Gospel Story Finder

Dad’s car was mustard brown. Its color made the rust spots less noticeable. It seemed like a tank left over from a war. The name on the car’s grill was Plymouth. Actually it wasn’t a Plymouth at all. It was half Plymouth and half Dodge, a spare-parts mobile made up of two wrecks, always lacking something and always showing us a new frailty in its character.
But Dad’s car was his pet. He would never consider giving it up for anything. He tried convincing us that it was really a sports car in disguise. He would tell us that it had a floor stick shift just like a Porsche. I soon realized, however, that a floor gear was the only thing the old wagon and a Porsche 920 had in common.
“Anyone can have a nice new car,” Dad would say. “But how many people do you know that actually own a 1976, stick-shift, mustard-brown station wagon? We want to be unique.”
Unique was an understatement in my book. You see, I was in ninth grade, my first year in high school. I wanted to impress my peers. But how could I when everyone knew that the mustard-brown tank belonged to my family? It was bad enough that I was a freshman and couldn’t drive. But to imagine being seen by upperclassmen in that junk heap was more than I could bear. When my dad would drive me and my brother to school after seminary, I would duck down as he pulled in to the drop-off spot. I desperately hoped that no one would see me. I would then slink out of the car, bury my head in my books, and run as fast as I could for the safety of the school building.
During my junior year in high school, however, my feelings for the “tank” changed. It took a frustrating experience—my illustrious career as a cross-country runner—to finally show me the light.
During the cross-country season, I came to see a great likeness between myself and the tank. I was not, to say the least, the star of the team. I was slow (my engine only a weak V-6), ungraceful (my rusting joints needed oiling), and my body type was not the one best suited for running (I had the wrong engine with the wrong carburetor). Yet I was constant. I ran every day, sometimes even twice a day, always trying to improve, trying to be the magnificent runner I dreamed of becoming. But I was nowhere close. I tried everything I could think of to improve my time. I ate the right pastas, I tried exotic stretches, I even slept in my shoes (I had read in a magazine it made one more in tune with running). But nothing worked! I was extremely frustrated. I felt like last year’s track shoes headed for the trash. I wanted to be the foremost runner on the team, but it took all my energy to keep from coming in last.
Finally I asked my dad for a blessing. I desperately needed some outside help. But what my dad said as he laid his hands on my head was not at all what I had expected. He told me flat out—“You are not a runner.” He said, “Your purpose is not in being the best runner. You have another purpose for being on the team.” And that was it. I felt let down and not particularly proud of myself. I did feel, however, that what my dad had said was what the Lord wanted me to hear. So I continued with the racing, straining and struggling my hardest not to come in last. At times I felt I had a few screws loose or that I could use a better set of spark plugs, but I never changed—at least not physically.
By the end of the season, however, I had changed. Spiritually I had grown. My vision had been expanded. On the night of our final athletic banquet, my coach came up to me and told me the secret I found in our old station wagon. He said:
“I know running hasn’t been easy for you, and you know something, you’ll never be a great runner.” No joke, I thought to myself. I’ve heard that one before. Then he continued. “But you are one of the most important members of our team. You have had such a positive influence on the team; they all look up to you. Thanks for being such a good example.”
And that was the secret. That’s what made the car special—it had a function, a worthwhile purpose. It was the car we knew we could depend on during winter in subzero temperatures. We knew it would be the only one to start. It was the only car that could pull our trailer and the only car with a rack on top for hauling luggage or Christmas trees. Despite its many frailties, it was needed, wanted, and yes, even loved.
Our station wagon would never be the sleekest car on the block. It would never win any prizes for the smoothest performance or most comfortable ride. Though it was old, rusted, and to some people even worthless, it was vital to our family. Its dependability was more important than its outward value.
The lesson I learned from the old station wagon was this: Although it may not be easy to see, our Heavenly Father has given everyone an important purpose. Despite our frailties, we are needed, wanted, and loved. We are each unique and priceless.

