Gospel Story Finder

Let me contrast her painful despair with another family’s hope in Christ during a heartbreaking time.

Twenty-one years ago the newborn son of my nephew Ben Andersen and his wife, Robbie, was life-flighted from their Idaho farming community to Salt Lake City. I arrived at the hospital, and Ben explained the severe, life-threatening complications with their baby’s heart. We placed our hands on Trey’s tiny head. The Lord blessed him with continued life.

Trey had heart surgery the first week of his life, and more surgeries followed. As the years passed, it became apparent that Trey would need a heart transplant. Although his physical activities were limited, his faith expanded. He wrote, “I have never felt sorry for myself because I have always known the importance of having faith in Jesus Christ and a testimony of the plan of salvation.”

Trey kept on his phone this well-known quote from President Nelson: “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”

Trey wrote: “I have always looked forward to serving a full-time mission, but … my doctors won’t let me serve a mission until at least a year after my transplant. … I’ve put my faith in Jesus Christ.”

Trey was excited at being accepted into the accounting major at BYU beginning this semester, but even more excited in late July when he received the very anticipated telephone call to come to the hospital for his heart transplant.

“One year,” Trey said, “and I will be on my mission.”

There were great expectations as he entered the operating room. However, during the surgery there were devastating complications, and Trey never regained consciousness.

His mother, Robbie, said: “Friday had been the most heartbreaking day … just trying to wrap our minds around it. … I had stayed up late just trying to process everything. … But Saturday, I woke up with a feeling of absolute joy. It wasn’t just peace; it wasn’t denial. I felt joy for my son, and I felt joy as his mother. … Ben had gotten up a lot earlier than me, and when we finally got a chance to talk, Ben had awakened with the exact same feeling.”

Ben explained: “Clarity came to my soul as God taught me through His Holy Spirit. I awoke at 4:00 a.m. and was filled with indescribable peace and joy. How is this possible? … The passing of Trey is so very painful, and I miss him so much. But the Lord does not leave us comfortless. … I look forward to a joyful reunion.”

Trey had noted in his journal these words from President Nelson’s general conference talk: “It doesn’t seem possible to feel joy when your child suffers with an incurable illness or when you lose your job or when your spouse betrays you. Yet that is precisely the joy the Savior offers. His joy is constant, assuring us that our ‘afflictions shall be but a small moment’ [Doctrine and Covenants 121:7] and be consecrated to our gain.”

I will never forget the family home evening lesson we had during a power outage. Without power we could not read anything, and I thought that family home evening was going to be a disaster.
“How will we have family home evening without being able to read a message from the Liahona, or how will we be able to sing from the hymnbooks without light?” I thought to myself.
Fortunately my sister came to the rescue. She had the great idea for us to sing the hymns we knew by heart and then share what we had learned the Sunday before. We all shared a principle and learned from one another. In my opinion, learning together is the purpose of family home evening. I am certain that the Lord was very pleased that we kept the commandment to have family home evening, even without lights.

Earlier this summer, for example, I had a weekend free. Yet the Spirit prompted me to fulfill a responsibility. I boarded the plane for San Francisco, and there met with our branch of single people in San Francisco, and then boarded the plane to go to Los Angeles, where I might have the opportunity to meet with our young adult leadership in the southern California area. As I sat down, the seat next to me was empty. However, there occupied that seat eventually a most beautiful young lady. I noted that she was reading a book. As one is wont to do, I glanced at the title: A Marvelous Work and a Wonder. I said to her, “Oh, you must be a Mormon.”
She responded, “Oh, no. Why would you ask?”
I replied: “Well, you’re reading a book written by a very prominent member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
She said, “Is that right? A friend gave this to me, but I don’t know much about it. However, it has aroused my curiosity.”
Then I wondered. Should I be forward and say more about the Church? And the words of Peter came again, to be ready at all times. And I decided that this was the time when I should bear my testimony. I told her that it was my privilege years ago to have assisted Elder Richards in printing A Marvelous Work and a Wonder. I told her of this great man. I told her of the many thousands of people who had embraced the truth after reading that which he had prepared. Then it was my privilege, all the way to Los Angeles, to answer her questions relative to the Church—intelligent questions, that came from a heart which was seeking the truth. I asked if I might have the opportunity to have missionaries call upon her. I asked if she would like to attend our branch in San Francisco. Her answers were affirmative. Upon returning home I wrote to President Irven G. Derrick of the San Francisco Stake and passed along to him this information. Can you imagine my delight when, about a month ago, I received a call from President Derrick, in which he said, “Elder Monson, I thought you would like to know that today Yvonne Ramirez, a stewardess with United Airlines, a young lady who sat next to you from San Francisco to Los Angeles, a young lady to whom you said that it was not coincidence that you sat next to her and that she was reading A Marvelous Work and a Wonder on that trip, has become the newest member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” I was overjoyed.
I realize that I have a responsibility to labor.

