Gospel Story Finder

I was nine years old that summer of 1902, and I will always remember it as the “summer of the stack cake.”
Moist, rich stack cakes are flavored with ginger and sweetened with molasses or sometimes sugar. In those long-ago days they were rare in our home. Sugar and molasses were dear then and used only sparingly. Mother dressed up wheat cakes with currants, and sometimes she made blackberry pie, but they could not compare with a stack cake.
That summer there were no cakes of any kind at our house. In May Mama had lost the baby she had been carrying for four months. Although she tried not to show it, I knew she still grieved about losing the baby. Her smile never touched her eyes now, and her walk was slower. When I tried to tend my two younger brothers and to take over Mama’s outside work, she thanked me with her soft voice. But it, too, was sort of sad and tired.
I thought and thought, trying to find a way to make her feel better. Finally I remembered the stack cake. We had not had one for quite some time. I had never made one before, but I had watched Mama as she had measured and mixed. I knew I could do it—I had to. Surely a stack cake would cheer her up.
All day I planned excitedly, checking to make sure we had everything I would need. There was even a little sugar, saved for a special occasion. This, I decided, was a special occasion.
I hurried through my chores the next morning. Mama looked at me questioningly, but just smiled. The boys followed her to the stream, so I was alone. Mama would be outside washing clothes all morning.
I gathered together all that I would need, trying to remember the order in which Mama had added the ingredients. The batter was stiff, almost too thick to stir. I hadn’t remembered Mama having so much trouble. But I reasoned that since she was stronger than I was, the mixing had looked easier. I had lighted the big stove earlier, so now I only had to pour the batter into the pan.
I didn’t mind the washing and cleaning up as I usually did. Somehow even that was special now. I peeked into the oven only once.
Finally it was time. I carefully lifted the cake out and loosened its edges from the pan as I had seen Mama do. It was hard to wait while it cooled. At last I set out our best dishes and placed a wedge of cake on each plate. It looked a little different from Mama’s. I finished just in time—Mama and the boys were coming in.
“Caroline—”
Mama stopped. She looked at the cake, then at me.
My words came in a rush. “It’s a stack cake, Mama. I made it myself.”
“Thank you, Caroline.”
Her voice had a catch in it.
I waited for Mama to take the first bite. Then I took one. I took another. The cake was heavy and dry, not light as it should have been.
“Oh, Mama, I wanted to make you smile again. But it’s terrible. And I’ve used the last of our sugar!” I couldn’t keep the tears back.
“Caroline, it’s the best stack cake I’ve ever tasted. Thank you.” Even though she was crying, I could see that her eyes were smiling.
Mama helped me make some icing from syrup to pour over the rest of the cake, and it tasted better then.
After that day Mama still looked sad sometimes but not as often. And whenever we had a stack cake, Mama and I would smile at each other, a smile that Papa and the boys didn’t understand. Later Mama taught me how to make a stack cake properly, and I knew we had shared more than a recipe.

