Gospel Story Finder

When the call came to be a mission president, there was no question about his accepting it. But none of the family realized how profound would be the change it would bring in their lives. Becoming a mission president required him to give up a good job, and his daughters were concerned about that. As the time neared for him to be released, in July of 1981, one of them asked him several times where he planned to work afterward. He had no answer, except that he was not worrying about it.

Then, on 16 March 1981, there was a telephone call from President Spencer W. Kimball in Salt Lake City. The prophet asked how things were in the mission, and asked about the welfare of Elder Abrea and his family. But “I didn’t think he had called me just to see how I was,” Elder Abrea says, smiling. Then President Kimball issued the call to the First Quorum of the Seventy, as well as to the presidency of the temple that was to be built in Buenos Aires. He talked to Sister Abrea and called her to be the first matron of that temple.

Suddenly, everything about the Abreas’ life had changed. Elder Abrea remembers that President Kimball told him on the telephone that day, “You will never finish your mission. This mission is for the rest of your life.” He was sustained a member of the quorum 4 April 1981, and moved easily into full-time service as a way of life.

How does a man who is so dedicated relax? “My only hobby is to work in the Church,” Elder Abrea replies. When there is an opportunity, he enjoys watching soccer, a game he used to play on high school and university teams. (Claudia notes that he also used to make a creditable contribution as a member of Church basketball teams.) “I like to read. I like to talk to people. I like to be with people.”

Elder Abrea undoubtedly has the opportunity to be with many people as temple president. The Buenos Aires urban area includes approximately eleven million residents, more than a third of Argentina’s population. His wife and daughters recall the pleasure of living in Salt Lake City, a “small city” where most people they meet are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

It is time for more Argentines to become Latter-day Saints, Elder Abrea says. Many are better prepared than ever before to hear the gospel message because of the growth of the Church and the building of the temple in their country. Sister Abrea notes that the Church has become well enough established in Argentina for its influence to be felt over decades; her nephew represents the fourth generation of Church members in his family. Elder Abrea says Church growth has accelerated in his native country during the past fifteen or twenty years.

“The Church has the great respect of the government and the people. They respect the members. They don’t know the doctrine, but they can see how the Mormon people act, how they live. I think that example of the people of the Church is the best proselyting tool we have.”

In fact, he says, people throughout South America are now much more prepared to hear and accept the gospel. “I think the hand of the Lord is at this moment on those countries. We have more missionaries working. More local members of the Church are doing missionary work.” Handling rapid growth is one of the Church’s biggest challenges in South America. But that very growth makes Latter-day Saints more visible and gives them more influence.

When he was fifteen, reflects Elder Abrea, “the only temple I heard about was in Salt Lake City. I couldn’t imagine a temple in my country.” But the House of the Lord that is there now is a symbol of the progress being made in Argentina, and throughout South America. So, too, he says, are the rising attendance figures; in some areas, there is a 75 percent activity rate for Melchizedek priesthood holders.

“I am a witness of the latter-day miracles,” Elder Abrea affirms. “We need to look at what the Church is doing with the eyes of faith. There are so many miracles being done in South America.” Members who look beyond the routine affairs of the organization will see the hand of God at work.

He speaks quietly, but firmly. He is back in South America to work. With Elder Abrea, and South Americans like him, laboring under the Lord’s direction, one expects that the Church will continue to experience many more miracles of growth and spirituality.

“Just before I take part in competition, I always ask Heavenly Father to help me get through,” says 13-year-old discus thrower Leanne Grey, of Sutton Coldfield, England. “This is a great comfort. Having a clear conscience and feeling good inside helps too.”
It seems to be working. She’s won first place in the Independent Schools 16-and-under age group, after facing stiff competition from the rest of the country.

