Gospel Story Finder

His love and blessings have been needed and given more times than I could name through the years. I’m thankful for good parents who implemented faith in my heart, and for a wonderful mother who taught me the power of prayer before she was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I would get bad earaches as a boy, and we would kneel at her bedside. She would ask Heavenly Father to bring relief and comfort and sleep – and it seems to me as if they always came. Her faith was tested and strengthened as she and my less-active father began the process of conversion together and were taught by full-time missionaries. When the time came to commit to baptism or go another direction, Mom put her trust in the Lord and in a spirit of fasting and prayer opened the Book of Mormon randomly to find an answer. It opened to Alma Chapter 7, and verse 15 seemed to jump off the page:
Come and fear not, and lay aside every sin which easily doth beset you … yea, come and go forth, and show unto your God that ye are willing to repent of your sins and enter into a covenant with him to keep his commandments, and witness it unto him this day by going into the waters of baptism.[24]
That was her answer in powerful fashion, and she followed through. Dad got things in order and baptized her, and we were sealed as a family in the temple two years later. Their choices and examples have provided a foundation of sacred support that has blessed our family and countless others since, including many in South Africa where they served as missionaries.

The state of New Mexico has a dot-to-dot line called Highway 66. This line comes across the state boundary near the northeastern corner and connects dots Gallup, Bluewater, Grants, and Albuquerque. Although Bluewater is the smallest of these dots, to me it is the most important. Here I was born and raised. It was my world. Here I learned many lessons, not the least of which was one taught by the episode of the “gentile cow.”
In Bluewater, nature is not a soft, sweet, green Mother who gives of her bounty. Here she is a rugged individual who demands the utmost of man’s endeavor for the yield she lets him have. She does have a strong beauty here, however. Mt. Taylor stands to the east and the range of Rocky Mountains to the west. North, toward Gallup, are red sandstone bluffs and black jagged malpais (volcanic ridges). Much of the level valley floor is covered with red soil. When it is dry, which is nearly always, this sandy loam is sifted around fence posts in miniature mountains by the ever-present wind. It used to be a delightful experience to walk barefooted through the sand, but the Russian thistles that thrive here made walking pleasant only for the wary. It was a status symbol to have feet tough enough to walk barefoot over thistles.
An arroya (deep gully) begins from the northwest hills and zig-zags diagonally across the valley. This arroya is usually dry, but in rainy seasons it holds a red, raging torrent. Near the head of the arroya where there is a runoff from the hills, some cottonwood trees have managed to send their roots down deep enough to be sustained by underground water. They are so firmly situated that they are not affected by wind or drought. As a child I had hoped my testimony of the gospel would become as deep-rooted and as unbendable as those cottonwood trees.
Bluewater was really a community divided between the Mormons and the gentiles. Northward lived the rich (we thought) gentiles. They owned the General Merchandise Store and the garage with a gas pump. There also was a small Union Pacific Depot and the United States Post Office. Southward, the Mormons had a little concrete church house and a red brick, four-room schoolhouse. There was not much socializing between the groups. The Mormons went up to the store to get produce and to fill their gas tanks at the garage and get their mail at the Post Office. Few trains ever stopped at the depot, so few people went there. The gentile children came down to school, and the gentile adults came occasionally to Church socials or dances.
During the depression of the 1930s, we lived mostly on potatoes and pinto beans. The ultimatum was, “If you don’t raise it, you don’t eat it.” Momma could make potatoes and beans taste like gourmet food, but she couldn’t make them into milk for the children. In this little town there were no telephones, sidewalks, electric lights, or paved streets—and no dairies. There wasn’t even any money to buy canned milk. A milking cow was a necessity for a family. Our cows were all dry. My parents worried about their eight children. As the oldest child, I worried too.
One day as I helped Momma with the dishes, I asked, “Are we going to starve?” She countered, “We haven’t starved yet, have we?” I knew we hadn’t starved, but we had hungered for variety, and now we needed milk. She continued as much for herself as for me: “So long as we pay our tithing, I can’t think the Lord will let us starve. He has always looked after us.” I knew this was true, and I knew that my parents always paid an honest and cheerful tithe on every cent they received. Every tenth calf went for tithing. I saw Momma write on the calendar each night the number of eggs she had gathered that day, and each month a tenth went to the Lord. I was reassured. Besides, it was spring and new crops were being planted.
One day not long after this, I hurried home from the school bus. As I came up the path to the house, I saw my two little brothers and my sister looking at something by the gate. It was a smoldering cigar butt. I could not think how a fat cigar butt could have gotten inside our gate. The only smoking Mormon I knew smoked thin cigarettes.
“Where did it come from?” I asked.
The answer could only make more questions. “Mr. Thigpen threw it there.” Mr. Thigpen was the arch-gentile. He owned the General Merchandise Store.
“Why was he here?”
Their next answer did nothing to solve the mystery: “He’s going to give Daddy a cow.”
My sister reached out her foot and kicked the cigar butt. We stood aghast. But lightning didn’t strike, and the earth didn’t swallow her up, so my brother took the shovel and covered the remains with sand.
Daddy came out of the house and put a bridle on the horse that was in the corral. Momma came out and said, “Are you going now?”
“Yes. Mr. Thigpen said to come get a cow. He’ll change his mind when he sobers up, but we’ll milk her tonight anyway.”
He threw the saddle on the horse’s back and fastened the cinch. “I’ll be back in a little while.” He got on the horse and trotted off to the north. I was too mystified to ask if I could go too.
While Momma got supper, I worked on my lessons. I had to get them done before dark because we were out of coal oil for the lamp. Momma put wood in the stove. She stirred the food in the kettles, then pushed the kettles to the back of the stove where they would keep warm but not burn. She took the bread from the oven and turned it out of the pans onto the sideboard by the stove. Then she set the table.
By this time the children who had been watching at the gate came running through the house. “Daddy’s home! The cow’s here!” They ran out of the kitchen door. I ran out too. Momma followed with a milk pail. My brother quickly opened the corral gate. We all watched as the beautiful little Jersey cow with the big milk bag stepped daintily inside. She stood waiting to be milked. No prima donna ever had a more appreciative audience.
Daddy milked the cow. We stood there listening to the sharp zing of the stream of milk as it hit the pail, beating itself into a standing foam that soon muffled the zing to a mellow swish. We all filed into the house behind Daddy who carried the milk pail. He opened the stove door to light the darkened room. He strained the milk and set the pitcher on the table. Momma broke a warm loaf of bread and set the beans, potatoes, and bread on the table. We all sat down, and Daddy said the blessing on the food and thanked the Lord for his kindness to us that day.
Mr. Thigpen did come back a few days later. He was a bit chagrined by his generous offer. However, he saved face by offering Daddy a job to pay for the cow and also to draw “store pay.”
“Well,” said Momma, “we don’t know in what way the Lord will help us. I never thought a drunk gentile could answer a prayer.” The roots of my testimony anchored about ten feet deep.
It has been many years since we sat around that table eating our supper by firelight, but the scene is as bright to me as an unshaded light bulb. I have traveled many fine lines on the map and eaten many remarkable meals. I have sampled milk that has been pasteurized, homogenized, pulverized, refined, and vitalized, but no milk has ever surpassed, or even equaled, the soul-satisfying milk that the Lord sent to us by that gentle “gentile cow.”

