Gospel Story Finder

Nearly eight years ago, on a sunny October morning, I was attending an early meeting with our student team when a FaceTime call came through on my coworker’s phone. It was unusual for her to receive a call like that during a meeting, so she let it ring. But when the phone rang again, she excused herself to answer it. After a moment, she turned to me and said, “Yes, she’s right here.” Then, looking at me, she added, “Jen, you’re going to want to step out to take this call.”

I took the phone, feeling confused, and stepped outside. On the other end, I heard the familiar voice of a colleague. Gently and with compassion, he told me that Cary, my husband, had been in an accident on the Archer/Lyman Highway and that the ambulance was on its way.

I quickly left the meeting. My team kindly gathered my things and walked me to my car. In a logical moment, I decided I should drive myself, so I’d have my own vehicle. So, my dear friend and colleague offered to go with me in her car. We left the Kimball parking lot and headed south toward the temple.

When she turned into the temple parking lot, I wondered, Why are we stopping here? Then I thought, Oh, right. We should say a prayer. What a perfect place to do that. I noticed she was on the phone, so I stepped out of my car to join her. That’s when I realized my hands and legs began to tremble. I knew then that it would be best for her to drive, so I left my car in the temple parking lot.

After finishing her call, she told me that Cary was now in the ambulance, headed to the hospital in Idaho Falls, so we should go directly there. Before leaving, we paused and said a prayer together, and I felt a rush of calmness and clarity settle over me. On the drive to Idaho Falls, I made a few phone calls to family to let them know of the situation, but I really had no information or details to share. Despite the distance to the hospital, the drive went by quickly.

When we arrived, I rushed into the ER only to be handed a stack of paperwork that had to be completed before I could see Cary. I filled it out calmly; the needed information came quickly to my mind. I was anxious to be by his side. When I finally saw him, our eyes met, and he said, “I can’t move or feel anything.” That was when I began to understand the severity of the accident.

It was a miracle that he was alive and coherent—and I was so grateful—but we still didn’t know the full extent of his injuries. While we waited, a family friend and nephew gave Cary a priesthood blessing. That moment brought me great peace. I knew God was aware of Cary and would be with us in the hours and days ahead.

Soon, the neurologist came in with the awaited test results. Cary had no internal injuries, which was truly miraculous, but he had a chipped tooth, a broken rib, minor lacerations on his head and leg, and a shattered C4 vertebra. His spinal cord was bruised but not severed. Surgery would be needed to repair his broken neck. The neurosurgeon on call that day was confident, despite the complexity, that he could perform the procedure in just a few hours. Cary was stable.

Soon after the plan was presented and the proper authorization was given, Cary was moved to a room in the ICU as he waited for his surgery time. My heart wanted to speed up the clock. The sooner his surgery started, the sooner he would be OK. The nurses began to prep him, then the surgery team came to wheel him away. I remember feeling left all alone in that hospital room, hoping, wishing, praying that he would survive the surgery, and he would come back to me. I could not lose him—not now, not ever!

The next few hours of his surgery gave me time to talk to my Heavenly Father. I shared the worries of my heart. I pleaded for understanding: “Why Cary?,” “Why Now?,” “Why us?”

Our family had been obedient to gospel teachings and commandments. Our oldest son, Logan, had just been married to his sweetheart in the temple six weeks earlier. Our other son, Kaden, had left to serve a mission in Mexico City just one week prior. We were faithfully serving in our Church callings. My list went on and on.

What would happen next? Would Cary’s body heal? Would he have movement and functionality? Would he ever walk again? The uncertainty was overwhelming.

In my grief and pleading, the Lord began to calm my troubled heart. I started to feel the tender mercies and prayers of others give me peace. I was lifted and sustained with the thought that sometimes accidents just happen.

When the surgery was over, they brought Cary back to his room in the ICU. The doctor explained that his surgery was successful.

He was wearing a neck brace, had a tube down his throat, and had oxygen tubes in his nose to allow better breathing, as it was very difficult for him to do this on his own. Pillows were placed under all his limbs to provide comfort and protection since he couldn’t move. A towel was rolled up and positioned next to his head for support and alignment.

So much was going on around us, but in that moment, I felt hope. Hope in his ability to recover.

Evening came quickly, as I was completely absorbed in the steady rhythm of nurses, techs, and custodial staff coming in and out, all providing critical care. I was watching monitors, adjusting sensors, and learning intently what to watch for and how to keep him comfortable. Eventually, the lights dimmed, and the calmness of night settled in.

Cary was awake and was trying to communicate with me, but he couldn’t move or speak due to the breathing tube. He could blink and make some guttural noises.

I tried to guess what he was saying or needed. “Is it your head? Your legs? You need your nose scratched?” I was guessing all the little things he couldn’t do for himself. It was the hardest communication we had ever experienced—what a mess!

I started spelling out words. I began reciting the alphabet aloud: “A … B … C … D … E … F … G … H … I … J … K …”

He blinked and made a sound. “K?” I asked. He blinked again. Yes, that was right. I wrote it down and started guessing words with “K” with none being right.

