Gospel Story Finder

Before Aryn C. from Arkansas was born, her father, Steve, seriously injured his back and shoulder in an accident while serving in the U.S. Navy. He endured many surgeries while she was growing up, and he still is in nearly constant pain. Aryn became his “little nurse” as she held his hand while his bandages were being changed. When she was little, she walked on his back to help ease his pain.
As Aryn grew up, her dad was concerned she would be embarrassed when he was in a wheelchair or used crutches or a cane. Steve comments, “Aryn always said, ‘Dad, you’re not embarrassing me. I’d rather have you here.’ She definitely helps me cope with my disabilities. I’m lucky to have a strong family; all six of our children have helped me get through the hard times.”
Although it’s hard to see her dad in pain, Aryn loves being able to help. She says she’s learned compassion and respect, especially for those who are disabled. “The gospel helps me keep a bigger perspective on life. Everyone is different, and everyone has challenges, but we can overcome them with faith in Jesus Christ,” she observes. “It’s nice to know that.”
Her mother, Sonja, says, “Her father had to miss a lot of Aryn’s activities while she was growing up because of his surgeries and health problems. She played the flute in her high school’s marching band, so he tried his best to go to as many games as he could and enjoyed watching Aryn march in the band.”
Aryn understands that there are some things her father can’t do. “We find ways to work around the disability, such as video recording programs and events that he can’t go to.”
One of the challenges their family faces comes from the emotional ups and downs that are part of her father’s disability. Aryn says they learned to be patient with one another, and when a problem comes up, they talk it out. She advises, “Don’t argue. If something is just a little irritating, think about whether it needs to be addressed or not. If it isn’t important, don’t cause unnecessary upset by bringing it up.” Her dad adds, “Forgiveness is an important part of working together. I have also found that humor helps big-time.”
Both Aryn and her dad agree that attending church, praying, and reading the scriptures help them through hard times.
“I have discovered that the gospel helps me see more clearly how to handle challenges,” Aryn says. “I admire how my dad keeps going, even through the pain. He keeps his testimony strong by going to church and doing his callings, even when it’s hard for him. He reads his scriptures and gains strength from them.”
In return, her dad admires Aryn’s devotion to the gospel. “Watching her choose good friends and seeing her testimony develop helps me gain a stronger testimony,” he says. “She sets the example for me.”
Through the years, Aryn has been there as her father has had many priesthood blessings. He says the counsel given in blessings helps him keep a positive attitude. “The priesthood blessings I have received and reading the scriptures help me keep the faith. I have also learned that when people want to help you, let them. At first I didn’t want others’ help, but then I discovered that it makes a difference to me, and it’s good for them too. We all benefit.”
Aryn appreciates her parents’ examples and love. “They have their hard times, but they work it out. And I like how they stay strong with their testimonies.”
For her senior writing project, Aryn wrote about why her father is her hero. Here’s part of what she wrote: “I am so proud of my dad. He helps me when I need it. He is humorous, knowledgeable, and easy to talk to.” Aryn adds, “When I was about four years old, I made up a word for love that just my dad and I say to each other. We still use it.”

Diligence is persisting in doing something in spite of opposition.1 Dora first learned how important—and how difficult—diligence can be after she was baptized in 1998.
When Dora was 17, she and her younger sister Alicia were baptized—helping lead to the growth of the Church in the islands of the Uros. About a month later, however, their father forbade them from having anything to do with the Church.
But something odd happened to the girls. They were suddenly less pleasant to be around and more likely to argue. Their father realized that during the time they were participating in Church activities, they had changed for the better.
“It changed his mind,” Dora says. “He began waking us up early to make sure we got to church on time.”
Dora attributes the change the gospel made in their lives to small things she and Alicia did regularly, like paying tithing, praying, studying the scriptures, keeping the Sabbath day holy, and renewing their covenants weekly by taking the sacrament.
Later, having seen for himself the changes that come from faith and diligence,2 Dora’s father joined the Church along with the rest of the family.

Jamie was the smallest nine-year-old in the Regional Junior Olympics, and it was kind of scary competing against larger boys. But Jamie was pretty good at push-ups and had won first place in his Cub Scout contest. He grinned broadly at Mom, Dad, and his sister Karen, who had come to cheer for him.
At the signal, Jamie pushed up and down with all his might. Soon the perspiration was rolling down his face, and his shoulders strained until he thought they would surely snap. Up and down, up and down, with the judge counting each push-up.
“Time!” shouted the judge, and Jamie collapsed on the grass.
“Fifty-two for Jamie Roberts,” announced the scorekeeper and everyone clapped. Jamie had done more push-ups in one minute than anyone else his age.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Dad said.
Jamie beamed. He had really done it, and it was fun!
Next came the 100-yard dash. I should really do well here, thought Jamie. I’m a pretty good runner. Brother Brown had challenged him, “We’re counting on you for a blue ribbon in the race, Jamie.”
“Run really fast, Jamie!” cried five-year-old Karen.
The boys were divided into six groups, and the winners would compete in the final races. Jamie raced three times, winning each race. He was hot but not really tired.
Every boy in the race was eager to win. Their faces looked strained and some were panting as they lined up, one foot on the chalk line, the other stretched out behind in a starting position. Jamie spaced himself between two taller boys, crouched low, and waited for the starting whistle. When it came, he was off down the field. He couldn’t ever remember running so fast. His head was back and he felt the wind in his face from his own speed. Every part of Jamie strained to go faster, faster, and he felt the two boys right behind him and heard their heavy breathing. He knew he was ahead and meant to stay there.
Then it happened! One foot slipped in a low spot on the field, just enough to throw Jamie off balance. His feet tangled together and before he could put out his arms, the ground seemed to rise up and hit him squarely in the chest. The next thing he knew he was gasping for breath and spitting dry, bitter dust from his mouth. He heard the crowd cheering for the winners and knew that the race was over and that he was lying in the dust twenty feet from the finish line.
He dragged himself off the field and hid his face in his hands, wishing he were someplace else.
An official put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder and said, “Run and get your card signed, Jamie. You can still get points for finishing if you hurry.”
Jamie stumbled numbly across the finish line and handed his card to the judge. How everyone must be laughing, he thought. How dumb I was to think I could win anything. He turned to Dad. “Let’s go home. I don’t want to be in any more contests.”
Dad put his arm around Jamie as they walked off the field. “Son, we can go now if that’s what you really want. I know you’re disappointed, but the real winners aren’t always those who cross the finish line first, they’re the ones who hang in there even when it’s tough.”
“But Dad, I hurt all over. I’m going to be sick.”
“Let’s sit down and rest with Mom and Karen while you think it over. Then if you still want to, we’ll go, OK?”
“I guess so,” Jamie answered. His knees stung where he had fallen on them, his stomach felt tight, and the words, “We’re counting on you for a blue ribbon,” kept repeating in his head. But I’ve failed, he thought. I can’t throw the softball now. I just can’t. Tears and dust stung his eyes. He wished that somehow he could disappear.
“Drink some lemonade, Jamie, you’ll feel better,” Mother said as she offered him a cup.
The cool liquid felt good on his dry throat. Mother handed him some napkins to wipe the dust from his face. What will Brother Brown think if I quit now? he wondered. I know I can’t bring home a blue ribbon, but I can still finish.
“I guess I’ll stay after all, Dad,” he mumbled. Then he crossed the field to where the softball throw was already in progress.
Jamie managed the softball throw but not well enough to be a winner. Still it was better than he had expected.
Only the standing long jump remained. Jamie was hot and unhappy. What does it matter? I’ve already lost, he thought.
Karen tugged at his shirt. “Jamie,” she cried, “look how far that boy jumped.” The boy had jumped six feet and the crowd cheered. “You can jump farther than that, Jamie. I’ve seen you do it.”
Jamie looked into Karen’s warm, trusting eyes, and tears started up in his own all over again. He knelt beside her. “Karen,” he said, “I don’t care if I win this contest or not. I don’t even care if people laugh at me. But if you think I’m a good jumper, I’ll jump as far as I can just for you, OK?”
“OK, Jamie. Do it! Do it!” Karen encouraged.
“Your turn.” Dad patted him on the back. “Go out there, Jamie, and good luck!”
Jamie ran out, feeling better now, hardly tired at all. Waiting for the jump, he placed his feet slightly apart, toes on the starting line. He bent over, like Brother Brown had taught the boys to do, and swung his arms. “Here I go,” he said to himself. One—his arms came up and back. Two—up farther now, giving him momentum. Three—Jamie hurled himself forward through the air.
He landed in a cloud of sawdust, his feet stinging. Fall forward, he reminded himself, as he dropped to his knees. He heard cheering, this time for him, and watched in amazement as the judges measured his jump.
“Six feet, eight inches. Longest jump of the day,” the judge announced. Jamie could hardly believe his eyes and ears.
Karen ran right out onto the field and hugged her big brother. “I knew you’d do it, Jamie, I knew it,” she said, beaming.
Jamie was excited about winning the jump, but he was even happier because he hadn’t disappointed Karen, who believed in him.
When the judges were ready to announce the winners, Jamie listened quietly as the ten-year-olds received their prizes. He knew he wouldn’t receive one because of the race, but he was glad about the long jump anyway. Then came the nine-year-olds. First and second places went to two boys from another town.
Finally, the announcer said, “We have a tie for third place. Paul Brady had it wrapped up, but because Jamie Roberts did so well in the long jump, he earned the same total score as Paul. Congratulations to both of you.”
Jamie’s dad pushed him to his feet. “Go on, son, that’s you.”
He didn’t know how he got to the judge’s stand, but when he did the judge hung a bronze medal around Jamie’s neck and shook his hand.
“Do you suppose Brother Brown will be disappointed that I didn’t win first place?” asked Jamie.
“I’m sure he’ll understand,” Mother answered, smiling. And Dad agreed.
Karen danced up and down. For once she was speechless with excitement.
Jamie flopped on the grass and pulled Karen down beside him. “Hey, squirt, how would you like to wear my medal?” he teased.

