Gospel Story Finder

My own change of heart started when, as a 12-year-old, I began to search for God. Other than saying the Lord’s Prayer,3 I didn’t really know how to pray. I remember kneeling, hoping I could feel His love, and asking, “Where are You, Heavenly Father? I know You must be out there somewhere, but where?” All through my teen years, I asked. I did have glimpses of the reality of Jesus Christ, but Heavenly Father, in His wisdom, let me seek and wait for 10 years.

In 1970, when the missionaries taught me about the Father’s plan of salvation and of the Savior’s Atonement, my waiting ended. I embraced these truths and was baptized.

Although I always strove to keep the commandments and live worthily, I truly started preparing to receive my own endowment before going on my mission.
I took a temple preparation class that was very helpful to me. Two ministering sisters offered to answer questions and help me know what to expect. And as I listened to their experiences and their testimonies, my anticipation to enter the temple intensified.
But much to my surprise, after I finished taking my temple prep class and as the day of my endowment drew closer, I started facing a lot of temptations.
Likewise, I saw a lot of opposition in preparing to serve a full-time mission. I experienced a lot of anxiety. My mental health started to dwindle, and I had to take necessary steps to face my feelings and move forward with faith.
As this was happening, I realized that the adversary did not want me to take these great spiritual steps.
To combat this opposition, I prayed every day for help to overcome temptations and my anxious feelings. I relied on Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ more than I ever had before. I fasted, studied the scriptures, and sought revelation. I prayed for strength to make the right decisions, to overcome my weaknesses, and to simply feel peace in my heart and keep an eternal perspective.
Those small spiritual practices helped me better recognize and follow the promptings of the Spirit. I also felt my anxiety lessen. I gained a greater understanding of the healing power of Jesus Christ and was often enveloped in peace when I turned to Him.
Ironically, it was through facing temptations and fear that I was able to come closer to Christ and prepare myself to receive my endowment.
And when I entered the Sapporo Japan Temple, the familiar Spirit I had felt as a child in the Tokyo Temple lobby was there, but this time it was so much stronger, just as I had always imagined it would be.
After receiving my endowment, I sat quietly in the celestial room and said a prayer, asking Heavenly Father what He wanted me to know.
The Spirit revealed to me that Heavenly Father knew me and my circumstances (see Doctrine and Covenants 38:2). I knew that He was pleased with me for making covenants and that He wants us to come to His house—a house that can truly distance us from the hectic world while strengthening us and bringing us closer to Him and Jesus Christ.
I felt the most powerful feeling of peace in my heart. And I was also able to receive the revelation I needed to feel confident in my decision to serve a mission.

Cara put down her pencil and stared at the piece of paper on her desk. It was blank except for her name and a big eraser smudge. “What should I write?” she thought.
Across the aisle, her friend Lily was writing busily. Cara put her head down and rested it on her arm.
Cara really liked her new school. It was in a church building of another religion, and her new class was small enough that her teacher, Mrs. Schmidt, had time to help her with math. Every day after math, Mrs. Schmidt taught a lesson from the Bible. Usually the Bible lessons were a lot like what Cara had learned at home and in Primary.
But a few weeks ago during a lesson about baptism, Mrs. Schmidt had told the class that babies who died before they were baptized couldn’t go to heaven. Then she said that one of her own children died right after he was born. When she said that, Mrs. Schmidt looked like she was going to cry.
“But babies who die do go to heaven,” Cara wanted to say. If only Mrs. Schmidt knew that, maybe she wouldn’t be so sad anymore. But Cara felt too shy to say anything.
After school, Cara told Mom about what Mrs. Schmidt said. “Knowing that babies go to heaven is one of the blessings we have because of the Book of Mormon,” Mom said. Cara hoped that Mrs. Schmidt would read the Book of Mormon someday. She wished she had the courage to tell her about it.
Now in today’s lesson, Mrs. Schmidt had told the class that God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost are all one person. Cara thought about how Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to Joseph Smith in the Sacred Grove. She knew that They were two separate people and that each had a body. She was glad she knew that for sure, even before talking to Mom or Dad about it.
But then Mrs. Schmidt had said, “Class, please take out a piece of paper and write about what we have been talking about.”
That’s when Cara got a worried feeling in her stomach. She wanted to do the assignment the way her teacher wanted her to. Could she be brave enough to write what she knew was true?
With her head down on her desk, Cara began to say a silent prayer. “Please, dear Heavenly Father, what should I do?”
Almost at once, Cara began to feel calm and peaceful inside. The Holy Ghost whispered that if she wrote what was in her heart, everything would be OK.
Cara lifted her head, picked up her pencil, and began to write.
Heavenly Father and Jesus are two separate people. They have bodies of flesh and bone like we do. The Holy Ghost is a Spirit who can speak to us in our hearts.
After writing a few more sentences, Cara put her pencil down. She didn’t know what Mrs. Schmidt would think of what she had written, but she felt happy that she had been able to tell her teacher something important and true.