A few days after Christmas, my wife and I had the blessing of going to Nauvoo and visiting the temple and several historic sites. Although this was not our first time to be in Nauvoo, it was our first opportunity to visit the rebuilt temple and participate in its sacred ordinances. What an incredible experience to be there in mid-winter, looking across the frozen Mississippi on the "Trail of Hope" and feel the Saints' "angst" as they bid farewell to their new temple and to their "City on the Hill!" Their prophet had been murdered by an angry mob. Not a single state or territory would allow them refuge. They were abandoned by the very country they loved. They were abused and driven from their homes. And yet, I felt their determination and enthusiasm for the future. What held them together? How did they meet this incredible challenge?

During our visit, I read the journal, The Nauvoo Endowment Companies, 1845-1846," (Signature Books), of the sacred ordinances completed in the Nauvoo Temple in 1845-46 and read the names of those early pioneers. In the temple they made all the sacred covenants. It was the beginning of reestablishing the ancient supernal rites of the Lord's house. The Lord was guiding their path, and in spite of the turmoil of being rudely evicted, they were a determined, courageous people. Because they gave so much for the blessings that we enjoy, I could not help but think how truly enriched our lives are today.

During his last Pan-American karate championship, Felipe wasn’t feeling very confident. But then his dad gave him a priesthood blessing. “After that my mind was better, and that helped me win the championship that day. The last two matches I won, I had only one second left. Everyone thought it was impossible. I did an unexpected move that helped me win, and for me, it was all because of my dad’s blessing.”

Riding to Carthage he might have recalled the time in Missouri when he and some of his brethren had been betrayed into the hands of their enemies. The leader of the mob convened a court; Joseph and his associates were placed on trial for their lives. They were convicted and all sentenced to be shot the next morning at eight o’clock in the public square in Far West. At the appointed hour they were duly led forth to be murdered, but a dispute among the mob saved them.

Without even being permitted to bid farewell to their families, they were taken from place to place and exhibited to jeering crowds while the Saints were told they would never see their leaders again. But Joseph cheered his fellow prisoners by announcing that none of them would suffer death.

“Be of good cheer, brethren,” he said, “the word of the Lord came to me last night that our lives should be given us, . . . not one of our lives shall be taken” (HC 3:200).

My friend and I were playing at the park. I climbed a tree, but my friend couldn’t climb up. When I tried to get down, I couldn’t, and it was too far to jump. My friend said that we should say a prayer so that someone would come help us. First I prayed, and then my friend prayed. A few minutes later my dad showed up at the park and helped me down from the tree. I told my mom and dad what happened, and each of them told me that they had a feeling they should check on me to see if I was OK. I know that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers.Nicholas M., age 7, Utah

With the spring of 1666 came the second wave of the Black Death, the bubonic plague, to the English village of Eyam in Derbyshire. A few years before, the first onslaught of the plague had scattered residents about the countryside in a frantic effort to escape. But this time, the minister of the village church, William Mompesson, told his faithful flock that they should not run away, in case they infected others. “Stay in Eyam,” he pleaded, “to save the rest of Derbyshire.”
The minister must have been a persuasive man, for the townspeople heeded his request. A circle of stones was laid around the town as a warning boundary, and food for the villagers was left at the perimeter by outsides anxious to avoid contact.
Months went by, and the frightful disease took its toll. By the time the scourge had passed, 259 of the 350 faithful villagers were dead, including the minister’s wife. But the plague had not spread; Derbyshire was saved.

When I turned in my missionary papers, my bishop challenged me to not listen to any music at all until my call came. After about a week, the music was gone, but the bad lyrics were still there. Needless to say, my taste in music has changed. I was also able to feel the Spirit more often without the music blaring all the time. Don’t fool yourself into thinking that you are immune to the traps of Satan.
Nicholas Uerkvitz, 19Hereford, Arizona

A true story from the USA.
Diego was lonely. His family had moved to a new place. He missed his friends from his old home.
Diego played with his little sister Cara now. But he also wanted a new friend.
Soon a family moved in next door. They had a little boy, just like him! His name was Sam.
Diego and Sam played together every day.
One day while they played, Diego saw that Cara was sad. Maybe she was lonely too.
“Do you want to play with us?” Diego asked.
Cara smiled big. “Play!”
Diego, Sam, and Cara played trains together. They pushed the toy train cars back and forth. “Choo-choo!” Diego smiled. He was having fun, and so was Cara!
Illustrations by Natalie Briscoe