When I was asked to sing in general conference, I was worried because I play football and I was afraid I couldn’t do both because of scheduling conflicts. So I went home and prayed to Heavenly Father that it would work out. Then I called the Primary president to say I would do it. The next week my football coach handed out our game schedule, and I was so happy! None of my games would conflict with my singing practices. I know that Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers and that saying yes to singing was the right thing to choose.
Braden G., age 10

If you’ve read the first verse of the Book of Mormon, you already know something about 17-year-old Juan Ordoñez and his 15-year-old sister, Mayra, of the Pachitol Ward, Patzicía Guatemala Stake.
Juan, Mayra, and their seven older brothers and sisters were “born of goodly parents,” who have passed on skills the family needs to survive, such as the family trades of farming and tortilla making, as well as the language of their ancestors, Cakchiquel.
But those aren’t the only ways their family is like Nephi’s. Juan and Mayra have parents who understand that it is as important to pass on a “knowledge of the goodness and the mysteries of God” (1 Nephi 1:1) as it is to pass on physical survival skills.
While many teens don’t have Lehi- and Sariah-like parents to pass on the gospel (see sidebar on page 13), for Juan, Mayra, and others who do, the question is: Will we be Nephi-like learners, who listen, apply gospel truths, and pass them along as well? Or will we be like Laman and Lemuel, who heard the same information but didn’t want to find out the truth for themselves and couldn’t pass it on?
Juan can’t remember how old he was when he started working with his dad in the fields. “The children would start going with me when they were small,” Juan’s dad, Joel, says. “They learned by watching and then doing what they could, depending on their strength and capacity.”
Mayra learned to make tortillas the same way, watching her mom and sisters until she was old enough to pitch in and help.
But plowing, planting, and tortilla making aren’t the only things being passed from one generation to the next. As Mayra’s mother, Carmela, molded and shaped tortillas, she was also giving shape to her daughter’s character. As Brother Ordoñez prepared, planted, or cultivated the ground, he was doing the same for Juan’s heart.
As the family spent time together, the children could see not just how their parents worked but how they lived. And when the opportunity arose, their parents made the gospel a topic of conversation while they worked.
But observing—and even doing—isn’t always enough. In the Book of Mormon’s first family, Laman and Lemuel heard the same things that Nephi heard from their father, and they too even went and did what their father asked. But they were missing something important, something that Juan and Mayra have—a desire to learn.
Juan and Mayra live in Patzicía, a Cakchiquel community a few hours from Guatemala City. Because many of those who buy their tortillas and seek their plowing services don’t speak Spanish, it was important to Juan and Mayra to learn Cakchiquel.
But not everyone feels that way. Cakchiquel isn’t taught in the schools. The language has been passed down from generation to generation for hundreds of years. However, in each succeeding generation there are many who don’t want to learn it or feel they don’t need it.
As their children grew, Brother and Sister Ordoñez often wondered if their children would listen. Would they obey? Would they want to know, like Nephi? Would they pass the gospel on to their children?
It may be too early to tell. But Brother and Sister Ordoñez have reason to hope.
Their older children are starting to pass gospel truths on. And the younger children are recognizing the importance of passing the gospel on too. “It’s hard sometimes to take counsel from your parents,” Juan says. “But I’m grateful for their help.”
“They didn’t just teach me how to cook beans and make tortillas,” Mayra says. “They have taught me the right path—to follow God.”

After I finished high school in California, I went to the University of Utah. I joined a fraternity, which is a kind of club for college students. Some of my fellow fraternity members kept Heavenly Father’s commandments. Others did not. It was clear to me that the ones who kept the commandments were the ones who were going to have happy lives. I knew that I, too, needed to keep the commandments if I wanted to be happy.
After my first year of college, I went on a mission to Peru. I met lots of wonderful people who were happy even though they had very few things that money can buy. They had great joy in the gospel and in the love of their families.
When I returned to the University of Utah after my mission, I began to date Kathy Kipp. Her father was a good man but not a member of the Church, and her parents were divorced. Kathy and her sister faithfully attended Primary together as young girls. Sometimes Kathy’s father wanted the family to do things on Sunday that were not appropriate on the Sabbath Day. Kathy knew that she needed to obey her father, but she went to church when she could.
When we began dating, I learned how strongly Kathy felt about keeping the Sabbath Day holy. Because of her devotion, our family has always tried hard to make Sunday a special day. We don’t watch TV on Sunday or go to sporting events. We listen to sacred music, write letters, and spend lots of time talking together. Our younger children liked to read stories from the Friend and from scripture readers. As a result, we have enjoyed a spirit of peace in our home on the Sabbath.
Heavenly Father loves all children and wants them to be happy. He designed the gospel to make us happy. One of my pioneer ancestors, William Clayton, wrote the hymn “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30). He wrote it when the Saints had been driven out of their beautiful city of Nauvoo and were looking for safety. The chorus of that song reminds us that when we do what is right, “all is well.” That does not mean we will not have any problems. But when we follow our Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness, all will eventually be well.