So, I began again: “A … B … C … D …”

When I reached “I,” he blinked again. I wrote it down. “Kick? Kit?” I looked around the room for something that might help me guess—still nothing.

One more time: “A … B … C …” All the way through, I was watching his eyes. “P … Q … R … S …”

Another blink. I wrote it down and I looked at my paper: K, I, S.

“Kiss!” I exclaimed. “You want me to kiss you?”

I suddenly felt sheepish that it had taken me so long to figure out something so simple yet so far from my thoughts. But in that tiny, tender moment, I felt his worry—not for himself, but for me. He was trying to comfort me.

My eyes instantly filled with tears. I longed to embrace him, but I couldn’t. So, what do you think I did? You’re absolutely right—I leaned over that hospital bed rail and kissed every little space on his face that wasn’t covered by a bandage, monitor, tubing, or brace.

In that moment, the Spirit comforted my soul. I knew Cary was of sound mind. He was 100% with me. My miracle man was still by my side, and I knew that together we would face this trial.

Cary’s recovery journey was filled with unknowns. Each day brought new information and new steps forward. He worked tirelessly, moment by moment, pushing his body and brain to remember what they once knew how to do. When he was accepted into a remarkable rehabilitation center in Colorado, we treated each day as a sacred gift. We did our best to recognize the daily blessings, focus on the positives, and move forward with unyielding determination as Cary spent his days working with five to six different therapists. The schedule was demanding. His body was exhausted. Our family was separated. But we pressed on with faith.

During this time, we often found ourselves wondering, Does “Thy will” match the desires of our hearts? What if the righteous desires for Cary to walk again, to be highly functional, and to possibly make a full recovery are not God’s will for us?

This spiritual wrestle—aligning our hopes with His will—became a constant theme in our prayers. It was a plea offered not only by us, but by our family, friends, ward and stake members, coworkers, temple patrons, the missionaries serving alongside our son in the MTC, and the countless others who knew of Cary’s situation.

I can testify of the peace that comes when we choose faith over fear and our hearts surrender to God’s will. Fear is “what if?” Faith is “even if.”

When Elder Juan Alberto Uceda Andrade began courting Maria Isabel Bendezú—the woman he would eventually marry—he knew she was someone special. Both had converted to the Church as youth, and both had served missions in their native country, Peru.
Sister Uceda’s conviction to marry in the temple had a great influence upon him. The nearest temple was in São Paulo, Brazil. “It took seven days just to get there, using every means of transportation available,” Elder Uceda explains. “We traveled by bus, car, boat, horse and carriage, train, truck, and even plane. When we reached the temple, we reached out our hands to touch the walls just to make sure it was not a dream. It was a foundational experience for both of us.”
The couple were married in the São Paulo Brazil Temple on April 13, 1979. They are the parents of five children.

Most musicians don’t take up a new instrument and play a concert tour nine months later—especially if they’re 12 years old. John Mitton, a Salem, Oregon, deacon, started on the piano at five and added violin study at six. It wasn’t until September 1974 that he went to work on the organ, but he proved so adept that he spent last summer touring Europe, giving more than 50 concerts.
John, accompanied by his teacher, William Fawk, traveled throughout Germany, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, France, and Denmark playing the works of Bach, Purcell, Lubeck, and others.
In Austria, John played at the 10th century Abbey of Seckau near Vienna, and his concert was broadcast throughout the country. He was also a guest of the Vienna Boys’ Choir and attended music classes where they were studying a Beethoven mass. John was invited to return and play a concert with the Choir this summer at the Imperial Chapel. In Palermo, Italy, one of the cathedral directors took away the wine glass customarily given organists, noting that a “Mormon organist,” as John was referred to throughout his tour, wouldn’t need it.
John and his teacher were honored at a dinner given by the U.S. Consul General of Italy before a concert at the six-manual organ at the Monreal Basilica. Throughout his tour John received invitations from music professors as well as the public to return for additional concerts.
Prior to his tour John got some good experience playing before an audience as the Salem Fourth Ward Primary organist. He also played at many Church meetings and community programs. John also plays the violin in his school orchestra and keeps up his piano study.
But music doesn’t occupy all of John’s time. He’s studying Spanish. He’s a ham radio buff and substitutes frequently on a paper route. Last summer John and other Salem Scouts did a 50-miler, camping five days near the beach and hiking out every day. Of course, music was one of John’s first merit badges.
John’s interest in music is part of a family tradition. His great grandfather, Samuel Bailey Mitton, was a tabernacle organist, and one of his compositions, “Awake! O Ye People, the Savior Is Coming” is in our hymnbook. His mother, the former Ewan Harbrecht, was a soloist with the Tabernacle Choir and toured Europe 20 years ahead of John. Sister Elizabeth, 17, is a violist; brother David, 15, is a cellist and bass guitarist; and Esther, 6, is following John on the piano and organ.
John is planning on serving a mission for the Church. He also would like to study organ on the college level and perhaps teach someday. Motivation is no problem for him. “Playing the organ is a challenge; it’s also a rewarding experience. My parents and teacher never have to make me practice. I do it because I know I’ll get better. Having the opportunity to tour Europe is a real incentive in itself.”
Last summer John and his family visited Salt Lake City and met Tabernacle organists Alexander Schreiner and Roy M. Darley and former director of the Tabernacle Choir J. Spencer Cornwall. Brother Cornwall told John that he was endowed with a great gift and must be humble and grateful because it is a gift from the Lord.
At home in Salem, John is practicing baroque pieces two hours a day on his stake center’s organ in preparation for this summer’s concert tour. He’s looking forward to playing some of the world’s most magnificent organs as well as enjoying some of his favorite foods—bratwurst, Wiener schnitzel, and pommefrites, the German version of an American favorite, French fries.

