Gospel Story Finder

On a personal note, I had just been called as a mission president and Sister Dickson and I were about to take our family to Mexico when Elder Richard G. Scott, at the time a member of the Seventy, told me of the coming forth of this special revelation. I remember tears coming to my eyes as he related to me what had happened. I was pleased beyond words, as I knew it was right and that the time had come for all mankind to have access to all of the ordinances, covenants, and blessings of the gospel.
That was almost 35 years ago, and little did I know at the time that I would spend several years of my ministry in the Seventy in the Africa West Area of the Church, among a believing, faithful people whose lives would be so affected by the 1978 revelation on priesthood. Sister Dickson and I have lived there for four years, and the experience has been wonderful and life changing for us.

One day while serving in the Texas Fort Worth Mission, my companion and I finished visiting some investigators and then realized we didn’t have a dinner appointment. We decided to stop at one of the many nearby fast-food restaurants.
When I stepped to the cash register, an employee took my order and asked me my name so she could call me over the loudspeaker when my meal was ready. “Elder García,” I replied.
The woman did not seem to understand my English. Again she asked me my name. To avoid any further misunderstanding, I pointed to my name tag, which bore my name and the name of the Church in Spanish.
As I turned to sit with my companion and wait for my order, I happened to notice the name she had written. Instead of writing my name, she had written, “Jesucristo.” Maybe she made the mistake because the Savior’s name stands out on the Church’s logo. Or maybe she just wasn’t paying attention.
Each time I remember this simple experience, I feel a firm desire to have people think of Jesus Christ when they see me—not because of a name tag but because I am bearing His name by doing the things He taught us to do.

Final spurts
Of energy drain
Into his last lap.
Though his chest heaves and
His heart pounds and
Every muscle screams that
He must stop,
On he runs.
I run a different mile,
Yet cannot stop to rest.
You see, this is
My last lap, and
I intend to win
This game of life.

When our youngest child, Amanda, was two years old, she was diagnosed with leukemia. Her case was difficult, and her cancer did not go into remission following chemotherapy. She then had to have a bone marrow transplant.
While my husband and two sons were home in Utah, I stayed with Amanda in another state from September until the first part of January. We missed celebrating Christmas together, but with the end of follow-up care, we returned home.
On our first visit to the hospital for a checkup after returning home, doctors again found leukemia cells in Amanda’s blood. The transplant had failed. Hearing the news, I felt as though I were sinking right through the floor. Our family had been through a lot of worry, work, separation, and difficult times. Now we would lose our daughter anyway.
I returned home that afternoon to my two sons. While we waited for my husband to come home from work, we got out our copies of the Book of Mormon and began to read. We were in 2 Nephi 9. As we read, the following words spoke to me:
“I speak unto you these things that ye may rejoice, and lift up your heads forever, because of the blessings which the Lord God shall bestow upon your children.
“For I know that ye have searched much, many of you, to know of things to come; wherefore I know that ye know that our flesh must waste away and die; nevertheless, in our bodies we shall see God. …
“For as death hath passed upon all men, to fulfil the merciful plan of the great Creator, there must needs be a power of resurrection. …
“O how great the goodness of our God, who prepareth a way for our escape from the grasp of this awful monster; yea, that monster, death. …
“And he cometh into the world that he may save all men if they will hearken unto his voice; for behold, he suffereth the pains of all men, yea, the pains of every living creature, both men, women, and children, who belong to the family of Adam.
“And he suffereth this that the resurrection might pass upon all men, that all might stand before him at the great and judgment day” (2 Nephi 9:3–4, 6, 10, 21–22).
As I read these words, the Holy Ghost filled the room. I felt that my Heavenly Father knew the news I had received that day. I felt that the words the prophet Jacob had written more than 2,000 years before were written to me for that day and came directly from the Savior. He knew the pain and sadness I felt after hearing that our daughter would die. And He was there to comfort our family with His promise that He had prepared a way and that one day, through the power of the Resurrection, “in our bodies we shall see God.”
Amanda lived for almost another year, but I have never forgotten that day when the words of the Book of Mormon spoke to me in my need and the Lord gave me hope, comfort, and understanding of His plan.

During my service as a full-time missionary nearly 40 years ago in the town of Levin, New Zealand, I played the piano each Tuesday for the Primary children. I remember well the wonderful feelings I had for these children as we sang together the gospel-rich Primary songs.
I am thankful for those Primary children in the small town of Levin who helped instill in me the truth that we are all children of our Heavenly Father. I am also glad those memories gave me the courage to share that testimony through song.

Tina and her family went back to Orem, Utah, to see the little house where she lived as a child. “When we moved into that little house, the yard was run-down and full of weeds. We had to clear all the weeds and the rocks before we could plant lawn. It was the nicest lawn, and everyone came to play there. When we went back, we found it had all gone to weeds again. I was so sad. I remember how hard I worked.”