The first and most important truth about navigating this journey is that you are not alone. Heavenly Father and the Savior will always strengthen us as we turn to Them. There were times when Kay was struggling so much, and I (Stephen) was so exhausted. She didn’t know who I was for three years, and every day was painful. Sometimes I look back and wonder how I managed to get through those difficult times, and then I realize I was only able to endure the pain by fully relying on the Savior (see Matthew 11:28–29).

Always remember that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are very much aware of what you are going through. President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, reminded us of this truth: “You are being nourished and comforted by a loving Savior, who knows how to succor you in whatever tests you face.”1 Regularly make time for prayer and temple attendance, and invite the Spirit into your home. As you do, you will find guidance, peace, and the sustaining strength you need to keep moving forward.

When I was a senior in high school I was excited to be called to serve as a member of the Amarillo Texas Stake’s youth conference committee. Most of the planning for the conference was left up to an enthusiastic group of about a dozen young people. Our committee met a few Sundays a month for almost a year at our stake center, an hour’s drive from my home. We also dedicated several hours in between meetings to researching ideas and praying for inspiration. I could see that serving on the committee was bringing me closer to the Lord. Although I had to travel an hour each way to the meetings, I felt good about what I was doing.
Generally, I enjoyed having uninterrupted quiet time to myself in my car on those Sunday afternoons to ponder the items we had discussed at our meeting or just to think. However, as the seasons changed and the hours of daylight shortened, I found that more of my drive home was in the dark. Even though I had had my driver’s license for about a year, something about driving on the highway alone at night made me uneasy.
One night was particularly distressing. Although the roads were relatively straight and safe, I was paralyzed by fear. I managed to go only half the speed of the other cars on the highway. My knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel. I poured every ounce of my consciousness into focusing on the road ahead of me and, after a few miles, was nearly exhausted by the effort. I realized that by driving so slowly I was only prolonging my terror, but try as I might, I could not make myself go any faster.
Keeping my eyes open and my hands on the wheel, I said a fervent prayer aloud, asking that I might be comforted. I thanked the Lord for the opportunity that I had to serve Him while I was on that committee and asked that He would grant me the ability to fulfill my calling—which included traveling to and from my meetings.
Immediately after I finished my prayer, a scripture I had studied in seminary came to my mind. I had heard the words a hundred times: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise” (D&C 82:10).
Simple as it may seem, those words were an answer to my prayer. Immediately I felt the comfort of the Holy Ghost reassuring me that as long as I did the things the Lord expected of me, I would be taken care of. I also knew that if I was obedient to the laws of the land by wearing my seatbelt and not speeding, I would be doing all I could to allow for Heavenly Father’s protection.
Relief swept over me following my appeal to the Lord. I am grateful that my seminary teacher encouraged me to learn the scripture mastery scriptures. That night I learned firsthand what a blessing familiarity with the scriptures can be.

