Gospel Story Finder

Felipe knew it was getting late. The birds had stopped chirping, and the crickets were humming loudly. He and his mother had walked in the forest for more than two hours. But each path they took looked the same as the last. They were completely lost.
Felipe was getting really scared. How long could they survive in this jungle? He was only 10, after all. That wasn’t old enough to fight off a snake or wild boar! And what other scary creatures might be on the prowl after sunset? The thought sent chills up his spine.
Be brave, he told himself. He knew he had to be.
Felipe wished his dad were there. But he had died six months ago. Without him, things were tough for Felipe and his mom. They were out of money and food.
Felipe hoped they could get to his sister’s house on the other side of the mountain soon. She could give them some money to buy rice.
He said a prayer in his heart. “Father in Heaven, please help us find our way. Please.”
Then a thought came to him: Look for the coconut trees. Felipe looked up. There, in the distance, was a grove of coconut trees. He could see them high above the rest of the jungle. Their palm leaves waved in the breeze. For the first time in hours, Felipe felt hope.
“Look!” He pointed to the trees.
His mother understood. Coconut trees meant a village was close. God had answered Felipe’s prayer. Felipe took his mother’s hand. Together they walked to safety as the sun dipped below the trees.
Felipe always remembered how God answered his prayer. Sometimes he wished he could hear God’s voice better like he did that night in the jungle.

When I was eight or nine years old, I wanted to build a derby car. There was a race coming up, so my dad helped me build a car to enter. We found some two-by-four wood planks and put one in the middle and two on each end. Then we put a little chair on it with ropes to steer. We just had a block of wood for a brake—I pushed it down with my foot, and the wood dragged on the ground. To finish the car off, I put some big, old plastic tires from a tricycle on it.
When we showed up at the race, the other kids had these really fancy derby cars. People were laughing when they saw us. But I wasn’t embarrassed, because my dad was by me. As long as he was there, I was good.
People stood all along the streets. The nice, shiny cars lined up at the start. We raced down the hill, and my car won! Then we went to the next race, and the next race, and I kept winning. A few in the crowd started chanting, “Go two-by-four!” They were cheering for me and my car. I won second place overall! I even got a trophy.
The race was really fun because my dad had helped me and let me make the car how I wanted. I had confidence because my dad was there. I knew who I was and that my dad supported me.

