Gospel Story Finder

As a young elder, I had been in the mission field about one year, and while reading scriptures and words of the latter-day Apostles about revelation and the Holy Ghost, I had a stunning awakening. I did not have a testimony of my own, specifically of the Father and the Son. I went on my mission living on the borrowed light of my wonderful parents. Never doubting their words, I had not thought about seeking my own spiritual witness. On a February night in San Antonio, Texas, in 1962, I knew that I had to know for myself. In our small apartment I found a place where I could quietly pray out loud, pleading, “Heavenly Father, are You there? I must know for myself!”
Sometime later that night I came to know for myself for the first time in my life that God and Jesus are real. I did not hear an audible voice nor see a heavenly being. I knew in the same way you too may have come to know—which is “by the unspeakable gift of the Holy Ghost” (D&C 121:26) and the spirit of revelation (see D&C 8:1–3) speaking peace to my mind (see D&C 6:23) and assurances to my heart (see Alma 58:11).
From that experience I witnessed the results of Alma’s counsel to “awake and arouse [my] faculties … to [conduct] an experiment upon [His] words” (Alma 32:27). These words or seeds have grown into trees, indeed giant trees of testimony. The process continues with more experiments upon the word, resulting in additional trees of testimony, now a veritable forest based on revelation through and by the Holy Ghost.

When I first joined the Church, I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t give up. I kept praying for happiness and I finally found it. Believe and all things are possible.
Triinu Roop, 17Kuusiku, Estonia

A young mother found herself struggling with depression. She worked with doctors to get her medication just right, but the process took time. One day was especially difficult, and she made an urgent appointment with her doctor. They decided together she should be admitted to the hospital.
Ward members came together to make visits, care for her children, and provide help with meals. During the weeks and months afterward, the woman’s depression made reaching out for help difficult, so ward members learned to take the initiative in offering support.
Later, the sister related that help came at inspired moments, just when it was most needed. She mentioned that one of the most valuable things that came from that time was knowing that her sisters and brothers cared about her and were there to support her. She felt the love of the Savior through the service of her ward members. She learned for herself that He was aware of her and her struggles and that with His help she could endure her challenges with faith.

Among the first stakes to respond to the First Presidency’s invitation to participate in a day of service was the David stake in Panama, which organized a preparedness fair for the broader community. The event, which took place in April, was supported by several public entities, featured workshops and demonstrations on topics related to home storage, family finances, emergency preparedness, and health.
It isn’t enough just to know these principles for ourselves, said Itzel Valdez Gonzalez, who participated in the day of service. It’s also important to serve others by sharing them.
“Service to others is an important characteristic of the followers of Jesus Christ,” she said. “This event provided opportunities for members of the Church to give of their time and talents to bless those in need.”

Happy memories go back to a fireside for young people ages 18 to 26. One young man ran into the kitchen, grabbed my dad, and escorted him right into the middle of the group. The young man, who once was a little terror, then stood taller than my dad. He put his arm across dad’s shoulders and announced, “Brothers and sisters, I’d like you to meet my old Scoutmaster. He’s a very good man.”

President Monson recalls an act of priesthood service that changed his life.
I recall the time when I was ordained a deacon. Our bishopric stressed the sacred responsibility which was ours to pass the sacrament. Emphasized were proper dress, a dignified bearing, and the importance of being clean inside and out. As we were taught the procedure in passing the sacrament, we were told how we should assist Louis McDonald, a brother in our ward who was afflicted with a palsied condition, that he might have the opportunity to partake of the sacred emblems.
How I remember being assigned to pass the sacrament to the row where Brother McDonald sat. I was fearful and hesitant as I approached this wonderful brother, and then I saw his smile and the eager expression of gratitude that showed his desire to partake. Holding the tray in my left hand, I took a small piece of bread and pressed it to his lips. The water was later served in the same way. I felt I was on holy ground. And indeed I was. The privilege to pass the sacrament to Brother McDonald made better deacons of us all.

A month ago in Brazil, I met Aroldo Cavalcante. He was baptized at age 21, the first member of the Church in his family. His faith burned brightly, and he immediately began preparing to serve a mission. Sadly, Aroldo’s mother was diagnosed with cancer. Three months later, only days before she died, she spoke to Aroldo of her greatest concern: There were no relatives to help. Aroldo would need to take full responsibility for his two younger sisters and his younger brother. He solemnly made this promise to his dying mother.