Even before Dad called Sister Willingham by name, I knew it was her, and the last thing I wanted to do was to waste a perfectly good Saturday in her yard. I felt myself stiffen with resentment and rebellion, and my cheeks colored and warmed with a frustrating tide of irritation. Grabbing a slice of toast, I began spreading it thick with jam while Dad talked.
“Sure, I think he could help you out,” Dad said, nodding his head. “Well, he does have a ball practice in the afternoon, but I’m sure he can have things taken care of at your place before then.”
When Dad came back to the table, he poured himself a glass of orange juice and took a sip before saying anything to me. Since Mom and the three younger kids had left earlier to do some shopping and wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon, Dad and I were the only ones home.
“That was Sister Willingham,” he remarked casually, setting his glass down.
I munched my toast without responding.
“She wondered if you would mind helping her out for an hour or so.”
I cleared my throat. “I have a talk to prepare for sacrament meeting,” I mumbled tersely.
Dad picked up his glass again and sipped his juice, watching me the whole while. “It should only take an hour or so, Ryan. Couldn’t you spare that much time? She said she’d pay you.”
“Pay me!” I growled, pushing back from the table. “She never pays me, not in full. Oh, she counts out a few quarters and maybe peels off a dollar bill once in a while, but it’s not pay, not for the time I put in. And then she always asks, ‘Is that enough, Ryan?’” I looked up and asked, “What am I supposed to say, ‘No, it’s not enough. I make three and a quarter an hour when I work at the store?’ or ‘Mel Richardson pays me ten dollars for a couple hours of work?’” I shook my head. “She might as well ask me to do it for free,” I complained. Dad didn’t respond. “And why does she always ask you to relay the message to me?” I continued sourly. “I’m not a little kid. I’m 17. Why doesn’t she ask me? I can answer for myself.”
Dad sighed, finished his juice, and began clearing off the table. “You should feel flattered that she trusts you.”
“I wish she’d flatter somebody else,” I grumbled, pushing back from the table and taking my plate and glass to the sink.
“I’d go myself,” Dad spoke up, “but Bishop Hall asked me to go with him over to the welfare farm this morning to hang some doors on that new storage shed.”
“So I get stuck with Sister Willingham.”
“Have you ever stopped to think that she might hate asking you as much or more than you hate being asked?” I didn’t answer. Dad began rinsing the dishes off. “For almost 12 years Sister Willingham’s been a widow. All her life she’s been able to do things for herself. Now she can’t, so she has to depend on somebody else. She’d pay you three and a quarter an hour if she had it. She probably pays you twice as much as she can afford. You’re worth the pay. I’m not denying that. Brother Richardson hires you so he can spend an extra afternoon playing golf, not because he really needs you. He should pay you a good wage.”
I shrugged, trying to appear indifferent, but my conscience was pricked and I felt a touch of shame. “Maybe it’s just the way she goes about it,” I muttered. “Why doesn’t she ask me personally? She knows I live here, that I can answer the phone as well as you. I’ll tell you why,” I argued, attempting to justify my reluctance. “Because she’s afraid I’ll turn her down, and she wants you to make me go.”
“I’ve never made you go, have I?”
I laughed dryly. “I’ve always gone because I knew if I didn’t you’d probably make me or tell me I couldn’t take the car or something else. You would, wouldn’t you?” I asked pointedly.
Dad smiled wanly and wiped his hands on a paper towel and tossed it in the garbage under the sink. “Maybe I would,” he admitted. “I’ve always been proud that you’ve gone on your own.” He knit his brow. “I suppose I’ve—well, I guess I’ve—” He shook his head. “I’ve hoped that you would want to help Sister Willingham on your own.”
“For the pennies she pays?”
“Maybe there’s more in it than pennies. If I were interested in the money, I’d see if Brother Richardson would hire you more often.” He turned from me and put the juice and butter in the fridge. “Some things we do because—” He pondered. “Some things we do just to help somebody out. I’ve wanted you to help Sister Willingham. I don’t deny it. I suppose I’ve wanted you to get more out of it than money. Perhaps something money can’t buy. But as long as you do it just for the money—well, as long as you take the money, the money’s all you get.”
Dad left me in the kitchen and went to get his tool box and coveralls. A few minutes later the bishop pulled into the driveway and honked once. Dad hurried to the front door. He opened it and then paused in the doorway. Without turning to face me he called, “Ryan, it’s up to you what you do with Sister Willingham. I won’t make you go. And in the future I’ll let you talk to her. I won’t commit you to something you don’t want to do.”
I stayed in the kitchen and finished washing the dishes, not that I had to or that anybody really expected me to, but at least that way I was busy, and being busy was justification for not going over to Sister Willingham’s. But the dishes were soon finished, and I was still pestered by persisting thoughts of Sister Willingham. Finally in exasperation I sighed and grumbled, “I could use a little money. Troy’s birthday’s coming up. I might as well earn a couple of bucks as sit around the house all day.”
Five minutes later I was knocking on Sister Willingham’s screen door. As I hammered on the screen’s wooden frame, it creaked and shuddered on its loose hinges. I noticed that the paint was beginning to chap and peel and the screen had pulled out at the bottom. I looked behind me at the front yard. The grass needed trimming, the shrubs could have used a good pruning job, the irises along the front of the house needed thinning and weeding. I looked away; the whole sight made me feel just a little uneasy, a little ashamed for being so reluctant to come.
The front door opened slowly. “Why, hello, Ryan,” Sister Willingham said, squinting at me through the rusted screen and pushing her slipping glasses up on her nose. She chuckled. “I’d almost decided you couldn’t come.” She pushed the screen door open. It whined and rattled closed behind her as she stepped outside. “I’ll show you what I need.”
Sister Willingham was a frail-looking, gray-haired woman in her middle seventies. Her cheeks were sunken, her face creased with countless wrinkles. When she walked, she shuffled along with her shoulders stooped, her pale-blue eyes peering through thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Her voice was always a little high-pitched and irritating in tone, and yet she was a pleasant enough person—perhaps too pleasant for me this morning because I was almost looking for an excuse to dislike her. I would have felt better had she been cranky and complaining. Then I could have justified my irritation. As it was she made me feel guilty.
We went around the house to her backyard garden. Brother Al Willingham had always had a garden, probably the best on this side of town. After he died Sister Willingham tried to continue the tradition, more as an honor to him than because she really wanted it. I never went to her yard when she didn’t reminisce and brag about the earlier gardens of her husband’s, and I always knew that in her eyes nothing I did would ever rival his work.
“The garden needs weeding, Ryan,” she remarked, her shrill voice cracking as it did quite often. “We’ve had so much rain this spring that I haven’t had a chance to weed it.”
I stared out across the garden without speaking. From where I stood it looked like a tangle of weeds and grass, no garden at all. Of course, the garden was still young. The spring rains had allowed the weeds to thrive and almost choke the vegetables out completely. I could only see the four rows of corn struggling in the midst of the carpet of weeds, and even they were being overrun.
“There’s a good morning’s work there,” she grinned at me, “but a big strong boy like you can get it done. I’d do it myself, but it’s so hard for me to bend down and my hands just can’t hold the hoe anymore.” She shook her head. “That’s the kind of job Al just loved. Of course, he would have never let it get that bad. But he liked the challenge of getting the ground ready, fighting the weeds back, and bringing the plants up from the soil. Nobody ever hoed a garden like my Al. He had a green thumb for sure. Why, I think he could have raised a garden on a slab of concrete.”
Sister Willingham looked over at me. I ignored her and stared gloomily out at the tangle of weeds. “The Browns are taking me to the temple,” she explained. “I’ll be gone until six or so, but I can pay you as soon as I get back.”
You don’t have enough to pay me to do that garden, I thought to myself. I’d be here a week and still not clean that mess up. I swallowed. “I doubt I can finish it,” I said, sounding less irritated than I really felt. “I have a talk to prepare for tomorrow and a baseball practice this afternoon.”
“Well, do what you can.” She smiled. “Every little bit will help. But if you can, get the ditches cleaned out. That’s the important thing. My irrigation turn is Monday.”
For ten minutes after she left I browsed through the mat of weeds in search of anything worth salvaging. I found the carrots, radishes, and beets hidden completely in the weeds. The zucchini and cucumbers were easier to find because they were in hills and had grown almost as fast as the weeds. The green beans, the peas, the tomatoes, and the bell peppers were almost choked out of existence. I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t even want to start. But after showing up, I was committed to do at least a little bit.
She had said that what she needed most was to clean out the ditches for her irrigation turn, so I decided to do that and leave. “That’s all she’d pay me for anyway,” I murmured. “Someone else can do the weeding for their service project.”
I got her shovel and attacked the main ditch running along the top of the garden. The shovel ripped and tore through the mat of weeds and grass. I didn’t clean the ditch really well. I didn’t worry about getting the weeds and grass along the edges or up on the bank. I concentrated on the weeds in the bottom of the ditch, just so the water could pass through for a week or so.
After the main ditch I began ripping jagged little ditches up and down the rows and around the hills of cucumbers and squash.
The sun was hot and unmerciful and beat down with a fury. Drops of sweat trickled down my face, but I didn’t stop to rest or find refuge in the shade. I just wanted to get the job done and get out of there.
By ten the ditches were semiready. At least they’d get her through her first irrigation turn. I leaned the shovel and hoe against the back of the house and left, not once turning back to admire my work. There wasn’t anything to admire, and I knew it.
I was in the bathroom washing my hands when Dad came home. He came in behind me, his hands dirty. “Well, the bishop and I hung the doors,” he announced jovially. “It wasn’t as big a job as I’d thought. I see you made it over to Sister Willingham’s.”
I shook the water off my hands and grabbed a towel. “I put in a good hour and a half. I did five dollars worth of work, that’s for sure.”
“Well, that should make Sister Willingham happy.” He glanced over at me and smiled. “There’s always a good feeling that comes with helping someone. Not because you have to but because you want to.”
“I just wished she’d chosen a day when I didn’t have to prepare a talk for sacrament meeting.”