I remember the first thing that was ever put into my testimony box.

When I was eight years old, I was baptized. I was baptized on my eighth birthday. My dad baptized me. I don’t remember much, but I do remember a few things. I remember how the water pressure made the baptism jumper stick to my body like glue. I remember how diligently I had practiced where I put my hand so that when my dad put his arm out, I wouldn’t fumble but could confidently put my hand out. I had practiced in the bathtub for many weeks holding my breath so that I could stay underwater the whole time. I walked into the font with confidence. I put my hand out for my dad, who lovingly touched it and guided it into place. I was nervous. I remember closing my eyes so that I would be the most reverent I had ever been. The next thing I heard was “Jesus Christ,” and then I was lowered under the water. The water was warm and washed over me.

When I stood up and wiped my eyes, I saw my dad standing next to me. He hugged me. I felt different, and I felt the same. I felt both new and old. But I knew that I just made a promise that made God happy. I was so proud of myself. Soon after, I was given the gift of the Holy Ghost and knew I felt different. This experience was the first thing I put in my testimony box; I feel safe when I follow God’s direction. I feel loved, and I feel whole. Baptism was essential for me.

When Katy Ballenger started volunteering at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, Utah, she had no idea her life would be changed forever. On her last day volunteering at the hospital, the nurses asked her to spend the day with a terminally ill boy who spoke little and who smiled even less. She read stories to him and played with him all day, and, after all her efforts, the boy laughed. He was sad to see her go at the end of the day. “I realized I had made a difference in this child’s life,” Katy says.
After experiencing the good feelings that resulted from her service, Katy decided to make a difference and continue to use the gifts her Heavenly Father had given her to serve others.

I recall an experience I had as I was completing my doctorate that has taught me something about listening to God’s questions rather than aggressively pursuing my own, no matter how righteous my questions seem to be. I was just beginning my final year at Stanford, and I was not sure how I would be able to accomplish all that needed to be done.

One day the elders quorum president in the ward engaged me in casual conversation. He said that they were looking for an early-morning seminary teacher to teach the youth in the ward and offhandedly suggested that maybe I should do it. My response was that I didn’t see how I could possibly do it during the coming year, given all that I had to do, and the conversation ended harmlessly enough. However, for several weeks I couldn’t seem to get the thought out of my mind: “But what if they call you, Alan?” I had never turned down a calling in my life. I had always said to myself that I would accept callings, but I resisted the thought of this calling.