I once attended a meeting in Leadville, Colorado. Leadville is situated at an altitude of over 10,000 feet (3,000 m). I remember that particular meeting because of the high altitude, but I also remember it for what took place that evening. There were just a small number of priesthood holders present. As with the branch in the Canadian Mission, that branch was presided over by a missionary and always had been.

That night we had a lovely meeting, but as we were singing the closing song, the inspiration came to me that there ought to be a local branch president presiding. I turned to the mission president and asked, “Isn’t there someone here who could preside—a local man?”

He replied, “I don’t know of one.”

During the singing of that song, I looked carefully at the men who were seated on the first three rows. My attention seemed to be focused on one of the brethren. I said to the mission president, “Could he serve as the branch president?”

He replied, “I don’t know. Perhaps he could.”

I said, “President, I’ll take him into the other room and interview him. You speak after the closing song until we return.”

When the two of us walked back in the room, the mission president concluded his testimony. I presented the name of the brother to be the new branch president. From that day forward, Leadville, Colorado, had a local member leading the unit there.

Brenna was crying. She sat in a barber’s chair, hair pulled back, her ponytail just moments away from being cut off. The hairdresser holding the scissors was crying. Those watching the scene were also in tears.
Snip! Brenna’s long hair, which had taken years to grow out, was gone. Her ponytail would now become a gift, a donation to an organization called Locks of Love. It would be combined with other donated hair and made into wigs for children who had lost their hair because of cancer treatment or who suffer from alopecia, a permanent hair-loss condition.
Brenna Reaney is just one of the Young Women in the Redondo First Ward, Torrance California Stake, who donated hair. For Brenna, the sacrifice of her long hair represented something concrete she could do to help Jessica James, one of her friends from the ward. Jessica, 17, had been diagnosed with aplastic anemia, a life threatening illness that would require chemotherapy treatment. At first, the girls were upset that Jessica would lose her beautiful long hair. But after Jessica had a brain hemorrhage and sank into a coma, they quickly realized that they had not understood the full spectrum of what was important. As Peggy Kirts, a member of the ward, said, “It’s been a very helpless couple of months, with everyone wanting to help and not really knowing what to do or how to do it.”
The girls would visit Jessica in the hospital as she struggled to awaken from the coma and learn again to communicate. While there, they saw many little bald children in the same area of the hospital undergoing treatment. They read to Jessica and sat with her, but they felt that they wanted to do more.
Sister Kirts, a professional hairdresser, met a family who had come to her salon for haircuts. They were donating their hair as their family’s Christmas project. From them she got the information about donating hair and did a little research. A minimum of 10 inches of hair was needed, bound in a ponytail. Especially needed was fine, light colored hair that would be more appropriate for children’s wigs.
With some hesitation, Sister Kirts presented the idea to the girls in her ward. It wouldn’t help Jessica directly, but the donation of their hair would help other girls and boys. At first, the thought was stunning. Ten inches! That was so much. “They were petrified at first,” said Sister Kirts. “I didn’t want to pressure them. But later that day, the phone just started ringing. And, one at a time, the girls called and said, ‘I’m in.’ I couldn’t believe that they would do it.”
The word spread through the ward. Even two little girls from Primary joined the Young Women in donating their hair. The local newspaper and a television station covered the event because so many girls were donating their hair at the same time. And at Christmastime, people could not help but compare this event to O. Henry’s story “Gift of the Magi,” about a young couple who each gives up the thing they value most to buy a gift for the other. In the story, the young wife sells her long hair to buy a chain for her husband’s heirloom watch. He, in turn, sells the watch to buy combs for his wife’s beautiful hair.
After the young women’s story aired on the news and was printed in the newspaper, the salon offered to cut the hair of anyone who wanted to donate it. Dozens of people responded. “Teenagers have so much power for good or for bad,” said Sister Kirts. “For these people who came to donate their hair, their biggest reason was that if an 18-year-old girl can do this, I can too.”
Rachael Ward, another of the Young Women in the Redondo First Ward, was a little frightened to go back to school after Christmas vacation with her new short hair. “It was awful waiting for that day. Everyone noticed my hair, even people I didn’t know before. A lot of people looked at me differently. They said it made them realize that people really do good deeds for each other. It’s not just a story on television. That made me feel good.”
Rachael’s friend Brittanie Streetmaker also donated her hair. “I was nervous, but now whenever I look in the mirror, I think of a little girl who will be so happy to have a cute styled wig. My friends ask me if I miss my hair, and I say I do, but I don’t regret it for a second.”
Editor’s note: Jessica is home from the hospital. She still suffers from partial paralysis and is continuing treatment for aplastic anemia. She loves the way the girls sacrificed to help others.