Dad laughed and dried his hands. “Preparing a sermon is easy. Living one is what’s hard. You’ve lived one this morning. It will be a cinch getting one for tomorrow.” Dad hung up the towel and slapped me on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, son.” He started to walk away and then stopped. “Ryan, don’t expect a big wage from Sister Willingham. In the long run the money isn’t the important thing anyway. Some things you can’t ever buy with money. That good feeling is one of them.”
I went to my room to work on my talk. I opened the scriptures and perused the pages, but I kept seeing the unfinished garden and thinking of what Dad had said. An uneasiness erupted and festered inside me. I couldn’t shake the nagging guilt, a guilt I didn’t even think I deserved. Irritably, I tossed the scriptures aside and lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and feeling trapped.
Suddenly I became resentful. There were lots of kids around, kids that had done a lot less than I had to help Sister Willingham. Why should I have to feel guilty when they escaped without the slightest prick to their consciences? How many times had I mowed her lawn, raked her leaves, pruned her shrubs? At least I’d helped out a little. That was more than anyone else.
I grabbed my scriptures again and turned to Moroni, determined to forget Sister Willingham and her annoying garden. I had a talk to prepare, I argued. The bishop had given me the assignment long before I knew anything about the garden. My first responsibility, I insisted, was my talk.
The bishop had asked me to talk on faith and had suggested Moroni 7 [Moro. 7] for a reference. I thumbed leisurely through the pages of Moroni, reading very little from the blur of words but contemplating faith in general. Faith seemed like a safe topic. I could easily extol the virtues of faith without committing myself to action, but still I found myself struggling to study.
“I just won’t let her pay me,” I finally grumbled in exasperation, unable to shake the tenacious guilt that continued to raise its accusing face. “That should satisfy everyone. After all, Dad said I should do it for nothing. That way anything I do is a gift, and not even Sister Willingham can complain about a gift.”
I nodded and hunched over the Book of Mormon and began to skim through chapter 7 of Moroni. For a moment I thought I was done with the garden; then I came to verse eight [Moro. 7:8]. Before I could skip over it, the words leaped out at me and stung me with a poignant rebuke: “For behold, if a man being evil giveth a gift, he doeth it grudgingly; wherefore it is counted unto him the same as if he had retained the gift; wherefore he is counted evil before God.”
I read the passage once, twice, a half dozen times, searching for an out, some scrap of evidence that would free me from the verse’s pointed accusation, but there was none. I knew better than anyone that I had resented and begrudged the giving of the gift. The fact that I didn’t demand a price for my selfish labor didn’t change the real intent of my heart.
I shook my head. Mine was a shoddy gift. I couldn’t deny it. And merely preparing a talk on faith didn’t change the glaring reality of my uncharitable act toward Sister Willingham. Suddenly I remembered something that Paul had said. I couldn’t remember the words exactly, but the message was clear, something about a person having all faith, even enough to move mountains, and yet, if that person lacked charity he was nothing.
I could work all day on my talk for sacrament meeting, and Sunday morning all I’d have would be a sour sermon of empty words. The people in church didn’t need my talk nearly as much as Sister Willingham needed her garden weeded.
As I pondered Paul’s words I could picture Sister Willingham coming over in the evening, prying open her worn coin purse and counting out the quarters and dimes and smoothing out a wrinkled dollar bill. The doleful picture released a trickle of compassion, a trickle that increased as Paul’s and Mormon’s words whispered in my mind.
Slowly I closed the Book of Mormon and stood, knowing that this was one sermon I would have to live long before I attempted to preach it from the pulpit.
I left my room and started for the front door. “Where you headed?” Dad asked from the kitchen.
“I got a little job to finish,” I answered simply.
“Do you want a sandwich or something. It will be time for lunch in an hour or so.”
“I’m not hungry,” I called and slipped outside, returning to the garden.
I attacked the corn first. Perhaps because it looked easier. Hunched over with the hoe gripped tightly, I started down the rows. It was slow, tedious work, and I soon discovered that I could use the hoe only part of the time. To really do a good job, I had to pick away at the weeds with my fingers.
When the four rows of corn were completed, I looked back and admired them. The tender stalks, freed from their tangled prison, contrasted drastically with the rest of the garden and allowed me a pleasant peek at the garden’s pending potential.
The squash and cucumbers were next. My hoe ripped and tore at the grass and weeds and broke up the hard ground so the tender roots could breathe and grow. Puffs of dust exploded and got in my eyes and nose. The sun’s heat increased, and it became a constant battle to wipe the sweat from my eyes. My back began to stiffen and then ache and finally throb. Every few minutes I had to straighten up and rub the feeling back into my tortured muscles.
The morning passed and slipped into afternoon. The sun reached its pinnacle and then began dropping to the west, but the heat continued. It must have been around two or two-thirty before I had finished everything except the last three vegetables. All the while I had been dreading the radishes, beets, and carrots. Now my back was tight and stiff; my fingers, cramped and raw. Dirt had pushed itself under my nails and pressed itself into my pores and made my hands dry and chapped. Two blisters had sprouted and burst and were now red tender spots.
For a moment I was tempted to stop and perhaps come back another time to finish. Sister Willingham wouldn’t have room to complain now. I’d done a good job. She’d be content. I shook my head. I knew that when I came back, I came intending to do more than merely squelch complaints. I had come to finish a job. I intended to do it.
Dropping to my knees, I started on the rows of carrots. Though the rows were short, each one required at least 30 minutes to complete. Three o’clock came and went. I didn’t even think of my baseball practice, not until close to five when I was just finishing the last row of beets and staring over at the single row of radishes, the last part of the garden to be weeded.
“Hey, where were you, Ryan?” a voice called to me from the corner of Sister Willingham’s house.
I looked up and saw Dusty Hamilton approach. Groaning softly, I stood and winced at the pain as the blood in my legs began to circulate. I brushed off my jeans and worked my fingers to get some feeling back into them. “I forgot about practice,” I grinned sheepishly. “I had a little job to do here.”
Dusty looked over my shoulder at the garden. “Looks like you’re almost done. Why don’t you take a break and come with me to get something to drink. I’ll die if I don’t drink something soon.”
All I’d had since breakfast were drinks from Sister Willingham’s hose. A cold drink was certainly tempting. “I better finish here,” I said, declining.
“You’ve only got a little left. You can come back.”
I pondered, then shook my head. “Sorry, Dusty. Maybe another time.”
Dusty slapped his mitt against his leg and remarked, “Oh, well, suit yourself. I’ll be thinking about you when I have that nice cold lemonade.”
I watched Dusty walk away and then sank to my knees again.
It was five when I finished the garden. It looked like a miniature battlefield with the dying, wilting corpses of a thousand weeds strewn about the ground and the freed, victorious vegetables swaying gently in the warm breath of wind that passed along the ground. I admired my work and felt a surge of poignant satisfaction course through me. Then I noticed the ditch bank that had been haphazardly done that morning. Now it looked so out of place next to the meticulously manicured garden. I snatched the shovel and attacked it again, this time cleaning the edges as well as the bank itself.
Tired and stiff, sweaty and dirty, I shuffled around the house for home, but when I got to the front yard and saw the uncut lawn, the unpruned shrubs, and the irises along the house, I knew I wasn’t finished.
The lawn wasn’t large and there weren’t a lot of shrubs, so I was finished there within 30 minutes, but the irises were a little different. Once more I took hoe and shovel in hand and set to work weeding and thinning the irises as Sister Willingham had showed me last spring a year ago. After weeding the radishes, beets, and carrots, this was easy.
I was just smoothing out the dirt around the last corner of the iris bed when Sister Willingham pulled up in the driveway with the Browns. The sun was casting long dark shadows and I was partially hidden behind the front steps, so she didn’t see me until the Browns had left and she was starting up the walk to the front door.
“Is that you, Ryan?” she asked, squinting through her thick lenses. “Why, I didn’t expect to see you around, not this late.”
I smiled sheepishly and stood. “Oh, I found some other things that needed doing,” I explained.
Sister Willingham peered at the iris beds. Her gaze went to the lawn and the shrubs. She didn’t speak. She set her bag of temple clothes down and shuffled around to the back of the house to inspect the garden. I didn’t follow her. I dropped onto the front steps to rest. I knew my body ached. I knew I was dirty and sweaty. I knew I’d be stiff and sore in the morning, but all the discomfort was blanked by an all-pervasive warmth, one that made me feel as though I glowed. I smiled and closed my eyes.
“I don’t know what to say,” Sister Willingham spoke, her voice breaking. I opened my eyes and saw the tears on her cheeks. “I hadn’t expected you to stay so long, to do so much work. I’ve never seen it look so good, not since Al did it himself.”
“Oh, I don’t know if it’s that good,” I grinned. “I can’t grow beans out of concrete yet.”
“I don’t have enough money to pay you right now,” she continued, “but I’ll get it. I promise. I’ll make it right with you.” She pulled out her little coin purse. “I do have some of it now. I’ll give you all I’ve got so that—”
“Sister Willingham,” I cut in huskily, feeling my own voice crack and being so glad that I hadn’t had to watch her pry open her purse with the garden the way I’d left it in the morning. I was so grateful that I’d returned. “I didn’t do it for money.”
“Oh, but I want to pay you.”
I shook my head. “I did it—” I stopped. I wasn’t even sure why I did it. I shrugged and smiled, my whole insides warm and satisfied. “I just wanted to do it.”
“But I have to pay you.”
I shook my head again. “I’m afraid that would ruin it,” I whispered. “I don’t need the money. There’s pay enough in it for me.”
“But I’ll probably need you again. I couldn’t ask you if I knew I hadn’t paid you for the work you’ve already done.”
I smiled wanly and shrugged. “I’ll come again,” I said, standing. “Just give me a call. Or leave a message with Dad.”
I left Sister Willingham in her front yard with her coin purse clutched in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. When I returned home Dad was just cleaning up after having changed the oil in the car. He saw me approach but didn’t speak. I leaned against the fender of the car and looked down at the engine.
“Did you finish?” he asked.
I swallowed and nodded. “Did she pay you?”
“No,” I whispered, “but I got paid.”
We started for the house, not saying anything but communicating so much in our silence. When we reached the front door, he asked, “Did you miss your ball practice?”
I thought for a moment. “No, not really,” I replied, shaking my head. “I don’t think I missed it at all.”

