, but I couldn’t go on.
We drove the rest of the way in silence. Mom looked up hopefully when we came in. I went straight to my room. I lay on the bed and held Dad’s picture to my chest, staring at the ceiling.
After dinner that night Mom told me not to go to my room until at least nine o’clock. I couldn’t bring myself to watch TV so I went outside. The lilacs were in bloom. Their smell was soft and alluring. Dad had planted them when he built the house. They were a Mother’s Day gift for Mom. “They’re a gift that gives every year,” he had said. I sat under them on the far side so no one from the house could see me. The hollow feeling inside me was getting bigger. I wondered how much longer it would be before there was nothing left of me. I was scared, but I didn’t know what to do. I knew that God cared, but why did he let me hurt so much? And why did Dad’s death hurt so much? I believed in the plan of salvation.
I didn’t notice Grandpa until he was sitting down beside me. I pretended not to notice him and watched a robin hop across the lawn, stop to listen, and fly underneath the juniper bush.
“You’re in a lot of pain aren’t you, Jarren?” Grandpa said, abruptly breaking the silence.
I swallowed and nodded.
“Your dad’s death hurt a lot of people,” he said. “I don’t know how your mother is getting along without him. She’s stronger than I thought.”
I didn’t want to speak; I just wanted to curl up and go away, but Grandpa’s presence seemed to draw the pain to the surface. “Dad was a righteous man—we know the plan of salvation—there’s no reason to be sad.” My anger was apparent and my voice shook on sad.
Grandpa stared at me for a long moment while I stared at a dandelion next to me in the grass. Finally he spoke. His voice was old but he had a veteran farmer’s strength and roughness in it.
“Plan of salvation or no plan of salvation, death can hurt.” He reached down and pulled a few blades of grass. “Jarren, you know the scriptures. In the New Testament Heavenly Father mourned for Christ, in 3 Nephi Christ mourned for those who died in the great destruction, and what’s that scripture in Moses? It ‘How is it that the heavens weep, and shed forth their tears as the rain upon the mountains?’” (Moses 7:28).
I thought for a moment how beautiful those words sounded. Then Grandpa spoke. “It seems that feeling sorrow is a part of being like God,” he said.
Still trying to hold onto my anger, I said, “You didn’t sound sad at the funeral!” He stared at me again.
“Jarren, everybody takes death differently, but I think you need to know I bawled like a baby right on the phone when your mom told me.” Then, his voice trailing off almost to a mumble he said, “I never guessed one of my children would die before me.” For an instant I felt Grandpa’s pain.
I knew the answer, but I had to ask him before I could surrender, “Do you miss him, Grandpa?”
“I miss him, Jarren.”
I smelled the lilacs again and I thought about the way Dad had looked when he planted them. I began to cry. Grandpa didn’t move until I put my arm around him, and then he hugged me.

At war’s end, Františka’s husband lost his job when all native Czechs in Austrian government positions were replaced. In 1919 he moved his family to Prague (in newly formed Czechoslovakia). He died shortly thereafter.

Life was difficult for the widow and her two young daughters. Left alone in a strange city with only what little money Františka’s brother could send, they barely avoided starvation. Their spiritual hunger was just as intense, as two years passed without any contact from the Church.

Then, in 1921, two elders from the Vienna Branch visited them in response to Františka’s letters to the German-Austrian Mission. They baptized her two daughters, the first members baptized in Czechoslovakia.

Have you ever been excited for a special day? Maybe it was your birthday or a vacation. Seven-year-old Adair was excited for a special day. Her family set a date to go to the temple one year from the time of their baptism.
Adair’s family held a special family home evening. Her dad and mom explained how important it was for everyone to prepare to go to the temple. They made a list of the things they could do: pray individually and as a family, read the scriptures, pay tithing, keep the commandments, and follow the prophet.
Adair’s mother gave her a picture of the temple and wrote Adair’s name and the date that her family would be going to the temple underneath. Every day Adair tried her best to prepare for when her family would be sealed in the temple. Adair felt good inside as she realized that each day she prepared to receive the blessings of the temple was a special day. She felt a surge of excitement as the special day came. Being sealed as a family was a blessing Heavenly Father gave them that brought them closer to Him and to each other.

Romero had been looking forward to this day for a very long time. This was the day his mother and he had planned on going to the park. But that morning his mother had been called away to help a neighbor who was very ill. When she left, she promised Romero that they would still go to the park when she returned if he would do some of the household chores while she was gone. Romero told her that he would.
After his mother left, Romero started to do the things she had asked him to do. Then his friend José came by and wanted to play. Romero remembered what his mother had asked him to do and her promise that they would go to the park if he was obedient. He told José that he couldn’t play just then because he had work to do. José went home, and Romero hurried to finish the chores. When his mother came home, she was happy to see that he had done what she had asked. Because he had, she kept her promise and together they spent the afternoon at the park.

