Gospel Story Finder

I loved Primary and had many wonderful teachers who taught me the gospel. One, though, was very special to me. Sister Mary Stevenson taught Primary in the LeGrand Ward in Salt Lake City. One summer she taught our class to play the harmonica. She told us that by summer’s end we would play for George Albert Smith, who was then the President of the Church.
We worked hard, and the important evening finally came. Before we left for President Smith’s house, Sister Stevenson told us that we were going to shake the hand of a prophet, that it would be a special experience, and that we would always remember it. What a thrill to be so close to a prophet!
To such a little boy as I was, President Smith looked very tall. He greeted us with a friendly smile. We played two or three of his favorite songs on our harmonicas. When we finished, he shook hands with each of us and thanked us for our visit. Sister Stevenson was right—I never forgot that experience. I shall always be grateful to my Primary teacher for such an opportunity.

Huddled together on the freezing ground, Mary Elizabeth and her family camped on the banks of the Missouri River and waited to be ferried over to freedom. While they waited, the Saints found out that among all the families, they did not have enough money to ferry everyone.
“Some families will have to stay behind,” one of the men said.
“Whoever stays behind will be killed!” a woman cried.
“Maybe the ferryman will let us pay in fish,” one of the men suggested.
A few of the men went to the shore and set up fishing lines. The rest of the Saints prayed in the cold rain for help from the Lord. The lines stayed out all night and into the next morning.
When the men checked the fishing lines, they rejoiced to see they had caught some small fish and one very large catfish. Mary Elizabeth watched while the men cleaned the fish. When they cut open the catfish, everyone fell silent. To her amazement, Mary Elizabeth saw three bright silver half-dollars inside the fish, just the amount needed for all the Saints to cross the river to safety. Mary Elizabeth joined the other Saints in a prayer of gratitude for the Lord’s protection.

When I was 16, a friend showed up at our home with the missionaries. Within a month of the first discussion, all my questions were answered in clarity. I felt the Holy Ghost testify of the truthfulness of the messages about the Restoration. It was unlike anything I had ever felt, and I knew all of it was true.
However, I experienced more rejection and opposition than ever before. I felt alone, tired, and confused. If I was doing the right thing, why was I encountering so much adversity? I couldn’t understand how my trials were for my good. The missionaries taught me to fast and pray, even in the middle of a school day. When things became unbearable I’d pour out my heart and immediately feel the comfort of the Spirit.
The week of my baptism was full of trials. My boss threatened to fire me if I didn’t skip my baptism to fill in for someone, I ended up in the hospital with kidney stones, and my parents asked me to leave our home. With so many things out of my control, the only thing I could do was turn to the Lord.
Every one of those trials did turn out to be for my benefit. They helped me learn about the doctrines of the gospel, which provided me a foundation for my testimony.

Mike is now 20. Last summer, he was home from his freshman year at BYU. His family, which had moved to Germantown, Tennessee, was planning a trip back to Virginia and North Carolina to visit friends.
One night the phone rang. It was Ira Spencer.
“We hear ya’ll are headed this way,” he told Mike. “Me and the boys are going to take the boat out as a family. Would you like to tag along and make a little money for your mission? Bring your dad, too, and we’ll show him what life’s like out on the water.”
And that’s how Mike and his father ended up on the War Cry, this time sailing out of Newport, Rhode Island. “The fishing’s better up north right now,” Duke explained. Dave Spencer, 18, (Ira’s son and Duke’s brother) and Duke’s nine-year-old son, Sam (nicknamed “Hambone”), rounded out the crew.
After walking along the same Newport streets that George Washington traveled, past clapboard cottages and governor’s mansions as old as the American colonies, and stopping for five grocery carts full of food, the crew made its way to the wharf, climbed over a neighboring ship’s deck, and finally set foot on the War Cry.
Mike started remembering. “First I noticed the smells—the salt water, the fish. Then I saw the hooks on all the doors, even on the refrigerator, to keep them closed when the ship rocks, then the iron rods you use to clamp pots and pans in place. Then I looked in the sleeping quarters and remembered the narrow, hard bunks that seemed like heaven when you got a chance to use them. Then Ira and my dad fired up the engines and I remembered the noise. You have to run the engines to run the generators, and you have to run the generators to operate the rest of the equipment, the radios, the fridge. After a while you get numb to it. But at first it seems like everyone’s deaf. You have to shout to be heard.”
Noise or no noise, everyone slept aboard ship that night. And they were up early the next morning, winding miles of iron cable onto the winches, inspecting and mending nets, pouring oil by the drum into oil tanks. Seventy-five dollar filters were removed and replaced. Weather reports and market prices were checked. Eighteen tons of ice, used to keep the fish fresh, were pumped into the hold.
By late afternoon, the War Cry was underway. Sam sat on the bow and waved at a lighthouse. With David and Mike he read names of other boats as the trawler passed them on its way to harvest the sea. The Captain Ralph, the Iron Horse, the Mikentodd, the Harry Glen. The Ramona, the Skylight, the Venus, and the Chief Wanchese. Soon the city was far behind, then the shore; then there was nothing but a flat horizon. The three young men were called inside for dinner, followed by stories, jokes, and laughter, followed by sleep.
The first “haulback” came in the dark of the night. A haulback means the net is full and it’s being pulled out of the water to be dumped on deck. When the captain calls, you’ve got about five minutes until the fish come in. Like zombies from some old horror movie, fathers and sons together rose from sleep, pulled on heavy boots and overalls, pulled on yellow sea bonnets, and stumbled outside into the mist.
“Sometimes the salt air revives you,” Dave said. “Sometimes all it does is give you a chill.” This time it did a little of both. Yawns were universal. But the work went on. With Ira in the wheelhouse keeping the War Cry on course, David, Mike, and Sam positioned 16-foot, two-by-ten deck boards to hold the catch in place. Duke pulled hydraulic levers to raise the dripping bundle out of the depths and position it over the deck. Brother Lee tugged a rope that opened the bottom of the net, spilling the squirming contents out into a flat, flapping pile.
Instantly the sorting began. It takes quite an eye to be able to pick out and size the different types of flounder, and the talent of a Dr. J. to consistently flip them into the right basket. For Mike and Dave, it was an old routine. Like a power forward, Dave worked with both hands, flinging fish over his shoulders without looking up, shoveling trash fish between his legs. Like a center fighting for rebounds, Mike preferred to work close to the basket, loading it with one type of fish, then pulling up another basket to start all over again. For Sam, the sorting time was an adventure. He would waddle nearly knee-deep in fish, mud, and seaweed, picking out lobsters, crabs, and scallops, isolating them in special pails of their own. He was the guard on the team, carefully selecting his shots, working from the outside, calling for help when he needed it like an open man calls for a pass.
Brother Lee was amazed at the entire operation. “I felt totally outclassed. These guys were real pros, and I felt like a rookie in his first training camp.” But like any eager player would, he made up for inexperience with hustle.
To make the analogy complete, Duke would have been a player-coach, offering advice and assistance, jumping in to do some sorting himself as necessary. And Ira would, of course, have been the team owner, reassuring others with his presence, keeping the entire operation in order. (It was his boat, after all.)
Soon another net had been hauled back and sorted. Then another, then another, then another, then another. At what point today blurred into tomorrow blurred into the next day and the next, nobody was quite sure. The sun went down; the sun came up. Meals, at first looked forward to as a break in the monotony, finally became part of the routine.
“We ate snacks instead of lunch and took cat naps instead of sleeping,” Mike said. “You know, I really loved this when I was 16, but I’d forgotten how dead-bone tired you get. My back is starting to kill me.”
Then he looked over at his father. “We don’t get to spend a lot of time together,” Mike said. “I’m sure this is difficult work for him. He’s more the type who would rather teach or be in an office. But it’s helped him understand what I went through. He’s already told me that.”
And Brother Lee, an oral pathologist and dental educator, agreed. “I’ve never worked so hard in all of my life. Even the two-a-day workouts when I played college football are pale by comparison. But if it helps me understand my son, it’s worth it. This time on the boat is something we’ll always share.”
Later that day, Mike and his father were seated on an old plank next to each other, opening scallops, tossing the shells overboard. The shells would skip as they hit the water, then sink, spinning shiny white loops as they drifted out of sight. The conversation was pleasant, intimate. They talked of school. They talked of the other Lees back home. They talked about Mike becoming an elder soon, about his going on a mission. They talked about another fisherman, from Galilee, of how he called Peter, Andrew, James, and John to leave their nets and cast for the souls of men.
All around Mike and his father were the sounds, the smells, and the ocean. In this realm of rust and motion, of motors and commotion, they had found a moment of peace.
The first fistful of ice hit Sam softly on the shoulder.
“Hey,” he shouted, but he could see Dave coming. Soon Sam had a handful of his own, and the great ice fight was on, with both uncle and nephew flinging pieces of frozen water at each other. It was a short-lived battle. Sam ended up with ice down his chest, but he got a hug from Dave in return.