“Tom,” said the high school English teacher, “how would you diagram this sentence?” All eyes turned to the back of the classroom where Tom was sleeping. The teacher raised her voice, slapped her yardstick against the chalkboard, and repeated, “Tom, what would you like to do with this sentence?” The young man lifted his head, blinked a time or two, and said sarcastically: “If I had my way, I would throw that sentence and all the others out the window.”
Members of the class laughed aloud. Most knew Tom and his aversion to school, books, teachers, and learning in general. It was no secret their classmate intended to drop out of school, and he was already a Church dropout. Many had heard Tom ridicule the need for formal education, especially the part which dealt with verbs, adjectives, and all that “stuff.”
Unfortunately, there is more than one Tom found among LDS youth. Too many Toms and Tammys squander precious learning experiences. In the end, they reap the bitter harvest of poorly developed skills, untapped abilities, limited social graces, and weak understandings of God and his holy purposes. Whether they realize it or not, they throw themselves out of the window of life when they turn their backs to education.
In my youth, I was taught by teachers who demonstrated an interest in me and exposed me to education in such a manner that thoughts of dropping out of school or church never entered my mind.
For example, Neal Jones, a science teacher, introduced me to the marvels of the universe. At the time when air travel was emerging, he invited his students to explore the possibilities of space travel and interplanetary communication.
In one intriguing discussion, we considered the prospects of flying to the stars and back. We calculated the distances and applied the rates of flight. We concluded that at 100 mph a pilot would grow old and die before reaching some of the heavenly bodies and returning to earth. None of us could foresee, as Mr. Jones could, the future wonders of rocket power, jet propulsion, and the like.
When Sputnik was launched, I thought of Mr. Jones’s classroom; when the moon landing occurred in 1969, I thought of Mr. Jones; and, when I learned of the Concorde reaching altitudes above 60,000 feet and speeds in excess of 1,000 miles per hour—I thought of Mr. Jones. He introduced me to the fascinating world of science and transfused in me a curiosity about the universe, and convinced me that “the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator” (Alma 30:44).
Another teacher bridged past and present. Sometimes as if by magic, he transported us into history. At other times, he projected us into the next generation, predicting future events with uncanny accuracy.
He acquainted us with world leaders. He placed maps before us and spoke of faraway places with strange-sounding names. He helped us understand and appreciate the special destiny of our own country.
Later, when I was drawn into a small segment of World War II, I thought of George Staples; when I served a mission in Palestine and Syria, I thought of Mr. Staples; and as I have traveled the world over for the Church I have thought of the inspiration Mr. Staples provided.
I am grateful for this teacher who broadened my horizons, who helped me develop a concern for all people of the earth. He helped me see the need to learn “of things both in heaven and in the earth, and under the earth; things which have been, things which are, things which must shortly come to pass; things which are at home, things which are abroad; the wars and the perplexities of the nations, … and a knowledge also of countries and of kingdoms” (D&C 88:79).
Most of my teachers believed in work and advocated good work habits. But the one who made me appreciate this principle most was a custodian-teacher by the name of Thatcher Smith.
Thatcher understood how much my friends and I loved to play basketball. It would have been simple for him on Saturday mornings to throw us a key to the gym and rid himself of our pleadings. Instead he insisted we clean out the furnace, dump the cinders, and clean the showers in exchange for playing basketball. We were required to work for our play.
Thatcher’s “gym rats” over a period of years became championship teams. Those same young men, in the passage of time, have worked and earned degrees and achievements in a variety of businesses and professions. Most have gained full understanding of the “sweat-of-thy-brow” concept.
Still another teacher taught me that the ultimate discovery in growing up is the discovery of oneself, when one comes face-to-face with his own limitations and, simultaneously, has his eyes opened to his talents.
Ellis “Red” Wade helped me make this discovery. He tested my manual skills (and his patience) by having me construct a piano stool and hall tree in a year of shop work. I labored endlessly. Nothing would fit together or vaguely resemble the paper sketches. It was apparent that building things with my hands was not one of my endowments. When I took my handiwork home, Mother positioned my hall tree behind a door where it served a purpose without being seen. My dad, I think, used the piano stool in milking the cow.
Fortunately, Mr. Wade could see I possessed physical skills and coordination. He taught me to respect my body and to strive toward athletic goals. He, and later Coach Staples, transfused me with the desire to strive for excellence in various forms of competition. This was not done in a lopsided fashion. They were always advocates of balance between physical and mental pursuits. I thank them for helping me follow this inspired direction: “Let no man despise thy youth; … Neglect not the gift that is in thee … Meditate upon these things; give thyself wholly to them; that thy profiting may appear to all” (1 Tim. 4:12, 14–15).
Recently, I was appalled to observe the television interview involving a high school graduate who could not add, subtract, multiply, or divide the simplest problems.
How very grateful I am that Mr. Lyle Asay taught me to think, calculate, and solve problems. He helped me to appreciate the words: “I applied mine heart to know, and to search, and to seek out wisdom, and the reason of things” (Eccl. 7:25).
At the same time, my father-teacher taught me that family relationships and ties do not guarantee the highest grades. He refused to play favorites; he expected the most from the one he knew and loved best.
Whenever I hear the word grace, I think of Miss Melba Erickson, an English teacher. Miss Erickson was not only a beautiful and graceful lady, but she transmitted most effectively the “graces of life” through language study. She ushered her students into that fascinating world of words and books. In the process, she groomed our speech, refined our writing, and motivated us to “study and learn, and become acquainted with all good books, and with languages, tongues, and people” (D&C 90:15).
It is a tragedy when young people fail to acquire the essential tools and graces of life through the traditional “R “s—reading, ’riting, and ’rithmetic. For it is through these disciplines that one masters the ability to think and to respond. Moreover, there is an exactness and preciseness associated with these studies that places the finishing edge on our development. Remember, social tools and graces are learned—not inherited.
I was privileged to have other teachers in public schools, in church, and in seminary who helped me understand the wisdom of these words: “To be learned is good if they hearken unto the counsels of God” (2 Ne. 9:29). My teachers of religion were men and women who believed faith was a principle of action. They knew “faith without works is dead” (James 2:26), so they taught me to live in accord with the truths gained from my studies.
It is vital that young Latter-day Saints understand that “the glory of God is intelligence” (D&C 93:36). Such understanding will enable them to appreciate the liberating and enlightening role played by education and cause them to heed this divine counsel: “And as all have not faith, seek ye diligently and teach one another words of wisdom; yea, seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom; seek learning, even by study and also by faith” (D&C 88:118).
One who drops out of the Church or school and who throws learning out of the window never gets off the ground; he or she never gets launched in life. On the other hand, one who has faith and who learns to master sentence structure, who builds hall trees and engages in other forms of mental and physical activities, climbs to new heights of achievement, enjoys a fullness of life, and prepares for the eternities.