Dear Mom, Dad, Matt, Lucy, and Tyler,
I can’t tell you how neat it was to see the Christmas card photo. It looked great, even if I wasn’t part of it. Maybe I’m the reason they never seemed to turn out very well!
We’d had a rough day. It was dark, windy, and cold, and we didn’t have much luck with the work. We had so many doors slammed in our faces that my companion and I joked about needing plastic surgery to straighten out our noses. Anyway, we picked up our mail at the post after lunch, and I jammed your letter into my overcoat pocket.
It was on the bus that I opened the letter. When I saw you standing in front of the tree in our yard, I started to giggle. A woman sitting across the aisle said something about how I must be reading a nice letter. I showed her the card, and she was impressed by the photo. One thing led to another, and we’re going by her home to drop off a Book of Mormon tomorrow. Who knows if anything ever comes of it, but it wouldn’t have happened if a certain photo of a good-looking family hadn’t appeared in the mail.

Many years ago, President Harold B. Lee recounted to me an experience of a President Ballantyne who grew up in Star Valley, Wyoming. This is harsh country. The summers are short and fleeting, while the winters linger and chill. President Ballantyne told of a special Christmas season from his boyhood days. He said:
“Father had a large family; and sometimes after we had our harvest, there was not much left after expenses were paid. So Father would have to go away and hire out to some of the big ranchers for maybe a dollar a day. He earned little more than enough to take care of himself, with very little to send home to Mother and the children. Things began to get pretty skimpy for us.
“We had our family prayers around the table; and it was on one such night when Father was gone that we gathered and Mother poured out of a pitcher, into the glass of each one, milk divided among the children—but none for herself. And I, sensing that the milk in the pitcher was all that we had, pushed mine over to Mother and said, ‘Here, Mother. You drink mine.’
“‘No, Mother is not hungry tonight.’
“It worried me. We drank our milk and went to bed, but I could not sleep. I got up and tiptoed down the stairs, and there was Mother, in the middle of the floor, kneeling in prayer. She did not hear me as I came down in my bare feet, and I dropped to my knees and heard her say, ‘Heavenly Father, there is no food in our house. Please, Father, touch the heart of somebody so that my children will not be hungry in the morning.’
“When she finished her prayer, she looked around and saw that I had heard; and she said to me, somewhat embarrassed, ‘Now, you run along, son. Everything will be all right.’
“I went to bed, assured by Mother’s faith. The next morning, I was awakened by the sounds of pots and pans in the kitchen and the aroma of cooking food. I went down to the kitchen, and I said, ‘Mother, I thought you said there was no food.’
“All she said to me was, ‘Well, my boy, didn’t you think the Lord would answer my prayer?’ I received no further explanation than that.
“Years passed, and I went away to college. I got married, and I returned to see the old folks. Bishop Gardner, now reaching up to a ripe age, said to me, ‘My son, let me tell you of a Christmas experience that I had with your family. I had finished my chores, and we had had supper. I was sitting by the fireplace reading the newspaper. Suddenly, I heard a voice that said, “Sister Ballantyne doesn’t have any food in her house.” I thought it was my wife speaking and said, “What did you say, Mother?” She came in wiping her hands on her apron and said, “Did you call me, Father?”
“‘“No, I didn’t say anything to you, but I heard a voice which spoke to me.”
“‘“What did it say?” she asked.
“‘“It said that Sister Ballantyne didn’t have any food in her house.”
“‘“Well, then,” said Mother, “you had better put on your shoes and your coat and take some food to Sister Ballantyne.” In the dark of that winter’s night, I harnessed the team and placed in the wagon bed a sack of flour, a quarter section of beef, some bottled fruit, and loaves of newly baked bread. The weather was cold, but a warm glow filled my soul as your mother welcomed me and I presented her with the food. God had heard a mother’s prayer.’”