From Oyo, Nigeria. Likes to play football (soccer).
I knew a boy from church who was a bully before, but one day he suddenly changed. I decided to ask him, “Why did you change?” He told me that he prayed, read his scriptures, had faith, and worked hard to change his behavior. It helped me because now when I want to make a decision, academically or spiritually, I usually pray for God to guide me.
My friend might not be perfect, but his behavior touched my heart. Now I usually read the scriptures before I take any step in my life. My friend’s example has brought me closer to Christ because any time I sin, I can go back to the Lord in prayer and repentance. Going to the Lord has helped me set aside my burdens.

Again, it is a wonderful gift to know that we are children of God with a divine purpose. While in Hong Kong a number of years ago, my mother and I went on a tour of that beautiful city and surrounding area. The young woman tour guide became interested in us and asked about our homeland. We told her we were from the state of Utah. We also volunteered that we were Latter-day Saints and asked her if she had seen any Mormon missionaries there. She replied that she had heard of them, but she had no interest in religion or even in a Supreme Being. She then said: “I believe in only one thing, and that is myself—that is how the young generation feel in this city.” She went on to say: “We call it egoism. We believe in doing and accumulating all you can for yourself—no one else matters.”

Many people live their lives this way. It appears that all they care about is themselves. But I had never heard anyone admit to such a philosophy. I was surprised and realized that she was searching for a way to make her life meaningful. I thought of the scripture in Matthew 16:25–26:

For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.

For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?

The young lady did not understand who she is. She was not able to enjoy the gift of knowing that she is a daughter of a Heavenly Father and that her life has purpose beyond herself.

When I joined the Church in Taiwan as a teenager, paying tithing was not difficult because I had little income. After I graduated and began working, it became a little harder. There were always so many things to buy and so little money to buy them with. But each year at tithing settlement, I could honestly tell the branch president that I had paid a full tithe.
Then last year my mother had to be admitted to the hospital intensive care unit. I was sorely worried about my mother and also about how we would pay for her care. The following Sunday I remembered I hadn’t yet paid my tithing that month. Thinking I would need all my money to pay the hospital, I decided to put off paying my tithing until the next week. As Sunday approached once again, a small voice reminded me that the Lord has promised to open the windows of heaven when we pay tithing. “Now is the time to give my faith a test,” I thought.
I withdrew some money from the bank and placed it in a tithing envelope. I felt a little hesitant, but summoning my courage, I gave the envelope to my branch president. Although I felt reluctant to let go of the envelope, I decided to leave the matter in God’s hands.
Just a week later, I received a telephone call informing me that our insurance company would soon be sending a check. “For how much?” I asked. The amount was many times more than the tithing I had paid. I know that when we are faithful, God will never forsake us.
Lu Chia, BYU Chinese Ward, Brigham Young University Sixth Stake

Elder Orton was born on 24 August 1936 to H. Frank and Gwen Riggs Orton and was raised in Panguitch, Utah. His parents had been married in the temple, but not long afterward his father became less active. It wasn’t until young Robert was 12 years old that his father determined to return to full activity. “That took place after many years of hoping and praying and pleading,” Elder Orton says. “He had always been a good father, but there was now a calmness and sweetness in our home because of the spiritual relationship that existed between my father and the rest of our family.”

When Jasmine was finally able to communicate with her daughter, she realized there was good reason to worry about her. As the hurricane approached the island, the daughter and others gathered in a building to be sheltered from the fierce winds and rain. As the building started to flood, they ran to another shelter. As they settled, the storm shattered the windows, cutting the individuals with the flying glass. As they continued to find refuge elsewhere, they found another room only to have the roof fly off. The only building left was a generator room, 4 ft x 4 ft in size, where 19 individuals, along with the generators and machines, packed themselves on top of one another for about five hours as they waited for the storm to pass. They were all wet from the rain and cut from the shattered windows, and everyone thought they would not make it out alive.
After the main force of the hurricane passed, they spent the night in the open, surrounded by water but so grateful to be alive. A boat rescued them and brought them to safety the next day.