One day my missionary companion and I were given a referral to teach a man who lived in a village called Tema, near the beautiful city of Accra, Ghana. The numbering of the houses in that village was not quite accurate, so we were given a written description to help us locate the house.
When we arrived in the village, we followed the directions but could not find the man because there seemed to be many houses that fit that same description. Feeling confused, we decided to knock on doors in the neighborhood to ask, but no one seemed to know the man we were looking for. I had the prompting to ask Heavenly Father for help.
After we prayed, I had the feeling that we would find the man we were looking for, so we intensified our efforts. Still, we did not find him. We got tired and decided to return to our proselyting area because we had other appointments. When we got to the taxi park, the taxi driver who had brought us to the village saw the disappointed looks on our faces and asked if we had found who we were looking for. Our answer was, of course, no.
He suggested we go inside a school that stood on the corner and ask there. We told him that was not the description we had been given, but he insisted. We got out of the taxi and headed to the school—not because we thought we would find anyone, but just to please our concerned friend.
As we started walking toward the administration building at the school, a little boy came running in our direction. He smiled and told us that he and his brother were the only members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints living in this area and that he could help us.
My companion and I looked at each other in disbelief. It was a miracle. The boy helped us find the man we were looking for, and eventually he accepted the gospel and was baptized.
This experience taught me that Heavenly Father answers prayers in His own time and in His own way. When we do not get immediate answers to our prayers, we can exercise faith in Him and learn to be patient.