Dear Journal,
Today I watched general conference at the church. Sometimes I get bored because conference seems too long for my ten-year-old body. But today I decided to follow the advice of my Primary teacher. She told me that I’d get more out of the talks if I listened carefully and figured out how I could use what was said in my life. I tried very hard to do that, and I think I did pretty well.
When President Hunter gave the last talk, I listened especially hard. I can’t remember everything he said, but I know that he asked us to be more like Jesus Christ. I’m going to try.

My research and writing went well for a time, but when I presented a manuscript to the publisher, it hit a snag. Though they liked the content, they wanted a different format. I had prepared a documentary history and they wanted a narrative. They wanted a rewrite. It needed to read better and easier, in a more engaging style.

I wept that night, in late April 2002, having some sense of the enormity of what I was being asked to do and fully cognizant of my inexperience and lack of training. I did not even know what a narrative was. People I respected, who had more experience than I did, suggested I engage a professional writer to rework the manuscript. I felt pressured to agree, but I also felt a responsibility to complete what I had begun.

I stewed over the matter for weeks. Discouraged and uncertain, I boarded a plane with my wife and went to the Nauvoo Temple dedication. Our assigned seats for the opening session were in the assembly room, just a few rows in front of the pulpit where President Hinckley would soon appear. There we sat, quietly, waiting.

In the stillness of the temple, that familiar voice ”that reassuring voice that had spoken to me about willingness and encouraged me to go forward”spoke to me again. It was one of those times when my soul received counsel in sentences. I knew from the things that he said that the voice was Hyrum's. He made it clear that my presence there, on the anniversary of the Martyrdom, was no accident. Then, regarding the work before me, he said, "See that you do not give up on this thing nor give it to another!" I pulled a 3x5 card from my pocket and jotted down the injunction.

When President Hinckley came to the pulpit, he emotionally expressed his witness that Joseph and Hyrum were in attendance. I gratefully received his confirmatory witness. With the counsel and encouragement I received in the Nauvoo Temple, I came home and spent the better part of a year rewriting the manuscript.

Throughout my school years I never lacked for friends; in fact, I spent a lot of time with my friends. But the one who was always my confidante and whom I could always go to with any concern or discussion was my mother. I realize this may seem a bit unusual, but at the early age of two, I lost my father as a result of a construction accident. So my mother and I grew very close together, not only in a parent-child relationship but as best friends.

We were already late, so when Dad called for a prayer in the car before starting our trip, I grumbled silently. We were on our way to an Aaronic Priesthood snow outing—a rarity in southern California, and not to be delayed. Dad offered the prayer himself and prayed earnestly for our safety. Before the day was over, I would be grateful for that prayer.
It was after six o’clock and dark when we finally started, but the weather was fine. It remained clear until we got to Running Springs, where clouds settled over the mountains, engulfing us in fog. The road had been cleared of snow, but the light-gray asphalt was covered with frost, making it almost impossible to distinguish the narrow highway from the snow-blanketed shoulders.
For a few miles, Dad was able to see the white center line, and we felt safe. But as we drove along in the cold air, the car’s heater and our breath began to cloud up the windows. We kept wiping the windshield to clear it, but it just wasn’t enough. Dad had to roll down his window, stick his head out, and try to see the white line.
The fog grew thicker as we climbed the mountain, and the air got even colder. There was a limit to how long Dad could keep his head out the window without freezing. We couldn’t pull off the road for fear of running off the edge of the cliff. We couldn’t stop. We couldn’t turn around. There was no choice but to go forward.
“OK, boys,” Dad said. “You’re going to have to take turns being my eyes. I’ll keep trying to see the road through the windshield, but that’s almost impossible. One of you in the back roll down the window behind me and keep me on that white line!”
By now we were grateful for Dad’s prayer. In fact, we were all praying silently ourselves. We were petrified. One of us stuck his head out the window and began calling out directions. He kept at it until his eyes felt as though they would freeze. Then we traded off.
For ten miles, we watched that white line and gave directions: “Turn a little to the right,” “Stay straight,” “A little to the left.” The line was faint and really hard to see, but we managed to keep it in sight. Of course, Dad drove very slowly, and those ten miles seemed like an eternity. As we neared Big Bear, the road improved, and Dad was able to follow it without our help. We arrived at the cabin, tired, safe, and very grateful.
The next morning we had a great time in the snow—sledding, having snowball fights, and generally getting wet and very cold. None of us was dressed for snow. We were in jeans, shoes, and thin jackets—people living in the warm flatlands of southern California aren’t prepared for snow. After lunch, we were ready to start home.
The sun had come out, and the roads were clear. As we left the Big Bear area, we all began talking about the faint white line we had followed those ten endless miles the night before. We wondered why the line hadn’t been painted much more heavily. As we came to the scary section of road, we discovered to our utter astonishment that for long stretches there was no white line at all! At first we thought that this was not the right place—that it must be farther down the mountain. As we drove on, however, we began to realize that it was the right place.
The night before, every one of us, my father included, had seen a white line. We knew we had. It was what had kept us on the road. It took a while for us to understand what had happened. Then we were overwhelmed. The Lord had provided the white line that had guided us up the mountain.
I don’t think I ever again murmured about a prayer being said before we left on an outing—even if we were late.