It was ten-year-old Joshua’s turn to teach the family home evening lesson. It was on faith. When he finished, he told his family, “If you have faith, you can do anything.”
His mother replied, “Well, almost anything.”
“No, Mom.” Joshua said. “You can do anything.”
Little did the Dennis family know that within days, their faith would be tested. On Friday, 22 September 1989, Joshua went with his dad and other leaders and members of a Boy Scout troop from Kearns, Utah, to explore an abandoned mine. After looking around inside the mine for some time, Joshua and some of the Scouts decided to turn back. They met Joshua’s dad and some other Scouts heading out of the mine, and Joshua gave his flashlight to his dad, who was leaving the tunnel with a visually handicapped boy.
Then Joshua decided to follow some older Scouts back into the mine tunnel, but they did not know that Joshua was behind them. They began to run. Joshua couldn’t keep up with them and was soon left behind in total darkness. He couldn’t even see his hand in from of his face.
He turned around and tried to feel his way back to the entrance, but he made a wrong turn and slid down a slope. He climbed back up but went too far and ended up in an ore stope—a cavity where ore has been mined out—about two meters wide and seven meters deep. The stope was almost impossible to see from the main tunnel below because of rocks.
“I tried to find my way out for a long time,” Joshua recalled. He yelled, but his cries were muffled and no one heard him. By this time, he was tired and cold and his feet were wet. “I knew I was lost, and I realized I had better just sit down and wait,” he said.
Joshua slept a lot. Sometimes he would stand up and stretch or just sit and think. For five days Joshua had no food or water and only his coat to keep him warm in the 10° C temperature.
But he wasn’t afraid. “I prayed a lot that Heavenly Father would help me,” he said, and his prayers were answered with a feeling of comfort and with faith that he would be found. “I felt that I was being watched over by Heavenly Father.”
While Joshua was praying, friends and family were also fasting and praying that he would be found in safety. His parents waited anxiously for reports on the search for their son.
Many volunteers helped search the surrounding foothills, which are full of abandoned mines and air shafts. At least seven times some of them passed within forty meters of Joshua.
The longer the search continued, the more certain many people became that Joshua was not in the mine but had wandered away from it. Search dogs, helicopters, and people on horseback and on foot searched the cliff-lined hills of nearby Dry Canyon. There was no trace of the boy.
Inside the mine, Joshua waited calmly for someone to find him. To help pass the time, he sang “I Am a Child of God” and other songs that he had learned in Primary.
As each day passed, the chance of finding Joshua alive grew less, but members of the rescue team were determined to not give up.
When the search party came out of the mine after another unsuccessful rescue attempt on the afternoon of the fifth day, a Church member, John Skinner, persuaded the men in charge to let him go in with the other searchers for a final attempt. “I just had a feeling that he was still in the mine and that he was still alive,” he explained.
John Skinner had explored the Hidden Treasure Mine 120 times and was very familiar with the dozens of passages that wind through the eight levels. He could picture in his mind at least three places where Joshua might be. One of those places was the ore stope.
As the other searchers made another sweep through the mine, he, Ray Guymon, and Gary Christensen separated from the group, and John Skinner led them to the sections of the mine where he thought the boy might be. When they finally came to the ore cavity, they heard a faint cry for help but were not sure what it was. They remained still until they heard it again. The excitement grew as they and Joshua yelled back and forth, trying to find each other in the darkness.
“My heart just started pumping and pounding,” recalled Gary Christensen, the first to reach Joshua. “I wrapped my arms around him, and he wrapped his arms around me.”
“I felt like we were led there by the Lord,” Ray Guymon said.
All three men said it was very difficult to describe the feelings they had when they found Joshua, whom they had never seen before.
“I felt like he was my own,” Gary Christensen said. “I was just really happy inside.”
“It was an overwhelming feeling when we found him,” John Skinner said.
As Joshua was brought out of the mine, there were tears of joy and relief on the faces of many. Joshua, although excited, remained calm—he had not doubted that he would be found.
Because there was no light inside the mine, Joshua had lost track of time. He was surprised when he found out that he had been lost for so long. Dehydrated from going so long without water, and suffering mild frostbite on his feet, he was flown to a hospital, where he rested and doctors examined him.
At first the doctors thought they would have to amputate his little toes. But all he lost was some skin from his feet. He had to be in a wheelchair for about a week. Physical therapy strengthened his leg and foot muscles, and before long he was walking, running, and even riding his skateboard again.
Joshua received more than a thousand letters, many from other school children who wanted to know more about him and his experience. While he was lost, the students at Fox Hills Elementary School, where he was in the fifth grade, tied yellow ribbons on the fences all around their school to show that they were thinking about him and hoping that he would be back soon. It really made Joshua feel good to know that so many people cared about him. He tells everyone, “Heavenly Father does answer your prayers. Have faith and don’t give up.”

Now, to conclude, there is a lesson from the life of President Gordon B. Hinckley that we have perhaps overlooked because it occurred at the end of his life. President Hinckley was a bold leader filled with faith, but there were two things he feared: the first was getting cancer, and the second was losing his wife. His mother, brother, and sister had died of cancer. He feared cancer. And Sister Hinckley was the joy of his life, and he couldn’t imagine life without her.

But then, in April 2004, Sister Hinckley missed General Conference. In his concluding remarks, President Hinckley acknowledged that she was not well.

“It is a somber time for me,” he said. “We have been married for 67 years this month. … We’ve walked together side by side through all of these years, coequals and companions through storm and sunshine.”21

Two days later, Sister Hinckley slipped through the veil. President Hinckley was heartbroken and still recovering from the loss when, just nine months later, he was diagnosed with cancer. He underwent surgery, but the cancer had spread. Most assumed that, at the age of 95, he would not submit to treatment, but when he asked his doctors if they could administer chemotherapy to someone his age, they agreed to try.

One might wonder why he didn’t see his cancer at that age as evidence that it was time to reunite with his wife, but he explained, in words to this effect, “I feel I should do all I can to live as long as I can. Then when death comes, I will know it is the Lord’s will and that I did all I could do.” President Hinckley lived two more years–likely 12 to 18 months longer than he would have otherwise. In January 2008, he passed away.

In this final act of devotion, President Hinckley set a pattern for all of us. He demonstrated that, above all, he was determined to do all the Lord had sent him here to do. He modeled the admonition he had given the Church when he said, “We are all in this together. ... Within your sphere of responsibility you have as serious an obligation as do I within my sphere of responsibility. Each of us should be determined to build the kingdom of God on earth and to further the work of righteousness.”22

President Hinckley was a disciple of Jesus Christ who did as much as he could for as long as he could. Decades earlier, he had begun planting seeds of faith and devotion to the Lord that he harvested in his final days and years.