About three weeks later, as I sat in the temple renewing sacred covenants with the Lord, promising him that I would do whatever he asked, a thought from the Lord came into my mind: “Would you even teach early-morning seminary for me?” Well, there he had me. I realized that I had been asking the wrong question. My question had been, “How can I finish the dissertation and move on to a university assignment?” The Lord was asking me: “Are you interested in doing my will more than your own?” In my heart I responded first with real embarrassment that I had been unrepentant and closed to what I now realized had been his question of me, a question that I thought had come from an unthoughtful and casual elders quorum president. I then promised the Lord that I would do whatever he wanted, even if I never finished the dissertation.

I was called to teach seminary the next Sunday. It was one of the most difficult assignments I have ever had. I struggled to prepare for those early-morning lessons. The students were often not appreciative of the sacrifice that I felt I was making, and the dissertation took an additional semester to finish.

I realize now that this experience led me to remarkable opportunities to serve individuals who needed my particular approach. I also see how the Lord taught me about teaching, about the gospel, and about myself through this experience. As I look back, however, the most important lesson for me from this experience is that if I am not careful I may become so involved in pursuing my own questions that I may miss God’s questions to me. They come in many forms, and I must school my heart to be open to them.

There are many true disciples who “do more” than some others of us. I think of a choice lady born with a severely handicapped body and a wonderfully capacious and gracious spirit who, as she accepted an honor for her special contributions to other handicapped persons, spoke of an incident of her childhood. Playmates had called her names that reflected on her physical condition and caused her pain and tears. When she reached home her father held her in his lap in his big strong arms and wept with her as he explained that he had anticipated that day, and that it would be a crucial one for her, and could be an opportune one if she would learn the lesson that could make her life fruitful and happy. “Sweetheart,” he said, “what the children said about you is true, but it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t kind. You do have a hump on your back and some other serious problems. But that isn’t your fault. It isn’t your parents’ fault or Heavenly Father’s fault. It is one of those things that happen in this yet imperfect world. What the boys and girls said is true, but it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t kind. If all your life you will try to be more fair and more kind to others than some of them may sometimes be to you, then you will be happy, and your life will be full and useful.”
““That,” she said, “is what I have tried to do—just be more fair and kind to others than some of them have sometimes been to me.”

Nearly 40 years ago as I contemplated the challenge of a mission, I felt very inadequate and unprepared. I remember praying, “Heavenly Father, how can I serve a mission when I know so little?” I believed in the Church, but I felt my spiritual knowledge was very limited. As I prayed, the feeling came: “You don’t know everything, but you know enough!” That reassurance gave me the courage to take the next step into the mission field.

There is a story about a man who was walking down the streets of New York when he fell through a hole into the sewer. All day he called out for help, and no one could get him out. A Wall Street trader passed by and wrote him a check. A reporter saw him trapped and stopped to take a picture.

Finally, the man saw his friend look into the sewer. When he asked for help, the friend jumped into the sewer with him.

“What are you doing?” he yelled at his friend. “I’ve been yelling all day and you were my only hope. Now we’re both trapped.”

“Don’t worry,” the friend told the man. “I know how to get out of here. Follow me.”

The point to this story is when you’re in a hole, you need the experience of someone who has been there before and knows how to get out.