When I returned home from my mission, life moved fast. I was studying, playing soccer for BYU, enjoying friends and family—but something was missing. On my mission, my prayers had been focused on others and on asking for help to become a more effective disciple. Now here I was at BYU, and my greatest desire was that a water leak would shut down the Testing Center!

I realized that my spiritual desires had dulled somewhat. A few months into the fall semester, I still hadn’t received a calling and felt I needed to be more engaged. So one Sunday I approached my bishop and asked for a calling. Any calling. I just wanted to serve, reignite a spiritual fire, and find a deeper sense of purpose and direction. Soon after, I was called as an assistant ward clerk. I started attending the temple on a more regular basis and looked for more opportunities to share my testimony. I was starting to feel a bit more balanced.

I was learning that to educate and strengthen my righteous desires, I had to combine my own effort and intent with God’s grace. Elder Andersen taught that this process requires “sincerity, real intent, courage, and willpower” with “the added blessing of the gifts and grace that our Heavenly Father” sends when we are magnified by faith in Christ and love of God.37

When Samuel joined us in January, he was healthy in every way except one: There was something a little unusual about his skin in some places. As the first hours went by, the outer layer of skin started to come off in some areas, mostly on his legs, arms, and back. This left weeping wounds that looked something like scrapes or burns. Doctors and nurses seemed very puzzled by it. Finally, perhaps 18 hours after our baby's arrival, a doctor informed us that she thought he had a rare and serious skin condition that can profoundly affect the quality one's life. Her explanation seemed reasonable, and squared with what I was able to locate on the internet. This was certainly sobering for us. We prayed, and Samuel received a priesthood blessing.

That night, and over several days of intensive care for Samuel, a scripture from Proverbs with which you are all familiar persistently came into my thoughts: "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths" (Proverbs 3:5-6). Sister Richardson similarly had a scripture come to her mind-hers from the Doctrine and Covenants-with the essential words being: "Be not troubled" (D&C 45:35). Since that night we have tried to think and act in accord with those persistent impressions. This has brought us comfort and peace. The doctors involved, after a significant amount of testing, still do not know the exact nature of Samuel's skin condition, but it is clearly improving. A specialist has informed us that he does not have the serious condition that had seemed so logical and likely early on. In other words, to have leaned unto our own understanding back then would have been to lean unto inaccuracy, and would have done no good. All indications at present are that Samuel's problem will resolve itself entirely.

What I wish to emphasize here is that the scriptures encouraging us to trust in the Lord and to be not troubled have power in them. We have realized that they were the right spiritual promptings for us if Samuel's outcome is positive, as it seems it will be, and that they were also right for us if his outcome turns out to be just as serious as the original diagnosis suggested. In either case, trust in the Lord brings us comfort and peace.