I was halfway up a climbing wall, completely stuck. Moments earlier, I had been on the ground, chatting with friends and waiting in line. Although I’d never climbed a wall like this before, I hadn’t been nervous or concerned. Within a matter of seconds though, everything had changed. I now clung desperately to handholds, my progress stopped by inexperience and fear.
Only moments before, when the man ahead of me slipped in his own ascent and descended slowly to the ground, I readied myself to climb. As I strapped on the safety gear, my friend Kent tapped me on the shoulder. “Liz, I’ve been watching the climbers and studying the wall. I know how to get to the top. Take your first step with your left foot and grab high with your right hand …” Kent’s directions were detailed, like driving instructions, but I just nodded without really paying attention. The wall didn’t look hard. I was sure I could do it on my own.
Disregarding Kent’s instructions, I grabbed holds right in front of me and followed the course that seemed to offer the least resistance. Climbing quickly, I took three fairly easy steps, and then … nothing. The next handhold was out of reach, and I couldn’t find a toehold. I was only 10 feet up, and my options had entirely disappeared.
Cutting through my predicament, I heard Kent’s voice from below. “Liz, I told the instructor that you are a first-time climber. He said you can start over. Come down and begin again, this time with your left foot.”
I quickly descended, thanked the instructor, and started again. This time I listened to Kent’s instructions as he directed me up the wall. Following the course he charted, I climbed, stretched, and maneuvered my way up. Nearing the top, I made a sickening discovery. The bell that from below had appeared easy to reach was actually located on an overhang.
“Liz,” Kent called, “you’re going to have to jump up to grasp that handhold to the left of the bell. With your left hand on that hold, you’ll be able to ring the bell with your right. You can do it, Liz.”
Was he crazy? If I jumped for the handhold, I would be airborne for a split second. And if I could grab the handhold by the bell, my feet would be left dangling in the air.
As I felt my fingers slipping, I realized that I needed to trust Kent’s directions. He could see the entire wall. He had watched others before me. He knew this was the only way for me to succeed. I resolved to follow his instructions and trust my guide. Jumping high, I grabbed the left handhold and reached for the bell. I’m not sure which I heard first, the bell up high or the cheers down below, but both assured me that I had succeeded.
On the climbing wall, I was given permission to try again by an understanding instructor. In life, we are given the ability to try again by an even more understanding Savior. If we repent of our errors, heed the counsel of those He has called, and keep striving upward in faith and hope, each and every one of us can reach the top and ring the victory bell.

I would like to give a modern day example of how the Church prospered in a certain area because of the diligent work of one man. Back in the year 2000 we were working on an Encyclopedia of Latter-day Saint history at BYU in Provo. As part of that project we asked experts to write short articles on the history of The Church in over 180 different countries. We had completed the manuscript and sent it to the publisher. Then I received a telephone call from Kenya, Africa. It was from Dale LeBaron, one of the authors who had written several of our articles on the countries of Africa. He asked if we had sent the manuscript in for publication. I answered, yes. Then, with considerable emotion he said: “Stop the press! Let me tell you what is happening in Mozambique right now. A man named Francisco Dique Sousa has unofficially organized about 500 unbaptized followers into nine branches and they have built six meetinghouses. They have been waiting for the Church to send authorized missionaries to teach them. This week four missionaries have finally arrived and they are teaching scores of investigators. Some people are literally waiting outside their huts all day long to be taught.” Well, many of those investigators joined The Church and an official Branch was soon created. I think Francisco Sousa is an excellent example of one who “Labored without ceasing to bring souls unto Christ.”

When I think back on my many years of Church administration, some of my most profound memories are the times I joined with ward members to help someone.
For example, I remember as a bishop working alongside several active members of my ward as we cleaned out the silage pit at the stake welfare farm. This was not a pleasant assignment! A less-active brother who had not been to church for many years was invited to join with us. Because of the love and fellowship he felt with us as we worked and talked in that smelly silage pit, he came back to church and was later sealed in the temple to his wife and his children. Our fellowship through service has blessed his children, grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren. Many of them have served missions, have married in the temple, and are raising an eternal family—a great work wrought by a simple act, a small fleck of gold.

Virtually every missionary has the privilege of living and laboring with at least five or six companions. In the course of eating and praying and teaching together, they develop special bonds of friendship. Some of those friendships persist throughout life.

In the mission field where I presided there was a young man who was having severe adjustment problems. I carefully selected a companion for him. The two knit their hearts perfectly. I watched the one infuse the other with his virtues and strengths, and when they left the mission field, both were whole and strong and filled with a desire to serve God. A few years after they had returned home, I heard that one had suffered some severe problems with his family. As I began to investigate to see if I might help, I discovered that the former companion had already made the contact and was doing all that was necessary.