In President Russell M. Nelson’s talk “Let God Prevail,” he asked: “Are you willing to let God be the most important influence in your life? Will you allow His words, His commandments, and His covenants to influence what you do each day?” This reminds me of the tempting experience my wife, Uche, and I had. Uche was managing a cement retail outlet. In one of our trying moments when we depended on the income from the shop to pay bills, her sales gradually went low and later stopped completely. The family was troubled, our source of income had ceased to flow, and that became a great moment of test of our faith.
Then came this Sunday morning while participating in the Sunday School class, Uche received a message indicating that 30 bags of cement was needed by buyers who were waiting by the shop! As she showed me the message, I pondered over it and remembered how we both had covenanted to hallow the sabbath.
We both agreed that her phone be switched off in order to regain full concentration on the teachings in the Sunday School class. As we acted fast, we both felt relieved. His arm was sufficiently strong as we had done the will of God rather than ours. We were blessed with His strength, and peace filled our hearts. His love calmed our hearts beyond our comprehension in those trying moments.

My name is Svyataslava, and I’m from Moscow, Russia.
For me, prayer is a conversation with Heavenly Father. When I pray, I can tell Him about my concerns and joys. I can thank Him and ask Him about things.
One day, after finishing some proxy temple work, I went into the waiting room. Usually there were lots of people there, but when I entered the room, it was empty. I used the private, quiet moment to pray. I thanked Heavenly Father for the experiences I’d had. I asked Him about things that were important to me. At the end of my prayer, I remembered my great-grandmother, whom I missed very much, and asked God if I could feel her embrace.
When I finished my prayer, my friend entered the room and gave me a hug. I immediately thought of my great-grandmother and remembered her loving embrace. We cried together as we felt the Holy Ghost. This confirmed to me that the Lord hears and knows me. I know that He lives and loves me.

When I was growing up, each summer our family would drive to Provo Canyon, about 45 miles (72 km) south and a little east of Salt Lake City, where we would stay in the family cabin for several weeks. We boys were always anxious to get on the fishing stream or into the swimming hole, and we would try to push the car a little faster. In those days, the automobile my father drove was a 1928 Oldsmobile. If he went over 35 miles (56 km) an hour, my mother would say, “Keep it down! Keep it down!” I would say, “Put the accelerator down, Dad! Put it down!”
Dad would drive about 35 miles an hour all the way up to Provo Canyon or until we would come around a bend in the road and our journey would be halted by a herd of sheep. We would watch as hundreds of sheep filed past us, seemingly without a shepherd, a few dogs yapping at their heels as they moved along. Way back in the rear we could see the sheepherder on his horse—not a bridle on it but a halter. He was occasionally slouched down in the saddle dozing, since the horse knew which way to go and the yapping dogs did the work.
Contrast that to the scene which I viewed in Munich, Germany, many years ago. It was a Sunday morning, and we were en route to a missionary conference. As I looked out the window of the mission president’s automobile, I saw a shepherd with a staff in his hand, leading the sheep. They followed him wherever he went. If he moved to the left, they followed him to the left. If he moved to the right, they followed him in that direction. I made the comparison between the true shepherd who led his sheep and the sheepherder who rode casually behind his sheep.