A testimony takes a lot of different things to help it grow—things like prayer, scripture study, and church attendance. Another vital ingredient is time out to think about the things you really believe. The Rochester First Ward, Rochester New York Stake Young Women had a special Sunday outing to the Sacred Grove.
The grove, which is not far from their homes, was a good place to reflect on their feelings about Joseph Smith. All the girls said it was a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon, reverently thinking about their feelings toward the gospel.
“We went and spent time together, just thinking about Joseph Smith and sharing our testimonies,” says Laurel Sarah McKeever.
At the grove, the girls read about the Prophet’s first vision. Then they spent time in the grove and on the Joseph Smith farm, quietly contemplating what had taken place there.
“It’s a good feeling to think that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were there,” says Mia Maid Kathy Domm. “It was really spiritual, and I think it also brought us closer together as young women.”

In October of 1990 our neighbor’s daughter was involved in an automobile accident returning home from college. I was the bishop at the time and received a phone call about midnight from Kim’s father, Ralph Johnson, asking if I could go to the LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City and be with her because they were stranded in California, where they had driven that weekend, unable to get a flight back to Salt Lake City until the next morning. Brother and Sister Johnson wanted someone to be with their daughter, whose condition was critical. My wife, Sherri, and I, and my first counselor, Dick Beeson, traveled to the hospital. Kim was in a coma. Her uncle and boyfriend were already present. All during the night we prayed, waited, hoped, and cried. Sometime during the nigh t, feeling very bad, I decided to walk down to the area where Kim lay unconscious. It must have been three or four a.m. Much to my surprise I found my wife, Sherri, sitting by Kim, talking to her and stroking her arm softly. I said something to Sherri about coming back to the waiting room with me, to which she responded, “In a while. Someone who knows her and loves her should be with her. This is where Ralph and Nancy would be if they were here. She needs a mom. I will stay with her.”
I do not know if Kim knew of my wife’s care, but I hope she felt it even if she could not see it. Sherri gave Kim pure love unfeigned in the middle of that night while she lay dying. I learned that night that love is most pure when there is no consideration of a response from the person receiving it.

The fourth key to self-esteem is the love of work. The most gifted athlete at our university excelled at every sport. He played football and ran the hurdles—in fact, he held the conference record in the low hurdles. Our coach, Ike Armstrong, required that the sprinters run once a week with the quarter milers for three hundred yards to increase the stamina of the sprinters and increase the speed of the quarter-milers. My friend—the great athlete—would lead all of the runners for about 275 yards, but as soon as the first quarter miler passed him he would quit and wouldn’t even finish. His natural talent and ability was such that he never had to extend himself to excel. He married, but the marriage failed. He went on into professional football and was something of a star until he got into the drug scene and died from the debilitating effects of drugs and alcohol. Others with much less talent have achieved far more.

As a young man, shortly after returning from my mission to New York, I had the opportunity of traveling in chartered busses to Palmyra with 150 wonderful young women from BYU Provo and other Utah schools. These young ladies served as special missionaries to help put on the spectacular Hill Cumorah Pageant. On our return trip across the United States we visited several Church history sites along the old Mormon pioneer trail. One of these sites was the historic Mormon cemetery at Winter Quarters near Omaha, Nebraska.

As the girls and I walked quietly up the hill containing the graves of many Saints who died there, our spirits were subdued. Located at the top of the hill is that impressive Avard Fairbanks monument with which you are no doubt familiar. It is a statue of a pioneer mother and father, a shovel in his hand, standing before the open grave of their baby. At the base of the monument embossed in bronze are listed the names of most of the 600 pioneers buried there. Those 600 graves are just a tithing of the 6,000 graves of other courageous Saints who lie along the rest of the trail to the Salt Lake Valley. Without a cue or suggestion from anyone, the girls spontaneously began to sing "Come, Come, Ye Saints."