“You pray funny!” Lucia said after Whitney finished saying a blessing on their lunch.
“No, I don’t,” Whitney said. “Why did you say that?”
“We don’t say prayers like that at my church,” Lucia said.
“What do you mean?” Whitney asked as she picked off the crusty part of her grilled cheese sandwich.
“When you pray it sounds old-fashioned.”
“It’s just the words you read in the scriptures,” Whitney said. “I don’t think it’s weird.”
A car horn honked outside. Whitney looked at the kitchen clock. “That’s probably your mom to take us to soccer practice.”
The girls grabbed their sandwiches and raced out the door. “Bye, Mom,” Whitney called. “See you after practice.”
Whitney didn’t think much about what Lucia had said about her prayer until later that evening when Dad gathered everyone for family prayer.
“Whose turn is it tonight?” Dad asked.
“I think it’s Russell’s turn,” Mom said.
Russell bowed his head and began to pray. He thanked Heavenly Father and asked for blessings. Whitney listened closely as Russell prayed. His words did sound different from the way people usually talk: “We thank Thee. … We ask that Thou wilt bless. … Help us follow Thy prophet .…” Russell finished and everyone stood.
Whitney went to get ready for bed. She changed into her pajamas and brushed her teeth. Then she opened her closet and chose one of her best dresses for church the next day. She took it off the hanger and laid it across the back of her desk chair.
“Hey, Whit,” Dad said as he came into her bedroom with a stack of folded clothes. “Mom told me what Lucia said at lunch. Did that bother you?”
“No, not really,” Whitney said. “Well, kind of. Why do we pray with fancy words? Why not just talk the way we usually do?”
Dad picked up Whitney’s soccer uniform from off the floor where she had dropped it earlier that day. “Why don’t you wear this to church tomorrow instead of that dress on your chair?”
“Very funny, Dad,” Whitney said as she grabbed her shorts and shirt. “This is what I wear to soccer—not to church.”
“There’s a difference?” Dad asked.
“Of course,” Whitney replied.
“Right,” Dad said. “The reason we wear our Sunday best to church is to show respect and reverence for Heavenly Father. We dress differently than we do for other occasions. It’s the same way with the words we use when we pray. The words we say show love and respect.”
“So when we say those words, Heavenly Father knows we are treating Him in a special way?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “I’m sure Heavenly Father listens and understands either way, but when we use words like Thy blessings instead of your blessings and Thou hast seen or Thou seest instead of you have seen or you see, it’s kind of like…”
Whitney lifted the dress from the chair. “It’s like our prayers are all dressed up in their Sunday best!”

One of these challenges came when I chose to pay an honest tithe when I was away from home. Every year my dad would take us to tithing settlement. He would help us calculate our tithing, and we would pay it. All during the time I was growing up, I developed this habit of paying tithing. If you had asked me at the time, I would have told you that I had a testimony of tithing.

When I finished high school, I had been admitted to Harvard University, so I worked that summer and earned money to pay for the expenses that weren’t covered by my scholarship. By the end of the first semester, I had foolishly spent all the money that I had earned to get me through the whole year.

At the start of the second semester, I got a job. I couldn’t work very much because I was a full-time student, but I worked a few hours a week and received my first paycheck. Of course, it wasn’t very much, but it was all I had to get by until the next paycheck.

Then the question arose in my mind, “What about tithing?” I had been in the habit of paying my tithing but had always had sufficient money to pay the tithing. Here I was faced with the challenge: do I pay my tithing when I don’t know if I’ve got enough money to get through the next two weeks?

As I thought about it, I remembered the scripture in Malachi 3:10, where the Lord promises, “Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.”

So I realized that was my answer. I would leave it up to the Lord. I paid my tithing, not sure if I had enough money to carry me until the next paycheck. And a miracle happened. I made it through that two weeks.

It came to me so powerfully that the Lord keeps His word. The Lord came through the way He promised. Just as the scriptures say, if we pay our tithing, He will bless us. That same miracle happened every two weeks throughout the rest of the semester. Before, I had thought I had a testimony of tithing, but now, because of my correct decision, I had a powerful testimony of tithing. The Lord always does what He says, so my testimony continued to grow step-by-step.