My name is Wilmer Amaya. I am 13 years old, and I was born in Spain. I lived there for eight years, and I remember we didn’t go to church a lot. I wasn’t baptized in the church, but I really wanted to be. One day I asked my parents why we weren’t going to church anymore and why I wasn’t baptized.
As I explained to them my desire to be baptized, it touched their hearts, and we started going to church again. It felt good. Because my mom was the only member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in her family, she was such an example and an inspiration to me.

Mensah was born in 1924 to Fanti parents from Winneba, Ghana, and was born with severe bodily defects. An inspiration to all who knew him, he was encouraged by his family to convert to Christianity and led a remarkable life dedicated to God. In high school, he was the school chaplain and later obtained a PhD in theology through correspondence from the University of California in the USA. He went on to become an international evangelist with the Seventh-day Adventist Church.

Growing up, a lot of girls struggle with the adversary targeting their self-worth. The world places an emphasis on what we look like, and if you’re an athlete, you’re being watched a lot. I felt a lot of anxiety playing volleyball at Brigham Young University. Lots of eyes were on me, and it brought up insecurities. I had been praying to get through the doubts that came with those insecurities. It wasn’t an immediate answer, but I know that it was those prayers and that time with Heavenly Father that helped me overcome those.
The Spirit reminded me that I am now a different person than I was four years ago. Looking back, I can see times when Heavenly Father’s hand gave me experiences and impressions that I have so much more worth than I thought.

Thank you for such a beautiful and inspirational October edition: “From First Date to Eternal Mate.” When I came home from school, the first thing I saw was the New Era. My mum had placed it on the table so I would not miss it. That day at school all 32 class members bombarded me with questions about my beliefs on dating and marriage. I explained why I’m not going to be dating until I turn 16, and why I don’t watch TV programs or movies or listen to music that is suggestive. On my way home I wondered what I could do on a date and how I should go about dating. In answer to my silent prayer, I opened the door and saw the New Era! I read it from cover to cover and deeply felt the Spirit, knowing that the things I had shared in class were true.Rachel Gordon, Oxford Ward, Reading England Stake

My mother lived to be 92 years old and recently passed away. She was in the hospital when the doctors decided that there was nothing more that could be done except to keep her as comfortable as possible until she passed on.
As preparations were being made to take her home, two brethren from a local ward came into the room and asked me if my mother would like the sacrament. At first I told them, “No, thank you.” Mom could hardly swallow. Then I said, “On second thought, let me ask her.” I leaned close to her ear and said, “There are two priesthood holders here. Would you like to try to take the sacrament?” In a faint but clear voice she answered, “Yes.”
After the blessing, I picked up a piece of bread from the tray, broke off a tiny crumb, and gently placed it in her mouth. She worked on it for a bit, and I quietly apologized to the men for it taking a while. They assured me it was OK. After the second prayer, I took a small plastic cup of water and held it to her lips. She took only a small sip, but I was surprised at how well she swallowed it.
I thanked the brethren, and they left for the next room. Mom died peacefully about an hour later.
In the days that followed, I realized what a sacred moment I had been allowed to share with my mother. The last thing she did in this life was partake of the sacrament. The last word she spoke was “Yes”—yes to receiving the sacrament, yes to offering her sacrifice of “a broken heart and a contrite spirit” (3 Nephi 9:20), yes to taking upon herself the name of Jesus Christ and promising to always remember Him, yes to receiving His Spirit. The last things that passed through her lips were the emblems of the sacrament.
How sweet her last supper must have tasted to her! Although too weak to move or speak, how alive in Christ she must have felt! How grateful she must have felt for His redeeming and enabling power, which carried her through those final moments of her mortal journey and extended to her the hope for eternal life.

I think of dear Sister Amy Gent, whom I was privileged to visit for several years as branch president, home teacher, and friend. The first time I visited her, she was 87 years of age. Widowed twice, she was the only member of the Church in her extended family. Was she lonely? Never!

She read the scriptures every day. Once she asked me to bring her some missionary tracts, which I thought were to vary her reading. I gave them to her saying, “You will enjoy reading these, Sister Gent.”

“Oh, they are not for me,” she replied. “I visit an old lady, and I want to share the gospel with her!”

Reaching out, helping, serving, this is the way we overcome the fear of loneliness.

My father was very bright, and he wanted to study at a university. At that time the government where he lived chose who could attend universities and who could not. The government did not want people to believe in God. Dad was told that he could attend the university only if he would stop belonging to the Church and talking about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
My father knew he could not give up his faith. Instead, he and my mother, Helga, decided to leave their home. They boarded a train for West Germany, praying that they would be allowed to enter that country. At the border the police officers checking the trains did not check the compartment where my parents were riding. So they were able to begin a new life in a country where they could worship God. Two months later I was born.