“What’s a testimony?” I asked my mom one Sunday as we were getting ready for church. I knew it was fast Sunday, which meant that people would be “bearing their testimony,” and I wasn’t sure what a testimony was.
My sister Diana hurried by, and Mom asked her, “What do you think a testimony is, Diana?”
“I think it’s when the Holy Ghost tells you something is true,” she said. “We’ve been studying about Jesus in seminary. I have a testimony that Jesus loves me and died for me. It’s a good feeling inside to know that Jesus will help me when I have problems.”
“We can have a testimony of many things, Bryan,” Mom said. “Bearing a testimony means you tell why you know a gospel principle is true.”
“I have an idea, Bryan,” Mom said later as we were going into the chapel. “Why don’t you write down all the things that the people bear testimony of in sacrament meeting today?”
“I can help you spell the people’s names,” Daddy said. “Pretend that you are a secretary or reporter. It will help you learn what a testimony is.”
After the sacrament, Daddy handed me a piece of paper and a pencil. At the top he had written “Name, Testimony” and had drawn a big line underneath. I felt like a news reporter as I wrote down everything.
Brother Nielson talked about how his prayers had been answered that week, and I wrote “prayer” beside his name.
Brother Brown, who seemed like the oldest person in the ward, bore his testimony next. He told how a priesthood blessing had saved his sister’s life. Daddy showed me how to spell “priesthood.” I know that when I have a sick stomach or a really sore throat and Daddy gives me a blessing, I feel better immediately. Sometimes my stomach or throat still hurts, but I feel better. It’s like the feeling I have when I have a bad dream and Mom comes and holds me and tells me about Jesus. After she does this, the bad feeling goes away and I feel sleepy again. I think I have a testimony of priesthood blessings, just like Brother Brown.
Sister Hatty cried when she bore her testimony about how glad she was that families can be together forever. Daddy whispered to me that Sister Hatty’s father had died the week before. I couldn’t think what to write down as her testimony, so Daddy finally spelled out “resurrection” for me.
As I wrote the names and topics, a strange feeling began to grow in me.
“Daddy,” I whispered a few minutes later, “how old do you have to be to bear a testimony?”
“You can bear your testimony when you’re old enough to have a testimony,” Daddy whispered back.
“Can someone my age bear his testimony?” I finally whispered.
“If a person is old enough to know what a testimony is,” Daddy whispered back, “he can bear it. Children know things are true just like grownups.”
When Mitchell went up to bear his testimony, the funny feeling inside me grew bigger. Mitchell was still in elementary school, like me. Mitchell said he was glad that his older brother, Aaron, was serving a mission. Mitchell said he wanted to go on a mission, too, when he got older. I wrote down “mission” by Mitchell’s name and thought how wonderful it would be to be a missionary like Aaron. Mitchell said that missionaries bear their testimonies all the time.
It was then that I decided I wanted to bear my testimony. I wasn’t old enough to be a missionary, but I could tell what I believed in. Daddy smiled and gave me a hug when I whispered that I was going to bear my testimony.
When Sister Morris sat down, I took a deep breath and started walking to the front of the chapel. I felt really scared, and I wished I could run back to my seat beside Daddy. But the feeling that I wanted to bear my testimony kept me moving toward the front.
“I love Heavenly Father and Jesus,” I said shakily and very loudly. I paused, and I felt better. “I like to read the Book of Mormon. I get a good feeling when I read it, even when I don’t understand all of it. I like to pray. I know Heavenly Father answers my prayers.” The wonderful feeling had spread all over me, and I felt warm and safe, like when I am wrapped in Daddy’s strong arms.
I felt really good when I finished my testimony, and I quickly walked back to Mom and Daddy. Diana gave me a big hug as I squeezed in by her. I whispered to her, “A testimony is a really good feeling that makes you happy inside, Diana, just like you said.” Then I added, “Bearing your testimony makes the good feeling inside feel even better.”