Photograph by Feng Yu/iStock/Thinkstock
As an elementary school teacher of more than 25 years, I have received a lot of interesting things from my young students. Silly notes, drawn pictures, and imaginative crafts are common gifts. Last year, however, was the first time I had ever received a potato.
“A potato for the teacher,” young Emma said proudly when she came to my desk, “because I didn’t have an apple.” It was a medium-sized potato, scrubbed clean, and beautiful as far as potatoes go. I thanked her and placed it on my desk. I saw Emma’s large blue eyes shine with pride whenever she looked at it throughout the day.
After school, when I was working at my desk, I couldn’t help but regard the potato with a tender smile. Children see things so simply, and with that common potato, Emma taught me something important. I left it on my desk for over a week because it served as a reminder to me.
As a visiting teacher and a sister in my ward, I wanted to serve others, but I was always waiting for an “apple” before I took time to help. If I was busy and couldn’t make an extra casserole or if I wanted to give a special flower but didn’t get to the floral shop, I ignored the still, small voice of the Spirit whispering of someone who needed my service.
“I’ll do something this weekend, when I have time,” I would convince myself. “Nobody needs me today.”
But what if someone really did need me? What if I hadn’t ignored the promptings to visit an elderly neighbor or the young widow who had just lost her husband? Could I have helped or served, even with what I could offer then—a “potato”?
I learned a great lesson from Emma that I am trying hard to put into practice. If I don’t have an apple, I give a potato instead, and I do it now. I don’t wait to make a casserole or my special lemon cream pie; I buy a box of cookies instead. I don’t often get to the florist, but I can drop in for a chat without the flower. A homemade card would be great, but so would a quick phone call. It doesn’t have to be a grand gesture of service every time. A small gesture of love is just as nice.
I have the potato at home now, but I don’t think I’ll ever eat it. It serves as a constant reminder to serve when I’m prompted. I give what I can now instead of waiting until later. A potato for the teacher really was the nicest gift.

Several years ago, Wayne Lewis, of Washington, USA, published his life story. He gave copies to all of his children and grandchildren. “This was not done for the benefit of anyone but my family, to encourage them to write about their life experiences,” he says. Not long afterward, Wayne suffered one stroke, then another. “After the strokes, my counselor discovered that writing stories about my life was actually helping diminish the stresses brought on by brain injury, so I have continued writing about my life.” Now 88 years old, Wayne adds, “I would encourage everyone to write their life story. Act now, and use any format you think will be read by those you love.”

Our third part of the formula is: Fill your heart with love. I remember watching on television a very exciting baseball game between evenly matched teams. One of the teams had one of the greatest home-run hitters of all time. After the game a reporter interviewed him. He didn’t talk too much about home runs or runs batted in. He talked about his father. The ball player was Hank Aaron. He did not have very much of this world’s goods when he was a young boy, but he loved baseball. It consumed his life. He said that he and his father used to sit in an old, abandoned car that was in the rear of their lot and talk for hour after hour.

One day Hank said to his dad, “I’m going to quit school, Dad. I’m going to go to work so I can play baseball.”

And Herbert Aaron said to his son, “My boy, I quit school because I had to, but you’re not going to quit school. Every morning of your young life I’ve put 50 cents on the table, that you might buy your lunch that day. And I take 25 cents with me, that I might buy my lunch. Your education means more to me than my lunch. I want you to have what I never had.”

Hank Aaron said that every time he thought about that 50-cent piece that his father put on the table every day, he thought how much that 50 cents meant to his father. It conveyed to him how much his schooling meant to his father. Hank Aaron said, “I never had too much difficulty staying in school when I reflected upon the love my father had for me. As a result of reflecting upon the love of my father, I obtained my schooling and played a lot of baseball.”

That was putting it mildly from the greatest home-run threat that ever stepped up to a baseball diamond—Henry Aaron.

On another family trip, (which my children probably also considered a family ordeal) we went to India. Before we left, we asked our children if they would like to give away some of their clothes and toys to needy children in India. So they collected toys and clothes and at various places we visited in India, we gave those items away to children in the villages. At one point, we met a rather pessimistic man who said, "I see you are giving a few toys and clothes to the kids in this village. With millions of people starving in India, what hope do you have to make a difference?" "Well", I replied, "it may not make a difference to the millions", but pointing to the happy Indian children, I said, "it sure makes a difference to them."