Just before dawn, Jared felt Aunt Phebe’s boot in the small of his back, not too hard, but businesslike. He pulled his head out of the bedroll and squinted into the pale gray light. The circle of covered wagons stood ghostly and still, but he could hear pans clanging gently, wood thudding into piles for breakfast fires, women preparing for another day of travel.
Jared pulled himself into a sitting position, keen anticipation surging through him. A kind of magic had come into each day since Catherine and her family had joined the wagon train at Council Bluffs. He watched her every day as she walked beside her family’s wagon, often with her younger brother holding one hand. He guessed her to be near his own age. Jared had not yet had the courage to speak to her, and she seemed quite unaware of him.
Aunt Phebe had gone about the business of breakfast, and Jared quickly pulled on his boots and his hat and started out onto the prairie to gather firewood. He breathed the cool, clear air deeply, relishing this pleasant time before the prairie sun began to beat down on their heads. A cottontail darted into the sagebrush, and Jared knew he should have brought his gun. Rations were good now, but things might be different by the end of the journey. He felt his responsibility to provide food, but he hated shooting small animals. He guessed that was why he was always leaving his gun behind.
Coming back into the camp, Jared peered around his load of wood to see if Catherine was out of her wagon, but he couldn’t see her.
“Jared, please quit gawking around and bring that wood,” Aunt Phebe called to him. Jared dumped the wood on the ground by the wagon and smiled at his aunt, his mother’s sister. She returned his smile, shaking her head gently at him, and then stooped to feed the fire that was already blazing brightly from last night’s coals. Jared studied her, thinking how different she was from his mother. His mother had been tall, too, but slender, her long arms and hands graceful and quick. Jared’s stomach still tightened with grief when he thought about her—how pale and still she had lain; how suddenly and silently she had gone. Before leaving Winter Quarters his dad married Aunt Phebe. She was strong and cheerful and a wonderful cook. Jared watched her work, her generous frame bent over the fire. He loved her, and at the same time he wished it were his own mother working there. Suddenly Aunt Phebe looked up.
“Jared, don’t you have anything to do?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jared smiled at her again and turned toward the wagon. His father was checking harnesses, hitching up the oxen for their day’s work. As he moved around the animals, he patted them and talked softly to them.
Jared folded his bedroll neatly and tucked it into its place in the wagon. He looked at the black trunk that stood against one side. Jared hesitated, wondering if he had time to look at the doll without being disturbed. Then he quickly undid the latches and opened the trunk. Carefully he folded back the linens that covered it and looked at the beautiful porcelain figurine.
In spite of its age and the delicate spiderweb cracks that covered it, the colors remained pure and vibrant. Its dress was painted an exquisite clear blue; auburn hair surrounded the gentle face. Jared liked the arms, slightly outstretched as though to receive a running child. His mother had told him about the doll many times—how her grandmother had given it to her when she was a little girl; how it had always sat on her mantle. When she lay sick, she had given it to him.
“Take it to your new home, Jared, and when you are married, put it on your mantle. Perhaps your wife will treasure it.”
Jared knew his mother had grieved at not having a daughter, and now she would not see her daughter-in-law either. Jared’s eyes misted as he gently folded the linens over the doll. No daughter could treasure it more than he did, and he didn’t care who might think it silly or unmanly. Still, he didn’t want anyone to see him with it. Quickly he closed the trunk and hurried to help his father with the rest of the morning chores.
Later, as Jared walked beside the wagon, he could see Catherine up ahead, striding easily along with her little brother on one side and her older brother on the other. Jared liked the way she walked, strong and easy, a relaxed kind of eagerness in her gait. Her dark hair lifted gently on her back beneath her bonnet. From time to time she leaned down and picked up a pebble, putting it quickly into her pocket. Jared wondered what she was saving them for. He would have liked to quicken his pace until he walked beside her, but he couldn’t. She was always so closely surrounded by her family. Her four brothers packed wood and water and did everything else that needed doing. It would be ludicrous for Jared to offer to help. How could she be so close and yet so inaccessible? He wondered if they would arrive in the valley without his ever having spoken to her. The day was becoming hot. Sweat began to trickle down his spine. He envied Aunt Phebe sitting on the wagon driving the team. His father walked beside the oxen. He had often said that it would be time for strong men to ride when they were sick or injured. Until then, they walked. His father loved his oxen and spared them whenever he could.
That evening Jared helped his father set up camp. Tomorrow was the Sabbath, and they would stay here and rest. They had traveled late in order to reach the stream, but it was almost dry. Dark water lay in pools among the rocks. But large cottonwoods grew along the bank, and the spot was pleasant. Their barrels contained enough for a few more days travel, so the need for water was not desperate.
After supper and the evening chores, the men built a large fire in the center of the circle, and everyone gathered around for singing and dancing. Jared sat between his father and Aunt Phebe. He was keenly aware of Catherine only a few feet away, surrounded as always by her brothers. After the group had sung several hymns, Brother Aimes struck a lively tune on his fiddle, and several couples got up to dance. One of Catherine’s brothers took her hand and pulled her into the circle of dancers. Jared watched her continuously, his heart constricting until he felt he could hardly breathe. Her long dark hair whirled about her face. Her arms were bare in the warm summer evening. They reminded him of the doll, graceful and somehow delicate, although they were brown and quite used to work. She and her brother passed quite close to Jared. As they turned, Catherine looked directly into Jared’s eyes and smiled slightly. He felt his face redden, and his heart hammered in his chest.
“You could just go ask her. Her brother would give her up.” Aunt Phebe’s voice startled him.
“I couldn’t do that,” he mumbled, his face hot.
Aunt Phebe patted his knee.
“Well, do what you feel good about doing, but I suggest you do something before the journey’s over. Once we reach the valley, she’ll have dozens of suitors.”
Jared wondered if Aunt Phebe had meant to encourage him. What he felt was a bleak depression. He forced himself not to look at Catherine. Jared felt uncomfortable about dancing. He and his parents had been Baptists before they’d joined the Church, and dancing had been frowned on by his former congregation. He didn’t know any dance steps, although it looked simple enough. Maybe when she sat down he’d go over, but the thought of approaching her in front of all those people sent chills down his spine. His father and Aunt Phebe stood up and danced. Catherine had sat down, but Jared remained glued to the keg he sat on, feeling entirely miserable. When the wagon master stood up and called on Brother Adams to pray, Jared felt a mixture of relief that it was over and agony that he had missed his opportunity.
He lay awake a long while in his hard bed on the ground, mostly hating himself for his awkwardness. But tomorrow was another day, and the Sabbath too. There should be opportunities. Before he went to sleep, Jared determined that tomorrow should not pass without his approaching her in some way.
After the morning service and the noon meal, the Saints dispersed for naps and scripture reading. Some of the women gathered under the cottonwood trees to relax and visit.
Jared wandered aimlessly around the wagons, alert for any sign of Catherine, hoping desperately that she would not join the women under the trees. He tried to station himself between her wagon and the women without appearing to have a purpose there.
Suddenly some movement off in the sagebrush caught his eye. Someone was moving around in the brush. As he watched, Catherine came into view, bending over, studying something on the ground. Jared couldn’t believe his luck. He walked slowly toward her, trying to appear nonchalant, hoping no one would see him. Catherine did not see him until he was close enough to touch her.
“Hello,” he said.
She stood up quickly, her face flushed, tendrils of hair clinging damply to her forehead.
“Hello,” she said, smoothing her dress and straightening her bonnet.
Seeing her so flustered gave Jared some courage.
“May I ask what you’re doing?” he said, smiling at her.
“Well, actually, I was looking for rocks.”
“Rocks? What for?” Jared wanted to look into her brown eyes, remembering her look at the dance, but instead he looked just beyond her.
“I like rocks. I collect them.” She cupped the large pocket of her dress in her hand and jiggled it. It bulged with small rocks.
“Could I help you look?” Jared said, finally looking directly into her eyes and experiencing a slight shiver through his body.
“Why yes, I’d like that.” They walked in silence for a time, both watching the ground. Suddenly Jared laughed.
“I really don’t know what I’m looking for at all,” he said. Catherine laughed too and stopped walking.
“I really don’t know what to tell you. I just look for rocks that are unusual in their shape or color or texture.” She took a handful of rocks from her pocket. To Jared they looked fairly ordinary.
“Look at this one,” she said, holding it up to the light. Jared could see that it was rather translucent, a soft purple in color.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. He took it from her hand and studied it.
“I have a book that tells the names of many different kinds of rocks. When we get to the valley, I hope to learn more.” She stopped talking abruptly and looked at him. “Do you think that’s strange?”
“Why no,” he said, looking at her for the second time.
“Does it seem unfeminine to you for me to be interested in geology?” She looked at him so directly that he didn’t know what to say for a moment. Then a feeling of great warmth came over him. Something relaxed and opened within him. He wanted very much to show her the doll.
“No, it doesn’t,” he said. “Would you come back to my wagon and let me show you something?”
“Yes.”
He held the stone in his palm. “May I keep this?” he asked, opening his hand.
“Yes,” she said again, and Jared dropped it into his pocket.
They picked their way carefully over the roots and mounds in their path, and at one point Jared took her hand. When they reached the camp, they dropped each other’s hand, but Jared didn’t mind if the sisters under the cottonwoods observed them coming into camp together, which they did.
When they reached the wagon, Jared crawled inside, then took Catherine’s hand and helped her in. He opened the latches on the trunk, folded back the linens, and lifted the porcelain figurine in his two hands. He held it in the light from the back of the wagon and said nothing for a moment. Catherine took it carefully from his hands and looked at it closely.
“My mother gave this to me before she died. Her grandmother gave it to her when she was a little girl. My mother said I should put it on my mantle.” Jared was silent a moment. “Do you think it’s unmanly for me to treasure a doll?”
Catherine smiled, a warm, radiant smile.
“Jared,” she said, “in the first place, this is not just a doll. It’s a work of art and an heirloom. It’s exquisite. And if it were just a doll, I still wouldn’t think it unmanly.”
“Would this doll look right next to a rock collection on the mantle?” Jared was amazed at his own boldness. He lowered his eyes, and both were silent a moment.
“No,” she said decisively. “But something like my grandmother’s rosebud vase could stand with it.” Then she added more shyly, “Someone will have to build some sturdy shelves for my rocks one day.”
Jared took the doll from her hands and laid it in the trunk, too overcome by his emotions to speak.
“I wanted to ask you to dance last night,” he said finally.
“I was hoping you would.”
“Next Saturday night I will.” He took her hand and helped her down from the wagon. He continued holding her hand as they walked across the prairie grass to where her family rested in the shade.