“Who’s your hero, Jason?”
Jason Shaw looked away from his teacher. “I don’t know.”
“Do you know anyone you want to be like?” she asked.
Jason shrugged.
“Well, you still have a little time to think about it before you write your paper.”
Jason listened as his classmates named their heroes. None of them interested him. He didn’t want to be a police officer, a lawyer, or even the president of his country.
After school as he walked home, the wind blew off his cap. He raced after it, thinking, I wonder if I would like to be an Olympic athlete.
He pictured himself running around a track, pushing his legs harder and harder until he crossed the finish line ahead of his competitors.
“Jason! Jason!” the crowd in his thoughts cheered.
Someone grabbed his arm.
“Jason, didn’t you hear me?”
“Uh, no, Tony. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just thought I’d ask you to walk home with me.”
“Sure. Come on. Who are you going to write your paper on?”
Tony grinned. “My great-grandpa. He won a medal in World War II. He saved a lot of lives. How about you? Think of anyone yet?”
“No. A war hero, huh?”
“Yep. He was a pilot in the air force.”
Jason looked up and imagined himself flying through the clouds. Maybe he would like to be in the air force and save lives. Or … or he could be a doctor. He imagined himself in an operating room.
“How’s his heart rate, nurse?”
“Good, doctor.”
“And his blood pressure?”
“Perfect! You’ve done it again. You’ve saved his life.”
Jason felt warm inside. It would be nice to save lives.
When he got home, he went to his room, pulled out a clean piece of paper, sharpened his pencil, and wrote: “My hero is someone who saves lives. He is a doctor.”
Looking down at his words, Jason didn’t feel as good about them as he had before. He didn’t really want to be a doctor. He didn’t know what he wanted to be. He pushed his paper aside and worked on his spelling lesson.
“How was school today?” Mom asked as she peeked into the room.
“Fine.”
“I see you’re busy with your homework. Is there anything I can help you with before I start supper?”
“No, thanks.”
“OK. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. Oh—I talked to your Primary teacher today. She said you’re always reverent and that you’re a good example to your classmates. She really appreciates you.”
Jason felt happy. He loved his teacher. She made Primary fun, and he learned a lot about Jesus in her class. And she—a teacher—appreciated him! He took out his paper and started again: “My hero is a teacher. A teacher helps people learn and shows them how to be happy.”
He smiled. A teacher was perfect. Now what else could he say? After thinking about it for a few minutes, he couldn’t think of anything, so he put his paper away again.
After dinner everyone gathered in the living room for family home evening.
“What song would you like to sing, Jason?” Mom asked.
“‘Jesus Once Was a Little Child.’” It was his favorite song.
“Karen, would you say the prayer, please?” Dad asked.
Jason’s little sister folded her arms, and Dad helped her pray.
“Thank you, Karen. Your mother and I have planned a special lesson for tonight,” Dad said. “We are going to play a game called ‘I Can Try to Be like Jesus.’”
Jason listened closely. He liked games.
“We have some paintings of Jesus Christ and His life on earth,” Mom said. “We’ll talk about each painting and think of things we can do to be like Him.”
As he listened to Mom and Dad and talked with them about the Savior and how they could try to be like Him, a warm, strong feeling grew in Jason’s heart. He wanted family home evening to last forever.
When family night was over, Jason ran to his room and took out a fresh piece of paper.
He wrote: “My hero is someone who saves lives. He is a healer, a teacher, and a friend, and I love Him very much. I want to be just like Him. My hero is Jesus Christ.”

Many households raised their own sheep, clipped the wool, prepared it for spinning, spun it, and then took it to a neighbor with a loom to weave it into linsey. The linsey was then cut and made into skirts, blouses, shirts, dresses, and men’s suits. Mary Julia Johnson stated that a young man who was leaving in one week on a mission had no suit to wear. When the women of the ward heard this, they went to work with the result that “one Sunday the wool was the sheep’s back, but by the next Sunday it had been clipped, cleansed, carded, spun, woven, and made into a splendid suit and was on the back of the missionary as he delivered his farewell address in our little church house.”

Christine (8) and Spencer (6) Harris and their family saved their money for a long time so that they could be with their grandparents in Rarotonga at the end of their mission. One of the Cook Islands in the Pacific Ocean, Rarotonga is part of the New Zealand Auckland Mission. It was a long distance to travel from their home in Seattle, Washington. In fact, the family flew on three different airplanes to get there. First they flew to California, then to Tahiti, and then on to the beautiful island of Rarotonga. They had not seen Grandma and Grandpa Harris for nearly a year and a half, so it was wonderful to be together again.
On the island, they explored the sites, including the wonderful beaches and warm, blue lagoons. Christine and Spencer liked to snorkel within the coral reef and see the thousands of colorful fish. They had fun collecting seashells and coral. The children also enjoyed eating the unusual, but delicious fruits and fresh coconuts on the island.
Meeting the many nice people to whom their grandparents had taught the gospel was heartwarming for the children and their parents. On Sunday, they attended church. Christine and Spencer found it comforting to sing the familiar Primary songs in the unusual setting of an open-walled church with exotic birds and chickens around it.
When the children found out that their father and grandfather were planning a special hike that included them, they were thrilled. The hike would take them across the island, through the tropical jungle, over some old volcanoes, to a sharp mountain peak called Mount Te Manga (The Needle). Even though it was a difficult hike that was ordinarily just for adults, their father thought that the children were prepared.
It was a perfect morning for a hike—clear and sunny, but not too hot. The children were up early to help make lunches and pack their gear. The four hikers said good-bye to the other family members, who would spend the morning at the open market and then pick them up on the other side of the island in the afternoon.
The hikers walked along a scenic valley road, past a papaya plantation and a lush farm, to the trailhead (the place where a trail begins) at the base of a volcanic mountain. The trail led them through a large green forest of ferns, across several streams, and then up a steep stairway of tangled tree roots. Christine and Spencer took turns leading the hike and had a contest to see who could spot the most lizards along the trail.
Eventually the group entered the heavy overgrowth of the dense, tropical jungle. The gigantic leaves and vines that surrounded them were amazing. But they soon realized that they were no longer on the trail! Everyone looked all around for the path but could not find it. They tried to backtrack to where they had come from, but it seemed like the more they hunted for the path, the steeper and thicker and more difficult the jungle became. Father and Grandfather were very frustrated. Eventually they found a stream and started to follow it down the side of the mountain. But the vines and jungle growth were so dense that it soon became impossible to travel any farther.
Although they didn’t complain, Christine and Spencer were not having fun anymore. They knew that they were lost. To make things worse, Christine had stumbled on a root and hurt her leg, and Spencer was tormented by swarms of mosquitoes. The group searched for the missing trail for about two hours and were getting scared.
Grandfather said, “We need to pray. We need Father in Heaven’s help to guide us back to the path.”
Everyone humbly knelt in the steep, thick jungle by the stream with the mosquitoes buzzing around them. Grandfather prayed, asking Heavenly Father to help them find the trail. Everything became quiet and peaceful. Grandfather rose to his feet and started walking. Christine, Spencer, and their father followed. In less than five minutes, they were standing on the hiking trail! In astonishment, they all shouted for joy. Everyone knew that they had been guided by an answer to prayer.
It didn’t take long for them to hike up the ridge to a spectacular, breathtaking view of The Needle. At the base of the peak, they stopped to rest and have lunch. But first they prayed again to Heavenly Father to thank Him for guiding them to safety.
After lunch, they hiked down the trail and along the rugged mountainside and on to the other side of the island. They met the rest of their family by a beautiful waterfall. Christine and Spencer told how they had lost the trail in the dense jungle and how, through an answer to Grandfather’s prayer, they had found it.