I love to sing and have had that passion for as long as can be remembered. One day when I was much younger than I am now, probably about 15 or 16 years old, a sacred hymn came into my mind. There was only one problem--the way it came from my lips was influenced by the music popular to the youth of the day, rock and roll. As I sang "We Thank Thee Oh God for a Prophet," I snapped my fingers and danced through our home to the beat in my head. About halfway through the first verse, my song was interrupted by the raised voice of my dad who was visibly displeased. He scolded me quite warmly and taught me in terms I could not misunderstand that we never sing sacred hymns in that way. That experience has had a profound affect on my thinking, my behavior and my life ever since. Sacred things are sacred to me and sacrilegious speech and behavior have become offensive. I will forever be grateful to my father for such a penetrating rebuke.

“How many of you would like to have a ‘perfect day’?” the bishop asked the congregation. Many members raised their hands—some high, some low. A few kept their hands in their laps.
“That’s fine,” the bishop nodded. “Larry,” he asked one of the ward members, “would you like to have a ‘perfect day’? Would you please come up here to the stand? George and Ruth? Paul? Matthew and Joan? John and Helen? Ben and Carol?”
He called their names slowly, pausing briefly between each one. Many hands fell back into their owners’ laps; only a few remained held high.
“Is there a widow who would like to live a ‘perfect day’?” the bishop asked. There was a moment of silence as he looked over the congregation. “Grace, how about you?”
When those whose names he had called had reached the stand, he turned to them. “Which day would you like to be your perfect day? Tuesday? … Thursday?”
The disbelief and the embarrassed smiles on their faces showed that none of them had really expected to have to make a real commitment. Some nodded their heads yes. Others stood motionless. After several seconds, someone suggested Thursday because it would give them more time to prepare.
Smiling, the bishop said, “That’s fine. Thursday you will have a ‘perfect day.’ And since we do not have any speakers planned for sacrament meeting next Sunday, we’d like you to report your ‘perfect day’ to us.”
He turned back to the congregation. “Is there anyone else who would like to have a ‘perfect day’?” James, a teachers quorum member with a happy smile, raised his hand. He was included.
The bishop then told the congregation, “Your responsibility as ward members is to pray that they accomplish their assignment.”
How does one live to make a day perfect? That question passed through the minds of those who had accepted the bishop’s challenge. Throughout the week, whenever ward members got together, the subject of the bishop’s “perfect day” challenge came up. We were eager to hear the reports.
Sunday finally came.
After hearing the reports of those who had accepted the “perfect day” assignment, I asked the bishop why he had issued the challenge.
“I’ve always thought about living a ‘perfect day,’” he said. “But we have so many outside influences and pressures in a regular day that we can seldom focus on the spiritual and idealistic. And we often speak about the impossibility of living a ‘perfect day’ or a perfect life. But I had a strong feeling that the time was right for the ward members to try.
“I think we discovered that we can make things a little more perfect regardless of our circumstances. None of the ward members involved in this assignment had to make an investment in money, but they did have to make an investment in time, and give of themselves.
“Many of us in the ward, not just those who had committed themselves to the challenge, also tried to live a ‘perfect day.’ As a result, we became more aware of the challenges involved in perfecting ourselves and tried harder to live worthy to have the Lord’s Spirit be with us.”
Though the bishop’s “perfect day” challenge did not cause instant changes in our lives, it helped us along the road to perfection—something we all hope to achieve.