From her playhouse inside the willow thicket Hannah heard her mother call, “Where are you, Hannah? I need you.”
After putting her dolls in their secret hiding place, Hannah went into the house.
“I’m glad you came so quickly, Hannah,” Mother said with a smile. “I must hurry over to Sister Hansen’s house. Would you please bring some potatoes from the root cellar so I can start supper when I come back.”
“Oh, Mother!” Hannah’s skin prickled with dread. “The cellar’s full of spiders, and today I saw a toad hop out. I don’t want to go down there.”
“Sometimes we all must do things we don’t want to do. Take your little brother with you if you like,” Mother said, putting her hand on Sammy’s shoulder.
“I’ll go with you,” Sammy said good-naturedly. And standing tall and brave, he added, “I’m not afraid of anything!”
But after their mother started down the lane, her long skirt swinging and her flowered sunbonnet bright, Sammy said, “I don’t like that old root cellar much either.”
“I’ll tell Mother if you don’t come,” scolded Hannah.
Her brother put his hands into his overall pockets defiantly and wouldn’t move. Hannah glared at him a moment and then, trying to look brave, marched toward the slanting plank door placed at ground level behind the house. She lifted the door, then closed it quickly. Just to look at the uneven steps cut into the damp earth made Hannah shudder.
Spiders and the dim light were bad enough, but yesterday she’d heard Father say to Mr. Hansen, “When we finish that irrigation ditch to my property line, I must take time to finish my root cellar. Those temporary supports propping up that dirty roof might not hold.”
If I had only remembered to tell Mother what Father said, thought Hannah, she wouldn’t want me and Sammy to go into the cellar. She turned to walk away. Then Hannah remembered how sad and weak Mother looked since the new baby died and how hard Father had to work. Hannah knew she must do her share, but she decided her brother would have to go with her whether he wanted to or not.
Hannah turned to Sammy, who had followed her. “You go down first,” she ordered.
“Not me!” he said stubbornly.
“You’re just a fraidycat!”
Sammy cried, “I am not! Dumb old toads and spiders don’t scare me.” With that, he stooped and threw open the cellar door, and his sister barely managed to stop it from banging shut again.
Hannah started down the steps behind her brother, walking backward so she could prop the door open. Then Sammy’s voice, echoing in the small enclosure, mocked, “Hannah is afraid!”
Angry, she swung around, lost her hold on the door, and it banged shut, knocking her down the steps.
Hannah rose to her knees, terrified by the darkness. If toads and spiders were near, she couldn’t even see them.
“Hannah, what happened?” cried Sammy. But she didn’t answer because she was startled at the heaviness of wet earth falling on her head and shoulders.
The roof is caving in! she thought. The door banging shut must have knocked the boards loose that Father had used as props.
Nearby she heard her little brother call, “Oh, Hannah, help! I’m all covered with dirt!”
“I’ll be there in a minute, Sammy,” Hannah promised as she groped in the dark, trying to find the door to shove it open. But her searching hands clutched at only wet dirt. The entrance was blocked. She and Sammy were trapped in the root cellar.
The darkness around them was like nothing Hannah had ever imagined. Blue-dark of night with silver starlight was nothing like this brown-dark with its loamy dankness, a blackness filled with shifting dirt particles.
Sammy was crying with loud, choking sobs. I mustn’t cry, Hannah thought, even though I’m scared too. We don’t have enough air, and my chest is beginning to hurt. She reached for her brother. When her hand touched his shoulder she struggled closer so that she could hug him.
“Don’t cry, Sammy,” she comforted. “We must try to breathe carefully so we don’t use up all the air in here.”
He gulped, “What can we do, Hannah?”
“We can pray,” she told him, and then closing her eyes Hannah began, “Heavenly Father, please help me and Sammy. We’re almost buried in this cellar and nobody’s home. Please help us get out.”
Talking hurt her throat so she said, “Amen,” silently. The air in the cellar was nearly gone.
Hannah was no longer worried about toads and spiders as she felt around the area where she and Sammy crouched. Her fingers touched a rough object. Running her hand across its surface she knew she had found a board Father had used to support the roof.
“Help me, Sammy,” she gasped. “Let’s try to poke a hole through the dirt over our heads.”
Her brother’s hands met hers. Together they grasped the splintery board, pushing it upright until Hannah felt it strike solid dirt.
“All right, Sammy. Let’s push, but be careful. We mustn’t knock any more dirt loose.”
Silent, gasping, they carefully prodded the unseen roof over their heads again and again.
Just as Sammy whispered, “I’m too tired, Hannah,” the board pushed free. They had broken through!
Sammy’s hands dropped, but Hannah, trembling, worked the board back and forth until she saw a blue circle of light. They had air, but would it be enough? There was still a tightness in her chest and Sammy, sobbing again, sounded feeble.
Hannah took a breath, then held it. “What’s that noise?” she whispered.
A steady thud thump, thud vibrated the dirt around them. Someone is outside, but Mother wouldn’t have come back from the Hansens so soon, Hannah decided.
Suddenly an opening that let in more light and air appeared near the door and a man’s voice called, “Anybody there?”
“Yes! We’re in here.”
“Are you OK?”
Hannah couldn’t answer, but the man said, “Stay calm. I’ll have you out in a minute.”
When a pair of hands appeared, Hannah somehow managed to push Sammy toward the opening where he could be pulled out. Then she felt strong fingers around her wrists, and she was pulled through the small opening made in the damp earth.
Hannah blinked in the bright, clean air as Brother Card looked down at her, a smile on his bearded face.
She stumbled to her feet beside Sammy just as Father’s horse clattered up. Jumping down, he ran to Sammy and Hannah and hugged them close. “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.
“We are now, Father,” Hannah answered, “but we nearly smothered. The roof of the cellar caved in.”
“It’s all my fault,” Father said, rubbing his forehead. “I should have fixed that roof long ago.”
Brother Card comforted, “Now, don’t blame yourself, Joseph. Every settler in town has had more work to do than he has had time for.”
“Hannah saved us, Father,” Sammy said. “We poked a hole through the roof with a board.”
“That’s what I saw when I came by, which was a mighty strange thing for me to do,” Brother Card explained. “I haven’t crossed your property in the two years we’ve been neighbors, Joseph. I wasn’t going to this afternoon either. But for some reason my feet turned this way. First thing you know I saw that board sticking through the ground, waving like a signal. I guess the Lord guided me here.”
Sammy and Hannah smiled at each other. “Brother Card, we know He did,” Hannah said quietly.