Last week Dad took me with him to a town called Winchester. For his work he had to take some field strength measurements there and at some places along the way. I don’t know much about field strength measurements, but I do know about my dad.
One of the things I know is that he likes to take me places and do stuff with me. On the way to Winchester, for instance, we stopped and hiked across a big field with yellow flowers to a real pretty waterfall. We waded in the shallow parts of the pool under the falls and talked and laughed at a squirrel that was scolding us worse than Mom did the day Dad and I rode my go-cart down the steep part of Willow Lane and crashed through out little white picket fence and into her daffodils.
Another thing I know about Dad is that he loves Mom. He always opens the car door for her and helps her wash dishes and takes her on dates and hugs her a lot.
And he never yells. Well, almost never. I can only remember three times he did. One was at my soccer game when I made a winning goal. He ran out onto the field, put me on his shoulders, and hooted like he did the day my baby sister, Patience, was born. That was the second time he yelled. The third time was when our cat, Guinevere, ate Aristotle, his sixty-five-dollar tropical fish.
I know other things about Dad, too: He likes to jog, and he counts to ten a lot (like when he hammers his finger or steps on my baby sister’s loud, squeaky toys when he’s trying to tiptoe out of her room at night). He likes country-western music and Mom’s cheese enchiladas, but he hates cauliflower as much as I do. And he cries sometimes when he goes to Sky Hill, where Grandma and Grandpa are buried. They’re Dad’s mother and father, and they died in a plane crash about three years ago.
Something I don’t know about Dad is why he doesn’t go to church with Mom and me anymore. Oh, he still takes us to church, but it’s just to drop us off. Sometimes when kids ask me why he doesn’t come to church, I pretend I don’t hear them or I just say that I don’t know. I feel bad—not because their dads are there and mine isn’t, but because, well, because I love him a lot and I want him to be with us. It’s hard to explain. It’s just that Dad’s part of Mom and Patience and me, and we’re part of him. And what are families for if it’s not to be together? I get lonely, sort of, deep inside. As I said, it’s hard to explain.
Dad sometimes goes to pack meetings at the ward with me—when I earn a Scouting achievement award or when we have our Pinewood Derby. But that’s about all.
Once, when we were flying my kite behind the school, I asked him why he didn’t go to church with Mom and me. He looked like I did the time Mom asked who tracked mud across her clean carpet. But he just gave a little tug on the kite string and said, “Look at that thing climb, Arny!” And I knew better than to ask him again.
I know that Dad thinks about Church, though. And about God and Jesus. I know because when I was baptized, Dad was there, sitting right next to Mom and Uncle Henry, and he squeezed me afterward in a way that I will never forget. I can still feel it. There were tears in his eyes and the same kind of look that he had the day I scored at that soccer game and the Sunday Bishop Huxley blessed my baby sister. And I know because when my pet lizard died, Dad said that God would look after it, that Heavenly Father wouldn’t have taken the time to make something that He didn’t love.
When I asked Mom if she thought Dad would ever go to church again, her eyes shone as brightly as Aunt Margaret’s rosewood music box, and her chin jiggled like it does every time she bears her testimony. She said that she hoped that he would and that until then we should go on loving and supporting him as he does us and letting him know every day that we think he’s the greatest guy on earth.
“That won’t be hard,” I said, “because he is!”

Our next child is a boy. We named him Taylor. Taylor is very gifted socially, so he had many friends. By the time he was in high school, I was a professor at Caltech in Pasadena, so we lived in Southern California. We had a cool backyard: We had a pool, a hot tub, a trampoline, some outdoor speakers, a treehouse, and a zip line. You could climb up on the ladder of the treehouse, hop on the zip line, fly across the yard, and drop into the pool. It was super fun!

Taylor decided to have his sixteenth birthday party at our house. He invited his friends, but then his friends invited their friends, and then those friends invited a whole bunch of people. Somehow it went viral, and pretty soon everybody around school knew that the party was at Taylor’s house that night. It was great: the backyard was full of people and the front yard was full of people.

And then some people came over who didn’t even know Taylor, and they were doing doughnuts with their cars in the street and smoking pot between the cars.

And then the police came! A police officer knocked on the door. I went and opened the door, and the young officer asked, “Are you the owner of this house?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Well, we’ve got some problems: we’ve got kids doing doughnuts in the street, they’re smoking pot, it’s too loud, and the neighbors are complaining.”

I answered, “I know! What should we do?” My cooperation surprised him—I think he expected some opposition.

Then he said, “Okay, well, I’ll just park my police car right here in the street in front of your house. You turn the stereo off, and let’s see if we can make some progress.”

I said, “That’s a great idea—let’s do it!”

It worked, and things calmed down.

Oh how I love Taylor! He is an incredible person. He is my son, and I will be his father forever and ever. He means the world to me.

Perhaps the largest challenge for Vaea, however, was getting to the temple to be sealed. He and his girlfriend had decided to get married, and they both wanted to get married in the temple. But the closest temple at the time was in New Zealand, and the cost of getting there was tremendous.
“For a whole year we fasted together every Tuesday to find a way to make it to the temple. She was still living on an island in the north; I was in Ha‘apai. It was difficult. But then two businessmen heard our story, and they felt inspired to help. They actually paid for our trip. They said that if we truly wanted to be married in the temple, they would provide the way. I did not have any property or even a job so I could pay them back, but they did not want anything. It was a tremendous blessing.”

When he was 14 years old, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) was asked whether he had read the Bible all the way through. “I had read many books by that time, the funny papers, and light books, but my accusing heart said to me, ‘You, Spencer Kimball, you have never read that holy book. Why?”1 From that point on, President Kimball made it a point to “feast upon the words of Christ” (2 Nephi 32:3).