At first their singing was very strong and resolute, but as the words and the spirit of that stirring hymn sank deeper into their hearts, their singing turned more into sobbing. By the last verse I think I was the only one still singing. As I voiced the words “And should we die before our journey’s through,” I was scanning the alphabetical list of names on the bronze plaque. In the ‘F’s, two names caught my attention—Samuel Flake, age five months, and Frederick Flake, age one day. Then I stopped singing, too. Despite unfathomable hardships, the pioneers' faith could not be shaken.

Shortly after we returned from our mission in the Philippines, we discovered that our next-door grandson, Cameron, had acquired a dog--a big dog--that he dearly loved. His name was George. Cameron did everything with that dog. He was his buddy. As the months wore on that dog took over Cameron's yard and our "absentee yard" for "his territory". He would defend it to the death and he just about did because when my husband returned after his mission excited to work in the yard again, George was determined to discourage him. Now Harold had had a dog, so surely they could be friends, but when George began stalking him and with teeth-revealing growls, Harold became uncomfortable. Cameron was so hoping for the best but he could see that Grandpa was concerned about leaving the house. In Cameron's mind, he had a choice to make--it was either Grandpa or the dog. As hard as it was, there was only one choice for Cameron--he gave up his dog.

Illustration by Jennifer Tolman
“Help. … Help!” The faint cry persisted every couple of seconds. It was my first day at the care unit, and already I was needed.
It was in the summer of my sophomore year that I decided to apply for the Hospice of the Valley Teen Volunteer Program. Once accepted, I attended numerous hours of training and orientation. However, no amount of class time could properly prepare me for the job I was undertaking. No one could properly describe the forlorn expressions I would see as I entered each room, the faces of critically ill or dying patients. No one could accurately explain the stale smell that would engulf me as I opened the door to the care home. But most of all, no one could tell me about the overwhelming joy that came with each visit.
That afternoon as I turned the corner, the cries of help reached my ears. I didn’t even have time to think. It was an impulse to follow the plea.
I walked in to see a woman slightly raised from her bed, arms outstretched. I asked her what she needed, ready to call the nurse for pain medication or maybe to get the nursing assistant if she required the restroom. To my surprise, all she wanted was comfort, attention, a friend.
I was amazed at how quickly I felt at ease. We talked as if we were old friends, laughing and catching up on the past. I couldn’t help but smile as her face lit up with joy.
Then she said something I’ll never forget. “I can tell by your voice that you are a very pretty girl.” This seemed like a rather unusual thing to say to someone. Did she not think my face was pretty? But as I looked at her closer, I realized that she couldn’t see my face. She was blind.
That’s when my heart dropped. Here was a woman in a strange place, getting treatment from complete strangers she couldn’t even see. And I had been thinking about the smell. I had no idea that my cheery voice and undivided attention was bringing so much color into her life. For that, I would smell anything.
I walked out that day with a new attitude. This woman had taught me a valuable lesson. No matter what problems we may be facing, all around us are opportunities to forget ourselves and help another. When those chances come our way, we must make the effort to open our ears and turn our hearts to the ones who seem to be reaching out and calling, “Help.” We may just find a new friend.