I think of dear Sister Amy Gent, whom I was privileged to visit for several years as branch president, home teacher, and friend. The first time I visited her, she was 87 years of age. Widowed twice, she was the only member of the Church in her extended family. Was she lonely? Never!

She read the scriptures every day. Once she asked me to bring her some missionary tracts, which I thought were to vary her reading. I gave them to her saying, “You will enjoy reading these, Sister Gent.”

“Oh, they are not for me,” she replied. “I visit an old lady, and I want to share the gospel with her!”

Reaching out, helping, serving, this is the way we overcome the fear of loneliness.

Living in Port Alberni, an industrial town on Vancouver Island, Canada, with few Church members, I grew up fascinated by Utah. I especially loved the missionaries. My family even collected the rectangular address cards the missionaries handed out. Each had a photo of the Salt Lake Temple or some other temple, as well as the missionary’s home address and ward. Listed on the back were the Articles of Faith.
To my young imagination, these cards were like travel posters showing beautiful scenes from faraway lands. Visiting places like Temple Square, however, seemed impossible. For a young boy from a poor family, Utah may as well have been on the moon.
But when my oldest brother, Mundi, married and settled in Salt Lake City, my world began to shrink. Then when my other brother, Laurence, attended BYU after his mission, it shrank a little more. After Mundi and his wife had settled in Salt Lake City, I asked my parents if I could visit them there.
“If you save up for the bus ticket, I guess you’re old enough,” my dad said. They even called Mundi and his wife, who both said it would be fine if I visited them for a few weeks the following summer.
Only one major hurdle remained: the bus ticket. The round-trip fare was $75.00, a fortune to a 15-year-old without a job. Still, I did odd jobs when I could and saved most everything I made. By March I had put away $45.00.
About that time my dad retired, and we moved to the other side of Victoria. My family started attending the local branch that met each Sunday at the nearby Women’s Auxiliary Hall—an old weathered building that smelled of damp wood. Our branch was so small the adult leaders had to do many things. My dad was a counselor in the Sunday School presidency. He was also a Sunday School teacher and the priesthood instructor. My mother handled the music and helped with the Primary. A couple of boys and myself administered the sacrament, and everyone gave talks.
At that time, Church buildings were paid for partly by the local members. Unbeknownst to me, the district presidency was on a drive to fund Vancouver Island’s second chapel. They hoped this building would one day become the island’s first stake center. They were visiting each branch, beginning at our little Sunday School.
“We’re building the foundation for the Lord’s Church to grow in this area,” one of the brethren said. “To accomplish this, every one of us will need to sacrifice.”
I listened intently. It was always interesting, if not a little intimidating, when the leaders visited. I usually hung on their every word.
“We’ve worked out suggested assessments for every mother and father and for every child,” he said. He listed off assessments of several hundred dollars from each set of parents and an assessment of $45.00 from each child. “We know this will be hard for you, but we promise you will be blessed for it,” he concluded.
It seemed too much of a coincidence. I had exactly $45.00 back at the house, representing most of my ticket to Utah. Between Sunday School and priesthood meeting, I ran home and grabbed the money. In the exhilaration of the moment, my long awaited trip to Utah was completely forgotten. I walked up to the brother from the district presidency and handed him the $45.00.
What happened next took me completely by surprise. The man looked at me, almost dumbfounded. Before we began the next meeting, he took the stand and asked everyone to sit down.
“It’s not easy to ask members to sacrifice,” he began, “and I’ve felt very discouraged these past few weeks about having to do it. I guess my own faith was weak. But a young man in your midst has just given me every cent he has because the Lord asked for it,” he said. “And I know that he will be blessed because of it.”
I heard later that he stood before all the branches on the island and used my example again and again to inspire the membership. Ironically, I hadn’t given my decision a moment’s thought. The Lord needed exactly what I had, so I gave it.
I didn’t give my Utah trip any more thought either. Although I had wanted to go for as long as I could remember, I didn’t feel disappointed. I figured my blessing was how good I felt inside. And, for the moment, that was more than enough.
Then, just before summer vacation began, an unexpected phone call came. It was Sister Hackwell, the mother of Billy, one of my Church friends.
“I’m driving to Utah in a few weeks to visit Faye and Anita [her two married daughters] and wondered if Jim wanted to come along?” she asked. “Mundi could pick him up at Anita’s, and he and Billy could keep each other company on the way.” I could go to Utah, after all. I knew immediately that the Lord had blessed me even more than the brother from the district presidency had promised he would.