The gaunt figure came ambling up the rutted road leading to our slab-sided house on the hill. He was dressed in tattered pants and jacket, and his cap was nothing more than a bill, four heavy seams, and a button on top. His shoes consisted of shoestrings, bits of worn leather, and cardboard.
Poverty was not new to us. Dad worked on a public works program for the county, and we knew what it was to do without. Mom, however, always planted a garden, and it was the garden that helped us survive those long years of the Depression. We never went hungry.
The hobo’s look of uncertainty made me feel sad as I watched him come toward us. Bobby, my oldest brother, had already run to tell Mom, and my two younger brothers just stood there trying to decide whether this bundle of rags was a threat or just a curiosity. As for me, I was impressed that anyone so thin could climb the hill to our house.
Mom came out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind her. With the warmth of an angel, she greeted this stranger with all the dignity and pleasure that one would give a close friend. “You look kind of beat, young man,” she said. “Just step over to the well, and I’ll get you a pan of hot water so that you can wash up.” Pointing to the well, she went back to the house.
We were no different from any of our friends in the community; none of us had running water in our houses. My dad had dug the well years before when he had first built our house, and we took turns drawing water from the well for everything from drinking to bathing and washing clothes.
In a few minutes Mom was back carrying a wash pan, soap, towel, and Dad’s shaving cream and razor. “You’ll feel just like a million dollars, young man, if you get yourself shaved. After you’ve had a bite to eat, I’ll give you a haircut, seeing as how you could certainly use one.” With this declaration, she turned to the task of fixing him breakfast.
The four of us stood wide-eyed and watched the stranger as he washed and combed his hair. Then very carefully he shaved off his long beard with Dad’s razor, leaving his face tanned at the top and white at the bottom. We looked at each other and giggled, but never did he speak to us or we to him. Perhaps he was as puzzled by us as we were of him.
I was second to the oldest child, and the only girl, so I felt that perhaps I should take over the duties of hostess. The smell of hotcakes came drifting from the open door, and even though we had eaten, it was a heavenly smell. The stranger’s eyes shifted to the kitchen door and back to us. Digging my big toe into the dirt, I said, “My mom’s a really good cook. You’ll like her hotcakes.”
The man just nodded and said nothing. Shifting from one foot to the other, he gazed around the yard, taking in the picnic table that my dad had built and the old cookstove sitting in quiet dignity on cement blocks beside the well house.
“Why don’t you sit down,” I said, moving toward him cautiously. I wasn’t sure whether Mom intended for this bundle of rags to come into the house or not, but I felt that good manners forced me to say something.
Again he nodded. Moving to the table, he threw his long, thin legs over the seat and collapsed like a deflated inner tube.
With a flourish of pot holders and warming pan, Mom pushed open the screen door with her shoulder. She carried a stack of hotcakes, homemade syrup, and butter and set them on the table. She turned to me. “Sissy, run into the house and get this hungry young man a plate and a glass. And bring the pitcher of milk while you’re at it.” When I returned, she gave the table a last-minute check, then said, “Now, young man, you just dig right into these hotcakes, and you’ll feel better in no time.”
I have never seen food disappear so fast in my life! He was so hungry that it made me want to cry. I was thirteen years old, and I had never been hungry a day in my life. Most of the time our food was plain, but we always had plenty to eat.
As fast as the hotcakes were eaten, Mom put more onto his plate. I poured milk into his glass as fast as it vanished down his throat. At last he stood up and wiped his mouth with his ragged sleeve. “How can I thank you, ma’am?” he asked as he backed away from the table. “I’d be glad to chop some wood for you to pay for my meal—or whatever else you could find for me to do.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, young man, we’ll talk about that after I give you a haircut.” Mom smiled at him, then sailed into the house for her clippers and shears. Long hair was not something that she could abide on a man. It was an absolute sign of sinful neglect, and getting it cut neatly was your first step on the road to salvation, according to her. Mom was sure that the eleventh commandment was—or should have been—“Thou shalt be clean, with hair trimmed.” In no time at all, the young man was seated under the big old weeping willow tree, having his hair expertly cut.
There was something about my mom that made you feel right at home. She visited with the stranger, and in no time he was telling us who he was and where he’d come from, just as though he had known us all his life.
His name was Tad Bellows, and he was barely nineteen. He’d been raised in Missouri and had three brothers and four sisters, all younger than himself. His father had died when he was sixteen, and he’d left home, hoping to find work.
As Mom cut his hair, I saw this whole new person emerge. My mind remembered him as he had arrived, and matched it against this clean-cut young man. I wondered if his mother and brothers and sisters missed him. I wondered what it would be like to be a hobo, riding the rails among strangers—hungry, cold, and tired. I knew that some folks were hard on hoboes, thinking that they were just bums and having nothing to do with them. I quickly looked around at the home and family that I loved, and I silently thanked Heavenly Father for them.
“Just a minute, Tad,” Mom said as she shook out the old sheet she had put around him while cutting his hair. “I think that Dad has an extra cap you might as well have. The poor thing that you have has had its day.” She hurried into the house and returned with a cap and one of Dad’s old jackets.
Tad shuffled his feet in embarrassment but took the things that she handed him and headed for the woodpile. All morning we could hear him chopping away, and by noon we figured that he must have cut a stack high enough to build a fort.
At noon Mom called to Tad to eat lunch with us, and he did so gratefully, filling himself as though he had not eaten all those hotcakes just a few hours before.
My brothers and I were all blond and curly headed. We were each just two years apart in age, and during the summer Mom dressed us all in overalls, even me. They were easier to clean and much sturdier than dresses. We never wore shoes in the summer, except to church on Sundays or when we went berrying, so we must have looked funny to Tad. Our eyes never strayed from his face as we sat on the picnic bench, eating our sandwiches. Our blond curls and freckled faces shone in the sun, and our bare feet swung in perfect rhythm.
All of a sudden Tad winked at us and pulled a piece of green willow wood from his pocket. Placing it to his lips, he began to play. Soft at first, the melody floated across the yard and into the summer air as though seeking escape. Tad’s long thin fingers moved swiftly over the tiny holes, and the gentle melody grew and danced in the air like butterflies in flight. I wanted to sing along with its beauty, but the lump in my throat made it difficult.
We sat spellbound by the magic of it all, and when he lowered his arms, we clapped our hands and cried out with glee, urging him to play some more. Instead, he stood up quietly, tapped the simple flute gently in the palm of his hand, and stuffed it back into his ragged pocket. Looking at each of us in turn, he said, “I made it from one of God’s little miracles.”
He worked long into the afternoon, and we wondered what Dad would say when he came home to find half the backyard stacked with chopped wood. We each had our own chores to do before Dad came home from work, so the hours passed swiftly. It wasn’t until our stomachs began to tell us that it was time for dinner that we realized how silent it was in the backyard.
Hurrying around the stack of wood, and stumbling over each other, we were stunned to find that Tad was gone! But lying on the chopping block was a package of flower seeds and—wonder of wonders!—the magical little instrument that he had played for us. Written in a childlike scrawl on an old scrap of paper was, “Beauty has nothing to do with money. It is a gift of God!”