By day he worked in a bank, and at night he attended the university. He continued to keep his baptismal covenants, but his hopes for a full-time mission were gone. His mission would be caring for his family.

Months later while preparing a sacrament meeting talk, Aroldo studied the words that Samuel reprovingly spoke to King Saul: “To obey,” he read, “is better than [to] sacrifice.”10 Aroldo received the seemingly impossible impression that he needed to obey the prophet’s call to serve a mission. Undaunted by the obstacles before him, he moved forward with enormous faith.

Aroldo saved every Brazilian cruzeiro he could. At age 23, he received his mission call. He told his brother how much to withdraw each month from his account for the family. Aroldo still did not have enough money to pay the full cost of his mission and the living expenses for his brother and sisters, but with faith he entered the MTC. A week later he received the first of many blessings. The bank that had employed Elder Cavalcante unexpectedly doubled the money he was to receive as he concluded his work. This miracle, along with others, provided the needed income for his mission and his family during his absence.

Twenty years later, Brother Cavalcante is now serving as the president of the Recife Brazil Boa Viagem Stake. Looking back, he said of those days, “As I tried to live righteously, I felt the Savior’s love and guidance. My faith grew, allowing me to overcome many challenges.”11 Aroldo’s faith did not come by chance, but by choice.

Elder Parley P. Pratt of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles read these words from section 121 in the Doctrine and Covenants: “Let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God; and the doctrine of the priesthood shall distil upon thy soul as the dews from heaven.
“The Holy Ghost shall be thy constant companion, and thy scepter an unchanging scepter of righteousness and truth; and thy dominion shall be an everlasting dominion, and without compulsory means it shall flow unto thee forever and ever” (D&C 121:45–46).
Deeply moved, Parley P. Pratt turned his thoughts to a hymn which is actually a prayer. For many years it was chosen by the choir to close its weekly broadcast:
As the dew from heav’n distilling
Gently on the grass descends
And revives it, thus fulfilling
What thy providence intends,
Let thy doctrine, Lord, so gracious,
Thus descending from above,
Blest by thee, prove efficacious
To fulfill thy work of love.
Lord, behold this congregation;
Precious promises fulfill.
From thy holy habitation
Let the dews of life distill.
Let our cry come up before thee.
Thy sweet Spirit shed around,
So the people shall adore thee
And confess the joyful sound.
(“As the Dew from Heaven Distilling,” Hymns, no. 149)