Sometimes we feel that we don’t have any particularly important gifts. One day, a discouraged sister pleaded, “Lord, what is my personal ministry?” He answered, “Notice others.” It was a spiritual gift! Since then, she has found joy in noticing those who are regularly forgotten, and God has worked through her to bless many. While some spiritual gifts may not be prominent by the world’s standards, they are essential to God and His work.7

When I came out as bisexual a few years ago, I felt like I was facing an ultimatum: stay “true” to my sexual orientation and leave the Church (according to the world’s view) or deny my experience and stay faithful.
I wanted to align with Heavenly Father’s will. However, as I grew up, I also heard LGBT issues in and out of the Church talked about with negative feelings and harsh judgments, so I felt conflicted. I always wondered: How could I be both a member of the Church of Jesus Christ and experience same-sex attraction?
After years of trying to ignore my feelings, I couldn’t deny my experiences. But I didn’t know where that left me as a disciple of Christ. I grappled with this question: If God exists and loves me and has a plan for me, and if His plan of happiness involves marriage between a man and a woman only, then why am I attracted to women and men?
I was so confused.
During this time of unanswered questions, friends outside of the Church told me I should abandon my faith to “follow my heart.” I considered this at times—I already felt like I didn’t belong at church with all my questions. My family and loved ones showed love and support when I told them about my experiences, but I still felt so much uncertainty about what to do.
There were moments throughout this challenging time when I wondered if I really was one of Heavenly Father’s children, if He loved me, and if I had a place in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
As I sought Him more diligently than ever, I eventually did feel His love for me. I looked back at spiritual times in life, like my baptism day, moments in the temple, and other spiritual experiences. I couldn’t deny Heavenly Father’s love for me. I could feel that He is fully aware of my circumstances and that no matter what I am experiencing in mortality, I have a divine nature.

From the time I was a small boy in Lima, Perú, I had an inclination to seek the things of God. In my childhood, I faithfully attended my family’s church. I spent part of my youth singing in the church choir.
But when I was 17 years old, as I was praying in church, a feeling of uncertainty came into my mind. A particular point of doctrine caused me to wonder if I was in the right place.
That very night, I looked through much of the New Testament. I also went to see a neighbor who was a member of another church, and together we read from the Bible and found answers to some of the doctrinal questions that had begun troubling me.
It wasn’t hard for me to see that I had been on the wrong road. But it wasn’t easy to find the truth. I attended various religious meetings. I read several articles that discussed God, but none of them aroused any great interest in me. Meanwhile I continued to read the New Testament. I was very interested in finding out about the sheep “not of this fold” that Jesus mentioned in John 10:16.
For almost a year I identified myself as a Christian but did not affiliate with any specific denomination. I was studying at a technology center, and religion was a frequent topic of conversation. One day I overheard a discussion between a young Latter-day Saint and a member of another church. The assurance in the Latter-day Saint’s voice and the power of his words made an impression on me. The only thing I had heard about Mormons was that they were a group of cowboys. I didn’t know any Mormons well, and there was no LDS Church building nearby.
About that time I was waiting in a doctor’s office, and I noticed that the young lady seated next to me had opened a book with a blue cover. The book’s text was written in columns like the Bible. I was curious to know if it was the Bible, but I also wanted to get back to the comic book I had been reading.
I directed my eyes to the blue book and read a word at the top of the page: Alma. I made an effort to remember that name from my Bible reading, then went back to my comic book. But the blue book continued to attract me, and once again I directed my eyes to that mysterious book.
When the young lady noticed my interest, I asked if the book was the Bible. She answered no and asked me what church I belonged to. I told her none, because I didn’t know which one was true.
That night I couldn’t stop thinking about that strange book. I didn’t know its name, because the young lady had said only that it belonged to the Mormon Church. I told my friend Ghersi about it, and he offered to get me a copy. Several weeks went by, and then one afternoon he handed me a book without a cover and with worn pages. All he said was, “Here’s the book.”
That afternoon I opened the book and read the testimony of Joseph Smith. I felt that it was what I had wanted to know; the feeling became stronger when I read about the visit of the angel Moroni. Unable to contain my excitement, I arose from my chair and shouted, “This is what I was looking for! Here is the truth!” I read the first chapters of 1 Nephi very slowly. I felt that I understood them as I had never understood a book before.
Despite my efforts, I couldn’t locate an LDS meetinghouse. Ghersi offered to help, but I never did find the address of the building closest to where I lived. In the meantime, he loaned me some pamphlets that he had.
Finally, while walking not far from my house, I saw a building under construction. The sign read, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” I recognized the name from the pamphlets.
Months later, when construction was finished, my sister Haydee and I went together to that building. Two missionaries greeted us, and I told them about my experience with the Book of Mormon and my desire to be a member of the Church.
During the discussions, I told the missionaries of my concern about the sheep of the other fold. They asked me to read of the Savior’s visit to the Americas—particularly His words in 3 Nephi 15:16–21—and I knew I had found my answer at last. Two weeks after finishing the missionary discussions, my sister and I were baptized into the Church I had sought for so long.
I then prepared myself to be a missionary, and one year later I received a call to serve full time in the Perú Lima North Mission. The testimony I bore on my mission was that what I had received was not revealed to me by “flesh and blood” but by “my Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 16:17).
Today, many years later, I long to share my testimony with the world, because I know this is the Lord’s true Church. He has blessed me and my wife with a temple marriage and with three beautiful children. We are all happily serving in His Church. My gratitude to the Lord will never equal His mercy to me.