Now to you dear grandmothers, you older widows, and older lonely women. How beautiful you are. I look upon my dear wife, soon to be 92 years of age. Her hair is white; her frame is stooped.

I take one of her hands in mine and look at it. Once it was so beautiful, the flesh firm and clear. Now it is wrinkled and a little bony and not very strong. But it speaks of love and constancy and faith, of hard work through the years. Her memory is not what it once was. She can remember things that happened half a century ago but may not remember what happened half an hour ago. I am like that, too.

But I am so grateful for her. For 66 years we have walked together, hand in hand, with love and encouragement, with appreciation and respect. It cannot be very long before one of us will step through the veil. I hope the other will follow soon. I just would not know how to get along without her, even on the other side, and I would hope that she would not know how to get along without me.

Harry was fighting in a torrent of rain and blood one night on New Guinea during World War II. Shrapnel from enemy mortar shells ripped his stomach apart, and he lay dying in a muddy foxhole. As he pled with God to send a rescue crew, he closed his eyes and a dreamlike picture of his sweetheart flooded his mind’s eye. The image of returning to her and raising a family together gave him the will to live until a British officer named Abel scooped him onto a stretcher. Harry returned home to marry the girl of his dream, and soon they joined the Church. Fifty years later, their posterity is among the strength of the Australia Devonport Stake. Harry was kept alive—physically and spiritually—by his dream of family love.

I believe that the most important job in the Church is the one we hold right now. Maybe you don’t even hold a specific position. I remember being in a ward where there were just not enough ward positions for everyone to have one, so the bishop called certain people into his office and asked them to be celestial members—to set a good example for others; to fellowship those in need; and to be one-hundred-percent participators. That was an important calling—as is any calling we now or in the future will hold in the kingdom of God. For it is through righteously serving others that we bless our own lives, enrich the lives of our neighbors, and further the work of the Lord.

It’s gray and foggy;
The trees are bare except for a few
soggy dead leaves;
The houses are cold and dark;
I sniffle and sneeze;
I try to understand the flying foreign words;
I nod my head and smile
as though all were very plain,
but I know my eyes reveal utter confusion;
I blow my nose again;
I try to speak,
but my tongue betrays me;
I try to teach—
Not even I understand what I’m saying;
The children laugh at my accent
and ask me a million questions;
I nod and smile;
My hair is frizzy from the humidity;
I wear the same sweater and skirt every day
because none of my other clothing keeps me
warm;
There is mildew on our bedroom walls;
I have a stomachache
from heaping helpings of strange foods
whose taste is foreshadowed by stranger odor;
I nearly gag, and swallow without chewing;
When the Mamita asks me how I like it,
I nod and smile;
I see concrete and mud;
It’s winter—the rainy season;
The wind-driven rain ignores
coat, and boots, and umbrella;
There is water everywhere—in my boots, in my
pockets,
and I’m afraid the water in my eyes
is about to spill over my cheeks
and tell my yearning for home, for milk,
for English;
Though miles separate my father and me
his voice comes clearly to mind
where his teachings well embedded live;
My heart is warmed and I find courage
drawing strength from his strength:
“Remember that in order for the grass to be green,
there has to be rain as well as sunshine.”
Peering through the pour
I see that the grass really is green;
My companion asks me how I like the rain;
I straighten my shoulders,
nod and smile,
and say a little prayer of thanks
for a wise father who taught me about the rain.