As a young adult I attended a session in the Manti Temple. I recall that the company was large and the proceedings rather long and drawn out. The rooms were crowded and very warm, making it difficult for me to stay awake and to keep my mind from wandering. At a moment when I was relaxed in thought, I heard a speaker quote the words of the Savior: “And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent” (John 17:3).
All of a sudden, I felt a spiritual nudging and became very alert. A voice within me seemed to shout, “That’s it! That’s why I am here! I am here in the Lord’s house to become better acquainted with the only true and living God and his Son—the Savior of mankind.” Then the voice in my mind asked, “Is there a better place than the temple to learn of God and his holy purposes?”

I remember a missionary who had just recently returned from the mission field who came into the Institute of Religion when I was there. He had committed a grave mistake that caused him to think that his life was ruined forever. And I said to him, “God loves you just as much today as he did last Thursday,” and he couldn’t believe it. The thought had never occurred to him. He wept like a child. You know, sometimes we think that God loves us to the extent that we please him, to the extent that we’re good boys and girls, good men and women. Love from God is not earned. It is not merited; if it is, it is justice and reciprocity and reward. Love comes from a loving heart, and God’s love is unconditional. And he loves the worst of us and the best of us equally, I believe. We cause him to suffer when we do wrong, when he sees us live our lives in ways that destroy us, and when he sees us hurting other people—this must cause him pain.

For a long time I stared at that white card, and I remembered what it was like to move into a new school. Two years earlier I had been the new kid. At first I was afraid and was sure that everyone in the whole school was staring at me. Then Brandon invited me to sit next to him in class. His friends became my friends. We sat in the cafeteria together. We played at recess together. That very first afternoon he even invited me to his house after school.

I thought about Darren’s first day. No one had spoken to him. No one had invited him to join them. No one had eaten lunch with him. No one had asked him over after school to play. And all during the day, he had been forced to face the silent, scary stares from the rest of us.

As I stared at Sister Murray’s white card, I realized that although I had thought Darren was different from the rest of us, he really wasn’t. He had a different color of skin, and darker eyes and hair, but he felt and hurt just like the rest of us. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to have friends. He wanted to play. He wanted to go places without everyone staring at him.

Suddenly I felt sorry for Darren. I decided that by really feeling sorry for him, I was doing what Alma talked about at the waters of Mormon. I told myself that that was all I needed to do, that that was all I could do without the whole school staring at me like I was someone extra strange. I changed my clothes and rushed outside to play.

The next day I grabbed my football and charged out of the house for school. Before I could leave the yard, I slid to a stop. There were Darren and Tanya coming down the street on their way to school. Barry and Trevor were fifteen or twenty steps behind them. I saw Barry pick up something and toss it toward Darren and Tanya. Then Trevor said something that I couldn’t hear, and both of them burst out laughing. Darren and Tanya just kept walking with their eyes straight ahead.

Instead of starting down the street close to Darren and Tanya, I pretended to have forgotten something and slipped back inside the house until all four of them were far down the street. I tried as hard as I could to not think about the white card stuck on the mirror in my bedroom.

During the day, there were several times that I could have said something to Darren, but I didn’t.
I didn’t stare at him and snicker like some of the other kids, but I didn’t try to comfort him at all. At lunchtime, I was right behind him in the line, and when he went to sit down, I almost followed him to his table. Then Brandon called to me from another table, and I went over to him.

By the end of the day, I was glad that it was Friday because I had a whole weekend without having to think about or to see Darren. On Saturday, I hardly thought about him. By Sunday morning when I was rushing about to get ready for church, Darren was the last thing on my mind.

As sacrament meeting started, I sat on the bench next to Mom. She teaches Primary and had her manual and lesson materials piled neatly on the floor in front of her. Right on top was a picture of Jesus wearing a red and white robe. And He was staring right at me. We sang the sacrament hymn, and I began to think about my white card with those special baptismal promises written on it, promises that I was about to renew when the deacons brought the bread and water around. I was going to promise to mourn with those that mourn and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and I knew—and I knew that Jesus knew—that for me that promise included Darren.

For a moment I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see that picture of Jesus looking up at me. But I could still feel His eyes staring at me. They didn’t stare at me like the eyes at school stared at Darren and Tanya. Jesus’ eyes were asking me to do something for Darren.

That Sunday was the first time that I was a little afraid to take the bread and water as it came down the row toward me. I knew that I wasn’t eating plain old bread or drinking regular old water. I was supposed to be thinking of Jesus and promising to do what I thought He would do if Darren was in His class at school.