When I was a stake president, there was a women’s conference by satellite broadcast. As it started, we had the video, but all we could hear was Korean.

And so, as a stake president, I pondered what we should do. As I thought about it, I noticed that under the Korean voice, there was a quiet English voice in the background. So I went to the pulpit and said, “Until we solve the problem, if you will listen carefully for the quiet English voice, you will be able to understand the conference talks. If you get distracted even for a minute, you will lose the message.” For 10 or 15 minutes, until we solved the technical problem, we were able to enjoy that message by listening to the quiet voice.

After serving a mission to Sweden, I moved to Provo to attend BYU. I worked part time at the MTC. One day I passed a young woman in the hall who looked familiar. I glanced at her nametag and saw that her name was Sister Gurr. I was surprised to see Lisa, the former cheerleader from my high school! I stopped her and told her who I was, and she was equally surprised. I then thanked her for living true to her standards and keeping her covenants at that party so long ago. She was truly a wonderful example and affected my life for good by staying true to who she was and what she believed.

Illustration by Matt Smith
Liza stared out the window as the rain drizzled against the glass. She felt as glum as the dark clouds outside. She pictured the warm beach near her grandparents’ house and how she and her cousins always went swimming in the ocean on Thanksgiving—it was their tradition. She thought about her aunts’ pies lined up on the kitchen counter, ready to be eaten. She thought about her grandparents’ big smiles when her family pulled into the driveway.
Liza squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying not to cry. This year there wouldn’t be any of those fun things. Dad had been out of work, and even though he had just started a new job, they couldn’t afford to make the drive to Grandma and Grandpa’s. Liza’s family would be spending Thanksgiving on their own.
“Time for dinner, everyone!” Mom’s cheerful voice called out.
Liza turned away from the window and trudged to the dining room. She got there as Dad set a bowl of mashed potatoes on the table. Her brothers, Mike and Justin, slid into their chairs.
“Smells great!” Mike said.
“Yeah, those potatoes look awesome!” Justin added.
The delicious smells of Thanksgiving dinner didn’t tempt Liza’s nose. “I don’t see what they have to be so happy about,” she grumbled to herself.
“Liza, are you all right?” Mom asked.
Liza shrugged. “Sure.”
“Even though we can’t be at Grandma and Grandpa’s this year, I’m grateful we can still be together as a family,” Dad said.
Everyone smiled—everyone except Liza.
Dad said a prayer, and they passed the food. Justin and Mike eagerly began eating the turkey, potatoes, and stuffing they had piled onto their plates, but Liza nibbled at her yams and thought about her cousins having fun without her.
Dad cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking we should start a new tradition, since it’s just us this year,” he said.
I bet it’s not as good a tradition as swimming in the ocean, Liza thought.
“Let’s go around the table and each say something we’re thankful for,” Dad continued.
Liza couldn’t think of anything she was thankful for right then.
“I’m thankful I was able to find a new job,” Dad said. “I’m glad I can provide for our family. How about you, Justin?”
Justin stopped eating his mashed potatoes long enough to say, “I’m thankful for good food!”
Everyone laughed, and even Liza managed a small smile.
Mom said, “I’m grateful that we all have healthy bodies and that we are able to do so many things.”
Liza started to feel a little less gloomy, but she still couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I’m glad I can go to college next year,” Mike said.
Now it was Liza’s turn. She squirmed in her chair. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
During dinner Liza thought about what everyone had said. She was glad that Dad had found a new job and didn’t look worried anymore. She was grateful for the good food Mom cooked for them. She was happy that her body could run and dance and swim. And even though she would miss Mike when he went to college, she was glad he could go. Liza’s heart felt lighter. She missed being with her grandparents and cousins, and she missed the traditions they had together. But maybe new traditions were good too.
“I’m thankful for all of you,” Liza finally said.
“We all have wonderful things to be thankful for,” Dad said.
“Maybe we could go around the table again,” Justin said, spooning up some more mashed potatoes. “We can always have seconds on gratitude!”

While serving with me in South Africa, Sister Wood learned that through the generosity of a member of the Church in Salt Lake, a number of keyboards could be made available to members in our area. In the black township of Soweto, few members had any kind of musical training. When Ann learned of this, with the permission of the stake president, she began traveling to the Soweto ward to teach as many students as could be accommodated with the keyboards.

Every Tuesday, a missionary couple would drive her to the chapel where she would begin teaching them as a group, the rudiments and technical foundations of music, i.e. how to read music, metrical headings, meters, measures, time signatures and downbeats, and how to play hymns from the beginning book for the course. Then each student would retire to a different room for a period of personal practice on their own keyboard. She would then move from room to room, listening, correcting and helping each student. She gave similar instructions to those who wanted to lead and direct music.