A week later my mother died. How would it be in a motherless home, without the encouraging look of a proud mother to push us along when times got rough? I thought mothers were always supposed to be there. Who was going to teach me all the things mothers are supposed to teach their daughters? Who was I going to have those special talks with? Why did it have to be my mother?
My father knew it was up to him. It must have been like a building falling on him to have all the responsibility of raising the family. After losing the woman he loved so dearly, he had to be strong to set the example for his family. He did. I remember him standing there and asking us if we understood about paradise and heaven. We all hesitated, as if a nod of approval to his question was an approval for her to die, but then with great effort he told us she was gone. My father’s a big man, but he was even bigger then, when I knew that inside his heart was broken and he was full of loneliness.

Harold B. Lee was a busy man. He was a city commissioner, stake president, husband, and father of two little girls.
It was early morning on the day before Christmas. President Lee had been up all night, helping city crews snowplow the streets. Now he was on his way home to change clothes before going to his office.
He saw a small boy by the side of the road. The boy had no coat, no gloves, and no overshoes. President Lee stopped the car and offered the boy a ride into town.
As they road along, the man and boy began to talk. President Lee asked the boy if he was ready for Christmas.
He was shocked when the boy replied that there would be no Christmas at his house. His father had just died, and the family had no money. Before President Lee dropped the boy off in town, he asked him his name and address.
That Christmas Eve, as Harold B. Lee and the bishops in his stake delivered gifts to needy families, he remembered the young boy. He asked one of the bishops to take some Christmas boxes to the boy’s family.

My friends and I crept up to the darkened porch. We placed the package in the middle of the welcome mat and pressed the doorbell, setting off a ring inside the house. The three of us ran and hid behind some bushes.
A light went on, and we watched as the object of our “attack” opened the front door and looked around before noticing what lay at her feet. She bent down, picked it up, and stood there on the porch reading the letter we’d written just for her. A smile slowly crept across her face, and her eyes scanned the area. Seeing nothing unusual—we were too well-hidden—she took her treat into the house.
It was just after the school year began. A few of us had wanted to make our senior year extra special. We decided to take our fellow seniors some cookies and a special note, telling them something we admired about them and calling ourselves the “Ram Phantom” because our school mascot was a ram. It took only once, and we were addicted. Soon every Saturday night was spent coming up with people we thought needed a pick-me-up.
That night Andrea (name has been changed) was on our list. I was especially excited because she was also in my ward. Andrea was painfully shy, and I had watched her all week at school, noticing that she seemed even more down than usual. So when we were discussing names, I made sure to bring her up.
The next day during Young Women, the lesson was on service. Our teacher asked for examples of service given and received. The entire class was surprised when Andrea’s hand went up. She said she had been having a really hard time lately. In her prayers she had been asking Heavenly Father to show her that someone noticed her, that someone really cared. Then last night, the doorbell rang, and someone had left her cookies and a note. She told us it was an answer to her prayers to know that someone thought good things about her.
At school the next day I noticed a change in Andrea. She looked people in the eye, perhaps wondering if they were the Ram Phantom. I told my friends what Andrea had said, and a feeling of peace settled over us, knowing we’d made a little difference in someone’s life.

My name is Armando. I am from the Antananarivo Madagascar Stake. I want to testify to you that reading the scriptures and doing Duty to God really brings blessings to us and to those around us.
I remember one Monday in our family home evening I felt that it was an occasion for me to bear my testimony about the Book of Mormon. I had chosen previously that this would be the action I would take to follow the pattern in the booklet. I testified especially to my father, who had been inactive for months, to let him know what I know about the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. Soon after it seemed my father started to gain more faith again, and the next Sunday he started coming to church again. He met with the bishop and began to focus more on doing his duty. I realized that following the Fulfilling My Duty to God booklet had brought blessings to my family. I know that it prepares us to become effective missionaries, worthy bearers of the priesthood, diligent leaders, and good fathers to take our families to the temple. I know we will be successful in our lives if we do our duty to our Heavenly Father.

I miss my friends. I wish I could have a birthday party this year. But there are too many COVID-19 cases.
Heavenly Father, please help me feel peace.
I know! I can look at my baptism journal!
My Testimony
The Holy Ghost will comfort me …
Thank Thee for reminding me about my baptism journal. And for the Holy Ghost. I feel much better now.
A few days later …
Happy birthday!
Knock, knock!
Beatrice! Our neighbor is here.
Happy birthday!
Thank you! How are you doing?
To be honest, I feel lonely. But I am trying to be happy.
Me too. I want to show you something!
This is from when I was baptized last year. It helps me feel better when I am lonely.
That is beautiful!
It reminds me that Jesus loves me and that everything is going to be OK.