I hesitated as Mom handed me the bread tray. In fact, I hesitated so long that Mom nudged me. Slowly I reached out and took a small piece of bread. When I did, I knew that I was repeating the promise I’d made three years ago, when Dad had led me down the tile steps into the baptismal font. For me, that shiny clean baptismal font was the same as the waters of Mormon for Alma’s people.

On Monday morning, I said an extra long prayer because I needed all the help and courage I could get. I grabbed my football, slipped out the door, and looked up and down the street. Darren and Tanya were still over a block away. Barry and Trevor were a few steps behind them.

I knew that I could start for school without running into Darren just yet. I could wait until I was in Mrs. Riley’s class and look for a chance to be nice to Darren there. Then I thought of that picture of Jesus, dressed in His red and white robe, staring up at me.

I gripped my ball and waited for Darren and Tanya. I was going to keep a promise.

“Hi, I’m Steve,” I said with a nervous smile. “I think you and I are in the same class.” I glanced anxiously down the street toward Barry and Trevor; then my gaze returned to Darren and Tanya. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

Darren thought a moment and then shook his head. I smiled and took a deep breath because my heart was pounding and my hands were shaking a little bit. I tossed my football to Darren and he caught it. “Good hands,” I said. “Do you like football?”

“I love it! I used to play at my old school.”

“He was good, too!” Tanya spoke up, grinning up at her brother and then over at me.

“Then you’ll have to play with us. We can always use a good football player.”

We started down the sidewalk. I heard Trevor and Barry snicker, and I knew that they were staring behind us, but I kept walking with Darren and Tanya.

“Did you think of a frightening experience to write about in class?” I asked, remembering an assignment that Mrs. Riley had given us on Friday.

Darren laughed. “I can think of a lot of scary experiences that I’ve had. I haven’t written anything down yet, though.”

“Mrs. Riley said we could work in pairs. Maybe you and I can work together,” I invited. “We can help each other come up with something really good.”

When we reached the school, we went over to where the guys were starting the morning football game before the bell rang. As we approached, the playing stopped for a moment and all eyes were on Darren, Tanya, and me. No one said anything, but I could feel all of those staring eyes on me.

For a moment, I wished that I had hurried to school without waiting for Darren and his sister. I wasn’t used to those staring eyes. Then I realized that ever since Darren had entered this school, he had been facing those same staring eyes all the time. There was no place for him to run and hide from them, and those eyes hurt him as much as they hurt me—probably even more.

“Darren’s going to play with us this morning,” I burst out boldly. “Before he came here, he played a lot of football. He’ll be on my team. We can play with my ball.” I silently prayed that my voice wouldn’t crack or shake as I spoke. I didn’t want anyone to know how scared I was.

“We don’t need any extra guys,” Rusty spoke up, staring up at Darren and me.

“We can always use someone good like Darren,” I came back. “He’s playing,” I repeated. “Go out for a pass,” I said, turning to him.

While all eyes were on us, Darren raced across the field. I gripped the ball, cocked my arm, and threw with all my might. My pass was a little high and a little long. I figured that Darren would probably miss it. But just as it sailed over his head, he leaped and stretched out his arms. The ball touched his fingertips. It was as though they had invisible glue on them, because he held onto the ball, pulled it into his chest, and clutched it tightly as he fell to the ground.

“Awesome!” I heard someone mumble behind me. “What a catch!”

I grinned and waved Darren back to us. “Come on, Darren, we’ll kick off.”

The eyes still stared, but I didn’t mind them so much, because I remembered the promise I had made the day before, when I had taken the bread and water. Into my mind came the picture of Someone in a red and white robe with His eyes staring at me. As I raced across the field alongside Darren, I was glad for His staring eyes and how good they now made me feel.

One of the many special spiritual experiences I had with my dear friend and beloved missionary companion—and later my Quorum President—President Jeffrey R. Holland, related to the prophet Elijah.

Starting in 2009, Elder Holland and I had the privilege of escorting various groups of people—including Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox Rabbi leaders, as well as secular Jewish leaders—through open-house tours in temples here in Utah.

At the baptismal font, I had the opportunity to explain to them the doctrine of baptism for our deceased ancestors. This relates directly to Malachi’s promises of turning the hearts of children to their deceased fathers. I read to them from 1 Kings 7:25, where Solomon’s temple is described. The baptismal font sits on top of the hinder parts of twelve oxen representing the twelve tribes of Israel. This brought both recognition and tears to some. They realized that they were essentially looking at certain aspects of Solomon’s temple, which has sacred significance to both Jews and Muslims.