When I was 23, my grandmother passed away. Though she had lived a beautiful life, she was still relatively young, and her death came sooner than expected. I knew that many had lost much more than I had and that my grandma was at peace, but I still felt pain knowing I would never see her again in this life.
Through this sadness, however, I felt Heavenly Father and the Savior reaching out to me. Kind visiting teachers and friends brought sweet notes and treats, and a dear neighbor stopped by my family’s house with a book she said she felt inspired to purchase for us. The book contained quotes from apostles and prophets on the plan of salvation and the reality of life after death.
As I read the words of the prophets out loud with my sister that evening, I felt the sweetest peace settle on my heart. I knew that because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, all of us could be made clean and able to dwell with Him in the next life. I knew that “he bringeth to pass the resurrection of the dead” and that all things—and people—would be restored to their proper place (Alma 40:3; see also Alma 41:2). I knew that because of the Atonement, all the members of my family, including those who have passed on, can be together forever, and for that I will be forever grateful.
Amanda Seeley, Utah, USA

Constancy #4: Develop and live within a budget. A friend of mine has a daughter who went overseas with a BYU study-abroad program for a semester. She was constantly writing home for more money. His concern was such that he called her long-distance and questioned her about the need for the additional funds. At one point in the conversation the daughter explained, “But dad, I can tell you where every penny you have sent me has been spent.”
He replied, “You don’t seem to get the point. I’m interested in a budget—a plan for spending—not in a diary of where the money has gone.”

Annie’s eyes popped open Friday morning. She hurried downstairs and poured a bowl of cereal just as the sun peeked over the mountains.
“What’s the rush, early bird?” Dad asked.
“Today’s my spelling test, Dad,” Annie said. “Mrs. Page promised a prize to everyone who gets 100 percent.”
“Are you ready for the test?” Dad asked.
“Yes,” Annie said. “I’ve studied the list all week. The words are hard, but I’m ready.” She patted a paper lying on the table. “I’m going to study them again while I eat breakfast.”
“I’m sure you’ll do great,” Dad said. “Just do the best you can.”
Annie studied the spelling words again as Mom drove her to school. Finally, it was time for the test.
“Impatient,” Mrs. Page began.
Annie heard soft sounds of pencils on paper around the classroom. She filled her lungs with air, slowly let it out, and began to write.
“Word number two: weird,” Mrs. Page said.
“Easy,” Annie thought. She quickly wrote it on her paper.
Twenty-three words later, Mrs. Page collected the tests. “I’ll correct the tests during lunch,” she told the class.
“I hope, I hope,” Annie whispered to herself. “I hope I got a hundred percent on the test.”
After lunch Mrs. Page said, “Several of you earned a prize today for perfect test scores.”
Annie held her breath as Mrs. Page read the names.
“Tressa, Jonas, Olivia, and Annie all scored 100 percent!”
Annie grinned as she walked to the front of the room. Mrs. Page presented each student with a fancy pencil. Annie’s was silver, pink, and blue—her favorite colors. She held it high, her cheeks pink, while the class clapped.
“This is one of my best days ever,” Annie thought as she sat down.
Mrs. Page handed back the tests and Annie read the words over, proud of the hard words she had spelled. She paused at the word weird. It didn’t look right. Annie pulled out the study list of spelling words and compared her test to it. “W-i-e-r-d,” she whispered. She felt like a leaky balloon, with all the happiness whooshing out of her. She had spelled weird wrong.
“What should I do?” Annie wondered. “I want my class to think I’m a great speller. If I tell Mrs. Page I’ll have to give back my prize.”
Annie stared at the test with the big red “100%!” written at the top. The words of the thirteenth article of faith popped into her head: “We believe in being honest.”
Slowly, Annie raised her hand. “Mrs. Page, I didn’t get 100 percent on the test. I missed a word.” She stood up and handed her teacher the beautiful pencil and her test paper. “I spelled weird with ‘i-e’ instead of ‘e-i.’”
Anne could feel the eyes of her classmates on her as she walked back to her desk. Mrs. Page held up Annie’s test. “Class,” she said, “Annie did something even more important than spelling every word correctly on a test.” Mrs. Page smiled at Annie. “She taught us all a lesson on being honest.”
Annie looked around. Her best friend, Keely, smiled at her. Khalil gave her a thumbs-up. Even shy Ava smiled at her.
“Annie, I want you to have this pencil because of your good example to all of us,” Mrs. Page said.
Annie took the beautiful silver, pink, and blue pencil from her teacher. “Thank you, Mrs. Page.”
She couldn’t wait to show it to her dad.