Many years ago I heard a story that impressed me. I share it with you today as I endeavor for a few minutes to direct your thinking toward the important word peace. A beautiful little blind girl was sitting on the lap of her father in a crowded compartment in a train. A friend seated nearby said to the father, “Let me give you a little rest,” and he reached over and took the little girl on his lap.
A few moments later the father said to her, “Do you know who is holding you?”
“No,” she replied, “but you do.”
Some might be inclined to say, “What a perfect trust this child had in her father.” Others may say, “What a wonderful example of love.” And still others might say, “What an example of faith.” To me it indicates a beautiful blending of all of these principles, which brought a priceless inner peace to the child. She knew she was safe because she knew her father knew who was holding her. Affection, respect, and care over the years had placed in this little girl’s heart a peace that surpasseth all understanding. She was at peace because she knew and trusted her father.
We plead for peace in our prayers and thoughts. Where is peace? Can we ever enjoy this great gift while wars, rumors of wars, discord, evil, and contention swirl all around us? The answer is yes. Just as the little blind girl sat on the stranger’s lap with perfect contentment because her father knew him, so we can learn to know our Father and find inner peace as we live his principles.
It is very significant that when Jesus came forth from the tomb and appeared to his disciples, his first greeting was, “Peace be unto you.” (Luke 24:36.) Peace—not passion, not personal possessions, not personal accomplishments nor happiness—is one of the greatest blessings a man can receive. Our trust and our relationship with our Heavenly Father should be one similar to that of the little blind girl and her earthly father. When sorrow, tragedy, and heartbreaks occur in our lives, wouldn’t it be comforting if when the whisperings of God say, “Do you know why this has happened to you?” we could have the peace of mind to answer “No, but you do.”
Just as the little girl could sit peacefully on the stranger’s lap because her father knew him, so we can find peace if we know our Father and learn to live by his principles.

Every year Elder David O. McKay put his cow Bossie in a truck and took her up the canyon to graze on his farm. But one year Bossie disappeared before the family had moved her.
Lawrence: Father, I didn’t tie Bossie up, and now she’s gone! I was in the house for only a minute or two.
Elder McKay: Don’t worry. She’s probably headed up the canyon.
Elder McKay and Lawrence found Bossie at the mouth of the canyon. Someone had tied her to a post.
Elder McKay: Let’s see if she can get up the canyon by herself. I’ll leave this note on her halter:
Note: “Please let me pass; I’m going to grass.”
Bossie made it to the farm in the canyon in good time. From that year on, Elder McKay always let Bossie loose in the spring because he trusted her to go straight to the farm.

Dear Buddy,
Today was a Thanksgiving Day that I’ll never forget! We spent the morning tracting without much success. It was cold, and everyone was busy and didn’t want to talk. Then we spent the afternoon with some members who had invited us for Thanksgiving dinner. And did they ever put on a feast! The food was so good that I kept eating and eating until my belt yelled for mercy. Sister Marshall seemed to enjoy watching us eat, and she kept passing the food around. Then when we left, she gave us each a big package of leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil. It’s great to have members like the Marshalls who help the missionaries.
But it was what happened as we were riding our bikes home that made this an unforgettable Thanksgiving Day. Even though it was cold and windy and almost dark, we took the long way home to help work off some of our dinner. On a lonely road on the outskirts of town, we came upon a girl with long black hair who looked about your age. She was gathering sticks at the side of the road, and she was wearing a long-sleeve blouse, a shawl around her shoulders, a skirt, and sandals.
Elder Butler and I stopped, concerned about her being out in the bitter cold. Her name is Rosita. She didn’t know much English, but she took us to her mother, who was also gathering wood not far away. We helped them gather broken branches and old sticks until everyone’s arms were full. Then they took us to their home.
They live in a small shack with a woodburning stove in the middle. The only one who speaks much English is the father, and he was on a mattress in the corner, sick with a fever.
Their name is Morales. They recently came from Central America. Mr. Morales said that he brought his family to the United States to have a better life. He had a job here, but he lost it when he got sick.
There was hardly any furniture, and the room was smoky and drafty. They need so much—even simple things, like clothes for winter. All they had was what they’d brought in three suitcases. And each other. As I looked into their faces, I felt that I was in the presence of modern Pilgrims. Suddenly Thanksgiving became much more real to me. It is more than parades and football games on TV and tight belts from eating too much turkey and yams and pumpkin pie. Thanksgiving means hope and freedom.
Elder Butler and I gave Mr. Morales a blessing, and we gave our leftovers from dinner at the Marshalls to the Morales. They thanked us again and again and asked us to come back to visit them. We will.
Riding home, I no longer felt the cold wind blowing in my face and up the sleeves of my coat. All I could feel was the warmth of gratitude for all the blessings that we enjoy.
Love,Reed

I hate camping. I do not like dirt or campfires. In fact, much to the chagrin of my adventurous husband and sons, I have established a rule that I will only sleep in a tent one night every five years. You can only imagine my consternation when my husband and I were called to be a ma and pa for our stake's pioneer trek last summer.