Several years ago, I had the opportunity of traveling with the President of the Church to attend a series of area conferences. I will never forget the contrast between two conferences that were held just a few days apart. The first area conference was held in a large arena, and as we sat on the stand, we noticed continuous movement by the people. We saw individuals throughout the arena leaning over and whispering to family members and friends seated next to them. Giving the members the benefit of the doubt, we attributed the general lack of reverence to the nature of the facility.
A few days later, we were in another country attending another area conference in an arena much like the first. When we entered the arena, however, an immediate hush came over the congregation. As we sat through the two-hour general session, there was very little movement among the people. Everyone listened intently. Great attention and respect was shown all the speakers, and when the prophet spoke, you could hear a pin drop.
After the meeting was over, I asked the priesthood leaders about what they had done to prepare the people for the conference. They told me their preparation had been simple. They had asked priesthood holders to explain to the members of their families, and also the families they home taught, that at an area conference they would have the privilege of hearing the words of the prophet and the Apostles. The priesthood leaders explained that the reverence their people felt for God and His servants was the basis for their reverent behavior at the conference.

My mother and father served as mission leaders for the New Zealand Auckland Mission. Prior to their serving, they met with President Thomas S. Monson, who gave them specific instructions “to lift the people up.” While serving as mission president, my father started to experience significant headaches and occasional dizziness which warranted a medical examination. After being examined by the doctors, an early diagnosis of a brain tumor was relayed. The doctor immediately cautioned my father to move gently, slowly, and quietly, and to always keep his head very still until the results were more conclusive. When my father heard the instructions, he immediately started to shake his head furiously back and forth while saying simultaneously that “President Monson promised me protection while I am serving.”

When my father’s faith inventory occurred, he was not found wanting—his symptoms dissipated, his diagnosis changed, and he served vigorously and faithfully to the end of his assignment.

About 50 years ago, my missionary companion and I were tracting near the University of Córdoba in Argentina when a young man invited us into his apartment. Immediately it became apparent that he and his roommates had invited us in only to argue about the existence of God.
We didn’t want to argue, so instead we agreed to meet later to discuss our message in an environment conducive to learning. When we returned, the young man explained why he believed there was no God. He said man had invented God because of his need to believe in something greater, something supernatural.
When it was our turn, I asked, “How do you know the United States exists?” I testified of its reality and asked if there was other evidence that proved its existence. He said he had read about it in books and newspapers. I then asked if he believed my testimony and what he had read. He emphatically said he did.
“So we cannot deny the testimonies of those, such as I, from the United States,” I said. “Nor can we deny the testimony of those who have written about it.” The young man agreed.
I then asked, “Based on this premise, can we deny the testimonies of those who have seen God and written of their experience?” I showed him the Bible, telling him that it contained testimonies of men and women who had seen and talked with God and Jesus Christ. I asked if we can deny the testimonies contained in the Bible, and he reluctantly said no.
I then asked, “What would you think of a book written by a people other than those in the Bible who saw the same God as the writers of Bible?” He responded that no such book existed.
We showed him the Book of Mormon and taught him of its purpose. We testified that it was true and that God still communicates through living prophets today.
Surprised, the young man said, “I’ve been able to confound all the preachers from other churches. You have something I’ve never heard of before. May I read that book?” We gave him the book and testified of the love God has for His children.
Because the semester was ending, we weren’t able to visit this young man again before he returned to his home in Bolivia. However, I prayed he would read the book and receive a testimony.
In 2002 I was called to serve as a Spanish branch president in the Provo Missionary Training Center. One Sunday I related the above story to the missionaries. Afterward a missionary from Bolivia told me he had heard an older man in his stake tell the story of his conversion—the same story I relate here.
Tears filled my eyes. After 40 years, I had received an answer to my prayers about the young man from Bolivia. He had come to know of the existence of God and His great plan of happiness. I know that one day we will meet again, and I will rejoice with him in the gospel.

“Put your foot inside this shoe,” seminary teacher Tatyana Mutilina said, holding out a boot nearly large enough for Goliath. Her student, Anzhelika Kovalova, placed her foot timidly inside.
“Now,” the teacher said, “put it here on the table where everyone can see.”
That got the class’s attention.
“Don’t go on a journey wearing shoes that don’t fit,” Sister Mutilina said. Then she taught the Kharkovsky Branch youth a powerful lesson from the seminary manual, reading scriptures, discussing questions, and bearing her testimony about how important it is to be prepared when the Lord calls upon you. The point?
“That the future of the Church in Ukraine will require youth like us to step forward,” Anzhelika says. “We need to be ready for the challenge.” She is not the only young LDS woman here with such an understanding. Others share similar views.