William Borrowman never forgave his son for joining the Church. He made sure that the family members never referred to John as brother or uncle. However, John’s stepmother, Helen, corresponded with John through the years. In 1857 she wrote to tell him that his father had died and that he had directed that John be given—as his total inheritance—one halfpenny (the equivalent of a nickel in American coin).

The twenty-five children who are learning to read and write on Lubian Sequi’s patio are poor—too poor to afford shoes or uniforms or supplies for public school. Some have no beds at home, but sleep in cardboard boxes on the ground.
Sister Sequi is a small, lovely woman with a smile that warms and comforts. On the chalkboard she has written the words Dios Me Ama (“God Loves Me”). Besides teaching her students reading, writing, mathematics, social studies, science, and etiquette, Sister Sequi begins each day’s classes with a prayer and a lesson from the Bible. She also encourages the children to pray with their families. Sister Sequi provides pencils, notebooks, and chalk for the children who cannot afford them. She uses a lot of visual aids to help the children learn.
Sister Sequi has found most of her students on the streets of Santo Domingo. “Whenever I see a dirty, barefoot, or neglected child, I say to him, ‘Come here. Don’t be afraid. Where do you live?’” Then she goes home with the child to ask permission for the child to attend school in her home.
Once a month, she invites the parents to an evening meeting where they can see how their children are progressing. She also gives a talk to help the parents spiritually and morally. “Our intention is to teach the parents so that they can teach their children better,” she says. Although it is not Sister Sequi’s primary goal to convert, at least one student’s family has been baptized since coming to her school.

Hector González of the Villa Nueva Guatemala Stake says the gospel has given him strength to face the cancer that cost him a leg and nearly took his life. At one point, he wondered why this should happen to him. His wife brought his patriarchal blessing to him in the hospital, and he found hope in its promise of a long life of service. When it became obvious that he would lose his right leg, he received a spiritual witness that all would be well. After the surgery, he recalls, “It was incredible the support I found in reading the Book of Mormon. It gave me the strength to go on.” Now back at work, he says, “I know the Lord has been watching over me. I know He has cared for me through all of this.”

Ammon sighed as he and Dad left the soccer game. “I don’t get it,” he said. “We have so many good players. Why can’t we score?”
Dad was a good soccer player. Maybe he could help.
“I think you need to learn to work as a team,” Dad said. “You all want to score goals, right?”
“Yes,” Ammon said. “But we can’t all be the one to score. Is that what you mean?”
Dad nodded. “You can’t score a goal on your own. First the defenders need to take the ball from the other team, right?”
Ammon laughed. “It’s pretty hard to score if you don’t have the ball.”
“Right,” Dad said. “Then the defenders give it to someone who can score. No one can do it alone.”
“I guess,” Ammon said.
When they got home, Mom was holding the baby while she made dinner. “How was the game?” she asked.
“We lost again,” Ammon said. “But we’ll do better next time.”
“That’s a good attitude,” Mom said.
“I’m starving!” Lorrin shouted as he, Seth, and Spencer ran in.
“Boys, can you help set the table and put the toys away?” Mom asked.
All four boys groaned.
“But I didn’t play with the toys,” Seth said.
“It will take forever!” Lorrin wailed.
Dad laughed. “I think our family has the same problem as Ammon’s team.”
“What’s that?” Seth asked.
“We aren’t working together,” Ammon said. “We all want to score a goal by eating dinner. But we’re leaving it all to Mom.”
“Right!” Dad said. “How can we work as a team?”
Ammon had an idea. “What if Seth and I set the table? The other boys can pick up the toys.”
“Great idea!” Dad said.
Soon dinner was ready. Ammon folded his arms for prayer. He was glad his family had worked as a team. He hoped his soccer team could do the same thing.