Then, recently I visited the Junior Sunday School meeting in connection with the stake conference where I was assigned. As I entered the room I saw a little girl crying and looking very lost and very, very frightened. Her parents had just deposited her and gone on to the meeting with the big people. In a moment a wonderful young teacher reached her, knelt by her, and put her arms around her and comforted her. The sobs turned to sniffles and peace began to enter a little heart. Just then the second act in the drama began. Another youngster appeared and started to cry also, frightened and feeling alone like the other had. The young teacher, still holding the first little one, reached the second child, and knelt by her and enveloped her in her arms. As she did I heard her say to the first little girl, “Ellen, this young lady is frightened and lonesome. Will you help me make her feel welcome?”
The first youngster, her sniffles barely dried, nodded, and the two little children, in the safe haven of the teacher’s arms, supported each other and soon both were quieted. The teacher put three chairs together and sat between the two of them, a hand gently resting on each.
When I left that morning I thought I had seen as clearly as I am capable of seeing how the Lord expects us to treat each other, and how wonderful it is to have someone who has lived a little longer and learned to love, to reach out and help us, and then help us help others.

Once, when our children were younger, we saved up some money and planned a trip to Disneyland. It was a surprise for the kids and when it came time to let them know, we gathered around the TV and Emily put up a screenshot of our tickets to the park. As it dawned on them what they were looking at, they started to get excited. However, Theo, our youngest, was having a hard time believing his luck. In fact, he was skeptical. “It’s a fake!” he exclaimed. As if we would do anything so cruel as creating fake Disneyland tickets to trick our kids with.

I wonder if sometimes we are like Theo, unable to quite believe that someone would just give us something so potentially wonderful, to enjoy, for free, with no strings attached. Not possible, we think. It must be a test.

I was born in 1929 in Meissen, Germany. My parents were simple people. My father was unemployed for many years, and my mother worked in a factory. When World War II began, my father was immediately called to military service and became a prisoner of war in 1945.
My parents were not happy in their marriage, and when my father returned from the war in 1947, they divorced. My world fell apart.
I was eighteen when my father left our apartment to live alone. I lived with my mother, but there were many conflicts. Kindness, warmth, and understanding were foreign to me, and I began to lose faith in the possibility of living a harmonious life. I gave my all to my job, but my life had no real meaning. As the years went by, an iron wall developed around my heart.
When my mother died in 1991, the emotional pains of my childhood flooded back to me. I felt forlorn, once again like a lost child.
Just two months later, the missionaries found me. They spoke quietly, with understanding, warmth, and kindness. The spirit they radiated penetrated my iron heart, and on 11 November 1991 I was baptized.
Since that day, peace has entered my heart. I have learned to pray, to fill my mind with the scriptures, and to live according to the Word of Wisdom. Of course I have much to learn, but I will gladly do it, because I know that our Heavenly Father is with me every day, helping and leading me. I have found peace at last.

As a young man, I served in the U.S. Air Force as a jet-fighter pilot. We spent hours in a training device that simulated real flight. There an instructor taught us about emergencies that could occur when flying at the speed of sound and about what we must do to avoid disaster.
One young man in my flight-training unit refused to listen to those with more knowledge and experience. When it was time for him to go to the trainer and learn emergency procedures, he went to the swimming pool, pistol range, or golf course, instead.
A few months later, my friend’s plane caught fire on a night flight. If he had trained seriously, his response would have been automatic. He would have ejected, as his copilot did. But he tried to land the plane and crashed. He died because he had not learned to leave danger immediately.

Dad’s dependable ranch hand, Dick, had already disappeared with the snowplow behind the thick curtain of moving snow when Ellie Ford went outside. The low hay sled was loaded with timothy hay, and two teams were hitched to it.

“Come on, Sis!” Ellie’s ten-year-old brother, Wes, called. “I’ll help you up!”

Wes scrambled to the top of the hay and reached down a hand to Ellie. He laughed as she struggled up the ladder of the rack. Wes’s round, freckled face between the earflaps of his red woolen cap beamed cheerfully.

How can he be so cheerful? Ellie wondered. It’s Christmas Day, and we’re stuck here on the ranch playing nursemaids to a bunch of silly cattle instead of being at Grandmother’s.

Wes moved the teams expertly out of the barnyard and down the lane between the sapling maple trees.

It was the Ford family’s first year at ranching, and Ellie thought again of the changes that had been made in their lives. In the city they had been surrounded by friends and relatives. But here in the sandhills, their nearest neighbor lived ten miles away.