“Meeting President Kimball—that made all the hard work more than worth it,” said 19-year-old Marianne Schmidt of the Ogden 65th Ward, South Ogden Utah Stake.
Marianne, who’s been blind since birth, met President Kimball after presenting the Young Women Presidency with the Personal Progress book that she translated into Braille. The project took Marianne over two years to complete, but she had help from a dedicated Young Women adviser, friends in her Young Women class, and friends from school.
“I thought it would be great for the young women who are blind to have a Personal Progress book where they could read their goals over and over,” said Marianne. “If the goals are written on paper, it’s easy to forget them when you’re blind.”
The initial translation took Marianne one year, and proofreading and making corrections took another year.
“It was discouraging at times because it was hard to juggle schedules to get people to read to me so I could translate. My hands would get tired from Brailling, and it’s funny, my eyes would too. I knew that it would be a difficult project, though. For this particular book, one page of print is about four pages of Braille.
“But I have always been determined to accomplish my goals. I’m majoring in elementary education at college, and some people think that I won’t be able to teach kindergarten. But I’ll prove to them that I can. Nobody knows what I can do except me, and I don’t think of myself as handicapped. The only thing that limits me is when people are afraid of me. When they’re not, I can do anything,” said Marianne.

I nearly flew out the door when the train stopped at the Huntersville station. In a wink, I was swallowed up by one of Grandma’s big hugs.
“Look how you’ve grown!” Grandpa exclaimed. “You’re not my Itsy-Bitsy anymore.”
“You’ll just have to think of a new nickname for me,” I said.
As soon as the car stopped at their farm, I jumped out, ready to explore. I was just about to the back gate when Grandma called, “Rachel, change into your playclothes first.”
“But I want to see the barn!”
Grandma put her hands on her hips and gave me that “don’t argue with me” look, so I headed for the back porch. As I went through the screen door, I let it bang shut to let her know how I felt.
By the time I got to the barn, Grandpa was already milking Babe. Long, slim streams of milk sprayed into the pail. “Pring, pring,” the milk sang in steady rhythm. As the bucket filled, the sound changed to a “swirt, swirt.” Milking Babe looked like fun.
“Can I try, Grandpa?”
“It isn’t as easy as it looks—you have to have really strong hands to milk a cow.”
How hard can it be? I thought. Grandpa just squeezes—left hand, right hand, left, right. “Please,” I begged.
“Maybe next time. I don’t think Babe would like someone new taking over halfway through her milking.”
I wanted to try, though, so I went on the other side of her and started squeezing as hard as I could. Startled, she jumped sideways, kicking over the pail. The milk made a foamy puddle on the cement. I jumped up and raced out of the barn before Grandpa could scold me.
I ran straight to the old apple tree by the pasture and climbed to the limb where someone had nailed a metal seat from a farm machine. No one would find me sitting up there.
I stayed in the tree until my stomach started to rumble. Grandpa would be done with the chores, and Grandma would have dinner ready.
I climbed down and walked slowly toward the house. No one was in sight, so I sat under the open kitchen window. The aroma of fried chicken drifted out. Dishes rattled. I heard Grandpa’s deep voice blessing the food. I wanted to go in, but I couldn’t. What would Grandpa say? I sat there for the longest time, my tummy rumbling louder every second.
Then I heard Grandma. “Pie for dessert.”
“Rhubarb pie! My favorite!” Grandpa said.
Rhubarb pie? I’d never heard of it. But I’d tasted some of Grandma’s other pies—cherry, apple, and peach—yum! Rhubarb pie must be really good. I just had to have some! I took a big breath, walked up the back steps, and opened the kitchen door.