Some students struggled. It was not easy for all of them. Gradually, the fruits of effort matured. Prelude music began to be played more frequently before meetings began. A very small repertoire of hymns could be sung to new accompaniments. There were more choristers who could count and lead with correct time signatures. Choristers and accompanists took turns, mistakes were forgiven, and growth and progress were so obvious that the whole congregation became a supporting and rooting section for their newborn musicians.

Other couple missionaries began doing the same thing in other mission locations, and recently, a couple has been called to carry on this musical training in Africa where students now number in the hundreds.

There is so much each one of us can do with the gifts with which the Lord has blessed us if we can catch the vision and open our hearts to those who have so much less or whose needs can so easily be met by our willingness to share.

August 16 is rainy and gray, but just before the rodeo the rain stops; The grounds are filled with Rocky Mountain Rodeo Association members, and everything smells like wet hay and leather. Neal throws his long legs into the saddle and heads for the barrier.

“Come on, Fran, let’s give it our best shot,” he whispers.

The rope barrier springs back and they charge out. Mud flies as Neal leans, grabs, twists, and pins the steer. Time—3.35 seconds! Neal’s fastest time ever! With a big smile he glances toward the stands where his family sits.
The morning is quiet. On his way out of the house to feed the horses, Brother Gines glances at the shelves of trophies and stops. He stands there, silent, silhouetted against the early morning light, looking at Neal’s basketball trophy and remembering the long hours Neal practiced to prove that he wasn’t clumsy. As he stands there, he recollects the times he and Neal have spent together.

“Back when Neal was younger, we milked the neighbor’s cows. It was Neal’s job, but I went anyway, figuring that it was important to be with him. We talked about horses and football and bulldogging and the Church. We grew closer together, understanding each other, becoming best friends.

“When Neal started bulldogging, I became the hazer (the one who guides the steer in a straight line). It’s kind of symbolic, both of us coming out together, with me hazing to keep the steer from running wild so Neal can grab him and throw him to the ground. We work well together, we’ve done it for so long. I can tell if Neal is hurt, how bad it is, whether it is just another scrape to add to his scars, or whether the horns have dug deeper this time. I never say much, but I’m right there.

“One time I’ll never forget is the afternoon we hiked to the top of the mountain looking for deer. When we got to the top, we just sat there, talked, and forgot about the deer. Neal was at that age when he wanted to know things. That was one of the best father-son interviews we’ve ever had.

“As Neal grew older, we didn’t stop doing things together. My wife teases us about being inseparable, but a father likes to know that his son wants to spend time with his old dad,” Brother Gines adds with a smile.

On cool fall nights they work outside together, joking, trying to hurry and get the wood stacked so they can go in and eat. They spend long hours hauling hay; taking trips to the saw mill to gather shavings so the animals can have the “softest beds”; walking quietly through the just-fallen snow, tracking down pheasants; going downtown to get a malt. They are still inseparable, still best friends.

“Need some help feeding the horses, dad?” Neal asks as he walks into the room.

Brother Gines turns to see Neal all dressed, ready to help. “Sure,” he replies.

Together they walk out into the bright morning.

Editor’s note: On August 26, 1980 (while this story was being written) Neal Gines died from injuries inflicted by a lightening bolt while he was working as a telephone linesman. “I’ve always had a testimony of living forever as a family,” said his father. “Neal was prepared. Now we as a family must be prepared. I know that we will be together again.”

Tony landed the balloon near a busy expressway one afternoon and got out so that a friend who was learning to fly could solo. The pilot was no sooner aloft than he decided it was time to land. Being inexperienced, he pulled the rip panel too soon and came streaming down into the corner of someone’s backyard, draping the canopy over telephone wires. The “someone” turned out to be the local stake president whose neighbors all came over to take pictures and admire the pilot and the just-arrived young men of the chase crew. The president’s wife made lemonade for the pilot, crew, neighbors, Tony—who had enlisted the help of a stranger on the expressway—and the power company linemen who had turned up in a basket truck to get the envelope off the wires. One of the guests came up to the balloonists and said, “Thanks. This is the first time the neighborhood has been together in weeks.”

A few years ago I received the assignment to reorganize the Carey Idaho Stake. The plane landed at Twin Falls, and President Roy Hubert, who had served so well, met me there and drove me to his home. While we were driving, I asked him, “Is there anything I can do for you and your Saints?”
He said: “Oh, we have had a terrible drought for the last few years. This year it is particularly severe, and many farmers have left town to find employment elsewhere.”
I was so disturbed for our faithful members who love the Lord and the Church yet were losing their farms.
A young bishop, R. Spence Ellsworth, was called to serve as the new stake president. During the Sunday general session, results of the drought weighed heavily on my mind. As I was speaking, a strong prompting came. I asked them to do the following:
Faithfully pay an honest tithe, both young and old.
Humbly hold regular individual and family prayers.
Devotedly have daily personal and family scripture study.
Thankfully keep the Sabbath day holy.
Gratefully go to the temple often, there offering thanksgiving.
Willingly sustain and follow the new leaders.
Hold a stakewide fast, including everyone in the affected communities who would like to participate.
For the next couple of days following the stake conference, many members planted their crops with complete faith, even though there was no forecast of rain.
On Wednesday, under the direction of President Ellsworth, the whole stake fasted. That same week many members, the leaders, and their spouses went to the Boise Idaho Temple and offered their thanksgiving. While these faithful Saints were in the temple, rain began to fall on the entire community, though the weather forecast indicated no moisture for the next few weeks. The following Saturday, good rain fell again and continued for a few days. This happened late in the month of April. Significant snow fell in the mountains, providing enough moisture. In the Dietrich and Richfield communities, their reservoir had been under 30 percent, but after the people fasted, the reservoir was nearly full. The Carey water supply increased from about 44 percent to more than 100 percent of normal. Through the rest of the growing season, as members of the Carey Stake increased their faith by fasting a few more times, paying honest tithes, and attending the temple more frequently, the Lord heard and answered their prayers. Frost came late that year, so the farmers were able to harvest grain, sugar beets, alfalfa, potatoes, and other crops. From that day, and each year since, they have offered their thanksgiving prayers, and “because of … his tender mercies,”7 the Lord continues to bless them.