The snowstorm had begun two days ago when they were dismissed from school for Christmas vacation. The wind-driven pellets had made a pinging sound against the school bus as it chugged along toward the crossroads where Ellie and Wes were the last to get off. By the time they had reached home, the corn snow had turned into huge fluffy flakes.

Ellie had known that something was wrong when her father came in from the living room that night at suppertime looking anxiously at first one member of his family and then another. Finally he announced to them after the blessing was said, “There’s a blizzard predicted for the sandhills, and I’ve decided I’d better stay here on the ranch.”

The announcement was greeted with gasps and exclamations.

“But that doesn’t mean that the rest of you can’t go!” he hurried to say. “It’s just that Dick will need help so the trails can be kept open to the feed shelters. Those cattle mean a lot to our future.”

“I’ll stay too!” Wes cried, not hesitating an instant.

“You’ll need someone to stay and cook for you,” Mother told them. “But Ellie can still go down to Grandmother’s tomorrow on the train from Cody. She’s been planning on it since Thanksgiving.”

Ellie knew that they had all been planning on it. She knew, too, that no matter how badly she wanted to go, she just couldn’t. “Maybe I can help somehow,” she finally managed to say, fighting the hard lump in her throat.

“That’s what I hoped for!” Father had exclaimed approvingly. “A solid front! And I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

But Ellie didn’t see how he could make up for a spoiled Christmas.

Now as the feed shelter loomed in front of them through the falling snow, Ellie asked, “Wes, do you think we’ll be snowed in?”

Wes grinned and guided the teams under the shelter before he answered, “I hope so!”

“Why, Wes Ford! Do you mean you’d rather be here than at Grandmother’s?”

“I would rather be at Grandmother’s, Ellie,” Wes replied, “but Christmas can be Christmas wherever you are.”

Though he was just a year older than Ellie, Wes sounded quite grownup. His words made Ellie feel a quick shame for her complaining thoughts. They had just picked up their pitchforks when Wes suddenly frowned. “Sis, some of the cattle are missing!” he declared.

“Could they be at the other shelters?” Ellie asked.

“Maybe. But maybe they’re not. Do you remember what Dick and Dad said about the river fence?” Wes asked thoughtfully.

Ellie shook her head.

“They said that it was strong enough for ordinary weather, but if those cattle got lost in a blinding snowstorm, they could go right through it and end up in White River!”

“We’re not going over to the river to see if they’re there!” Ellie protested.

“I’m going,” Wes told her. “Dick can’t leave that snowplow, and Dad’s on the other wagon with the concentrate.”

“Well, I’ll go with you then,” Ellie recanted.

When the hay had been pitched off into the feeders, they started out on foot. Ellie’s feet soon grew numb from the bitter cold, and her legs began to protest against the constant effort to push onward up another hill. There was no horizon, only the dull white sky and the white earth and the eternal falling of the snow.

There were no trees to use as guideposts, only the rise and fall of the blanketed hills. “Just a little farther, Sis,” Wes encouraged her, beating his arms against his body.

Now and then, Wes looked anxiously at the sky, and Ellie was sure that despite his cheerfulness, he realized the danger of being lost. But the thought of the cattle in danger kept him going.

They had reached the top of another rise, and Ellie was telling herself that she just could not go up another hill when Wes shouted with relief, “There’s the river!”

He rushed down the hill, and Ellie tried to hurry after him. “There they are! And look, Sis, they’re hugging that fence!”

There were more than twenty head reluctant to leave the protection of the trees. Ellie remembered apprehensively that they were range cattle and that they were used to men on horseback. She held back her fright as she helped Wes start them moving.

When they finally reached the shelter again, Ellie flung herself down on the hay sled and decided that she had never been so tired and cold in her life. Only after the cattle were safe and munching hay did Wes suggest they drink the hot chocolate their mother had put in a thermos bottle.

“Let’s hurry home, Wes,” Ellie said. “It’s nearly two o’clock.”

But Wes was looking down the hill toward the road. “Sis,” he said, “there’s a car down there. Looks like it’s in trouble.”

When they had finished their chocolate, the car was still there. “I’m going down and see if I can give them a hand,” Wes declared.

“Oh, Wes,” moaned Ellie. “We’ve already ruined our Christmas. The snowplow will come along soon …”

Wes didn’t answer, but Ellie saw the determined look in his blue eyes as he started away. Feeling sorry for herself, she reluctantly waded after him. The figures in the road had been trying to dig out their car when Wes and Ellie reached the fence.

“Hi, there!” the man shouted, looking up and waving his arm.

“Why, it’s Dr. Davis, Wes! And his nurse Mary!” Ellie exclaimed in surprise.

Wes and Ellie climbed over the fence.

“Hello, Wes. Hello, Ellie,” Mary said. “I thought we’d never see civilization again. Dr. Davis’s car doesn’t like snow.”

“Well,” Wes offered, “I’m not a mechanic, but I have a sled and teams up there at the shelter—”

Mary didn’t let him finish. She grabbed Ellie’s arm and they started for the fence.