Tara let the soft strains of the prelude music wrap themselves around her. Slowly she felt herself relax. People whispered, feet scuffled, but she heard only the muted notes of the organ.
The bishop stood and welcomed everyone to sacrament meeting. Tara looked around. All around her were families—mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. Everyone had someone. All except her. She was alone.
The Millers, who picked her up every week, had invited Tara to sit with their family, and Tara did, but it wasn’t the same as sitting with one’s very own family.
Tara listened to the talks and the prayers, but it was the music that touched her in a way she didn’t fully understand. She only knew that it made her feel warm and peaceful inside.
She’d been baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints six months ago. Since then, she’d attended church every Sunday. There was so much to learn that sometimes she felt overwhelmed.
But she kept coming back, wanting that sweet feeling she had whenever she entered the church. If only her parents would come with her, just once! If they did, they’d experience the same feelings she had. She just knew it.
She pushed away the thought. Her parents weren’t likely to ever come to church with her. They’d been against her joining the Church in the first place. They’d only agreed to let her be baptized because she’d asked them so many times. She was nearly ten now, they’d said, and old enough to make her own decisions.
This morning had been like every other Sunday morning since Tara had started going to church. Her mother had been tight-lipped with disapproval. Her father had barricaded himself behind the Sunday newspaper. Neither had spoken to her as she got ready. When she’d begged them to go with her, their answer was the same as it always had been: No.
In Primary, Tara felt the same spirit she’d had in sacrament meeting. Again, it was the music that sparked something inside her. Why wouldn’t Mom and Dad come and feel it too?
As the Primary children sang “I’m trying to be like Jesus,” tears started rolling down her cheeks. She brushed them away, hoping no one had noticed. She listened to the words. Had she been trying to be like Jesus in how she acted around her parents? Or had she been demanding that her parents believe as she did?
She grew uncomfortable, remembering how she’d tried to pressure them into coming to church with her. She wanted so much to share the gospel with her parents and have them by her side at church that she hadn’t been very loving or patient. Sometimes she even got mad at them for not coming.
During the ride home with the Miller family, she decided, I’m going to practice what the song says. I’m going to try to be like Jesus. She smiled as she let herself into the house.
Humming softly, she changed out of her Sunday clothes. She was still humming as she went downstairs.
She found her father in the living room, lying on the sofa with the newspaper tented over his head. She gently pushed it aside to give him a kiss.
He looked up. “What’s that for?”
“Because I love you and I’m happy.” She smiled at him and then went into the kitchen.
Her mother was stirring something on the stove. She looked up as Tara came in.
“Can I help?” Tara asked.
“Would you set the table, please?”
Tara hummed as she put plates, glasses, and silverware on the table.
“What’s that you’re humming?” her mother asked.
“A song I learned at church.” Tara hesitated. “Would you like to know the words?”
Her mother smiled. “If it makes you this happy, I think I would.”
Tara sang the words, her voice breaking on the last one.
“It’s a beautiful song,” her mother said, a little hitch in her voice. “Are all the songs at your church that pretty?”
“They’re all different,” Tara said. “But most of them make me feel this way.”
“What way is that?” Her mother stopped what she was doing and turned to Tara. She looked like she really wanted to know.
Tara chose her words carefully. “Happy inside. Kind of peaceful.”
Her mother pushed back a strand of hair. “I’d like some of that feeling for our whole family.”
As the family sat down to dinner, Tara felt her mother’s gaze on her. Hesitantly she asked, “Tara, would you give a blessing on the food?”
Tara looked up, surprised. Her family never said a prayer before a meal. She looked at her father. He nodded and said, “Your mother and I have been wanting to start having prayers in our family. This will be a good way to begin to do it, if that’s all right with you.”
Tara smiled peacefully as she bent her head. “Heavenly Father, we thank Thee …”

“After a good dinner and family home evening,” said a son nostalgically, “Dad would often make fudge, pop some popcorn, and then, later, play the harmonica for us. This is all part of a very pleasant memory for me.”