We’ve decided Georg can’t play with us anymore,” Johnny said as he stood up straight.
“Why not?” David asked.
“Come on, you know!” Johnny answered.
“No, I don’t. Georg might be different from us, but that’s no reason to keep him from playing,” David defended.
“Different? Georg is more than different. He’s stupid.”
“He can’t understand, but he’s not stupid!” David exclaimed.
“If you ask me, not understanding is what stupid is,” one of the other boys joined in.
Eleven-year-old David looked helplessly at his cousin. Georg’s innocent face was one big smile as he watched David, who wanted to run and hide and never have to look at that smile again. But that was impossible.
Georg’s parents had died, and Georg had come all the way from his home in Denmark to live with David. David looked again at Johnny and his other friends. Their faces glared from a circle around him, waiting for an answer.
“All right, I’ll take Georg home,” David sighed.
Angry with himself for not knowing what to do, and angry with Georg, David took hold of his cousin’s arm and started toward home.
“No, David,” Georg said as he stood still. “Ball.”
“Georg, you don’t understand,” David said, feeling very helpless. “The guys won’t let you play with them anymore.”
Georg’s smile faded and his eyebrows pushed together very puzzled. Then just as suddenly he smiled again, “Yah, Davy.”
“Georg, they don’t …” David started to explain, and then he realized that Georg wouldn’t understand anyway. “Oh, never mind. Come on!”
David walked a little faster, thinking hard about what had happened. Why did Georg have to come live with me? Why don’t I have an ordinary cousin like everyone else? One who can speak English!
Soon they were home. Georg went to play in the family room and David went to his room and stretched out on his bed to think some more.
“Are you sick?” Mother asked as she came into David’s room to put away some clothes.
“No,” David answered. “I’m just thinking about something.”
“You certainly must be thinking hard. Can I help you?” Mother asked as she sat on the bed.
“I don’t know.” David stared at the ceiling. “Mom, why is Georg the way he is?”
Mother looked surprised, “What do you mean?”
“You know. He’s—well, he’s different,” David replied.
“How do you mean different? He’s the same size as you. As a matter of fact, he’s wearing your clothes. Georg likes the same things you do—chocolate bars and pancakes. And he gets happy or sad over the same things you do.”
“But, Mom, he’s …” David stopped, not sure of how to say what he meant.
“Did something happen today?” Mother asked.
“Yes, the guys wouldn’t let Georg play because they said he isn’t smart enough.”
“Georg is very smart. He doesn’t speak the same language we do, but he’s learning fast. Georg has other traits that make him very special, though, and you don’t need to speak the same language to understand those.”
David looked puzzled. “But my friends don’t want Georg around, and I don’t blame them. He just doesn’t understand when we try to tell him how to do something. What am I supposed to do?”
“I can’t tell you,” Mother advised. “That is something you have to decide for yourself.”
Mother smiled as she stood up. “There are two things you should remember, though. First, Georg loves you very much. Second, Georg may not be able to understand yet, but he is a child of God just like you and your other friends, and Heavenly Father loves him just as He loves you.”
Suddenly Georg ran into the room. “Come, Davy!” he cried breathlessly.
Mother winked at David as she left the room.
“Come, Davy,” Georg urged.
“Oh, all right,” David said, not really wanting to go. “I’ll come.”
Georg took hold of David’s arm as he guided him to the couch. Then he opened a book and started to read. “Vay,” he sounded out a word carefully, smiling that happy smile David knew so well.
“Vay?” David repeated.
“Vay.” Georg’s smile grew bigger and bigger.
David looked at the book. “We! The word is we.”
Georg looked disappointed, but then he smiled again. “Vee,” he said.
David shook his head back and forth. “No, we,” he said as he turned away from his cousin and went back to his room.
Why? Why? Why? he kept thinking as he flopped on the bed. If Georg could only understand, we could have so much fun together!
David had been on his bed only a moment when he heard a soft knock at the door. The door opened slowly, and Georg’s blue eyes peered cautiously around the door.
“Davy?” he asked softly.
David didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at Georg, who walked over to the bed and sat down. Georg spoke slowly, but it was no use. David couldn’t understand. The words just didn’t mean anything to him.
David looked at Georg. He doesn’t understand what I say, but I don’t understand him either. For the first time David began to wonder what Georg must think of him. Maybe Georg thinks I’m stupid because I don’t understand him.
David looked at Georg again. He was still talking as if he were desperately trying to explain something. All at once David knew exactly what Georg was trying to say! He wanted to be friends. He was telling David how much he liked him. David didn’t need to understand Danish, for he could see it in Georg’s face.
Georg had finished talking now, and he sat waiting for an answer. David felt ashamed. Then he smiled and Georg smiled back. Both boys understood without words!
“Dinner is ready,” Mother called.
David motioned to Georg, and they both hurried from the room.
As David passed his mother in the hall, he stopped. “I was wrong, Mom. It isn’t Georg who doesn’t understand—it’s me. And, you know, Georg may not understand English, but he sure understands friendship. And he’s teaching me. Georg really is a special friend.”
Mother smiled. “You know, you’re pretty special yourself,” she replied.
Georg was already at the table. His face was all aglow with his special smile that beamed, “Hi, friend!”
“You know, Mom,” David chuckled, “maybe Georg could teach me Danish!”