Dr. Davis chuckled as he locked the car. “We’ve been over at the Anderson ranch since last night. They have a new six-pound girl. And we were trying to get home for Christmas dinner.”

Ellie heard Dr. Davis as she helped Mary over the fence. Her eyes caught sight of the gold bars on the turned-up collar of Mary’s heavy navy blue cape.

Suddenly Ellie thought of all the other people in the world who, like Dr. Davis and Mary, could not always be just where they wanted to be at Christmastime. But that didn’t mean that Christmas was lost! It couldn’t be, as long as people carry the spirit of Christmas in their hearts.

And Ellie understood now what that spirit was. Wes had taught her today, here in the snow-covered sandhills, much about loving and unselfish concern for others.

I’m going to give Mary the knitted bed cape I made for Grandmother! Ellie decided as the teams and hay sled headed for the ranch house a few minutes later. I’m sure Grandmother will understand!

Last year I had the opportunity to baptize my little brother. It was by far the most spiritual and rewarding experience in my life. As the second of nine children, I was 17 when my little brother Jase asked me if I would baptize him. I immediately felt unworthy. Although I hadn’t stolen anything or committed any major sin, I still felt as if I weren’t ready for such a great honor and responsibility. I felt like this was something my dad would be better at.
I explained my concerns to my parents, but they assured me that I could do this and that it would mean a lot to Jase if I did. With my parents’ encouragement, I agreed to baptize Jase and began to prepare myself mentally and spiritually so I could truly be worthy to use the Aaronic Priesthood power I had received.
On the day of the baptism, as my brother and I stepped into the font, a calm feeling came over me, and I was able to recite the words and perform the ordinance without a mistake. I believe many blessings have come from this one event. I not only drew closer to my brother, but I also drew closer to my family and the Lord. I know that this experience will always stand out as one of the most special in my life and that it will help me as I strive to prepare to serve a mission and give others the same opportunities to be blessed by the power of the gospel in their lives.

One of our daughters, after giving birth to a baby, became seriously ill. We prayed for her, administered to her, and supported her as best we could. We hoped she would receive a blessing of healing, but days turned into months, and months turned into years. At one point I told her that this affliction might be something she would have to struggle with the rest of her life.
One morning I remember pulling out a small card and threading it through my typewriter. Among the words that I typed for her were these: “The simple secret is this: put your trust in the Lord, do your best, then leave the rest to Him.”
She did put her trust in God. But her affliction did not disappear. For years she suffered, but in due course, the Lord blessed her, and eventually she returned to health.
Knowing this daughter, I believe that even if she had never found relief, yet she would have trusted in her Heavenly Father and “[left] the rest to Him.”

Each one of you may have had or will yet have your own day of personal commitment--your own scholastic Sacred Grove equivalent. I still remember my moment of resolution. Many years ago, as an untrained teenager, I secured temporary employment at Christmastime. The work was dull, repetitive, and monotonous. Each hour of the day passed slowly. I resolved then and there that I would obtain an education that would qualify me for more meaningful work in my life. I determined that I would become a doctor of medicine.

Many years later, when I was serving both as a medical doctor and a stake president, I chatted with many young people about their personal educational pursuits. Some asked me how long it took to become a doctor of medicine. I replied, "The general pattern would be four years at a university, followed by four years in medical school. And, should you choose to specialize, that could add another five years or more.

My words would often evoke a response like, "You mean . . . ? Why, that adds up to 13 years--and maybe more? That's too long for me!"

"That all depends," I would respond. "Preparation for your career is not too long if you know what you want to do with your life. How old will you be 13 years from now if you don't pursue your education? Just as old, whether or not you become what you want to be!"

One warm day in spring, some of the young people got together for a talk and a walk. They met in front of the cathedral, the third largest Christian church in the world, where a fountain splashed and horses and buggies waited to carry tourists around the city. They gazed up at la giralda, the famous cathedral tower, first built as the minaret of a Moslem mosque in 1184. Now, with its bell tower and weather vane which were added later by the Christians, it represents one of the most treasured landmarks in Spain. After visiting the cathedral, the group went to the nearby Reales Alcázares to relive the days of Fernando the Holy and Pedro the Cruel. Then they walked on through the picturesque Santa Cruz district, down narrow, winding streets, between whitewashed walls where flowers bloomed in every balcony, and past many a sun-splashed, green-filled patio behind iron grills.
Next they headed for the Plaza de España. Their path took them past numerous small, shady parks, each with its gazebos and its fountains and its leafy retreats. They crossed wide, busy streets and walked by great public buildings. When they arrived at the Plaza de España, it was obvious why it gives them pride. It is a broad semicircle of towers, brick walkways, lovely pools and bridges, and ceramic tile tributes to each of Spain’s provinces.
Continuing on, they took a leisurely walk through María Luisa Park, relaxed among its sunken gardens, and admired its statues and its greenery. They could have visited any of several museums and expositions there, but today they just felt like walking and relaxing. At one small plaza they bought small sacks of bread crumbs and were immediately covered in a deep snowfall of white doves.
Singing and laughing, they returned along the banks of the Guadalquivir, a wide, dignified river lined with stone quays, walkways, benches, shrubbery and flowers. As they walked along, they watched oarsmen competing at midstream and young men courting their girls in rowboats while old men fished along the banks with long cane poles.
They came at last to the Golden Tower, the twelve-sided Moorish landmark that once held one end of a river-blocking chain. There they stopped for a little impromptu flamenco. Some sang, some clapped, and some danced. They lacked only a guitar to make the scene complete, but so expert was their dancing that an imaginary guitar could be heard playing in the background behind the blood-stirring songs that combine the gypsy lament with the haunting call of the Moslem muezzin.
Finally they returned to the cathedral. In the court of the Orange Trees (once the courtyard of the mosque, now of the cathedral) they sat beneath the fragrant trees and shared their feelings about the gospel.
Then with mutual expressions of love and friendship, the group of young Latter-day Saints parted and, leaving the court of the orange trees, went homeward through the bright and leafy afternoon.
As they went, strong and young and happy, it was clear that there was yet another group of conquerors in Seville. They would not conquer the city as the Romans, barbarians, Moors, or Christian kings had done, but they would always bless Seville far beyond their numbers because they had made the greatest conquest of all. They had conquered themselves.