Also noted in our records was the name of the orphanage in Weonju from which the agency had received us. It was called Weonju Yangnyoe Weonjang. My Korean dictionary showed no exact translation for the title, but there were two possibilities: Yangnyoe, which means adopted daughter; and yangno, which means old age asylum.
I asked several missionaries in Weonju if they could find out about orphanages that dealt with the adoption agency during the late 1950s and 60s. But after a few months of searching, they found nothing.
During this time, I was serving on the outskirts of Seoul. President Ch’oi Dong Wan, a member of the Seoul West Stake presidency, became my good friend. Once, while visiting his home, I spoke about the promise in my patriarchal blessing. He offered to help me. A few weeks later on preparation day, he, my companion, and I set out for Weonju to see what we could find.
At one orphanage, we were told that a Canadian Christian missionary, Sister O’Connor, had kept records of the orphans, but she had returned to Canada in the 1960s. We had one more place to visit, the Weonju Yangnyoe Weonjang—the orphanage mentioned in our records. But it was not an orphanage at all; it was an old folks’ home. I had the most peculiar feeling, though—as if I had been there before. Now I was really confused—I couldn’t understand why I had such feelings.
After our seemingly useless search, we were disappointed, but we didn’t give up. President Ch’oi and I felt that we should return to the agency and recheck my records. When we went through the records again, we found the name “O’Conner” written in Korean on a corner of the form. I learned that the old folks’ home had once been an orphanage and was, in fact, the place where my sister and I had stayed until our adoption. We now knew where my sister and I had come from.

I share with you today a personal experience with priesthood power.

Sue and I met about two months after I returned from my mission and were married several months later in June of 1971. At the time of this story, we had been married for six years. I was in graduate school and we had three children--a little boy almost four, a little girl almost two, and a brand new baby boy, about two weeks old.

One day I came home from graduate school to find our home in total chaos. The baby was crying; the two little kids were running around wreaking havoc; there were toys all over our little apartment; and Sue was exhausted and in tears.

I pitched in and tried to corral the older children and clean up the apartment. As I went to work, the Spirit whispered to me. "Give your wife a blessing." So, right there in the middle of chaos, Sue sat on a chair and I gave her a blessing. In that moment it was as if a spiritual cocoon settled in around us. Heavenly Father had prepared a blessing for His beloved daughter, my wife, and I was privileged to deliver His blessing to her by the power of the holy priesthood and in the name of Jesus Christ. The blessing was full of words of astonishing breadth and power. Sue received promises of strength and capacity and sweet blessings about our children and our family here on earth and in the eternities. When I finished, I hugged her for a long time. It was a powerful, spiritual, priesthood experience.

After that blessing we still had to pick up the toys and establish order and get the kids fed and to bed. But I am grateful that my husband heard the whisperings of the Spirit and was prepared in that moment to use the holy priesthood to give me a blessing.