While the girls were waiting for the volleyball to start, Carol Lindsay of the London North Ward talked about her conversion. “I read a book written by a Protestant minister about the trek west led by Brigham Young. I thought when I read that there must be something to this church if they would walk all those many miles for it. I walked into a chapel in Edinburgh and said, ‘Here I am, what are you going to do with me?’ I got impatient during the missionary discussions waiting for them to challenge me to baptism.”

During a stake conference assignment a few years ago while serving in South America, I met a couple that was grieving the recent death of their infant son.
It was in an interview during the course of the conference that I first met with Brother Tumiri and learned of his loss. As we spoke, he shared that not only was he deeply saddened by the death of his son, but he was also devastated at the thought of never seeing him again. He explained that as relatively new members of the Church, they had saved enough money to attend the temple just one time, prior to the birth of their little boy, where they had been sealed as a couple and had their two daughters sealed to them. He then described how they had been saving money for a return trip to the temple but hadn’t yet been able to take their little boy in order to be sealed to him as well.
Recognizing a possible misunderstanding, I explained that he would indeed see his son again, if he remained faithful, because the sealing ordinance that had bound him to his wife and daughters was also sufficient to bind him to his son, who had been born in the covenant.
Amazed, he asked if this was really true, and when I confirmed that it was, he then asked if I would be willing to speak with his wife, who had been inconsolable during the two weeks since their son’s death.
Sunday afternoon, following the conference, I met with Sister Tumiri and explained this glorious doctrine to her as well. With the pain of her loss still fresh, but now with a glimmer of hope, she tearfully asked, “Will I really be able to hold my little boy in my arms again? Is he really mine forever?” I assured her that as she kept her covenants, the sealing power found in the temple, effective because of the authority of Jesus Christ, would indeed allow her to be with her son again and hold him in her arms.
Sister Tumiri, though heartbroken by the death of her son, left our meeting with tears of gratitude and filled with peace because of the sacred ordinances of the temple, made possible by our Savior and Redeemer.

I was ordained a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood in a tiny branch of the Church. There was only one family in the branch. We had no chapel. We met in our house. I was the only deacon and my brother the only teacher.
So I know what it is like to exercise the priesthood alone, without serving with others in a quorum. I was content in that small branch without a quorum. I had no way to know what I was missing. And then my family moved across a continent to where there were many priesthood holders and strong quorums.

Illustration by Eva Vazquez
After our nephew got into a serious accident, my wife, Ana María, and I talked about our desire to know the truth among so many different religions and beliefs. One afternoon I sat down on my bed and prayed, “Lord, please help me find a way to know which church is true.”
Five minutes later, the phone rang. A friend called to invite my wife and me to his home to learn about some nutritional products. We went, and while we were there, our friend gave us a Book of Mormon. On the title page was a personal note: “I hope this book helps you get closer to our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The next day, I looked at the book and prayed again, “Lord, tell me if this book is true. I don’t want to offend you by reading something bad.”
I began reading. As I read, I felt as if I knew the people in the Book of Mormon. When I reached the end, I was so pained by the destruction of the Nephites that I wept. I had read hundreds of books, but no book had touched me the way the Book of Mormon did. I knew it was true.
One Sunday I invited Ana María to accompany me to a nearby chapel of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I thought she wouldn’t want to come, but she agreed. We liked what we heard. Afterward, ward members asked if they could send the missionaries over. “Of course,” we replied.
The missionaries soon arrived with the Book of Mormon in hand and said they had a message to share with us. “That’s a beautiful book,” I said. “I’ve already read it.” This surprised them. Then Ana María surprised me. “And I’m reading it now,” she said. “I’m in Mosiah.”
She had found the book on the table where I left it every day before work and began reading herself. Later she surprised me again when she said that when I was praying for direction from Heavenly Father a few weeks earlier, she had been uttering the same prayer in another part of our home.
I told the missionaries I was ready to be baptized. They taught us the lessons, and two weeks later, my wife and I were baptized and confirmed. We are so thankful that the Lord sent us the Book of Mormon to help us know which church is true.