I never have to worry about where to find my 92-year-old father, Paul Romney, on a Sunday afternoon. He’s in his ward in Salt Lake City, Utah, tidying up the chapel. It takes him a little over an hour.
He leans on his walker as he goes up the aisle. Then he leans on the benches as he moves from row to row, picking up stray papers, arranging hymnbooks, and gathering cereal or breadcrumbs that have fallen on the carpet. It is a task he has been doing every Sunday, with few exceptions, since he was ordained a deacon in 1934.
“I do it to show that I love the Lord,” he says. “Having a clean chapel helps us to worship Him.”
As a deacon, Paul Romney learned that his duties included caring for the temporal needs of the ward. “I figured one way to do that was to tidy up after meetings,” he says. “So I just started doing it, and I’ve been doing it ever since.” It has never been an official assignment or calling, although occasionally he has come on Saturdays to help others assigned to clean the meetinghouse. Sometimes his children have helped him. Years ago when he was in the bishopric, he encouraged the deacons to join in.
But most of the time he simply waits until the last meeting of the day is finished. Then, without fanfare, he contributes his small part to maintaining a house of order. And he does it faithfully, every Sunday.
My father’s example has shown me that no matter our circumstances, we can always find a way to serve. It has taught me about reverence and preparing to worship. And it has helped me to see that there is much we all can learn from those who are ahead of us on their journey through this life.

Recently I listened to a young mother address a ward Relief Society meeting. She told us that she is losing her eyesight. She expressed gratitude for those who had been reading to her, driving her to appointments, and for another sister who was teaching her to play the piano. Relief Society sisters through their acts of kindness had offered her their light and helped to lessen the fear of this very difficult time of her transition into a world of darkness.

One night, while serving as a youth leader in my ward, I arrived at the church and was not surprised to find a group of young men playing basketball in the gym while they waited for opening exercises to begin. I was surprised, however, to see David. He was relatively new in the ward but had already demonstrated that attending Church-related activities was not a normal part of his routine. Coming to a Young Men activity was a big step.
David did a pretty good job of quietly easing into the group without being noticed—that is, until the basketball rebounded off the rim and went straight at him. He caught the ball and realized it was his turn to take a shot. He dribbled a few times and clumsily threw the ball up toward the hoop. It banged hard off the bottom of the rim and came right back at him, hitting him on the arms he had put up to protect his head. Everyone laughed, and so did David.
The ball then went into the hands of another boy, who mockingly imitated David’s awkward shot. As before, most of the boys laughed, but this time David was not laughing. He had come to be a part of his priests quorum but had become the brunt of their laughter.
David turned to the exit and walked out.
My heart broke for David. I was not sure what to do, but I knew I needed to try anything to get him to stay. I followed David out the door, trying to think of something to say that might help him have the courage to come back.
As I was walking after David, I was surprised to see Dennis, one of the other priests, run past me and put his arm around David. I do not know what he said, but Dennis must have been inspired, for David’s heart was softened and he hesitantly, but willingly, turned around and came back into the church. It was a wonderful moment.
It was only a few weeks later when a similar situation occurred. Some of our ward members, including many of our young men, were practicing for an upcoming theatrical performance. Todd, a priest, was one of the performers. During a rehearsal, someone mockingly mimicked Todd’s performance. He was offended and started walking toward the door dejectedly.
“Oh, no,” I thought, “here we go again.” I felt compelled to follow him outside and encourage him to ignore the offense and come back.
What happened next was a beautiful surprise.
This time it was not Dennis who hurried past me, but David. David, who only a few weeks earlier had been the dejected one, was now the inspired one. He ran up to Todd and, putting his arm around him, pleaded with him to return. Todd accepted the invitation, and within minutes both boys were standing side by side on the stage. David had now successfully convinced another to stay.
As I witnessed this example of the Aaronic Priesthood in action, I was reminded of a statement by Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “We are so busy checking on our own temperatures, we do not notice the burning fevers of others even when we can offer them some of the needed remedies, such as encouragement, kindness, and commendation. The hands which hang down and most need to be lifted up belong to those too discouraged even to reach out anymore” (“Swallowed Up in the Will of the Father,” Ensign, Nov. 1995, 23).
David’s hands had been ones that hung down. From the selfless act of one young man to another, David’s hands then became those that lifted up.