On the day of her husband’s second departure to England, Vilate Kimball was so weak, trembling so severely with ague, that she could do nothing more than weakly shake hands with her husband when he came in tears to say good-bye. Their little David was less than four weeks old then, and only one child, four-year-old Heber Parley, was well enough to carry water for the ailing family. In the hours after her husband’s leaving, Vilate lost all strength and had to be assisted back to the confinement of her bed.

Mary Ann Young and her children were equally ill when Brigham left on the same mission, and their financial situation was equally precarious. One heartrending description describes her crossing the Mississippi River in the bitter of winter, thinly clad and shivering with cold, clutching her infant daughter as she went, going to the tithing office in Nauvoo to ask for a few potatoes. Then, still suffering with fever, she made her way with the baby back across the forbidding river, never to write a word to her husband about such difficulties.

Eliza wiped her brow as she began the evening meal. It seemed only yesterday that she had been in the cool, green Sussex countryside of England, among her beloved family and friends. Her husband, Edward, had owned a large fishing boat. Life had been pleasant and secure. Eliza smiled as she fixed dinner a short distance from the railway tracks. She thought back on the day the missionaries had taught her family the restored gospel. Accepting the gospel truths had added the missing spiritual knowledge their lives had lacked.
With Eliza’s conversion came an intense desire to join the Saints in the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. Whenever she had a farthing or two after meeting household expenses, she put them into her “emigration fund” and dreamed of the day they would sail to America.
Her reflections were interrupted as little Keziah and Keturah called to her to share their discovery of a pretty pebble. Her daughters, aged four and two, were truly a delight to her. Their simple joys at seeing gophers, sunflowers, and buffalo as they crossed the United States made their trip bearable. Still, Eliza worried about their future.
If not for the gospel, the future would have been very bleak the day a violent storm had sunk Edward’s boat, even though it had been secured to the dock. With the irreplaceable loss, Edward had carefully weighed their alternatives and decided to go to America. Eliza remembered how her heart had leaped at the prospect of a home where their children could grow up within the shadows of the temple that was being built.
Friends in England had scoffed at their “foolishness”. So what if they had run into a bit of bad luck. That was no reason to abandon their home and livelihood and head off to America. Didn’t they care about their children’s future? Why, Edward, Jr. was only six weeks old. Surely he would never survive such a journey! Besides, they had no money except the little that Eliza had managed to save.
But Edward and Eliza were determined. By selling their household goods, they raised enough money to travel from Sussex to Liverpool and to partially secure passage to New York aboard the Hudson. To help pay the rest of their passage, Edward worked on the ship as a cook.
Eliza’s thoughts again returned to the present as the sun began to set. She called her daughters and husband to eat the meager meal of ash cakes, jerky, and dried fruit.
Upon arriving in New York, she had written to their families in England that she and Edward and the children were all well and that the six-week crossing of the Atlantic had been uneventful, in calm weather, and with no awful sickness.
Indeed, the real challenges had begun after they’d arrived in New York. In order to get to the Missouri River, where they would be outfitted with a small wagon, they had to ride the train in open cattle cars because all other kinds of cars were being used in the Civil War. At times there was barely standing room in the cattle cars! Some passengers sat in the doorways, their legs dangling precariously over the edge. The pungent odors of so many people traveling in such crowded conditions, mixed with the stench the cattle had left behind, made the journey very unpleasant.
Not only were the cattle cars crowded and uncomfortable, but also dangers abounded. Once, sparks from the wood-burning engine flew wildly about and set some of the passengers’ clothing on fire. Fortunately the flames were quickly smothered by nearby travelers.
Times like this evening, when the train stopped for a while, were a blessing—families could eat together away from the noisy crowds and the heat and smell of the cattle cars. Keturah and Keziah especially enjoyed running and stretching their legs, breathing fresh air, and not worrying about soot or sparks from the engine. Even baby Edward cooed and smiled when Eliza placed him on a blanket in the cool shade of a bush before preparing dinner.
The call of “All aboard!” interrupted their meal. Hastily the family gathered their few belongings, and Eliza told Keziah and Keturah to take their father’s hands.
Turning to pick up baby Edward, Eliza’s heart leaped into her throat. Her precious babe was not where she had laid him just an hour earlier! Keziah and Keturah said that they hadn’t moved their baby brother while playing. Frantically the family began to search the nearby bushes. While she searched, Eliza fervently prayed for Heavenly Father’s help in finding her son.
“All aboard!” sounded in Eliza’s ears again. The train was about to leave!
Suddenly a flash of lightning lit the sky, and she saw where her sleeping son lay. Scooping him up, she gratefully thanked Heavenly Father for His loving and watchful care.
It didn’t matter to Eliza that she had sacrificed much for the gospel, or that she would ride many more miles in cattle cars before walking west alongside a wagon for hundreds of miles more. She was just grateful for the gospel and the knowledge it gave her of a loving Heavenly Father Who was watching over her and her family.