One mother did her best to teach the steps of repentance in her home. Then came the day she helped her five-year-old son internalize the principles when she accompanied him to the store to account for a candy bar he had stolen. That experience is one the boy will never forget. He learned firsthand about taking responsibility for his actions. With fear in his heart, he returned the candy bar, offered an apology to the store manager, and promised never to steal again. I am pleased to report that he has kept that promise. I know—because I was the mother, and my son was the five-year-old.

Thank you for printing the article on patriarchal blessings in the February New Era. I had been interviewed and had my recommend, but was still slightly puzzled over the form of patriarchal blessings and why they are given. So I prayed. When I got home from college the next day, the February New Era with the article by Elder Richards was waiting for me. If that is not the answer to prayer, I don’t know what it is. The Lord surely moves in mysterious ways. I have only been in the Church a year but have a strong testimony. I know I could never leave the gospel now.
Elizabeth BullenLondon, England

Amid carefully tended flowers in my garden grows my favorite rosebush. Its lanky branches are wild and useless. Too heavy to support themselves, they creep across the grass. My father and my husband have encouraged me on numerous occasions to pull out the rosebush, but I simply will not do it. It was a Mother’s Day gift from my son, Jon.*

I remember the day he gave it to me. At first, I thought Jon had forgotten that it was Mother’s Day because he left early that morning without saying a word. I wondered where he was. It wasn’t like him to totally ignore a holiday. In spite of it, I enjoyed church, the lovely gifts others in my family lavished on me, and the nice dinner they prepared.

Finally, late that night, Jon arrived home with a beautiful, blooming rosebush in a small pot. He had planned to purchase the rosebush and then go to church with me as a special Mother’s Day gift, but like so many of his grandiose and thoughtful plans, this one had gone awry. In his search for the perfect rosebush, he had lost his car keys and become stranded. I listened to his explanation as I read the handwritten note he gave me. He promised to go to church with me next week. Tears blurred my vision. His eager words weren’t empty promises; he really planned to keep them. But something always interfered.

I mothered that rosebush in its small pot for more than a year. I followed the detailed directions that had come with it; I took it into the garage during the winter; I shaded it when the Arizona* sun was too hot. And I never stopped praying, along with everyone else in my family, that Jon would someday flourish and bloom as I hoped the plant he’d given me would.

When we moved from Arizona back to my Wyoming hometown, I took the rosebush with me in the car. Jon stayed behind because he wanted to try being independent. Since Wyoming was to become our permanent home, I planted Jon’s rosebush in our flower garden.

The first year, it did poorly—even though I fussed over it, read gardening books, and asked advice. I soaked the roots, fertilized it, and kept the aphids off it. I tried everything. It stayed alive, but it never flourished. Every time I tended it, I thought of Jon back in Arizona and prayed for him. He called occasionally and sounded confident: “Doing great, Mom. No problems.” But we worried. As I anxiously tended the rosebush, I hoped that next year it would do better.

In the fall, I pruned the rosebush back and packed manure around the roots to protect it. That winter was the coldest in forty years. I waited anxiously to see if my one special plant had survived. With my coat flapping in the whistling wind, I knelt in the snow and looked at the bare limbs of the rosebush. Was there any sign of life under the dirty snow? I couldn’t tell.

That winter I sensed that Jon’s life wasn’t going as well as he had hoped it would. Many a night, when the east wind blew and our windows rattled, I lay sleeplessly wondering if he was going to church, eating right, or still running around with friends who used drugs. Though Jon never told us in his phone calls, we felt that he was struggling with problems he could not handle. He sounded as though he was suffering from clinical depression. I reminded him that we loved him and missed him and that he was always welcome to come home. I told him we were willing to pay for him to get medical attention.

When spring finally came, my other rosebushes started sending out tiny red leaves, but my special bush stood bare and lifeless. I watered it by hand and brushed away the dead leaves that covered it, hoping that I could somehow revive it.

One afternoon, my father, who is an expert gardener, inspected my rosebush and declared it dead. He stamped his cane at the gnarled, brown stub and said it was time to give up and plant another bush in its place. But I didn’t.

That spring I increased my fasting and prayers in Jon’s behalf. I went more often to the temple and always put his name on the prayer roll. Then one midnight, we received a phone call. Jon had decided to come home. He didn’t tell us why, but that didn’t matter; we were just happy that he was joining our family again.

Not long after that, while working in my roses, I noticed a tiny green shoot poking its way out from deep under the roots of my special rosebush. Despite the odds, it had lived! I was so thrilled that I insisted my father come over and view the miracle growth.

“It’ll be wild,” my dad said. Patiently, he poked at the manure-covered shoot with his cane. “That growth is a sucker, coming out from below the graft, so it’ll never bear roses. You’d be better off pulling it up now and planting a new bush.”

“Never,” I said. Tears rolled down my face. It had survived the winter, though we thought it was dead. I couldn’t give up now.

So I continue to tend my rosebush. Often I work in my flower gardens early in the morning. I treasure the tranquil feeling that comes over me as I kneel in the grass, tend my roses, and pray for Jon. I am grateful that he is home. Our family’s prayers for Jon continue. We’re all glad he has come back. At least we don’t worry whether he’s eating or not. My motherly intuition tells me that something is still not right. My husband and my father remind me that Jon is young and that eventually he’ll mature and straighten up. I hoard the morning’s quiet pleasures. Too soon the heat and frustrations and challenges of the day will disturb them. But not yet.

Working in my garden reminds me of my grandmother and of her faith in my grandfather. The clippers cramp my hand as I prune my wild, overgrown rosebush. I carefully lay the branches in a neat pile. A blast of loud music from a radio in Jon’s room in the basement startles me, but it is quickly squelched and quiet reigns again. Jon will be getting up soon.