“Why, here’s Rachel,” Grandma said. “Sit down. I’ll get your dinner.”
No one said a word about the spilled milk.
Grandma set a plate in front of me—mashed potatoes, fried chicken, stewed tomatoes, and spinach. Spinach? Yuck! In no time I cleaned up the rest of my plate.
“Pie for you, just as soon as the spinach is gone.” Grandma set the pie just behind my dinner plate. It looked so good, the crust all golden and sprinkled with sugar, pink juices oozing out the sides. I pushed my dinner plate away.
Grandma frowned. “I said, ‘As soon as you eat your spinach.’”
“I hate spinach.”
“Eat just a bit then. You have to at least taste it.” Grandma was determined.
I scowled at her and then at my plate.
Grandpa started to laugh. “You look like you just swallowed a lemon, whole,” he said. “Maybe your new nickname should be Sourpuss.”
I wanted to get up and stomp away from the table, but that pie held me like a magnet. Finally I forced down two tiny bites of spinach, and Grandma took my plate.
The pie was delicious, the crust so light it could melt in your mouth, the fruit sweet and tart at the same time. “It’s my favorite,” I told Grandma. “It’s even better than apple.”
The next morning, Grandma made me help pull weeds in the garden. I wanted to play on the rope swing, but she said there’d be plenty of time for that later. As we went out the door, Grandpa said, “Hi, little Sourpuss.”
I frowned at him.
In the garden, I saw a strange plant with giant umbrella leaves and long red-green stalks. “What’s this, Grandma?”
“That’s rhubarb, Rachel. It’s what I made last night’s pie from.”
“Oh, yummy! May I eat a piece?”
“You won’t like it. It needs lots of sugar to make it taste good.”
But I remembered the pie. Rhubarb had to be good. “Please, Grandma,” I begged.
She took the little knife she keeps with her garden tools and cut off a stalk. I took a big bite.
My mouth shriveled. My eyes watered. “Oooh, sour!”
Just then Grandpa walked by. “What are you so sour about now, Rachel?”
“Rhubarb!” I answered, holding the chewed stalk up for him to see.
Grandpa started to laugh, a deep belly laugh that just kept going. When he finally got to the chuckling stage and could talk, he said, “I think I’ve found the perfect nickname for you—Rhubarb Rachel.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” I protested, “that isn’t any better than Sourpuss. It means the same.”
He winked. “Not if you add a little sugar. Then you could be my Rhubarb Pie.” He turned and walked away, whistling.
That started me thinking. Maybe Grandpa was right. I had been acting pretty sour. But how could I add sugar? I thought about it as I pulled the weeds from the rest of the row. Then I forced the corners of my mouth up into a little smile. It felt good. Next I tried whistling. It felt even better. After a while, I went over to where Grandma was thinning carrots. “I’m sorry I’ve been so cross. And I’m sorry about the milk.”
Grandma grinned. “I know you are. But you needed to say it. How about cutting some more of the rhubarb stalks—I’ll make another pie for dinner tonight.”
“Sure,” I said. “Can I help you make it?” I wanted to know all about turning rhubarb into rhubarb pie.

The influence of Heber’s mother, Rachel Ridgeway Ivins Grant, was equally as powerful. Rachel’s wealthy family in the eastern United States offered her a large income if she would renounce the gospel of Jesus Christ. But she refused and stood by her testimony. After the death of her husband, the young widow, who had been left penniless, worked sewing clothing and taking in boarders in order to provide for her son.
She taught Heber the value of hard work, and together they eked out a meager existence. In the process, Rachel and Heber grew very close. He was later to say of her: “I stand here today as one whose mother was all to him. She was both father and mother to me; she set an example of integrity, of devotion and love, of determination, and honor second to none. I stand here today as the president of the Church because I have followed the advice and counsel and the burning testimony of the divinity of the work of God, which came to me from my mother.”4