I have often read my family history. I have always been proud that my pioneer ancestors were a part of the Willie and Martin handcart companies. Yet I never appreciated—and still cannot fully comprehend—what they went through for me, and you, and every other Latter-day Saint.

On the second day of the trek, I participated in the women's pull. It was near record-breaking heat. Several of the youth were suffering from heat stroke, blisters, and sun burns. The sagebrush was waist high, and the ruts in the trail were 12 inches deep. I shared a position at the back of our company's handcart with one other young woman, and there were two young women pulling in the front of the handcart. The men were not allowed to touch the handcarts or help the women in any way as we labored up the 20 percent grade.

It was hard! What got me up that hill was looking back. I do not mean looking back at the sisters and handcarts behind me but looking back and thinking about my pioneer ancestors.

My ancestors pushed and pulled heavy handcarts for 117 days, from Iowa City to Salt Lake City, over 1,400 miles in blazing heat, wind, rain, and snow. They did not have Solomon trail shoes, UV-resistant and moisture-wicking clothing, or ice-cold electrolyte drinks at the top of the hill. They did not have Springbar tents, sub-zero sleeping bags, or ATVs to transport the sick and afflicted.

In fact, I want to share with you a few entries from the pioneer history of my great, great, great, great grandmother, Sarah Denton Moulton:

"The trials of the Willie Company were getting more difficult all the time. Provisions were running low. The rickety carts were needing repair. Fear that the entire company would perish prevented even proper ceremonies for the dead. The extra burdens put upon the handcarts because of the loss of the wagons and cattle was more than many of the immigrants could bear. Loads had to be greatly lessened by leaving behind more articles of clothing and bedding, which were sorely needed but which had to be disposed of so that progress could be made. To add to these difficulties, winter set in early that year.

"Cold weather, scarcity of food, lassitude, and fatigue from over-exertion soon produced their effects. Our old and infirm people began to droop, and they no sooner lost spirit and courage than death's stamp could be traced upon their features . . .

"At first the deaths occurred slowly and irregularly, but in a few days at more frequent intervals, until we thought it unusual to leave a campground without burying one or more persons . . . Many a father pulled his cart, with his little children on it, until the day preceding his death. I have seen some pull their carts in the morning, give out during the day, and die before the next morning."

These pioneers fled persecution, left their earthly possessions behind, and lost loved ones on the trail for us. When was the last time you looked back at their hardships for inspiration to endure your trials?

Whether it is one generation or five, whether it is from your own family history or someone else's, look back. Let their faith-promoting experiences provide the motivation you need to press forward.

When I was about 13 years old, Latter-day Saint missionaries came to our home. They answered all of my questions and taught me about Jesus Christ. They told me there was a church where I could learn more about the gospel in special classes for people my age. They taught me how to pray. They told me about the Book of Mormon. When I was baptized, none of my family came.
I felt lonely, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I was introduced to a new life—a life of hope, happiness, faith, and love. My peers, I knew, were seeking solace in drugs and immorality. I found mine in a loving Heavenly Father and the gospel of His Son. After my baptism I knew that the Lord had been aware of me my entire life.
I learned a lot about the gospel. I met people who shared my beliefs. Some of the members got to know a little bit about my life when they visited me at home. They generously helped me buy clothes and shoes for church and notebooks for school. I babysat regularly for Church members and made more money than I ever had before. Because I was so young, it might have been easy for me to stray from the gospel. But with the support of Church members, I remained firm in my newfound faith.
The gospel truly changed my life. After I was baptized, I felt I had more energy to learn in school. I learned a lot and became a tutor. If I did not know a subject, I would study until I knew it so well I could teach it. I used the money to help at home.