On the day of my baptism, I felt clean, pure, and truly perfect. I loved the feeling so much that I made a goal to stay perfect forever. I will never sin again, I told myself.
Fast-forward one day.
I wanted to play with my big sister’s new Barbie doll, but she wouldn’t let me, no matter how hard I tried to convince her. So, in a rage that made me forget my goal to remain sin-free, I grabbed a pair of scissors while she wasn’t looking and cut off all her doll’s hair.
Admittedly, I was somehow under the impression that the doll’s hair would grow back. But as I sat looking at all the synthetic hairs piled in my lap, I felt the sting of having ruined my newly perfected life.
When my sister found out, she was furious. My parents explained to me that the doll’s hair would not grow back. Guilt and regret overwhelmed me as I watched my sister cry at the sight of her forever-bald doll.
With a little time and a lot of apologizing on my part, my sister forgave me. But I still never forgot how disappointed I felt for having given up my perfect life all too quickly.
As painful as it was as an eight-year-old to realize I made a mistake the day after my baptism, Heavenly Father provided a way for me to repent. Through the Savior’s perfect example and sacrifice, we can overcome our sins and make good choices that bring us blessings.

Staley’s Butte—7,921 feet high. He knew its elevation by heart after studying an old road atlas that Grandpa had in the bookcase. And he knew the mountain because he’d climbed it right to the top.
Sam’s mind wandered back to a Friday in the fall four years earlier, just after school had started. The family was around the kitchen table, talking about lots of little things that seem to be best discussed over a warm supper. Along about dessert time, Dad abruptly brought up the subject of climbing Staley’s Butte.
“You got much planned for tomorrow, Sam?” Dad asked between bites of chocolate ice cream.
“Nothing outside of the regular chores,” he answered cautiously, wondering if his answer would lead to additional work.
“What do you think of the two of us packing a lunch and making a climb up Staley’s Butte? I don’t believe you and I have ever climbed it.”
“Sure, Dad!” Sam said. “Really? That’s a pretty hard climb isn’t it?”
“Oh, it’s a test. That’s for sure. But you’ll make it,” Dad encouraged, and then turning to Mother. “Say Ruth, did you hear Vernon Henderson sunk a new well …”
Nothing more was said about the climb, at least until five the next morning when Sam felt someone gently shaking his shoulder.
“You going with me on the hike today, Son?”
Sam was a little startled by having his sleep broken so unexpectedly. “Huh … hike? Oh yeah, Staley’s Butte,” he said groggily. “We’d better fix something to eat for when we get to the top,” he said, proud of what he felt was admirable foresight.
“Already done,” Dad reassured, smiling. “I’ve been up an hour. Breakfast is on the table, and I’ve got a pack full of sandwiches. Are you going up there in your pajamas?”
“Be right with you,” Sam said, swinging out of bed and fumbling around with some clothes.
Thirty minutes later they were turning away from the highway and onto a dirt road that led to the mountain. The morning air was clear, still, and cool. Sam leaned back in the car seat, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The air smelled mostly like dew and juniper, with the fragrance of sage intermingled. Higher up, where the road started switching back on an upward path, he knew the fresh smell of pine would dominate.
They poked ahead for another ten miles before Dad slowed up and pulled the car over where the road flared just before a wooden bridge crossed a hard-running stream. Light had been making steady gains on the darkness, and now sunshine was reaching the tops of the trees. Sam pulled back on the door handle and jumped out into the nippy, tingling air.
“There’s a trail that runs parallel to the stream. We’ll follow it for a couple of miles,” Dad said matter-of-factly. “There’s a little draw that washes down almost from the top of the mountain. We can follow it up almost to the summit. The last stretch is tough, but I think we can lick it.”
Dad was digging through the back seat for the pack with the food in it. He fished it out and hefted it onto his back, then stopped just short of letting it rest on his shoulders.
“You know, Sam, I think it might be time to let you carry the pack. You’re about as big as I am now.”
They started off on the trail, Dad in the lead, taking long, loping strides. Gradually the trail left the streamside, climbing higher into the thick pine forest. The harsh noise of the rumbling water was slowly replaced by the sounds of the wind stirring through the tree limbs and a host of mountainside birds clucking and calling. Soon the sunshine filtered to the trail and Sam was mildly surprised to find perspiration forming on his forehead. They pushed on for an hour, not saying much, but sharing the communication that seems to come naturally for fathers and sons in the outdoors.
They hiked on for 45 minutes. The pine forests were thinning into small meadows and patches of rock. Sam noticed they were now able to look down on the tops of the lower peaks nearby.
“This is where we leave the trail,” Dad said, stopping for a rest. “The streambed should lead us almost to the top. How about some water?”
Sam took the pack off and passed a plastic jug to his father. Far below, perhaps a half-mile, the stream thrashed and twisted down the canyon. Its gurgling could only be heard during the moments when the wind died down.
Dad handed the water jug back to Sam, who took a couple of long swallows before wiping the top off and placing it back in the pack. He looked at Sam. “How about you taking the lead? I’m getting sort of tired I guess.”
“Okay, Dad, but don’t expect me to slow down on your account,” Sam teased.
“Then let’s go, Mr. Young and Arrogant.”
Sam turned and faced Staley’s Butte. It wouldn’t be an easy climb, this last stretch. The slope was steep and there was plenty of loose rock. And the top of the butte resembled a king’s crown, with tall spires that seemed to dare anyone to climb them.
They made steady progress for the next hour, zigzagging along the rocks. But the small streambed they’d been trying to follow began to narrow and steepen, finally disappearing among the upper reaches of the mountain. It wasn’t long before both father and son were using hands and feet to help them work their way to the top. Sam found himself nearly out of breath as he searched for hand holds and solid footing. Dad was right behind, and Sam could hear him breathing hard. They rose, slowly, arduously, until the terrain flattened into a small mesa two dozen feet wide with a few good-sized stones sprinkled about.
“Ready for a rest?” Sam questioned, hoping that his father would say yes.
“I think so … that was quite a climb … that last little stretch,” his father panted. “There’s some good sittin’ rocks here. Let’s take five.”
Both of them were quiet for a few moments. The water jug was passed around again.
“By the look of things, we’re going to have to grow some wings if we want to make it to the top,” Dad said, studying the steep spires above. “You still game?”
“I think we can do it, Dad,” Sam said slowly. “If we stay to the left there seem to be places between the spires where we can get some good holds.”
“That’s our best bet, no doubt about it,” Dad agreed. “You know, my foot is kind of bothering me. Blisters. Why don’t you start up, and if you make it okay, then I’ll follow you in a few minutes. I think I’d better take care of my foot,” he added with a trace of playfulness in his voice.
Sam took the challenge. “See you at the top,” he said.
The last part of the climb was the most difficult. Sam carefully crept up an opening between two of the spires, ignoring a dozen scrapes and small cuts he received as he pulled himself up. After 20 minutes, he crawled over the last ledge. He stood up and gazed at the panorama around him, then called down to his father to let him know he’d reached the top of Staley’s Butte.