When we entered the sealing room, Elder Holland was overcome with emotion and, with tears in his eyes, explained to them that he did not want to offend them but felt compelled to share something. Then, in a very spiritually powerful way, he explained that Elijah indeed had come and restored the sacred keys that allow the eternal sealing of husbands and wives and their families. He explained that the sealing room, where we were assembled, is a place where the restored keys are exercised. Our Jewish friends appreciated the fact that Old Testament scriptural accounts of prophets are featured so prominently in our temples and doctrine.

Joseph turned the page in his book. He frowned. He had two more pages to go.
“Are you OK?” Mama asked.
“I like to read,” Joseph said. “But I am so slow. How can I learn to read better?”
“I have an idea,” Mama said. “Read a chapter of the Book of Mormon every day. It will help you learn to read better.”
Joseph tried. At first it took him a long time. He had to sound out the long words. But he kept reading every day. Soon he could read more than one chapter.
Two weeks went by. Joseph’s bookmark moved from 1 Nephi to 2 Nephi. Then it was in the book of Jacob!
One night it was Joseph’s turn to give the lesson in family home evening.
“I know what to do!” Joseph thought. He found the Book of Mormon Stories book. It had words and pictures. He turned the pages until he found the perfect story.
Joseph read the story to his family. He read short words, like ship. He read long words, like commanded. Prophets wrote these words long ago. The words were easy to read.
When the story was over, Mama had tears in her eyes.
“Are you OK, Mama?” Joseph asked.
“Yes,” Mama said. “I’m happy. You have worked hard.”
Joseph smiled a big smile.
“I am reading every day, just like you said.” He showed Mama his Book of Mormon. His bookmark was in the book of Alma!
Someday Joseph’s bookmark would be at the end of the book. And then he could start over!

Thomas Edison devoted ten years and all of his money to developing the nickel-alkaline storage battery at a time when he was almost penniless. Through that period of time, his record and film production was supporting the storage battery effort. Then one night the terrifying cry of fire echoed through the film plant. Spontaneous combustion had ignited some chemicals. Within moments all of the packing compounds, celluloid for records, film, and other flammable goods had gone up with a roar. Fire companies from eight towns arrived, but the fire and heat were so intense and the water pressure so low that the fire hoses had no effect. Edison was sixty-seven years old—no age to begin anew. His son Charles was frantic, wondering if he were safe, if his spirits were broken, and how he would handle a crisis such as this at his age. Charles saw his father running toward him. He spoke first.

He said, “Where’s your mother? Go get her. Tell her to get her friends. They’ll never see another fire like this as long as they live!”

At 5:30 the next morning, with the fire barely under control, he called his employees together and announced, “We’re rebuilding.” One man was told to lease all the machine shops in the area, another to obtain a wrecking crane from the Erie Railroad Company. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Oh, by the way. Anybody know where we can get some money?” (Paraphrased from Charles Edison, “My Most Unforgettable Character,” Reader’s Digest, December 1961, pp. 175–77.)

Virtually everything you now recognize as a Thomas Edison contribution to your life came after that disaster. Remember, “Trouble has no necessary connection with discouragement— discouragement has a germ of its own.”

On one occasion President Smith returned from a conference assignment in California with his lunch sack filled with olives he had picked. Delighted with his treasure, and always anxious to share, he asked one of his brethren if he had ever “tasted an olive right off the tree.” His unsuspecting victim had not, so he took a healthy bite into one of the olives. This proved to be a rather bitter experience, and as the brother’s face puckered up, President Smith asked innocently, “What’s the matter? Did you get a bad one? Here, you had better try another one.”