I was excited! Spring was here, and I could play outside without a coat. Kindergarten was almost out for the summer, and I was getting ready to play ball and help Dad with the garden. But I forgot all about Mother’s Day. I didn’t remember until my Primary teacher reminded us the Sunday before. I knew then that I would have to have a secret meeting with Aaron and Jarom.
Aaron and Jarom are my two brothers. Aaron’s four, and Jarom’s only two, but he’s real smart. He can talk really good. In fact, he can do nearly everything Aaron and I can.
That night when we were in bed, I talked to Aaron and Jarom and told them that next Sunday was Mother’s Day and that we just had to get Mom a present. We knew Dad was going to give her something—he always does. But we wanted to give her a big surprise just from us.
We thought about giving Mom a motorcycle or a horse or a pickup truck. Those things would have made good presents, but we knew we couldn’t ever get anything like that till we were a lot older.
We finally decided that we would get all our money together and go to Brother Bob’s store to buy Mom something.
The next day after I came home from school, Aaron and Jarom and I walked to the store. We only had two dollars and three quarters and a dime and four pennies. It wasn’t very much, but we thought we could get Mom something she’d like.
Well, there really wasn’t much in Brother Bob’s store for Mother’s Day, because he sells mostly food and things like that. We looked at the bubble gum, but Mom doesn’t like bubble gum very much. We looked at some boxes of candy because Dad sometimes buys it for her. She likes candy, but just one of those boxes of chocolates with a big bow on it costs lots more money than we had. There was a real good pocketknife inside a glass case, but it cost over ten dollars. There was a watch inside the case too. It was just a little one, not like the big one Dad wears. We figured that since it was such a little watch, we probably had enough money to buy it. But when we put our money on the counter, Brother Bob said we didn’t have quite enough.
We were going to go to the big store by the ice-cream place, but that was a long way away. You have to cross the highway to get there, so we decided not to go. Instead, we each bought a sucker and went home.
On the way home we decided that if we couldn’t buy something for Mom, we’d make something. I remembered that Mom once said she’d sure like a rocking chair to rock Jared in at night. An old rocking chair wouldn’t be very hard to make. We had wood and nails and tools and everything at home.
Every day after school Aaron and Jarom met me at the corner. Then we ran around to the backyard and worked on the rocking chair. Jarom didn’t work much; he just kind of watched us. He’d get tired and go into the house for his blanket, but he always came back and sat on a box and rubbed his blanket and sucked his thumb. We still liked to have him there because it was his present too.
We had a hard time trying to build Mom that rocking chair though. We’d seen Dad hammer and saw, but he had bigger muscles than Aaron and I. I scratched my hand with the saw, and Aaron got silvers in his hands trying to hold the boards still. And I hit my thumb, trying to hammer in a nail.
We worked every day till Saturday, but by Saturday we still didn’t have a rocking chair. We’d hammered some boards together, but they were rough and had crooked nails sticking out of them. It didn’t look like any rocking chair we’d ever seen. It looked more like a table. But Mom didn’t need a table; she needed a rocking chair.
It was hot. Jarom had his blanket and was lying down on a box, sucking his thumb and looking at our rocking chair. I was thinking, and Aaron was over by the grapevine hunting for something. Pretty soon he yelled, “Hey, Alma, come here! Look what I found!”
I threw my hammer down, and Jarom left his blanket and ran over to the grapevine with me. Under the branches, sitting on some crunchy leaves, was a big, fat horned toad. He was brown and had little bumps all over him.
I’d seen horned toads before, because Aaron likes to catch them. But this one was one of the best horned toads I’d ever seen. Aaron picked it up and tickled its tummy and rubbed it against his cheek so he could feel the bumps.
Aaron said, “I know, Alma! Let’s give Mom some horned toads! She said that she thinks they’re cute and that they’re funny to watch when they run. Let’s look for some more, and we’ll each give her a horned toad for Mother’s Day.”
There’s an empty lot behind our house that’s covered with weeds and rocks and other good places for horned toads to hide. Jarom went there with us, too, but he had to leave his blanket behind, because it would get weed stickers in it.
We hunted for a long time, and finally we found another horned toad. It was almost suppertime. We were about ready to give Mom just two horned toads, when suddenly Jarom saw a tiny one. I grabbed it. Now we each had a horned toad to give to Mom.
When we went into the house, we didn’t let anyone see the toads. I found an empty shoe box and put some rocks inside so the horned toads would think they were still outside. Then we wrapped the box in newspaper and punched some holes in the top very carefully.
The next day, after the family came home from church and Primary, Mom started fixing dinner. After my brothers and I helped her set the table, we went out to the garage and brought in our present. I put the box on Mom’s plate so she’d know we hadn’t forgotten about Mother’s Day. Aaron and Jarom and I were grinning as Mom tried to guess what was in the present. She was going to shake it, but we told her she’d better not because it might break. She kept trying to guess, but she couldn’t. Not even Dad could guess what our present was.
After family prayer and the blessing on the food, I told Mom to open our present. I knew we couldn’t eat until Mom had opened it.
She took the paper off really slow, and then she took the lid off the shoe box. Her eyes got really big, but she didn’t say anything, and we weren’t sure if she liked our horned toads. We didn’t know if she thought they were too little or not the right color. But then she got a great big smile on her face, and she looked at Aaron and Jarom and me. Her eyes were sparkling like they do sometimes when she’s real happy. We knew then that she was glad to get those three horned toads.
She got up and gave us each a great big kiss and said, “I’ll never forget this Mother’s Day. Horned toads are the best Mother’s Day surprise I’ve ever received!”
After we’d all had a good look at the horned toads, Dad said we should take them out to the garage for a while. But Mom said it would be OK to put them on the chair by the telephone if we wouldn’t bother them while we ate.
After dinner, Mom looked at her horned toads and said, “I don’t like to see toads closed up in an old shoe box. Why don’t you boys build them a house outside where they won’t feel sad and where we can go to visit them.”
The next day after kindergarten, Aaron and Jarom and I went out in the backyard by the grapevine. We’d seen lots of horned toads there, so we knew that that was one of their favorite spots. We found a shady place where there were lots of crunchy leaves. We got some rocks and put them in a little pile under the grapevines, and that was Mom’s horned-toad house. The horned toads really liked it. As soon as we let them out of the shoe box, they waddled as fast as they could into their little rock house.
Those horned toads were our very best Mother’s Day present. And Mom said one of her favorite times of the day was when she went out to the grapevine with Aaron and Jarom and me and watched her very own horned toads.