Mike woke to the bark of Clancy, his collie. Leaving dreams of county fairs and blue ribbons behind, he dressed quickly and clattered downstairs for a pre-breakfast look at his magnificent melon. Almost as large as a volleyball, it rose from the leaves of its vine like the moon above clouds—a prize-winner for sure. Loosening the dirt around the stem, Mike thought back to the day in spring when he’d found the tiny seedling growing by the corral.
“It looks like a cantaloupe,” Dad had said. “Don’t expect much from it though. It’s a volunteer.”
Mike was on his hands and knees, studying the new plant. “Volunteer?”
“Volunteers aren’t planted,” Dad explained. “A seed just happens to fall somewhere, then sends down shallow roots that don’t permit much growth.”
“This one is going to grow,” Mike insisted. “I’m going to make sure it does!”
Dad smiled. “Go for it, Son. Work the dirt up around it and keep it watered. Who knows what might happen.”
Mike had followed his father’s advice, and the little seedling grew into a healthy vine. One day as he was spading around his plant, Dad put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve really stuck with this,” he said. “I think you’re ready for something even bigger. When Gertrude has her calf, it’s yours to raise.”
Mike gave a whoop and punched the air. The best of their four milk cows, Gertrude was to give birth any day.
One night Mike was awakened by Clancy’s excited barking. He was about to get up to see what was happening, when Mom came in. “The vet’s here,” she said. “Gertrude had her calf, and everything’s fine. Go back to sleep and see it in the morning.”
Certain that he wouldn’t sleep a wink, Mike dutifully closed his eyes. When he opened them again, sunlight filled the room, and Clancy was issuing his good-morning bark. For the first time in days, Mike didn’t head straight to his cantaloupe plant. Instead, he ran to the barn.
“He’s beautiful!” Mike exclaimed. “I’m going to name him Melon, because he’ll be an award winner too. Look! He’s standing up already.”
“These little guys stand almost as soon as they’re born, Mike. Before long, he’ll be frisking all about his ma.” Dad frowned. “That reminds me—there are a couple of boards loose in the corral fence by the barn. You’d better nail them down right away. We don’t want this young ‘un getting out and rambling all over the property.”
Mike made a mental note to do it—right after he checked his melon plant. But he was so pleased with the blossoms he found blooming from the vine that he forgot all about the corral fence. Over the next few days, he noticed that some of the blossoms grew from small green knobs—cantaloupes! Following Dad’s instructions, he carefully chose the most likely one and nipped off all the others so that the plant’s strength would all go into one prize-winning melon. As the summer days passed, he “babied” his melon, and it grew splendidly.
His calf grew too. Soon it was eating hay as well as suckling its mother. “I’m going to have two blue-ribbon winners,” Mike told Dad when he went to breakfast, “a melon and Melon.”
A couple of mornings later, he was again awakened by Clancy’s barking. But this time Clancy sounded frantic. Something was wrong! Racing downstairs, Mike found the dog trying to herd a confused calf back into the corral. A few yards to the left, where the melon plant should have been, was nothing but chewed and tattered leaves and bits of broken and trampled cantaloupe. As Mike stared at the mess, a great rage filled him. He snatched up a piece of the melon rind and cocked his arm. “All right!” he shrilled. “You want cantaloupe, I’ll give you cantaloupe!” Before he could hurl the piece of rind at the bewildered calf, a hand gripped his wrist from behind.
“There’s no need for a tantrum.” Dad’s voice was calm.
“But that stupid calf ruined my plant!” Mike’s anger had him nearly in tears. “I worked on it all summer, and just look at it!”
“How did Melon get out of the corral, Mike?”
Mike eyed the loose boards—the ones he had promised to fix so long ago. …
Dad let the silence grow long, then asked, “Did you do your job?”
Mike scuffed his toe on the ground. “I meant to,” he said in a small voice. “I guess I just kind of forgot.”
Dad put an arm around his son’s shoulder. “Mike, you worked hard with that melon. Your mother and I are proud of what you did. If it hadn’t been for a nosy calf and an unfinished job, you might have had a prizewinner.”
“And now I have nothing.”
“You have a fine calf with a good appetite. And if you’ve learned from your mistake, you have something even better—a bit of wisdom. Sometimes disaster is opportunity disguised.”
Mike’s gaze strayed from the ruined plant to Clancy and Melon and then to the loose boards on the corral. Finally he looked up. “Dad,” he said, “this was a blue-ribbon disaster for sure. But it’s a blue-ribbon lesson, too, and I won’t forget it. I’m going to take such good care of Melon that he’ll be a prize-winning calf! Come on, Clancy, let’s get him back in the corral and nail up those boards. This is one Melon that’s going to the fair.”

Two years ago, my youngest brother, Chad, stepped through the veil. His transition to the other side left a hole in the heart of my sister-in-law Stephanie; their two small children, Braden and Bella; as well as the rest of the family. We found comfort in the words of Elder Neil L. Andersen in general conference the week before Chad died: “In the crucible of earthly trials, patiently move forward, and the Savior’s healing power will bring you light, understanding, peace, and hope” (“Wounded,” Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 85).
We have faith in Jesus Christ; we know we will join Chad again, but losing his physical presence hurts! Many have lost loved ones. It is hard to be patient and wait for the time we will rejoin them.
The year after he died, we felt like a dark cloud overshadowed us. We sought refuge in studying our scriptures, praying with more fervency, and attending the temple more frequently. The lines from this hymn capture our feelings at the time: “The day dawn is breaking, the world is awaking, the clouds of night’s darkness are fleeing away” (“The Day Dawn Is Breaking,” Hymns, no. 52).
Our family determined that 2020 would be a refreshing year! We were studying our Come, Follow Me lesson in the New Testament book of James in late November 2019 when a theme revealed itself to us. James, chapter 1, verse 2 reads, “My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into many afflictions” (Joseph Smith Translation, James 1:2 [in James 1:2, footnote a]). In our desire to open a new year, a new decade, with joy, we decided that in 2020 we would “count it all joy.” We felt so strongly about it that last Christmas we gifted our siblings T-shirts that said in bold letters, “Count It All Joy.” The year 2020 would surely be a year of joy and rejoicing.
Well, here we are—2020 instead brought the global COVID-19 pandemic, civil unrest, more natural disasters, and economic challenges. Our Heavenly Father may be allowing us time to reflect and consider our understanding of patience and our conscious decision to choose joy.
The book of James has since taken on new meaning for us. James, chapter 1, verses 3 and 4 continue:
“Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.
“But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.”
In our efforts to find joy in the midst of our trials, we had forgotten that having patience is the key to letting those trials work for our good.