Years ago I taught a seminary class filled with the “stars” of the senior class: Mr. Macho, the all-state quarterback, a heart-stopper of every young lady in school; little Miss Pep, the head varsity cheerleader; Mr. President, our student body leader; Mr. Most-Likely-to-Succeed; and Mr. Brains, a young man who had already been offered several full-ride scholarships to some pretty prestigious universities. One day we all learned a sorry lesson that almost any of us can bend to peer pressure. Here’s how it happened.
I had read a magazine article on negative peer pressure. The article described an experiment I was tempted to try on my class of “achievers.” The experiment was designed to show, in a very convincing way, how powerful peer pressure can be. It didn’t really occur to me that the experiment might have some negative consequences.
In class the next morning I did as instructed in the experiment. On the chalkboard I drew a star, a circle, an oval, and a square. I told my class that for the next 50 minutes, the objects on the board were to be identified as a star, a circle, an oval, and a triangle, even though the square was obviously a square. It was now to be called a triangle and nothing else! In a moment they would have an opportunity to convince an unsuspecting visitor that the square was actually a triangle.
Six fold-out seats were set in front of the classroom. Mr. Quarterback, Miss Pep, Mr. President, Mr. Most-Likely-to-Succeed, and Mr. Brains were invited to take their seats, leaving one vacant chair. I then invited a freshman student into the classroom. He immediately recognized that he was among the “elite” of the high school. The students made him welcome. In no time he was feeling right at home. He was with the “Who’s Who” of the school and was thriving on it.
I invited him to take a seat in the one remaining chair in front of the class. I explained that when it came his turn, he was to simply identify the objects drawn on the board. He agreed. The others smiled. The lesson began.
“Mr. Quarterback, will you identify the objects on the board?”
In a deep, macho voice he said, “Star, circle, oval,” and then, coming to the square, he confidently said, “Triangle.”
Our visitor, forgetting himself, let out a laugh that conveyed the idea, “You’ve been sacked a few too many times.” But the rest of the people in the room were absolutely silent.
The freshman quickly searched the faces of those present for acknowledgement of Mr. Quarterback’s obvious mental fumble, but my students were playing their parts. To them that square was nothing more than a triangle. Mr. Freshman had a bewildered expression.
I then turned to Miss Pep.
“Would you please identify the objects on the board?”
She enthusiastically replied, “Star, circle, oval, triangle.”
The freshman fidgeted in his seat.
The class remained silent and nonchalant. Twice more the question was asked. Mr. President and Mr. Most-Likely-to-Succeed answered in perfect form.
By now our visitor looked slightly ill and had that “may-I-please-be-dismissed” expression on his face.
“Star, circle, oval, triangle,” Mr. Brains answered.
Now it was Mr. Freshman’s turn. With each object his voice grew weaker, shakier, and less confident.
“Star … circle … oval …” Then silence.
We looked at him. He looked at us.
“What’s the last object?” I asked.
Silence.
“Come on, what is it?”
Then finally, quietly he spoke.
“Triangle.”
I thought we’d all break the tenseness with a good laugh. The experiment had worked. But instead there was silence.
I searched the students’ faces. They were all deep in thought. Some heads hung.
Then it hit me. Each one in the class could relate to the embarrassed freshman. Each in a foolish moment, wanting so badly to be accepted or to be part of the group, had in his own way called a square a triangle, had committed a wrong when there was no misunderstanding. Even I could add my name to the list. And we all realized, especially me, that we had been unkind to put Mr. Freshman in such an awkward situation.
We spent the remainder of our class time sharing feelings and regrets, but more importantly sharing desires, hopes, and longings to be more courageous. Mr. Quarterback put his arm around Mr. Freshman, and we all reassured him that we’d made the mistake of bowing to pressure before, too. By the end of the class he was accepted by his peers—not because he’d given in, but because we’d all come to see the importance of never surrendering, of calling a square a square despite the consequences.
When the bell rang, we left as a group, wiser, more hopeful, and with a greater resolve to fight a good battle amid the pressures of the world.

“Best party we’ve ever had,” smiled a girl as she sank exhaustedly onto the grass. “Just hope the paint comes off my slacks.”

“Seek to Serve” was Salt Lake Highland High School Seminary’s goal. Instead of the usual cookies-and-punch party for one of their yearly socials, seminary leaders chose to devote a complete day of service to someone who really needed it.

A neighbor of one of the seminary teachers had been unable to take proper care of her home for some time. An elderly widow, she wasn’t up to the rigors of house painting and weed pulling.

But 171 seminary students were.

Nancy Harker, social chairman, organized the entire event. Tickets for the “social” were sold at $1.50 to raise money for plants, paints, seeds, and other supplies. Then on Saturday afternoon the party began.

As the students arrived they began sanding, scraping, and painting the entire house. Seven loads of debris were removed from the yard. Bushes were trimmed, trees pruned, and flower beds weeded and planted. A large portion of the backyard was cultivated and turned into a vegetable garden.

The widow supervised the project. “Oh, I just can’t believe this,” she said. “Here I am, not even a member of their church, and there are 171 young Mormons painting and cleaning up my house!”

Six hours later as the last weed was pulled and the last paint brush was being cleaned up, it was impossible to tell who was happier—the widow or the students. One participant summed up the feelings of most participants when he said, “I guess service is just realizing we’re all brothers and sisters.”