Young men and women, you can be a great influence for good in your homes as you help to achieve worthy family objectives. I shall never forget the family home evening years ago in which the name of each member of our family was placed in a hat. The name you picked from the hat would be your “secret friend” for the week. You can imagine the love that filled my heart when I came home that Tuesday after work to sweep out the garage, as I had earlier promised, and found it cleanly swept. There was a note attached to the garage door which read, “Hope you had a good day—your secret friend.” And on Friday night, as I turned down my bed, I uncovered an Almond Joy, my favorite candy bar, wrapped carefully in scotch tape and plain white paper, with a note: “Dad, I love you a lot! Thanks, your secret friend.” Then to top it off, after returning home from a late meeting Sunday evening, I found the dining room table beautifully set, and written on the napkin by my place were the words “SUPER DAD” in big bold letters and in parentheses, “Your secret friend.” Hold your family home evenings, for this is where the gospel is taught, a testimony is gained, and the family is fortified.

Afraid the feeling of their presence would leave, I didn’t stop photographing as tears blurred my view. Then I remembered young Sarah, who had left with her loving stepmother in the last group of Saints to leave Nauvoo. At one point, a loving Heavenly Father filled their camp with quail to feed them. Then they struggled forward with grateful hearts.
My heart began to swell with emotion; it felt as though Sarah had joined me. Jared and Cornelia with their little son were with me also. We walked together amid the light and shadow, past and present merging on this trail—this trail of hope, this trail of tears. In a way I can’t explain, they were with me and awakened in me our shared love of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I realized that my testimony burns in me because it had burned in them—passed from generation to generation—each laying the foundation for the next. I wept with gratitude.
Soon my husband, who had been photographing elsewhere, caught up with me. I stood close to him as I told him of my experience. He, like those Nauvoo Saints, was the first in his family to believe the gospel. And he, like those who had walked this trail more than 150 years before, would not be the last to believe. His testimony and mine nurtured the testimonies that now burn in the hearts of our children, just as the testimonies of Jared and Cornelia and Sarah nurtured the testimonies of thousands of their descendants.