My father looked up laughing.
“I’d forgotten about that. She didn’t get angry very often but when she did. … When we were first married, I told her that the mashed potatoes she’d made were burnt. She picked up the bowl and walked over to me. She smiled and opened my shirt front and dumped the whole mess in. ‘You don’t have to eat them,’ she said.”

Often, my prayers for my family seemed to go unanswered. Sometimes, the more I prayed, the worse things seemed to get. I didn’t know then that, though the Lord shares our sorrow, he will not force change. But over time, his love can often find a way to bring even greater blessings than we had prayed for. So many of those fervent prayers of long ago have now been answered. And I now know that he has never ceased trying to bless my loved ones.

Temple work is even better when paired with family history. I experienced this myself when I brought a family name, for whom I had already received all the other ordinances, to be sealed to his parents. I had a strong spiritual impression that my ancestor was watching and that he had accepted the work I had done for him. This feeling wouldn’t have been the same if I’d stopped short of the sealing.

Clean white paper on the table,
Sharpened pencil in my hand,
I said a prayer within my heart,
Breathed deep, and began.
I started with his eyes,
Trying not to miss a wrinkle.
They revealed his spirit’s youth,
Friendly with a twinkle.
Light reflected on his nose,
Which I tried to capture.
But his greatest light was within,
Drawn by the Master.
A gentle smile formed
At the corners of his mouth.
When the prophet speaks, I’ll listen;
His words I’ll never doubt.

I grew up in the Church. Most of my teachers and leaders were diligent and effective in trying to instill within me a love for the gospel, a knowledge of its principles, and especially, a testimony—what President Joseph Fielding Smith called the “speaking of the Holy Ghost to the soul in a convincing, positive manner” (Answers to Gospel Questions, comp. Joseph Fielding Smith, Jr., 5 vols., Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1979, 3:28). In my teen years I remember several teachers and fireside speakers outlining how a testimony could be obtained. It seemed so easy that I decided to follow it.
As a high school student, I determined that I would act on this advice and try to obtain my own testimony of the gospel. I wanted to know that it was true. So I carefully read the Book of Mormon, underlining as I went. When I finished I felt a great sense of anticipation about Moroni’s promise. I knelt down and prayed, trying to learn for myself whether this book was true or not. Although I prayed off and on for several weeks with what I thought was “real intent” and determination, I failed to recognize an answer. When my friends stood in fast meeting to express their testimonies, my parents were disappointed that I did not. I told them that I was trying, but that a testimony had just not come to me yet. I could not be dishonest. I worried and wondered what I was doing wrong. Perhaps my life was not good enough for the Lord to recognize my question—or maybe there was something wrong with the way I was praying—or perhaps I just didn’t know how to recognize an answer.
The prayer and study went on for two more years, during which I read the Book of Mormon a second time, and then my bishop asked me to go on a mission. On one hand, I was elated, because I had always wanted to serve a mission; but on the other hand, I was very worried, because my testimony had not been granted. How would I convince others if I could not speak with conviction? My brother was going on a mission at the same time, and my parents, who were of very modest means, pledged themselves to our financial support.
When I went for my interview with the stake president, he surprised me by suggesting that I remain at home until my older brother returned—to lessen the financial burden on my parents. Greatly disappointed, I returned home to relay this sad advice to my father, normally a quiet, soft-spoken man. My father was distressed. He expressed strongly held feelings that I should go at the same time as my brother, and that the Lord would help us to meet the financial obligation. He put on his coat and announced that he was going to talk with the stake president. “You are going on a mission—and you are going now!” he said with conviction. Before he left, he wanted us all to kneel in family prayer. My father uttered a simple prayer, expressing thanks for blessings, and asking for help in his talk with the stake president and for help for his sons as they prepared to leave for the mission field.
As I listened with faith to that prayer and tried to look into the future, I was spiritually moved beyond anything I can describe. At that instant, I received a testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. I was overcome with a feeling of happiness and excitement, as if to say that my father would be successful in his own little mission, which he was. But I also knew absolutely that I would be able to go on a mission (as I did to New Zealand) and testify with honesty and certainty to anyone who would listen to me. It was an enormously satisfying experience. My previous anxieties about being a missionary without conviction were gone. The Lord had answered my prayers—although in a way that I had not expected. As for my parents—they successfully supported their two sons as missionaries for two years and prospered financially.