By the time I finish pruning, the sun is up, warm on my face. The pile of branches is higher than I’d expected it to be. My hands and arms are scratched and torn as I force the thorny limbs into a garbage bag. Several strong thorns have pierced my hands, and they are bleeding. I hear a bird call as I kneel on the grass, and I wonder if birds feel anything as they watch their babies fly for the first time. My heart is as sore as my hands, and I know the heat will soon be so intense that I will have to go in.

I hear Jon’s motorcycle as he roars off to work, and I rest for a moment. My tears drop like rain as my heart follows him. Then I remember my grandmother. I remember watching her graft a branch from one of her most beautiful rosebushes onto an old, half-dead bush. Her voice echoes to me from years ago. “I won’t give up on this bush without a fight,” she had said to me on that long-ago morning. “It’s too precious not to try to reclaim.”

The sun stretches out from its mountain bed and showers its rays across me as I kneel next to my own special bush. I wonder if I can graft some branches from some of my father’s rosebushes onto the unproductive bush Jon gave me. Maybe then it could be productive. Perhaps my father’s garden even contains some roses that are descended from those in my grandmother’s garden. I close my eyes and see my grandmother working industriously in the dawn, tending her fragrant roses. I wonder if others tried to convince her that roses would never grow in Idaho’s arid soil. Did others ever suggest that Grandfather would never change during all those years that he was not a member of the Church? Did Grandmother listen to them? Or did she keep working and praying and hoping?

I don’t care if I’m not practical. I don’t care if we pray for miracles that to some seem unlikely. I’m going to go to my dad’s garden and cut some starts from his roses. I will not give up on my special rosebush.

Loralee Anderson was tired of watching TV. It seemed like every time she turned on the news there was another story about teenagers getting into trouble. Why don’t they ever show the good things teenagers are doing? she wondered. Do people really think we are all bad?
Flash forward a year later. High school students from all over the Salt Lake Valley are gathered one morning, helping deliver food to the homeless. A man quietly approaches, takes an apple, and tells Loralee that he wishes the world had more teens like the group assembled here. Loralee watches her friends flipping pancakes and handing out fruit, and she smiles. Service is not just changing attitudes; it’s changing lives. Thanks to Loralee, teenagers from around the Salt Lake area are answering calls for help with an SOS of their own—a storm of service.

Jonathan Remengesau also is grateful for the blessing of a new wheelchair. Diabetes had caused his leg to be amputated in 2002. When his old wheelchair finally stopped functioning, he looked around for a new one. He was dismayed at the high cost of a new wheelchair—usually more than U.S. $700—a cost he knew he could not afford on his limited income. The plywood seat on his old chair was chafing his legs and causing painful sores. He finally gave up hope and decided to avoid leaving home. He rejoiced when he heard that he was qualified to receive a free wheelchair.

“This is the first time that anyone has really helped me like this,” he said as he sat in his new chair.

Aron C., age 10, Colombia
I help my father clean our house, and I receive money every month for helping. Instead of spending all my money, I set aside 10 percent for tithing and give it to the bishop. I feel good after I pay my tithing because I know the money goes to take care of the chapel and to buy books and many other things. I know that Jesus Christ gave us everything, and when we pay tithing, we give back to Him. I feel happy when I pay my tithing.

Throughout my life I have learned that when we follow the teachings of our prophets, we receive promised blessings. In the April 1986 general conference, President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) promised that if families would read the scriptures together regularly, the Spirit would fill their homes.1
My dear wife and I decided to follow that counsel. We set a goal to read a chapter a day from the Book of Mormon with our three children—Jorge, 10; Susi, 9; and Luis, 3. We read every day, each of us reading one verse at a time. Even though Luis could not yet read, he wanted to participate. He sat on my lap, facing me, with the Book of Mormon between us. When it was my turn to read, we both followed my finger as I pointed to each word, and Luis repeated out loud every word I read while he looked at those words upside down.
Just before he turned five years old, Luis asked, “When is it my turn to read?”
We explained that when he was older, he would go to school and learn to read.
He responded, “I already know how to read!”
Astonished, I handed him a Book of Mormon. He opened the book upside down and began to read perfectly. He had learned to read by following along in the Book of Mormon!
When he was six years old, Luis sometimes went with me to visit Church members. I asked him to share his testimony as well as a short scripture message that I had taught him. Whenever he read from the Book of Mormon, he held it upside down and read perfectly.
Luis is now finishing his university studies and working full-time. No matter how late he gets home from work, school, or a Church assignment, he still reads a chapter from the Book of Mormon before he goes to bed. The prophet’s promise has truly been fulfilled: as a result of our reading this sacred book, our family has been richly blessed and we are more united.

Nikki Estevez arrived in Adelaide, Australia from the Philippines in September 2019.
A few weeks after her arrival she was having a particularly hard day, struggling with the language and feeling very low, when she heard a voice saying, “I like your hat.”
When she turned around, she saw two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints smiling at her. Nikki noticed their badges and knew they were missionaries because her best friend growing up in the Philippines was a member of the Church.
The missionaries were serving in the Adelaide City Branch at the time and as they weren’t too far from the branch meeting place, they asked Nikki if she would like to have a look where they worship each Sunday.
As Nikki had no plans and needed a distraction to lift her spirits, she agreed.
One of the first things she noticed when they arrived was a painting of the First Vision, which depicts Joseph Smith being visited by God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ in 1820. As she looked at the artwork, the words “This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!”1 came to her mind.
Nikki said that at that moment she felt that all the things she had been through in her life prepared her to join the Church.
Nikki remembered seeing that painting at her friend’s home and asking why Jesus was in that picture. Her friend’s mother explained the First Vision to her so when Nikki saw that painting again, she remembered her friend’s mother’s explanation and in particular the words “This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!”
Nikki said that at that moment she felt goosebumps, which she later recognised as the Spirit speaking to her.
Nikki had the missionary discussions and was baptised in November 2019, three months after arriving in Australia.