The old station wagon bumped and squeaked as Leonard and his mother crossed the cattle guard and started up the dirt road to the pasture. Outside the car, snow swirled wildly about, blurring the bleak white landscape and obscuring the road. Leonard’s mother leaned forward, peering intently into the storm. “If we lose this cow, Leonard, we’re giving up and going back to the city,” Mother stated. She turned the big car off the road, bumped through the field, and came to a stop.
Leonard’s stomach muscles tightened with anxiety. Mother had expressed the same feeling last spring when three newborn calves died one after another, and again last summer when Jiggs, their young white bull, dropped dead in the field. But she might mean it this time. He knew that mother really loved Lucy, a bony Holstein whose hooves had frozen as a calf; afterward she could only limp slowly to her feed and water. Last spring Lucy had given birth to a beautiful, healthy calf. Then a few days ago Uncle Jim had found Lucy floundering in an icy ditch and had pulled her out onto the bank, where she had lain ever since.
Leonard savored the warmth of the car for a moment, then pushed the heavy door open against the wind, which struck his face like a blow. He pulled his stocking cap down over his ears and pushed against the wind to the back of the station wagon. His mother released the latch, and Leonard pulled out an old wooden sleigh. He and his mother lifted a milk can full of water and a covered bucket of grain onto it.
“I’ll take some grain to the calves in the west field and come back for you,” Mother shouted as she turned back to the car.
Leonard nodded, picked up the rope tied to the sleigh, and started across the field. He kept his head down, following the trail to the gate. When he reached it, he could see Lucy’s black spots against the snow. Bales of hay formed a windbreak at her head. Lucy lay motionless, and Leonard wondered if she were dead already. A lump like a jammed-up sob arose in his throat. If only his dad were here, he would figure out some way to get her on her feet. The snow and cold had come too early. It was only November, and they weren’t ready. Since his dad’s death the year before, his mother had tried hard to run their little farm with only Leonard’s and his two sisters’ help.
As Leonard swung the gate open, Lucy slowly raised her head, and Leonard felt a warming relief. He hurriedly dragged the milk can from the sleigh, removed the cap, and poured some water into the pan near her head. The water was still slightly warm, and steam rose into the air. He poured the grain into another pan and hunched down beside Lucy. He brushed the snow from her back and stroked her furry flank. She looked at him with her gentle, unquestioning brown eyes and lowered her mouth to the water and drank. She moved her head toward the grain and snorted, sending a small dusty cloud into the air.
Leonard remembered how beautiful she had been as a calf, how starkly white and black against the green of the pasture behind the house. He remembered the pain in her eyes the morning her first calf was born and how the wobbly little creature had followed her and nuzzled her side for milk. That calf was big now and grazed with the other cows, and Leonard knew that Lucy was due to have another one in the spring. Her munching and swallowing now was a warm and homey sound against the wind that whined around them.
Feeling a peculiar kind of happiness in being near the cow, in hearing her eat, in knowing that she was still alive, Leonard didn’t think that he could stand living in the city. He remembered the long days spent at his grandmother’s house when he just sat on the front lawn and watched the traffic. He knew that kids did things in the city, but to him there seemed to be nothing fun to do. He didn’t want to leave the cows and the chickens and Ralph and George, the two huge labradors, or the wide fields and open sky, the pond, and his tree hut. There had to be a way to help Lucy somehow! After standing up and putting the can and bucket back on the sleigh, the worried boy patted Lucy’s head as she licked up the grain with her long pinkish tongue. Then he started back across the snow to meet his mother.
Later, back at the house, Leonard and his five-year-old sister, Susan, each carried a load of firewood into the house and dumped it behind the black stove. Jenny, his ten-year-old sister, and his mother were setting dinner on the table.
After the family had seated themselves at the table and the blessing on the food had been said, Susan asked, “How’s Lucy?”
“She’s still eating well,” Leonard said. “But if she doesn’t get up in another day or two, I don’t think she ever will.” He turned to his mother. “There just has to be some way we can get her on her feet! How about using the winch on the tractor?”
His mother sighed. “The tractor broke down before we finished the fall plowing. I really don’t know what we’d use. Maybe things are getting too hard for us to handle.”
“I love Lucy,” Susan said. “I’m going to pray for her. She’ll get up.”
Leonard smiled at his little sister, then at his mother. When she returned a faint smile, he felt a flicker of hope. “What about Uncle Jim’s tractor?” he asked.
“Maybe. But he’ll be out of town all week. By the time he gets back, it will probably be too late.”
Leonard ate in silence, still thinking about Lucy. Finally he said, “Why don’t we go down in the morning and try again to get her up? Maybe if we all encourage her, she’ll make the effort.”
The next morning Leonard and his two sisters climbed into the station wagon with their mother and drove down to the field. The gusting wind blew swirls of white snow off the fields here and there as they all helped to feed Lucy. The girls petted her thick winter coat and stroked her nose. After Lucy had eaten, more hay was spread around the cow to help her get her footing on the hard ground. Then everyone encouraged her to get up.
When plain coaxing didn’t work, Leonard found a smooth fence pole and wedged it under the cow’s side. Then he and Jenny found a rock to use as a fulcrum, and they began pushing down on the fence-pole lever while his mother pushed Lucy’s neck. Susan encouraged the cow by talking to her and wiggling her tail. The cow strained to raise her bulk. She kicked, but her legs only scraped against the ground beneath her. Lucy made a last struggle to rise, then flopped her head back down and refused to try again.
Leonard and Jenny lowered the pole. Susan let go of Lucy’s tail and sat down and laid her head on the cow as tears ran down her cheeks. Leonard’s mother sat on the grain bucket and put her chin in her hands.
Heartsick, Leonard looked off across the fields at the Uintah Mountains, their jagged peaks white against the blue sky. In the other direction the fields stretched far to the cedars and sagebrush beyond. He loved the expanse; it seemed to belong to him. He looked at his mother, sitting so forlornly on the bucket, and at his two sisters, gently stroking the animal’s side. “Maybe Susan had the solution,” he said softly.
His mother looked up at him, her eyes puzzled at first, then warm and comprehending. They all knelt on the spread hay, the wind gusting around them, and Mother spoke the words, explaining their need for the cow and how much they loved her. When Mother had finished, they all knelt silently a few moments longer.
“Let’s let her rest a few more minutes and try again,” Leonard said. “Then how about using two poles, one under her shoulders and one under her hips?” He looked at the cow again. “Her legs are more under her than they were when we started.”
He found another pole and a second rock. He and Jenny manned one pole, Mother and Susan the other.
“When I say ‘go,’” he directed, “start pushing, and shout to encourage her.”
“It would help if we had more people,” Jenny said.
“It would,” said Leonard, “but remember how Nephi had extra strength when he was holding onto Zoram. With the Lord’s help, we can do it.” He hesitated a moment, then shouted, “Go!”
The startled cow began to struggle. Mother and the three children pushed, wedging their poles a little farther under Lucy as she struggled. “Up, girl! Up!” they shouted, pushing and straining. The cow snorted and threw back her head and tried to dig her hooves into the ground. With a great heave the animal brought her legs under her, her back end and then her front end rising until she was standing. She swayed, and four pairs of hands steadied her. Lucy took a faltering step on her weakened legs, then another. Then she began to nibble the straw from one of the bales!
Leonard smiled across the cow’s back at his mother. She returned his smile, and he knew that she wouldn’t give up on the farm—not yet anyway. As the family knelt on the hay again in the thin winter sunlight, Lucy’s shuffling and munching provided a pleasant background to their prayer of gratitude.