Christmas used to be the best time of the year. Tasha’s grandma would take her shopping for a new dress. And Dad read “The Night before Christmas” to her every Christmas Eve.
But two years ago, Grandma had died. And then the next year, Dad died, and Tasha and Mom moved to a smaller house. Now there was no fireplace to hang stockings, and reading Dad’s Christmas poem was too sad.
One night about two weeks before Christmas, the doorbell rang. When Tasha opened the door, there was a mug full of candy canes with a little note signed, “Secret Santa.” Tasha’s face lit up. She loved candy canes!
“Who do you think it’s from?” she asked, peeling open one of the wrappers.
“I don’t know,” said Mom. She smiled and pulled out a candy cane. “But what a nice surprise!”
The next night, their Secret Santa left hot cocoa mix. The night after that it was a box of cute soaps. Every night, Tasha was excited to see what showed up next. And every night she got more and more curious. Who was dropping off the gifts?
Tonight there was a plate of cookies with reindeer faces. They had chocolate-chip eyes and antlers made from melted caramel. “They’re so cute,” Tasha said. “I wish we knew who was bringing these so we could say thank you.”
Mom got out some milk to go with their cookies. “It seems like whoever’s doing it wants to stay anonymous.”
“What’s a … anonymous?” Tasha asked.
“It means they don’t want other people to know who they are. Maybe the best thing we can do to thank them is to pass their kindness on to other people.”
Tasha was quiet as she ate her cookie. What kind things could she do? She didn’t have money to buy cute little gifts. And even if she did, Mom didn’t have time to take her to the store.
Tasha sighed. “I want to do something nice, but I don’t know what to do. And I don’t have a lot of money.”
“Being kind doesn’t take money,” Mom said. “All it takes is thinking about others. Smiling at a friend who looks sad, sitting at lunch with someone who’s alone, saying ‘thank you’—those are nice and free.”
Tasha nodded slowly. She could do that.
On Monday morning at school, her teacher was wearing a new sweater.
“Mrs. Hennessy,” Tasha said, “that’s a really pretty red sweater.”
Mrs. Hennessy looked happy. “Thank you!”
For the rest of the day, Mrs. Hennessy seemed to be smiling a lot.
That afternoon after school, Tasha volunteered to walk her neighbor’s dog.
“Thank you, Tasha,” Mrs. Oliver said. “My hip was hurting so much that I wondered how I was going to take Penny for her walk. You’re an answer to prayer.”
“You’re welcome,” Tasha said. She was glad she’d come to help.
After dinner she helped Mom fold laundry and clean the kitchen. Tomorrow she was going to surprise Mom and vacuum!
That night their Secret Santa struck again, this time leaving a bag of chocolate candies.
“Mom,” Tasha said, “can I take some of these to school to share? I think that would make my class really happy.”
Mom took a chocolate and handed the bag to Tasha. “Of course!”
Tasha grinned. She would always miss Dad and Grandma, but she was glad she had discovered this Christmas secret: helping others made her happy!

President Kimball’s wife, Camilla, has devotedly and lovingly followed her husband every step of the way. I remember one night in Samoa when both President and Sister Kimball had temperatures of 104 degrees. Early the next morning they were the first ones on the bus. He conducted the meetings, and they fulfilled all their busy schedule throughout the day, not just enduring, but being gracious and considerate and thinking of the needs of everyone else around them.

In April 2008, the newly called Young Women general presidency—Elaine S. Dalton, Mary N. Cook, and Ann M. Dibb—stood atop Ensign Peak on the northern edge of Salt Lake City and looked out over the valley.
From their vantage point the figure of the angel Moroni sparkled on the Salt Lake Temple, and they knew then what the Lord had in mind for the young women of the Church.
The three women held aloft a walking stick from which waved a gold Peruvian shawl—their banner and ensign to the nations, a call for a return to virtue.