Yes, it’s true—a blind postman! His name was Owen Jones, and he delivered the mail for almost twenty-five years.
Owen was born in 1819 in a little village in Wales. When he was just a small boy, he fell into the fireplace, severely burning his face and losing the sight in one eye. When he was about thirty, he lost the sight in his other eye.
At first, he was discouraged and depressed, but before long, his natural, happy disposition returned. He continued to play the violin, and he worked at developing his talents for mimicking voices and telling stories. He learned to accept his blindness without bitterness, and, like many blind people, he developed his other senses.
When the missionaries came to Wales, he and his family were baptized and decided to go to America. He and his brother and sister arrived in New Orleans in 1849 on the ship Hartley. From there they made their way to Utah. Owen settled in Brigham City, a small community about sixty miles north of Salt Lake City, where there were other Welsh pioneers.
The neighbors found him cheerful, sociable, and friendly. He often did small repairs for them, and he made chair seats of rush (a course grass), cane, and rawhide.
He never had any trouble getting around the little town. He had an excellent sense of direction, counted the steps between fences and trees, and listened to the sounds around him.
When the job of postman became available, someone suggested that “Blind Man Jones,” as he was affectionately called, could do it. He was happy for the opportunity to be useful and to earn a steady paycheck.
He did well at his new job. Each day an associate sorted the mail for him and put it in the proper order in his canvas bag. Then away he went. Carrying a long buggy whip in front of him much like blind people nowadays use a white cane, he made his way around the town, delivering the mail. If he was not sure he had the right letters in his hand, he asked homeowners to check and resort them for him.
Owen took his meals with many of the townspeople; they all enjoyed his company and loved to hear stories about his early life in Wales. He spoke English almost as well as his native Welsh, and he was often called on to translate for immigrants who had not yet learned English.
Many children remembered having him in their homes for meals and parties. Owen loved to be a part of these happy times. Sometimes the carpet was rolled up, and the children danced to his violin music. He particularly enjoyed hearing the children’s laughter as they hopped and skipped to the music.
After one evening of dancing and merriment, the host asked his son to walk Owen home. After a block or so, he said to the boy, “You’d better go back; it must be very dark.”
“But what about you?”
“Oh, I can find my way without any trouble. Remember, the world looks the same to me whether it is night or day!”
The children always watched for him, and they took his hand and walked along with him, especially when he came to a small footbridge over a little creek. He probably would have had no trouble getting across, for the bridge had a railing, but he let the children feel that he really needed their help, and they loved it.
Owen never complained, and he never seemed to feel sorry for himself. He often said, “I would much rather lose my eyesight than my hearing. I can laugh and joke with friends, play the violin, and enjoy the music. I can hear the birds and the rushing streams and the other sounds of the world around me. Those are the things that give me joy!”
Owen Jones died of pneumonia in 1894 and was buried in the Brigham City Cemetery. He never married, but he enjoyed the love and affection of all the townspeople just the same as if he had been part of their families. He was an inspiration to all who knew him because he was willing to make the most of his abilities.
“It is not so bad to lose your sight,” he once said. “After all, what counts is what is in your mind!”
We could all learn a thing or two about living from Owen.

I’m very happy with my name, Janetta Ann McBride. Brigham Young gave me that name and blessed me when I was a baby. He was one of the elders who visited at my parents’ home in Church Town, England, where I was born on Christmas Eve in 1839. It isn’t everyone who can claim that a prophet gave them a name and a blessing.
My father was originally from Scotland. He came to England for work. There he met my mother and married her. They joined the Church just a few years later.
When I was six years old, my family moved to Island of Bute, Scotland. I at-tended the School of Industry, where I learned how to sew and keep house. I graduated when I was eleven years old. That’s when most children began working to help their family with expenses.
I, too, would have gone straight to work, except I got sick. Instead, I was sent to live with my grandmother by the seashore. It was thought that the sea air would be good for my health. It must have been, because I got well. But Grandmother had a serious accident one day and died. By that time, my family had moved back to England, and I moved there to live with them.
At the age of fourteen, I was apprenticed to a dressmaker and learned how to make beautiful dresses. I worked for her for two years. Then my family made the decision to move to America. Times were hard in England. Jobs and food were both scarce. Also a call had gone out from the Church for the Saints to gather to Zion.
At age sixteen, I was the oldest of the children in our family. Heber had just turned thirteen. Ether was eight, Peter six, and Margaret was still a baby, not quite two years old. We loved the Lord with all our hearts. We had been commanded to gather to Zion, and so we began our journey, one step at a time. Little did we know what would face us on the journey ahead. I think, though, that even if we had known, we still would have gone.
The Church had a special fund at that time that loaned money to members for travel to Salt Lake City, Utah. In 1856, however, there wasn’t much money in it. To cut expenses, it was decided that my family, along with many others, would travel across the plains by handcart. The journey from Liverpool, England, to Salt Lake City would then only cost about forty-five dollars per person—much less than the cost of using wagons and ox teams to cross the plains.
But first we had to sail to America!
I was excited when my family packed up their belongings and headed for Liverpool. It was a great seaport, teeming with ships of every kind. I loved watching the ships being loaded and unloaded with every kind of article you could imagine. Spices from India scented the air. Passenger ships were a hive of activity as their holds were loaded with food and water. There was so much to see!
Our ship was the Horizon, a good ship. We had fine weather all the way across the Atlantic, except for a few days when it was so foggy that we couldn’t even get candles to burn! On June 30, 1856, we safely landed in Boston, Massachusetts. We were thrilled to be in the land where the gospel had been restored!
I don’t think any of us had any idea how big America really was. When we landed in Boston, we didn’t realize that our long journey was just beginning, rather than nearing its end.
From Boston, we traveled to Iowa City, Iowa, by railroad. The new railroad saved us weeks of traveling by wagon. The cattle cars were crowded, but we endured the journey well. The train stopped in Buffalo, New York, on the Fourth of July. We could only watch the people celebrate. How I wanted to join them!
Finally we arrived in Iowa City. From the train station, we walked three miles in rain and mud to the place where we were to meet the Church’s agent in charge of organizing the trek. We had been assured that everything would be ready for us when we arrived, but it wasn’t. The handcarts hadn’t even been built! We camped and worked at preparing for the journey until all was ready.
Eventually the handcarts were obtained, and our family was assigned to Captain Edward Martin’s company. Near the end of July 1856, we cheerfully began our journey to Zion. Our family had three carts when we started out. Each cart could carry about 120 pounds of baggage, 100 pounds of flour, cooking utensils, and additional food. There were 576 people in our company. I’d never been with so many members of the Church!
Pulling the handcarts wasn’t bad at first. But many of them broke down because they were built of green wood. We pulled those carts three hundred miles to Florence, Nebraska. The last members of our company, and the Willie company, arrived there on August 22. As soon as we arrived, there was some disagreement as to whether we should continue on. Some said that it was too late in the year. They felt that we should set up a winter camp in Florence and wait until spring to travel to Salt Lake City. But most of the Saints were for starting immediately. After much discussion, it was decided to continue on. We were anxious to finish our long journey. About a thousand miles remained ahead of us, but we had already come so many miles that another thousand seemed like a short trip. We didn’t know that the worst part of our journey was still ahead.
(To be concluded in the August 2000 Friend.)