Still, he felt something lacking in his life. Encouraged by bishops and home teachers to attend church meetings and activities, he went, “although at times reluctantly.” For some reason, he sometimes felt as though he were on the sidelines looking in. The same was true at school: although he excelled academically and was well liked, he lacked confidence socially and athletically and often felt alone.
It wasn’t until he was a missionary that he discovered what could have eliminated those feelings. “The expanded understanding of the gospel that came from an urgent desire to share the gospel with others filled all the voids of loneliness,” he says. “I began to recognize that those feelings need not have been part of my life if I had really understood the gospel.”

Let me conclude by sharing with you a recent episode in the life of Elder Anguiano, a young Mexican-American who prepared for a Spanish-speaking mission, only to be called by the prophet to serve in Christchurch, New Zealand, of all places! Imagine a young man with Spanish as his prime language being sent to a country where the Spanish language is spoken very rarely, if ever!

As President Philip Sonntag waited at the airport for his one lone missionary to arrive, his mind was seeking for divine help in the proper placement of a young man with Spanish language ability in a mission where only English was understood. As the passengers started deplaning, President Sonntag spotted his new elder immediately. Maybe it was his gleaming, new white shirt that seemed particularly white compared to the other holidaying passengers. His sparkling attitude set him apart as being very special. He was one of the Lord’s anointed. His steps quickened as he neared the terminal building. He was obviously eager to start his mission. As he approached his mission president, it was with outstretched arms for a warm Mexican abrazo. This was his background, this was his custom even in faraway New Zealand. And then he spoke his first words: “President, I have come here to baptize.”

Now, mission presidents don’t usually release one of their assistants to be a trainer for a new missionary, but when the Spirit prompted President Sonntag for the third time, he was convinced, and Elder Keung, an outstanding young man of Chinese and Maori parentage, was made available to form this “League of Nations” companionship.