It was my junior year of high school, and I was taking the usual classes, including advanced placement (A.P.) American history. This was my most important class. I had waited two years to take it and was determined to succeed.
It was a difficult class. We had a test every week, research papers to do, weekly essays to write, and a class presentation now and then. I learned a lot, but I never could seem to do well on those awful tests.
The whole goal of the class was just to pass the infamous A.P. test at the end of the year. I remember my teacher, Mrs. Griffin, saying that it took at least a grade of three or above to pass. Those words rang through my mind night and day all year long.
I worked as hard in that class as I thought I possibly could. I studied every day, met with a tutor, took notes in class, did my weekly essays on time, and paid close attention. I decided the worst thing that could happen would be to fail.
Spring rolled around, and my best friend, Emily, and I began studying together. We discussed, wrote, and memorized. The first evening went smoothly, and when I got home I prayed, “Heavenly Father, please help me to pass this test. Help me to make this year worthwhile.” My prayer the next night and the next was much the same.
I could feel May 15 coming closer until it arrived. I got up and, just like every morning, got down on my knees and prayed. But this morning was special. “Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “I’ve done everything I can do to pass this test. Please help me.” I went off to school with confidence.
“You may begin.” Those anxiously awaited words were spoken. The test was as difficult as I expected, but I really felt good as I filled in the answers. I finished the test and turned it in. I was so happy it was over, and I was sure I had passed. After all, I had studied and prayed and had even had a father’s blessing the night before.
Weeks went by, and I checked the mail every day for my scores. I thought they’d never come, but they finally did. I was lying down when my mom walked in.
“Kathy, I’m sorry,” she said. “You got a two.”
At first I thought I was dreaming, but it was real. I was so confused. What more could I have done? I was discouraged and upset that my prayers weren’t answered. I had prayed to pass the test, not fail.
I felt this way for about two weeks. Then one day I picked up the Doctrine and Covenants and read: “The glory of God is intelligence” (D&C 93:36).
I tried to ignore the scripture. I didn’t feel intelligent. I felt like a failure. But after a while it dawned on me what I had done wrong. The glory of God is intelligence, not a three or above on an advanced placement test. I was basing my success on the score of an exam! I didn’t even think of how much I had learned in the class. I had forgotten the whole purpose of getting an education. I was more concerned with getting the answers right than pleasing myself and my Heavenly Father. I am so thankful for my education and will never forget this much-needed lesson.

Before I begin my formal remarks, I am going to tell you a little story about why I feel so strongly about this place. It is not only because as a student here for a year after my mission I found my professional calling to be a teacher and a scholar at the feet of truly, truly inspiring teachers like Larry T. Wimmer and others, but it is also because I met Sue here.
I want to tell you this little story about why I get a chill that just covers me when I walk on this campus. I had met Sue, and we were in the same family home evening group. We went for a walk one night, and I had the very distinct impression from the Spirit: “This is your eternal companion.” Fortunately, she had the same feeling.
Just a couple of days later I was walking along a diagonal sidewalk toward where in those days the sidewalks met in a big X, right about where the Harold B. Lee Library annex is now. I was walking along toward that X when the national anthem began playing, so I stopped. When it finished playing, I walked along the sidewalk and came to where the sidewalks crossed in an X. I ran into Sue right there in the middle of the X. It was on a Wednesday afternoon, and there were thousands of students in that area. And I ran into my eternal companion in the center of the X! I didn’t say this to the Lord, but I got it.
Just a few weeks ago we celebrated our forty-fifth anniversary. She is the love of my life. I came here to find her because she wasn’t in Boston. She was here. I am so grateful. And whenever I walk on this campus I feel the same way.