A few years ago I was fly-fishing in Idaho on Henry's Lake it was my first time using a float tube and I was pretty excited. For those of you not familiar with a float tube, it is basically an inner tube with a seat so your legs are dangling in the water. You wear waders to stay dry and to propel yourself you use fins and kick your feet. As my fishing friend and I stood on a bluff overlooking the lake it was a beautiful site. We were going to fish until dark and stay the night there on the hillside in our little light dome tent. We set up our tent among some free ranging cattle so we had to be careful to find a good spot. People familiar with camping where cattle are will appreciate this statement. I asked if we shouldn't stake the tent but my friend assured me as long as we just put our sleeping bags in the tent it would be fine.
We were both anxious to try our luck on the large trout living in Henry's Lake so no more thought was given to the tent. We donned our waders, inflated the float tubes and headed quickly for the lake. To get away from other fisherman on the lake, I went out into the lake a fair distance. The skies were bright and beautiful as we began. But as people acquainted with the mountains and especially mountain lakes know, the weather can change rapidly. One minute I was casting under blue skies and the next I was fighting gale force winds that were pushing me further out into the lake. Prayers were offered and with every ounce of energy I was kicking my way back to shore.
In the midst of my battle with the winds and with the waves crashing on me, I looked up on the cliff where the tent was set up. Almost as if sprinkled with fairy dust I saw our tent tumbling, tumbling and tumbling before leaving the clutches of the earth's gravity - flying thru the sky and then like a pregnant Frisbee come crashing into the lake. Fortunately, someone close to it pulled it to shore. Much later, I arrived at shore exhausted. We claimed our soaked tent and hung our wet sleeping bags out to dry. The storm had past. The skies were again blue with the setting sun and the lake was calm as if nothing had ever happened. The only thing different than an hour earlier was that there were a number of scared fisherman appreciating life, some of whom had to be rescued by boat. And of course there was a wet tent with our dripping sleeping bags inside.
In setting up the tent both my friend and I were aware of normal procedures in securing a tent. In not doing what we both knew we should do caused us a wet and uncomfortable night. In life we often know what to do but we sometimes ignore those guidelines or best practices. After all, the sky is blue and life is good.
Let me return to me on the lake in the float tube. When the storm hit it was very sudden and very concerning. I don't usually get too emotional in situations like this and I try to size up the situation. Here is what the facts told me. One, this is my first time in a float tube. Two, I have put myself quite a distance from the safety of the shore. Three, the wind was blowing me into the middle of the lake. Four, with waders on I was not in a good situation to swim even if I thought I could make it that far in the cold mountain lake water so there was no thought of abandoning the tube. Five, there were those waves crashing on me. I had some idea of what the apostles encountered when they woke the Master and said "carest thou not that we perish?" The kind of wind and the waves that battered them and tested their faith was something I understood at that moment very well with each wave that hit me and by the strong wind pushing me from safety. Everything said, "Mike - you need help!"
I questioned myself asking if I was worthy of His help. While I may have been a bit far out for a first-timer in a float tube, I had not been otherwise foolish.
This storm was not blowing on me because I had made a spiritual mistake. Although as I was fighting the elements and kicking back to shore, I did reflect on my worthiness to ask for and receive the aid I needed from my Heavenly Father.
The lesson this taught me and I want to share with you today is, there are sometimes storms that come into our lives. Some of these, like my tent and sleeping bag getting wet, are caused by our own neglect and foolishness. Others are the result of nothing that we have done. However, our ability to escape those storms will be predicated on our worthiness to ask for and receive assistance.