Another man said that he would not go to church but that his family could go. The missionaries told him that they would always save him a seat right by the door in case he changed his mind. One Sunday he was prompted to go to church even though his family had left without him. From the foyer he could see his family seated with the missionaries and a space at the end of the pew vacant and easily accessible. He entered the little chapel, and his footsteps were heard. The missionaries turned their heads, and when they saw him, tears came to their eyes. After baptism the husband would say, “Never in my life had anyone ever cried out of happiness just to see me enter a room.”

One day some of the employees decided to go on a popular hike in Yellowstone Park. It wasn’t a very long hike, only about three miles in all, but it was steep and none of us were used to hiking.
The trail started out as a gradual slope. We walked along leisurely, breathing in the fresh air of the rain that had fallen earlier that day. We could smell the aroma of pine needles from the towering pine trees that lined the path.
All too soon, the trail grew steep and became difficult to climb. We stopped at a halfway mark to catch our breath. Some of the group wanted to go back.
“This is no fun. My feet are killing me,” one complained.
“Look, it’s going to rain any minute now,” said others.
Indeed, the storm clouds had come back, and it looked as if they might dump their contents on us at any minute.
Just then, some tourists on their way back down the trail stopped to talk to us. They told us that it was well worth the hike to the top to see the beautiful view. They were very enthusiastic and gave us encouragement.
When we finally reached the top of the mountain, we still hadn’t achieved our goal; there was still the fire tower to climb. We had to go up several flights of stairs and then climb a ladder through a trap door to the top platform. When we finally reached the top of the tower and were able to view the magnificent sight, we all agreed that it had been well worth the effort.
All we could see for miles around were pine trees, gently swaying in the wind. From our vantage point, they looked almost like waves in the ocean. The sun slid out from behind the clouds to cast light upon the entire scene. It was breathtaking.
In a nearby pine, we could see an eagle’s nest. Just as we were about to leave, the eagle came into sight, flying high, coming home to its nest. To think we were up where eagles soar! I will never forget the feeling of accomplishment and the wonder of being able to see nature so closely.

Five years ago my husband, Bruce, became seriously ill when we were serving with the consecrated Saints in the Europe East Area. We returned home, and he passed away only a few weeks later. My life changed overnight. I was grieving and felt weak and vulnerable. I pled with the Lord to direct my path: “What would Thou have me do?”
A few weeks later, I was going through my mail when a small picture in a catalog caught my eye. As I looked closer, I realized it was an artist’s rendition of the Samaritan woman with Jesus at the well. At that moment the Spirit spoke clearly to me: “That is what you are supposed to do.” A loving Heavenly Father was inviting me to come to the Savior and learn.

As a boy, I was inspired by a story of courage in Nauvoo, which involved my grandfather’s uncle. In the spring of 1844, some men were plotting against the Prophet Joseph Smith. One of the leaders, William Law, held a secret meeting at his home in Nauvoo. Among those invited were nineteen-year-old Dennison Lott Harris and his friend, Robert Scott. Dennison’s father, Emer Harris, who is my second great-grandfather, was also invited. He sought counsel from the Prophet Joseph Smith, who told him not to attend the meeting but to have the young men attend. The Prophet instructed them to pay close attention and report what was said.
The spokesmen at this first meeting denounced Joseph Smith as a fallen prophet and stated their determination to destroy him. When the Prophet heard this, he asked the young men to attend the second meeting. They did so, and reported the plotting.
A third meeting was to be held a week later. Again the Prophet asked them to attend, but he told them this would be their last meeting. “Be careful to remain silent and not to make any covenants or promises with them,” he counseled. He also cautioned them on the great danger of their mission. Although he thought it unlikely, it was possible they would be killed. Then, the Prophet Joseph Smith blessed Dennison and Robert by the power of the priesthood, promising them that if their lives were taken, their reward would be great.
In the strength of this priesthood blessing, they attended the third meeting and listened to the murderous plans. Then, when each person was required to take an oath to join the plot and keep it secret, they bravely refused. After everyone else had sworn secrecy, the whole group turned on Dennison and Robert, threatening to kill them unless they took the oath also. Because any refusal threatened the secrecy of their plans, about half of the plotters proposed to kill these two immediately. Knives were drawn, and angry men began to force them down into a basement to kill them.
Other plotters shouted to wait. Parents probably knew where they were. If they didn’t return, an alarm would be sounded and a search could reveal the boys’ deaths and the secret plans. During a long argument, two lives hung in the balance. Finally, the group decided to threaten to kill the young men if they ever revealed anything that had occurred and then to release them. This was done. Despite this threat, and because they had followed the Prophet’s counsel not to make any promises to the conspirators, Dennison and Robert promptly reported everything to the Prophet Joseph Smith.
For their own protection, the Prophet had these courageous young men promise him that they would never reveal this experience, not even to their fathers, for at least twenty years. A few months later, the Prophet Joseph Smith was murdered.
Many years passed. The members of the Church settled in the West. While Dennison L. Harris was serving as bishop of the Monroe Ward in southern Utah, he met a member of the First Presidency at a Church meeting in Ephraim. There, on Sunday, 15 May 1881, thirty-seven years after the Prophet Joseph Smith had sealed his lips to protect him against mob vengeance, Dennison Harris recited this experience to President Joseph F. Smith (see Verbal Statement of Bishop Dennison L. Harris, 15 May 1881, MS 2725, Historical Department, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake City; the account was later published in the Contributor, Apr. 1884, pp. 251–60). Dennison Harris’s posterity includes many notable Latter-day Saints, including Franklin S. Harris, long-time president of Brigham Young University.

For a time, members traveled to the DDR (the former German Democratic Republic) to receive patriarchal blessings; since both nations were governed by Communist regimes, some travel between them was permitted. But when Brother Calvin McOmber visited Czechoslovakia in 1979, he gave Jirí the exciting news that he (Brother McOmber) had been authorized to give patriarchal blessings to the Saints in Czechoslovakia!

“I had been pondering this possibility during that year,” says Brother Snederfler, “and had prayed to know how to write about this to Brother McOmber so the secret police wouldn’t be able to read it in my letter. Finally, I had decided just to wait and talk to him about it when he came. And here he was giving me the news that he was now our patriarch! Righteous ideas are carried by the Holy Ghost from heart to heart—and do not need to be written or spoken.”