Betsy picked up her teddy bear and hugged him. “Yum, Yum,” she said, “time for bed.” She dressed Yum Yum in a polka-dot nightshirt and put him beside her pillow. “OK, Mommy,” Betsy called. “I’m ready.”
Mommy came in while Betsy said her prayers, then tucked her into bed. “Sweet dreams,” she said as she turned off the light.
“I want the light on, Mommy,” Betsy pleaded.
“But, darling, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll be right there in the living room. Daddy too.”
“But Yum Yum likes the light.”
“All right, honey.” Mom smiled at her and turned the light back on.
Two minutes later all the lights in the house went off. Betsy screamed and clutched Yum Yum. Then she heard Daddy’s voice.
“It’s all right, Betsy,” he said. “Mommy and I are right here.” He scooped her out of bed and carried her to a chair by the window. “Look,” he said, “the lights are out all over town.”
“I’m scared,” Betsy said.
“You weren’t frightened a minute ago when the lights were on, were you?” Daddy asked.
“No, Daddy.”
“Then don’t be frightened now, Betsy. Look out the window and tell me what you see.”
“All I see is the moon and the stars.”
“That’s right,” Daddy said. “And they’re always there. I think that they are God’s way of saying that He’s always there. That’s why we don’t have to be afraid of the dark. Do you understand?”
“I think so, Daddy, but I’m not sure that Yum Yum does,” Betsy said.
Mommy said, “Do you remember the song we sang at Christmas—‘Silent night! Holy night!’? Well, a special star shone that night because it was a special night. I think that all nights are silent and holy, so when we see the stars and the moon, we don’t have to be afraid, because we know that Heavenly Father is watching over us. Now, are you ready to go back to bed?”
“Yes, Mommy. And Yum Yum is too. We aren’t afraid of the dark anymore.”

The day after his arrival in the valley, after a restful night in the home of the Edward Stratton family, friends of the Blairs who had immigrated a few years before, William sought out a cobbler. As he waited for his boots to be mended, he relaxed and played merry tunes on his tin whistle, tunes he had undoubtedly played many times while crossing the plains.
When the cobbler finished, he handed William the old boots made new and asked, “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Didn’t you just arrive?”
“Yes, sir. How much do I owe you?”
“There’ll be no charge; just play me another tune on your whistle.”
William gratefully placed the handkerchief of money back in his pocket, the money his mother had so delicately given him many, many nights ago, and played the whistle like it had never been played before.

Just the other day, we met a girl about your age who had never heard of God. It was very hot and sticky, so my companion and I were glad to go inside an apartment building when we knocked on doors to try to tell people about the Church.
We met Ina’s mother first, but as we talked outside the door with her in Russian, Ina poked her head out and stared at us with big blue eyes. She was amazed that we spoke her native language. When her mother explained how busy they were and said that she just didn’t have time to hear about Bog (God), we were disappointed. We really want to tell people about Heavenly Father, and no one had wanted to listen that day.
Then Ina gave us hope. As we left, she asked, “Did Bog send you here?”
I told her, “Yes,” and we smiled at each other.
Later, as my companion and I left another apartment down the block, discouraged because we had just finished a discussion with people who wouldn’t believe God existed, Ina came roller-skating by. “What are you still doing here?” she asked.
“We’re telling people about Bog.”
“Who’s Bog?”
I’d forgotten that she’d grown up in Russia and didn’t know anything about Him. “Bog is the Father of your spirit, and you are His daughter,” I told her.
“His daughter?”
“Yes.” My companion and I explained. “Tyee deetya Boga (You are a child of God). In fact, we all are children of Bog—everyone on earth is brothers and sisters.”
Ina giggled. “Then that means that my mom is my sister. That’s funny!”
“You’re right—she is your sister.” We continued, “And Bog loves all of us, just as your parents love you.”
“Where is Bog? How come I don’t see Him?”
“Bog is in nyeba (heaven), and you might not see Him, but He’s there, and you can talk to Him.”
“I can talk to Him?”
We explained to Ina about moleetva (prayer). We told her that she could really talk to Heavenly Father just like she talks to her mom and dad and that when she did, she would feel good inside.
“But how will I know that Bog listens to me?”
“How do you feel when you help your mom?” we asked.
“Well, … good. … Sort of warm.”
“That is how Bog tells you that what you are doing is good and that He is happy with you. You’ll have that same feeling when you pray.”
Ina wanted to know how we knew about Bog. We told her that we had prayed to know if He really existed and was our Father and that He had answered our prayers. We added that He spoke to men called prorokee (prophets) and that when they told us about Bog, we felt warm and good inside then, too.
“Someone has seen Bog?” Ina was excited.
“Yes, Ina, prorokee have seen Bog. They talk to Him and tell us what He says.”
“Why can’t I see Bog?”
“Do you know what?” we said. “You did see Him. You lived with Him before you came to earth, and you will see Him again when you die.”
Ina was really thinking hard. “I want to see Bog again!”
“Do you know how you can do that, Ina—how you can live with Him again? You can start now by being nice to everyone and doing kind things for them. You can also pray to Him and help your mom and dad pray to Him.”
“I’m going to!” she exclaimed. With determination in her stride, she skated down the street toward her home. Suddenly she stopped and called back, “Can I pray by the window?”
“Yes, you can pray anywhere, anytime,” we assured her.
“I’m going home to pray right now!”
We didn’t get in any more doors that day, but three days later, we ran into Ina again. When she saw us, she grabbed our hands and exclaimed, “It’s my seostra (sisters)!”
We asked if she had prayed, and she nodded. “How did you feel?” we asked.
“Warm!” she said. “Good!”
Sara, sometimes missionary work gets frustrating, and I begin to be discouraged. Then I think about Ina and about what the Savior said to the Nephites: “Ye must … become as a little child.”* Heavenly Father is real. He loves us, and He answers our prayers. I want you to know that I love Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I know that They love me and that They love you, too. Thank you for praying for the missionaries. We need your prayers.
Please pray for Ina, too.