I would like to say something about the last wagon in each of the long wagon trains that toiled slowly over the plains, up mountain defiles, down steep, narrow canyons, and out into the valley floor that was to be home—this last wagon: last, because the ox team that pulled it was the smallest and leanest and weakest, and had the tenderest feet of any in the train; it was slow starting, and slow moving; last, because worn and creaking, it took more time to fix and to grease, for young Jimmy generally had trouble in getting the wagon jack under the “ex”; last, because its wind-rent cover was old and patched and took hours to mend and tie up to keep out the storm; last, because the wife, heavy with child, must rest till the very moment of starting; last, because sickly little Bill, the last born, poorly nourished, must be washed and coaxed to eat the rough food, all they had; last, because with all his tasks—helping little Bill, cooking and cleaning up the breaksfast,—Mother was not able to help much—Father took a little longer to yoke his cattle and to gird himself for the day’s labor; last, because his morning prayers took a few more minutes than the others spent—he had so many blessings to thank the Lord for and some special blessings to ask the Lord to grant, blessings of health and strength, especially for his wife, and for little Bill, and for the rest, and then the blessings for himself that his own courage would not fail, but most of all for the blessing of faith, faith in God and in the Brethren who sometimes seemed so far away. For they were out in front where the air was clear and clean and where they had unbroken vision of the blue vault of heaven. The Brethren had really visioned the glory of the Lord, who walked near them, put his thoughts into their minds; his spirit guided and directed them, petitioned thereto by the thousands of Saints who were back in Winter Quarters, back in Iowa, back in the States, and beyond, even across the waters, for the faithful poured out their souls in fervent prayer to Almighty God that the Brethren should be inspired. The Saints buoyed up the Brethren out in front with encouragement, with praise, and sometimes even with adulation. Knowing the Brethren were prophets of God, the Saints gave them full confidence, daily, almost hourly, expressed. The Brethren lived in a world of commendation from friends and the tried and true Saints. Rarely was their word or their act questioned by the faithful Saints. This was as it should be and had to be to carry out the Lord’s purposes.

But back in the last wagon, not always could they see the Brethren way out in front, and the blue heaven was often shut out from their sight by heavy, dense clouds of the dust of the earth. Yet day after day, they of the last wagon pressed forward, worn and tired, footsore, sometimes almost disheartened, borne up by their faith that God loved them, that the restored gospel was true, and that the Lord led and directed the Brethren out in front. Sometimes, they in the last wagon glimpsed, for an instant, when faith surged strongest, the glories of a celestial world, but it seemed so far away, and the vision so quickly vanished, because want and weariness and heartache and sometimes discouragement were always pressing so near. When the vision faded, their hearts sank. But they prayed again and pushed on, with little praise, with not too much encouragement, and never with adulation. For there was nearly always something wrong with the last wagon or with its team—the off ox was a little lame in the right front shoulder; the hub of the left front wheel was often hot; the tire of the hind wheel on the same side was loose. So corrective counsel, sometimes strong reproof, was the rule, because the wagon must not delay the whole train.

But yet in the last wagon there was devotion and loyalty and integrity, and above and beyond everything else, faith in the Brethren and in God’s power and goodness. For had not the Lord said that “not even a sparrow falleth unnoticed by the Father, and were they not of more value than sparrows?” And then they had their testimony burning always like an eternal fire on a holy altar, that the restored gospel was true, and that Joseph was a prophet of God, and that Brigham was Joseph’s chosen successor.

When the train moved forward in the early morning sun and the oxen with a swinging pull that almost broke the tongue got that last wagon on the move, the dust in the still morning air hung heavy over the road. Each wagon from the first stirred up its own cloud, till when the last wagon swung into line, that dust was dense and suffocating. It covered the last wagon and all that was in it; it clung to clothes; it blackened faces; it filled eyes already sore, and ears. The wife, soon to be a mother, could hardly catch her breath in the heavy, choking dust, for even in the pure air she breathed hard from her burden. Each jolt of the wagon, for those ahead had made wagon ruts almost “ex” deep, wrung from her clenched lips a half-groan she did her best to keep from the ears of the anxious, solicitous husband plodding slowly along, guiding and goading the poor dumb cattle, themselves weary from the long trek. So through the long day of jolting and discomfort and sometimes pain, sometimes panting for breath, the mother, anxious only that the unborn babe should not be injured, rode, for she could not walk; and the children walked, for the load was too heavy and big for them to ride; and the father walked sturdily alongside and prayed.

When in the evening the last wagon creaked slowly into its place in the circle corral, and the Brethren came to inquire how the day had gone with the mother, then joy leaped in their hearts, for had not the Brethren remembered them? New hope was born, weariness fled, fresh will to do was enkindled; gratitude to God was poured out for their knowledge of the truth, for their testimony that God lived, that Jesus was the Christ, that Joseph was a prophet, that Brigham was his ordained successor, and that for the righteous a crown of glory awaited that should be theirs during the eternities of the life to come. Then they would join in the songs and dancing in the camp, making the camp’s gaiety their own, as much as Mother’s condition would permit.