Would you believe that not more than three weeks later President Sonntag was informed that the two had contacted what was perhaps the only family on the south island of New Zealand who could speak nothing but Spanish? This Chilean family, newly arrived in New Zealand, needed the Church. They needed Elder Anguiano, and the Lord answered that need through a living prophet. Not only that, but word has now come that more than one hundred other families from Chile are currently in the process of immigrating to New Zealand, and Elder Anguiano is anxiously waiting with his newly baptized family to start the friendshipping and teaching process.

One of Ida’s friends, whose contributions were of major significance not only in the cultural arts but in the ecclesiastical and political affairs as well, was Mary Jane Robinson West. 15

Mary Jane’s mother was a woman of refinement and culture and had been brought up in a wealthy Southern family. She took pains to pass on this heritage to Mary Jane, who loved books and became a fine actress, speaker, and dancer. Her dance instructor was John A. West, whom Mary Jane married when she was not quite seventeen. Shortly after their marriage John was called on a mission to Hawaii, so Mary enrolled as a student in a private school. Four sons were born in the six years after her husband’s return. At that point John was called to return to Hawaii, during which time Mary Jane supported her family by teaching school. In a gesture that would seem insanity to many people, while John was in Salt Lake City preparing for his mission, he purchased an organ and sent it to Mary Jane in Parowan with an accompanying letter saying he had also arranged for Professor Thomas Durham of Parowan to give Mary Jane instruction in how to play the instrument. Mary Jane did learn to play, and the family had a full repertoire by the time John completed his mission.

John and Mary Jane were called to go to Arizona in 1879. They left in November, reached Snowflake in February, and as a symbolic gesture, Mary Jane had the boys lay strips of carpet in their tent as soon as it was pitched and set the organ down on the carpet. Then all the family joined in singing “Home Sweet Home.” Four more children were born to Mary Jane in Arizona—two of them girls to go along with the eight boys. In addition, for many years Mary Jane also looked after her widower brother Solomon and his many children.

In 1892 Elder Karl G. Maeser, Church commissioner of education, went to Snowflake to open a Church academy. As president of the ward Relief Society, a position she held for fourteen years, Mary Jane led a movement to make the academy possible. The sisters loaned their Relief Society hall for a classroom and saved their Sunday eggs to sell in Fort Apache for funds to assist in the building. Old-timers suggest that the sisters are the ones who really made Snowflake Academy possible.

In the 1890s Carrie Chapman Catt of the National Woman Suffrage Association came to ask Sister West if she would accept the county chairmanship of the Woman Suffrage movement. Upon consultation with ecclesiastical authorities, she accepted the appointment and took a lead in the territorial suffrage movement. Her sister Relief Society officers in Salt Lake City, Eliza R. Snow, Susa Young Gates, Sarah Kimball, and others, had led the movement in Utah, in which territory the women were the first in the nation to exercise the franchise.16 For a number of years Mary Jane wrote a regular column for the monthly Relief Society paper, The Pearl, proclaiming women’s rights and opportunities. After her release from her civic positions and an extended visit in Salt Lake City, Mary Jane returned to Snowflake to become stake Relief Society president, a position she held for seven years.

Estelle ate her last bite of Mama’s yummy enchiladas and scooted her chair away from the patio table. It was a warm summer night—perfect for eating outside. And perfect for playing! She couldn’t wait to play fetch with her dog, Rufus.
But first she had to clear the table. She piled the plates into a tall stack. She knew the stack was getting too wobbly. But she didn’t want to make a lot of trips inside.
Estelle balanced the stack in one hand and carefully opened the door with the other. But the stack started to tip. Crash! Two plates smashed onto the patio, right in front of the door. Dad ran out to see what happened and went to get a broom. Then Estelle saw Rufus. He was trotting toward the door.
“Rufus! Don’t step on the broken plates!” She ran around the table and jumped in front of him. “No! Rufus, stay!”
But Rufus didn’t stop. He tried to get around her. Estelle bent down and put her hands in front of him.
“Rufus, I’m trying to keep you safe,” she said. “The pieces are sharp. They’ll cut your paws.”
Then Estelle had an idea. “Where’s your ball? Do you want to play fetch?” Rufus turned away to look for his ball. Now he was safe!
As she swept up the broken plates with Dad, Estelle thought about why she told Rufus no. If he stepped on the pieces, he would have been hurt. He wouldn’t be able to do what he liked to do—like playing fetch.
Dad always said that Heavenly Father gives commandments to keep us happy and safe. But Estelle sometimes thought that commandments felt more like rules to keep her from doing what she wanted.
Estelle looked down at the broken pieces. Maybe Heavenly Father says no to some things because He’s trying to keep me safe too, she thought.
Rufus ran to Estelle and dropped the ball at her feet. She scratched his ears. Then she threw the ball and laughed as Rufus ran after it.
Rufus was safe. And he was happy! Estelle wanted to keep following Heavenly Father’s commandments to stay happy and safe too.
This story took place in the USA.