In 1972, I was in US Navy boot camp in San Diego, California, USA. I had been “set back,” which means I had failed my training—personally and publicly. In fact, I had been set back twice. Now I had to start over with a new company.
I suffered from attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and a form of high-functioning autism. Reading was difficult for me, which hurt my scores. To make things more difficult, my father passed away while I was in boot camp.
The only thing that made me feel good was attending church. One Sunday, in the middle of bearing my testimony, I felt prompted by the Holy Ghost. The words I then spoke were not mine. The still, small voice came to me in a whisper, directing me in what to say.
“You are looking at a recruit who has been set back twice,” I said. “No one wants to fail, and no one wants to fail twice in a row. But being set back is not so bad. The navy is not trying to discipline or punish us. Being set back helps a recruit learn what he hasn’t learned or may have forgotten. There can be no graduation without changing or improving. I bear my testimony that we must all be set back before we can go on to our greatest achievements and successes in life.”
I did not think much about what I had said until a month later. During our next fast and testimony meeting, a blond-haired recruit came to the pulpit.
“Last month I was not making my scores. I was failing,” he said. “My company commander said it would be best for me if I was set back. In my new company, I thought of myself as a failure. I was ready to give up. But then I remembered the guy who was set back twice and what he said. So I kept trying.”
Then the recruit repeated the same words the Holy Ghost had put into my mind. Someone I had encouraged and strengthened was now encouraging and strengthening me.
In October 1972, I rejoiced when I graduated from the US navy boot camp, thankful for edification and encouragement from the Holy Ghost and from a fellow recruit.

Brother Ringger comes from Switzerland. His grandmother was touched by the missionaries a long, long time ago. His father was a man of great faith, a patriarch in the midst of his people, in a very literal way. Brother Hans Ringger has been a stake president among his people and a Regional Representative. He is a man of faith. His English may not be as polished as perhaps yours is. But there burns in his heart a deep, flaming conviction of the truth of this work. By profession, he is a distinguished architect in his native land. He has just retired as a full colonel from the Swiss Army. When I talked with him the other day about his leaving his business and consecrating himself to the work of the Lord and what it would entail, I looked into his strong face, and the tears began to well just a little. Then he said, “Of course, of course. If that’s what the Lord wishes, that’s what I want to do.”

When the flooding started, their parents told the boys that they were all going sandbagging. Jimmy and Paul moaned and groaned all day. But after their parents explained to them why they were doing it—to save people’s homes and businesses—the boys were anxious every morning to get to work. Each day for two weeks, they went sandbagging with their mom from 10:30 A.M. until 3:30 P.M., when they’d go home to eat. When their dad got home from work, they all went again from 5 P.M. until about 9 P.M. They were very grateful to the Red Cross, who brought food and water so that they could stay on the job.

“‘Many churches are ruled by men, at the exclusion of women,’ said Mr. Rubin. ‘Is this the case for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?’
“‘Well,’ said President Nelson, ‘you should talk to a woman about that.’
“President Nelson then turned and looked at Sheri Dew, executive vice president of Deseret Management Corporation, the CEO of Deseret Book Company, and former Relief Society General Presidency member.
“‘Can you help with this answer about the role of women in the Church?’ he asked her. He motioned her into camera range.
“Sister Dew told Mr. Rubin that he would have a hard time finding a church where more women have more authority than in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“‘There are hundreds of thousands of women, right now, who have legitimate leadership opportunities and expectations. As women in the Church we teach and preach, we expound doctrine, we serve missions as full-time proselyting missionaries, and we have leadership responsibilities,’ she said.
“Then she added, ‘I actually feel ennobled by being a Latter-day Saint woman. Every opportunity for growth I have ever had has come because of the Church.’
“President Nelson looked at Mr. Rubin and said, ‘It is better coming from a woman than from me.’
“Mr. Rubin agreed. ‘That is a live testimony,’ he said.
“The message was powerful. When given the chance to talk about women in the Church, our prophet had not spoken about Church doctrine or priesthood authority. He had not spoken of his wife or nine daughters. And he did not draw from one of the many sermons he has delivered about women. Instead, he called on a woman to speak for herself.
“President Nelson’s invitation to Sister Dew seemed like an invitation to me as well. The Church needs my voice as a Latter-day Saint woman. That is what I know now that I didn’t know before the South America ministry tour.
“I will never forget the way President Nelson watched as Sister Dew answered Mr. Rubin’s question. It was a look that reflected gratitude and trust for all Latter-day Saint women.