Then the morning came when from out that last wagon floated the la-la of the newborn babe, and mother love made a shrine, and Father bowed in reverence before it. But the train must move on. So out into the dust and dirt the last wagon moved again, swaying and jolting, while Mother eased as best she could each pain-giving jolt so no harm might be done her, that she might be strong to feed the little one, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh. Who will dare to say that angels did not cluster round and guard her and ease her rude bed, for she had given another choice spirit its mortal body that it might work out its God-given destiny?

My mother was one of those babes so born in 1848, ninety-nine years ago.

Another morning came, when courageous little Bill, who, with a hero’s heart, had trudged through long days of hot sun and through miles of soggy mud in the rain, his little body drenched, little Bill, weak and wan, must be crowded in to ride with Mother, for he was sick from a heavy cold. Months before, on that cold winter’s night when they had fled Nauvoo for their lives to escape the fiendish wrath of a wild mob, Bill became dangerously ill with pneumonia, which left him with weak lungs. This old illness now returned. He grew worse and worse. The elders came and prayed he might get well. But the Lord wanted little Bill with him. So a few mornings later a weeping mother and a grief-stricken father and that last wagon swung into place in the line, leaving beside the road, under some scrub brush a little mound, unmarked save for heaped-up rocks to keep out the wolves, a mound that covered another martyr to the cause of truth.

So through dust and dirt, dirt and dust, during the long hours, the longer days—that grew into weeks and then into months, they crept along till, passing down through its portals, the valley welcomed them to rest and home. The cattle dropped to their sides, wearied almost to death; nor moved they without goading, for they too sensed they had come to the journey’s end.

That evening was the last of the great trek, the mightiest trek that history records since Israel’s flight from Egypt, and as the sun sank below the mountain peaks of the west and the eastern crags were bathed in an amethyst glow that was a living light, while the western mountainsides were clothed in shadows of the rich blue of the deep sea, they of the last wagon, and of the wagon before them, and of the one before that, and so to the very front wagon of the train, these all sank to their knees in the joy of their souls, thanking God that at last they were in Zion. “Zion, Zion, lovely Zion, beautiful Zion, Zion, City of our God.” They knew there was a God, for only he could have brought them triumphant, militant, through all the scorn, the ridicule, the slander, the tarrings and featherings, the whippings, the burnings, the plunderings, the murderings, the ravishings of wives and daughters, that had been their lot, the lot of their people since Joseph visioned the Father and the Son.

As my testimony grew while I was young, so did my love of music. That love began when I entered a Latter-day Saint chapel and saw a piano for the first time. I feel that the Lord had a plan for me because I felt drawn to the piano. I opened the piano bench, found a book on how to play piano, and began teaching myself.
Soon, I was playing the piano in my ward every Sunday and singing in the ward youth choir. When I turned 16, I began attending the National Conservatory of Music in Guatemala. The conservatory’s choir conductor, Beto Echeverria, urged me to become a professional. Since then, I have played the piano and conducted many choirs at Church events. Eventually, I became the Church’s music coordinator for the Central America Area. Today, I work as a piano technician and music teacher.
Carlos, singing with his daughter, Rocio, discovered his love of music after he entered a Latter-day Saint chapel, saw a piano for the first time, and taught himself to play.

How important is a letter? At a testimony meeting far from home, a young man said: “The devil had me convinced that I was a forgotten soul. Why not sin a little? Then a letter from Mom, one from my bishop, and a letter from our ward’s executive secretary finally caught up with me—one, two, three. I’d prayed for reassurance, but never had I felt such a sense of being important! Three letters to prove it. All in one mail call! I thank God for those few who care.”

There are those who are ready now, but there are not enough. I know of one lovely woman who is ready. She had been injured in the accident which took her husband’s life, leaving her a widow for the second time in her young life. She had not fully recovered from the mishap and had a family of young children to raise. Yet she paid tithing on the insurance settlement for her husband’s death. The clerk said to the bishop, “Sister So-and-so needs this money much more than the Church does. Don’t you think we should return it?”
The bishop asked me. I answered his question with a question: “What does Sister So-and-so need more than the blessings that come from paying tithing?” Imagine how the Lord will open the windows of heaven for this young mother because of her faith and devotion.

Prior to the opening of the fall season for the musical play Annie at the Promised Valley Playhouse some years ago, 320 girls auditioned for the part of Annie. Twelve dogs were brought by proud owners hoping their dog might be selected to be Annie’s companion, Sandy. Not everyone who tried out got a part, and some who got parts didn’t get the ones they thought they wanted.