Take an interest in their lives and feelings. My friend Emily was surprised when her dad called to ask her opinion about a significant job change he was considering. While she hadn’t been totally unaware of her dad’s career earlier in life, Emily felt like this was the first time her dad had really sought out her opinion on a big decision. Emily was touched to be included and took it as a sign that their relationship was developing in healthy ways.

I stood under the mistletoe. The green, leafy clusters speckled with waxy-white berries hung from the branches of every apple tree.
That’s the same stuff they sell in the stores for Christmas decorations, I said to myself. Why can’t I sell mistletoe too? Christmas was three weeks away. Selling mistletoe would be a perfect way to earn money to buy a gift for my brother, Derek.
I took a few steps back, ran, leaped, and reached as high as I could. But the lowest mistletoe cluster was too high. I missed it by a mile. So that was that.
I had started for home, when something strange caught my eye. At the edge of the apple orchard, one tree stood bare. Of course I knew the leaves and apples fell off months ago. But all the mistletoe, every sprig of it, had fallen off the branches also. It lay in a neat pile at the foot of the tree, as if put there just for me.
Delighted, I carefully picked out the best sprigs and put them in my lunch box. When it was jam-packed, I sprinted across the flattened cornfield to the mobile home where I lived.
I entered the side door, listening. Yes, a guitar was playing. I walked down the narrow hall to my bedroom and pounded on the door. “Derek, are you in there?”
The guitar stopped. “One sec,” came a grumpy reply. A moment later the door was flung open. My brother stood there wearing his brown leather jacket.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“None of your business,” he muttered, sailing past me.
It wasn’t easy sharing that cramped bedroom with my older brother. We got on each other’s nerves a lot. That whole trailer was far too small for our family.
With Derek out of the room, I emptied the contents of my lunch box onto my bed. I split the sprigs of mistletoe into smaller ones and carefully picked off every dead leaf and berry. In my mom’s sewing box, I found a roll of red ribbon. I used it to tie bows around the sprigs, then put each one into a little plastic bag.
As I looked for something to put the mistletoe in, I saw Derek’s guitar on his bed, wrapped in an old towel. That guitar was the only beautiful thing Derek owned, and I knew what to buy with the mistletoe money: a case for that guitar. Even if Derek was grumpy sometimes, he was still my brother, and I loved him.
The next day I took my mistletoe packages—ten in all—to school. During lunchtime I sold every one. My pockets jingled with change as I walked home that day. But it was hardly enough money to buy a guitar case.
After school, I cut through the apple orchard again. A surprise awaited me—two more trees were bare, and under each one lay a pile of mistletoe! I loaded my lunch box, filled my pockets, then raced for home.
Derek was striding across the cornfield as I approached the trailer. His head was lowered. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket.
“Derek! Derek!” I hollered as friendly as I could. But when he looked up and saw me, he stopped and turned in another direction.
That night I made twice as many mistletoe packages. After school the next day, I walked to the shopping center office and got permission to sell my mistletoe there. Then I found a wooden box to use as a sales stand. I thumb-tacked a sign on it that read: Christmas Mistletoe, 25¢. Within an hour the mistletoe was sold out.
I hurried over to the music store. In the front display window, on cotton snow, lay a row of wooden recorders. I had learned to play a plastic one at school, and more than anything, I wanted one of those wooden ones, which sounded so much better. Each year that was at the top of my Christmas list. But each year there wasn’t enough money.
I was calculating how much more money I’d need to buy a recorder when I saw the towers of guitar cases in the back of the store. As much as I wanted a recorder, I wanted to buy Derek a guitar case more. Even if he had been a grouch lately, he was a pretty neat brother. Going inside the store, I found the perfect case for Derek, a brown one with gold buttons. It cost a bundle, though. Much more than I had. I hoped that there would be lots more mistletoe in the orchard when I got there.
I reached the orchard after the sun had just set, and the air was icy. The shadowy crooked branches of the apple trees appeared as grabbing fingers against the purple sky. Something rustled in a distant tree. Rotten apples squished under my feet as I tried to creep closer to see what it was.
Then I tripped. My knees sunk into a pile of something scratchy. Mistletoe! Another big heap of it. It was a miracle!
I was filling my lunch box, when a voice right behind me softly said, “Chilly night to be out, young man.”
I spun around. “I’m collecting m-m-mistletoe,” I stuttered, half from cold, half from fright.
“Sorry I scared you,” the man said with a friendly smile. “The fact is, I’m paying a guy to cut all that mistletoe out of my trees.”
“What!” I exclaimed, puzzled.
“My apple trees are loaded with mistletoe. That very plant people kiss under can do these old trees harm. It attaches itself to their branches and sucks out a lot of food and water. Eventually it could kill these trees. Anyway, you’re welcome to take all you want.”
The man wished me a merry Christmas, then walked on across the orchard. He stopped under a tree about thirty yards away and looked up. Out of that tree tumbled a big clump of mistletoe. Then another and another. An instant later two legs dangled down from the lowest branch. All of a sudden someone dropped down next to the man. It was Derek! He didn’t see me in the shadows.
“A few more nights ought to do it,” the man said.
“Yeah,” Derek replied, brushing off his jeans.
“So what are you doing with all the money I’m paying you?” asked the man. “Are you going out and having a good time?”
“Nah,” said Derek, shuffling his feet. “I’m saving up to buy my kid brother something for Christmas.”
“Is that right?” said the man.
“Yeah, he’s been wanting a wooden recorder for ages. He can play pretty well. And you know how it is—he’s my brother.”