As a child, I can remember asking why our Church was not a member of the Council of Churches, and why all the faiths could not work together? I never received a satisfactory answer. When I married my Northern Irish husband, we visited family during the troubles and heard some prejudices firsthand.
I keenly felt the need for talking, understanding, and compassion. After so much heartache, it was only the peace talks, not the bombs, that eventually brought the country to rest.

Now I bear you my testimony, brothers and sisters, that I know this matter of tithing is a true principle and that blessings come from it. My parents taught me to pay tithing, and in the words of Enos I say, to their honor, “Blessed be the name of my God for it” (Enos 1:1).
We were refugees from Mexico. During the years that followed, father had a difficult time getting enough food to feed his family. I remember about two years after we came out of Mexico (that would be about 1914), father got a job in Oakley, Idaho, teaching in the Cassia Academy for $80 a month.
When father and his brother came out of Mexico, they both had large families. Knowing that they would have a difficult time to make a living (they brought nothing out of Mexico except what they could bring in one trunk), they joined together and pooled their earnings. After a short stay in El Paso, Texas, they went together to Los Angeles, California, where they worked as carpenters. Later they moved to Oakley, Idaho, where they could raise their families in a Latter-day Saint environment. When one of them was out of work, they divided the income of the other and thus eked out an existence for both families. My uncle got out of work one winter in Idaho. That left them the $80 that my father received for teaching with which to support about 17 people. They had to pay rent, they had to buy everything they ate, and they had to buy fuel, except that I went out on the side hill and dug the sagebrush from under the snow for fuel. I kept warm digging and mother kept warm poking it into the stove. The rest of them nearly froze.
The question came up in the family council—did father pay tithing on that $80? If he didn’t, he would have $40 a month to care for the family; if he did, it would be cut down by $4 and he would have $36 a month. I remember that council, and I remember that they decided that they would pay their tithing, and I remember that they sent me with the tithing to the bishop. It was cold, and I didn’t have warm clothes, and I wondered what really had gone wrong with father. I learned from that—the training of my parents—that there is truth in the Lord’s promises.

Amanda was not a member of the Church when she and Bert met, nor was she a Latter-day Saint when they married a few years later. Bert had become somewhat active during his air force training in California; but, he says, “things were moving slowly for me.” Shortly after their marriage, however, “my life started to change because of her.
“We were married after I was commissioned as an officer in the air force.” (Amanda, by this time, had earned a degree in secondary education from the University of Hawaii.) “For a while we lived in California; then we moved to Kansas after some air force training in Texas. Two weeks after we arrived in Kansas, I think the Lord felt it was time that Amanda found out about the Church. Although we had been attending meetings, we hadn’t gotten really serious about the Church.
Bert was sent to Greenland for 109 days, and since the couple had not yet found an apartment in Kansas, Amanda stayed with Bert’s cousin and his wife. The relatives were active Church members, and they and the stake missionaries began encouraging Amanda to schedule her baptism for the same day as the cousin’s eight-year-old daughter’s.
Amanda was unhappy about the situation. “I didn’t think they should know when I was going to be ready; but they said they knew, and they had set the date.”
“I felt a little bad about that,” says Bert, remembering the letter Amanda sent him at the time. “I was a little embarrassed, because that was my church. But then the next week I got another letter saying, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t wait any longer. I’m being baptized Saturday.’”
“They did know,” smiles Amanda. “I was ready.”
Following Amanda’s conversion, Bert began to progress in the Church as well. He was ordained a priest, then an elder, and the DuPonts were soon sealed in the temple.