After church Tara puts away her shiny shoes.
She looks at her Book of Mormon picture book.
She draws a picture to send to her auntie.
While Dad and Mom make dinner, Tara plays with her baby brother.
Then she sets the table.
“Tara, thank you for helping our family have a happy Sabbath day!” says Dad.
Trace your finger along the line to help Tara move through her Sabbath day. Can you tell what she does to make Sunday a happy day?

“But, Pa, I’m bigger now! See?” Joshua said as he stood on his tiptoes.
“I do see how big you are,” Pa said. “Come over here to the measuring wall. We’ll measure again.”
Joshua ran over to the measuring wall and stood as tall as he could. Pa took a pencil and put a mark on the wall just above Joshua’s head. It was a little higher than the last one.
“Well, I’ll be!” Pa said. “You’ve grown one-eighth of an inch!”
“I knew it! Can I ride Dugan today?” Joshua asked as he jumped up and down.
“I think you just might be big enough to ride the horse,” Papa said.
Joshua was so excited! He went to the corrals with Pa and watched as Pa put a bridle and harness on Dugan.
“Why didn’t you put a saddle on her?” Joshua asked.
“Because today we have work to do with her,” Pa explained. “We are building a fence. You and Dugan will get to help.”
“Really? How?” Joshua asked.
“We will put a chain around the poles that are in that pile by the barn. Then we will hook them to the harness on Dugan and she will pull the poles where they need to go,” Pa said.
Joshua sat on the fence as Pa put a chain around the poles. He looked at Dugan. “She is a really big horse,” he thought. He began to feel nervous.
Pa finished chaining the last pole. “Ready, Joshua? Come over here and I’ll lift you up.”
Joshua climbed down the fence slowly and walked over to Pa with his head hung low.
“What’s the matter? Have you changed your mind?” Pa asked.
“Maybe I better wait until tomorrow,” Joshua mumbled. “I’ll be even bigger then.”
“I bet you won’t be scared anymore after you get on the horse. I won’t let you get hurt. I’ll walk beside you and lead Dugan to the place where we unload the poles,” Pa said.
“Really? You’ll be with me?” Joshua asked.
“You bet I will,” Pa said. He reached down and lifted Joshua onto Dugan’s back in one big swoosh.
“Wow! Look how high I am!” Joshua said. He grinned from ear to ear.
As he rode, Joshua looked at Pa. He realized that Heavenly Father would always be there to help him too. He would lift him up. He would walk beside him. And knowing that, Joshua could do anything—even ride a really big horse.

I pored over my patriarchal blessing once more. One part caught my eye: “You may help the needy with your time, effort, and means.” I imagined myself establishing homeless shelters, starting literacy programs, eradicating unemployment, ending starvation. I should have talked to my parents about my plans first, but I was eager to get started. So I headed out the front door determined that the sullen old beggar at the mall would be my first “project.”
I imagined that first we’d have lunch together. He’d tell me his tragic story. I’d weep. We’d eventually become good friends. I’d buy him a suit, find him a job, witness his baptism, change his life forever. It was all so simple.
I spotted the man outside the mall’s entrance, leaning on the rusted shopping cart he pushed around town. I could see his cart was filled with … onions? He picked up an onion, whacked it in half on the cart, then bit into it like it was an apple. I was taken aback but undaunted. “Would you like to join me for lunch?” I asked, wide-eyed and tentative. “I have a few dollars and …”
Suddenly, loud, unintelligible jabber poured out of the man’s mouth. He shook his fist at me and toward the sky. His gestures were wild and frantic. Was he sane? He seemed upset with me and was definitely not interested in lunch, so I turned with an apologetic grimace and went home.