I thought back on another little child, under different circumstances, who had the Christmas spirit. As a very young elder, I went to the old Primary Children’s Hospital on North Temple Street to provide blessings for the sick children. As we entered the door, we noted the Christmas tree with its bright and friendly lights. We saw carefully wrapped packages beneath its outstretched limbs. Then we went through the corridors where lay tiny boys and girls—some with a cast upon an arm, some with a cast upon a leg, others with ailments that perhaps could not be cured so ­readily—each one with a smile upon his face.
I walked toward the bedside of one little boy, and he said, “What is your name?”
I told him.
He said, “Will you give me a blessing?”
The blessing was provided, and as we turned to leave his bedside, he said, “Thank you.”
We walked a few steps, and then I heard his little call: “Brother Monson.”
I turned.
He said, “Merry Christmas to you.” And a great smile flashed across his countenance.
That boy had the Christmas spirit, as did the little girl in downtown Salt Lake City.

In a historic first for West Cheltenham, the community embraced the tradition of the Passion Play, depicting the final days of Jesus Christ’s mortal ministry. Several Christian organisations in Cheltenham, including the Church of England, Catholic and Baptist Churches, and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, came together for a special musical presentation telling the Easter story. Spearheaded by Revd. Janice Hamilton, Pioneer Minister for the West Cheltenham Parish, the play was a roving outdoor performance, moving across various local sites to bring the story directly into the community’s heart.
Ruth Mulligan, who works with Revd. Hamilton on other local projects, served as the musical director for the event. Sister Mulligan, a member of the Cheltenham Ward, composed much of the music that underscored the emotional depth of the Passion Play, including solo, choir and orchestral pieces. "Music has a unique power to evoke emotion and elevate the storytelling experience,” Sister Mulligan remarked. “Writing words and music that convey how God’s love is manifest through His Only Begotten Son, was a wonderful spiritual experience, and this production has been an opportunity to help more of God’s children feel His love.”
At the heart of this inaugural production stood Brother Jon Ramsbottom, also a member of the Cheltenham Ward, embodying the pivotal role of Jesus Christ. The opportunity to portray Jesus was not only a personal milestone but also a profound expression of his faith. “Being chosen to portray the Saviour in West Cheltenham’s first Passion Play was a deeply humbling experience,” he shared. “It marked a new chapter in our community’s celebration of Easter.”
Assuming the role of Jesus Christ was more than just a theatrical endeavour for Jon; it was a sacred calling to embody the teachings and love of the Saviour. "Every moment of the performance was an opportunity to convey Christ’s message of compassion, forgiveness, and redemption,” he emphasised. “It required me to delve deep into the scriptures and prayerfully consider how best to represent His divine character.”
The full cast and production crew brought together over fifty individuals from all walks of life, many of whom attend various local Christian congregations. Other members of the Cheltenham Ward, including Caleb Williams and Jasmine James, contributed their wonderful talents to the acting ensemble, with Martin Giles taking the role of the Roman Centurion - bearing witness of the Saviour’s divinity with a heartfelt solo performance. Several youth and young adults from the Ward participated in the choir and orchestra, harmonising their voices and talents with those of the broader community and a combined primary schools choir.
Beyond the artistic collaboration, this endeavour has also fostered meaningful connections and strengthened bonds of friendship and faith. Sister Mulligan expressed, "This experience has helped me feel the love of the Saviour, and I will forever be grateful for the new friends that I’ve made who share my desire to be a disciple of Christ.”
Everyone involved in this special portrayal of Christ’s sacrifice, humbly sought to evoke the spirit and significance of the most pivotal event in human history. Despite difficult weather conditions over the Easter weekend, the play attracted an audience of family, friends and several hundred local residents. At the conclusion of the event on Easter Sunday, those watching were encouraged to ponder on their own relationship with God, as it is hoped that this pioneering initiative can serve as a catalyst for unity and spiritual enrichment within the community.