However, following a period of intensive rehearsals, the opening night was absolutely spectacular. But as magnificent as Annie’s performance was under the spotlight on the stage before a packed house, her greatest moment, I believe, was after the show. Following a standing ovation, this young girl graciously acknowledged the praises from admirers crowded in the lobby of the theater. In the corner near the door I observed an elderly gray-haired gentleman stooped with age, his eyes moist, eagerly searching the crowd. Somehow, through a small opening in the crowd, Annie caught a glimpse of the old man. Forgetting all the public acclaim and with arms outstretched, she called, “Grandpa, Grandpa.” The crowd parted, leaving a narrow passageway for this precious moment. Stooped as he was, the elderly man reached out his arms like parentheses and nestled his young and precious granddaughter close to him, his gray hair falling against her curly red hair and their arms entwined around each other. He spoke softly. The audience was hushed. Although I could not hear, I think he must have said, “My dear, my dear, you played your part so very, very well.”

Since that memorable occasion, I have replayed that final scene over and over in my mind a hundred times or more and contemplated the greeting we will each receive following our final performance.

In middle school, other kids commonly question me about why I don’t date, drink coffee or tea, or cuss. Sometimes they even tease me. One way I deal with this is to tell them about my standards and what I believe in. There is so much sin and profanity everywhere that it is hard to avoid being teased or asked why you don’t participate in it. I answer that I am a Mormon and live by high standards. For example, when I am asked why I don’t drink coffee, I explain that I live by the Word of Wisdom and want to keep my life free from addiction. Usually after explaining my standards, people are understanding and willing to believe me.
Elijah S., 14, Washington, USA

I was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood when World War II exploded upon the world. I was ordained an elder when we were all marched away to war.
I had dreams of following an older brother, Leon, who at that time was flying B-24 bombers in the Battle of Britain. I volunteered for air force pilot training.
I failed the written test by one point. Then the sergeant remembered that there were several two-point questions, and if I got half right on two of them, I could pass.
Part of the test was multiple choice. One question was “What is ethylene glycol used for?” If I had not worked in my dad’s service station, I would not have known that it is used for automobile antifreeze. And so I passed, barely.
I prayed about the physical. It turned out to be fairly routine.
You young men should not complain about schooling. Do not immerse yourself so much in the technical that you fail to learn things that are practical. Everything you can learn that is practical—in the house, in the kitchen cooking, in the yard—will be of benefit to you. Never complain about schooling. Study well, and attend always.
“The glory of God is intelligence, or, in other words, light and truth.”
“Whatever principle of intelligence we attain unto in this life, it will rise with us in the resurrection.”
We are to learn about “things that are above, and things that are beneath, things that are in the earth, and upon the earth, and in heaven.”
You can learn about fixing things and painting things and even sewing things and whatever else is practical. That is worth doing. If it is not of particular benefit to you, it will help you when you are serving other people.
I ended up in the Orient, flying the same kind of bombers that my brother flew in England. My mission, as it turned out, was in teaching the gospel in Japan as a serviceman.
Perhaps the hardest challenge of war is living with uncertainties, not knowing how it will end or if we can go ahead with our lives.
I was issued a small serviceman’s Book of Mormon that would fit into my pocket. I carried it everywhere; I read it; and it became part of me. Things that had been a question became certain to me.
The certainties of the gospel, the truth, once you understand it, will see you through these difficult times.
It was four years before we could return to our lives. But I had learned and had a sure testimony that God is our Father, that we are His children, and that the restored gospel of Jesus Christ is true.

That sure foundation comes in trusting the Lord. Addison Pratt, a missionary in the first company sent to the Pacific in Eighteen Forty-Three, placed his trust in the Lord God. Like Pratt, I have been to the islands of the Pacific on assignment and found as he did, that the people are both beautiful and believing. Pratt wrote to his wife after a year of no correspondence from home, “Often at dusk in the evening when all is still and silent, but the distant roar of the breakers upon the coral reef… I take a long and lonely walk upon the beautiful sand beach that skirts the island; and as I gaze upon the broad ocean that separates us…I ask—has grim death made any inroads [in my family]? I am led to say there are none gone; for I committed you to the care of my Heavenly Father when I left you, and when I have done so, I have never been disappointed.”

Pratt’s work in the Restoration was to follow the call of the “Master.” It took him far from home, but never did he falter in his faith and trust in the work. You too, may be far from home, and you must guard your faith and trust in the Lord. In Proverbs we are reminded to, “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding . . . and he shall direct thy paths.”