The oiled-paper windows of the cabin were barely light when Clarinda awoke. Back in their beautiful New York home she would have snuggled deeper into the warm featherbed and slept on until Mother came to gently tease her awake. Then she would have run happily downstairs for a breakfast of ham, eggs, and hot biscuits with butter and honey. Never would her stomach have growled with hunger as it did now.
But that was a year ago, before there were so many things to be afraid of. Everything was different now. Hot tears pushed at her eyelids.
“You must be braver than that, Clarinda,” her father would say if he could see her now. “You can’t let your fears control you. Courage is what it takes.”
But that was the problem. She had no courage.
Beside her, Elizabeth and Baby Sarah stirred in their sleep. Pushing the quilts aside, Clarinda leaned over and peered under the bed, listening carefully. She heard nothing, not even her brother Jeremiah behind his corner curtain.
With the warmth of spring, rattlesnakes had suddenly appeared throughout the settlement. Sister Andersen had even found one on her table. Clarinda shuddered at the thought. She feared snakes more than wolves or Indians. When she was certain that nothing slithered beneath her bed, she stepped onto the hardpacked dirt floor. Shaking her clothes to get rid of any creepy-crawly things, she dressed, moved quietly to the fireplace, and stirred up the fire.
She was measuring the last of their cornmeal into the kettle when a loud rattling sound made her scream and jump aside.
“If I’d really been a snake,” laughed Jeremiah, tossing Sarah’s gourd rattle at her, “you’d be bit for sure, jumping like that.”
Clarinda ducked her head in shame as she felt a hot flush spreading across her face.
“Did you hear the wolves last night?” Jeremiah teased. “Sounded like they were right outside the door.”
When she didn’t answer he bent and kissed the top of her head. “You’ve got to find some courage somewhere, Clarinda,” he said gently. “It eats your insides to be so full of fear.”
“You want some breakfast?” Her voice was calm, but inside she ached with crying that hadn’t come out yet.
“No, thanks, it’s my turn at guard duty,” Jeremiah answered. “Besides,” he added, looking into the boiling kettle, “there’s not enough.”
“I’m not hungry. I’ll go without,” protested his sister.
Jeremiah shook his head. “We all did too much of that this winter. But don’t you fret. Pa’ll be back with supplies any day now. In the meantime, I’ll wash off some more roots and eat them.”
Clarinda followed him as he shouldered his rifle and unlatched the door. “Courage, little sister,” he urged. “The Lord will protect us.”
She sighed as she relatched the door securely behind him. In her heart she knew the Lord would protect them, but her mind couldn’t seem to shake loose the fears. It isn’t fair. Why does Jeremiah have all the courage while I have none? she wondered. Isn’t there some way that courage can be shared?
Bending, she rearranged the coarse rope stretched across the doorway. She had heard that snakes wouldn’t crawl over a scratchy rope. “It had better work,” she murmured.
The rest of the morning Clarinda was too busy to worry about her fears. She dressed and fed Sarah and Elizabeth, scoured the kettle and bowls with rushes from the lake, swept the dirt floor, cleaned the hearth, chopped more roots for a watery stew, and three times replaced the rope that Elizabeth kept dragging away from the door. She even became brave enough to open the door for some fresh air while she shook the bed quilts.
Clarinda’s family had left a beautiful home and struggled across the plains for this—a cold dirt-floored cabin. They had nearly starved to death during the long winter. Her mother, like so many others, had died from the hardships. Now, there was fear of Indians—and snakes!
Clarinda shivered. “Are you afraid?” Elizabeth asked.
“Of course, I’m afraid! Who wouldn’t be?” Clarinda grumbled.
“Heavenly Father loves me. I’m not afraid,” said Elizabeth softly.
Clarinda flung herself on the bed. Even her little sister had more courage than she did. When she finally stopped crying, Elizabeth was gone and Sarah was crawling toward the open doorway.
Frantic with fear, Clarinda grabbed Sarah, put her on a quilt in the corner of the cabin to play with her gourd rattle, and dashed outside. “Elizabeth!” Her throat felt so pinched she could hardly call out. “Please come play with me. I’m lonely.” Earnestly she prayed, “Heavenly Father, please let me find her before the Indians or the snakes do.”
Even before she said amen, Elizabeth’s head appeared around the corner of the cabin. “Here I am. I was hiding!” she giggled.
Clarinda was too thankful to scold her. “Come keep Sarah and me company, and I’ll fix you some lunch.”
Inside, Clarinda carefully latched the door and replaced the rope. Sarah still gurgled happily on her quilt. The sound of her rattle filled the cabin. But then Clarinda froze—there were two rattling sounds. One was Sarah’s gourd, but the other … she fought back the scream in her throat. Curled on the floor in front of Sarah was a huge rattlesnake.
She shoved Elizabeth across the room, away from the snake.
“Elizabeth, climb onto Jeremiah’s bed quickly!”
Even as she spoke, Clarinda moved quietly to the hearth and grabbed the fire poker. She would have only one chance. If she missed, the snake would strike Sarah.
Silently, she prayed for courage and a good aim as she swung the heavy poker … again and again. At last, she carried the lifeless snake, dangling from the poker, to the doorway and flung it outside, almost in Jeremiah’s face.
“What … ? How … ?” Jeremiah stood in the doorway, pale and shaken.
Clarinda was still trembling, but somehow she didn’t feel quite so afraid anymore. “I found some courage,” she murmured.
Jeremiah put his arm around her shoulder and held her close. “I knew you would, little sister,” he said quietly. “I knew you would.”

“It was late spring when I received my patriarchal blessing. The season was at its best, and I wanted to be too; so I prepared myself to receive what Heavenly Father would have to say to me personally. There had been some repenting, some fasting and praying, and deep discussions about the meaning of it all with my parents and with a very special boyfriend. I remember well the night before my appointment with Patriarch Jones, up there on Capitol Hill. I felt a strong need to gather myself together with Heavenly Father, and I went outside through the screen door and stood there for a time listening to the years of my childhood sift by on the night song of the crickets. I felt very grown-up that moment. Then suddenly I felt once again the pull of the stars. Kind of self-consciously at first, I stretched down on my back on the prickly grass, as I had done so often as a child. Then once again I took a deep breath and turned my face skyward. I studied the heavens; I found the familiar constellations and got placement with the North Star. And then there came to me the mind-stretching, soul-searching experience of feeling lifted up into the universe—almost into the presence of God, it seemed to me. It set my heart to pounding. I knew my prayers had reached home in heaven. The witness of the Spirit that God lives and was mindful of little me warmed me to tears.”

Also let us remember that through any illness or difficult challenge, there is still much in life to be hopeful about and grateful for. We are infinitely more than our limitations or our afflictions! Stephanie Clark Nielson and her family have been our friends for more than 30 years. On August 16, 2008, Stephanie and her husband, Christian, were in a plane crash and subsequent fire that scarred her so horrifically that only her painted toenails were recognizable when family members came to indentify the victims. There was almost no chance Stephanie could live. After three months in a sleep-induced coma, she awoke to see herself. With that, the psyche-scarring and horrendous depression came. Having four children under the age of seven, Stephanie did not want them to see her ever again. She felt it would be better not to live. “I thought it would be easier,” Stephanie once told me in my office, “if they just forgot about me and I quietly slipped out of their life.”

But to her eternal credit, and with the prayers of her husband, family, friends, four beautiful children, and a fifth born to the Nielsons just 18 months ago, Stephanie fought her way back from the abyss of self-destruction to be one of the most popular “mommy bloggers” in the nation, openly declaring to the four million who follow her blog that her “divine purpose” in life is to be a mom and to cherish every day she has been given on this beautiful earth.