Seth lay in the dark, wondering what had awakened him. His ears strained to hear a noise, and his heart began to pound. There it was again! He jumped, then sighed with relief. It was the new telephone. They had bought it through a mail-order catalog. His dad and their neighbors, the Smiths, used the top strand of the barbed-wire fence that separated their ranches to string a telephone wire on. Then they used old rubber tires as fence connectors so that the lines wouldn’t short out. When the phone was first connected, Seth had listened to Mrs. Smith’s voice describing their new Appaloosa colt. He was so astonished that he couldn’t say a word.
All the neighbors had clamored to be part of the line. Everywhere the barbed-wire fences stretched, neighbor was soon connected to neighbor. Mrs. Bowers even put a switchboard in her house so that callers could be switched from one line to another. Now Seth’s family was even linked by the prairie line to Grandpa and Grandma.
Seth sat up in bed. Grandpa and Grandma! Had something happened to them? Who was calling in the wee hours of the morning? He pulled on his jeans and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
His father was still talking on the telephone. “I’m sure he’ll do it for you. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take him over later today.” He hung the earpiece on its hook, then turned slowly around. “What are you doing up?” he asked Seth in surprise. Dad looked awful.
“What’s happened?” Seth whispered.
His mother stood in the doorway, with baby Janet in her arms. She, too, waited for the answer.
“Grandpa’s had a heart attack,” Father said quietly. “They’re taking him to the hospital in Gillette.”
“Oh, no!” Mother cried. “Is it very bad?”
“He’ll be fine. He just needs rest. He’ll be in the hospital for a couple of weeks. Then he’ll be able to come home.”
Seth felt a little of the worry ease, but he still wished that he could see Grandpa or do something for him. Grandpa was like a best friend. He’d always been there when Seth needed someone to talk to.
“Until he gets strong again, he wants Seth to take care of the farm,” Father added.
“No,” Mother protested. “Seth’s too young to be in charge of a dairy farm.”
“Now, Grace,” Father reassured her, “Dad has already sold most of his cows, and Seth has helped him before. I think that he can do it for a short time. And when I get the roundup and haying finished, I’ll go over every day and give him a hand.”
“But some of those cows are about to calve,” Mother said. “What if something happens?”
Seth tried to think of a way to help persuade her. “I could call you,” he suggested. “The Smith’s have that Model T. Maybe Dad could borrow it in an emergency.” He stood straight and tall. “I want to do this for Grandpa and Grandma, Mom. Please let me.”
She looked lovingly at him. “I forgot about the telephone. Yes, you can go. They’ll need your help until Grandpa can be up and around again, and you’re not so far away, after all, if you can telephone.”
Seth hugged her. Then he ran back to his porch bedroom to pack his bag. He was going to Grandpa’s!
At Grandpa’s farm, Seth found himself faced with a bigger responsibility than he had ever imagined. He worked from before sunup each morning till the last of the milk was separated at night. Tired as he was, he still enjoyed turning the handle on the separator and watching the milk pour out into one bucket while the thick cream came out another spout. Oh how good that cream was on hot oatmeal!
Every night he called his parents just after supper. He felt very important as he cranked the handle around and around until Mrs. Bowers answered. “Good evening, Mrs. Bowers,” he greeted her formally. “Would you switch me to the King home, please?”
“Hello there, Seth,” she answered. “How’s your grandpa?”
He’d chat with her for a few moments while she switched him onto his parents’ line.
Everything was fine until Sweetie decided to be difficult. She’s the most contrary Guernsey cow ever born, Seth thought. Guernseys were known for their placid nature—but not Sweetie. She’d rather kick you than look at you. And now she was calving.
Seth went out to the barn and looked at her. He didn’t know much about it, but he could tell that she was in trouble. Carefully he walked into her stall, talking softly to soothe her. She whirled around and kicked at him. He jumped back, but her hoof grazed his shin.
“Ow!” he yelled and ducked back behind the stall. He rubbed the sore spot, then limped a little on his way back to the house. He cranked the handle on the phone and waited impatiently to talk to his mother. “Mom, Sweetie’s having trouble calving. Is Dad around?”
“Oh, Seth,” Mother said worriedly, “he’s out at roundup and won’t be back till tomorrow.” There was a pause, then she added resolutely, “You’ll just have to do the best you can.”
He felt so alone. “But I don’t know what to do.”
In the silence that followed, Mrs. Bowers spoke up. “Just do what you’ve seen your pa do and then pray!”
When Seth hung up the phone, he didn’t know if he should laugh because Mrs. Bowers had been listening in or cry because he couldn’t do what his dad had done. He was too small. And as for praying, he didn’t even know how. He’d never even been inside a church. He went outside and headed slowly toward the barn.
“Hello there!” a voice called out.
He whirled around and saw two men walking toward him. A tall man in a black coat asked, “Are your folks home?”
He shook his head, too miserable to say anything.
“What’s the matter, son?” the other man asked kindly.
Seth looked up and saw a face full of wrinkles, the kind you get from years of squinting in the sun. It was a face like Grandpa’s—weather-beaten and comfortable.
“Grandpa’s in the hospital, and Sweetie’s calf is turned and can’t be born. She won’t let me near her, and even if she did, I couldn’t help her. Mrs. Bowers said to pray, but I don’t know how. Do you?”
The man’s eyes began to twinkle as the whole sad story tumbled out. “Well,” he said, “first things first. I do know how to pray, and I’ll teach you, but for now let’s look at that cow.”
The man headed for the barn at a brisk walk while stripping off his coat. Taken by surprise, Seth ran along beside him, trying to keep up.
The man knew just what he was doing. When Sweetie lashed a hoof at him, he just chuckled. “Kinda bad tempered for a Guernsey, aren’t you?” He looped a rope on that hoof and tied it down, then patted her and began to work.
Seth couldn’t believe how easy it seemed. In just a short time a little calf lay at their feet, too weak yet to get up. He stared at the new little creature and wondered again at the miracle of birth. Would it live? The man handed him some clean straw. “Rub that calf down with this and dry her off. Then we’ll bring her around to her mama. As soon as she gets some warm milk inside her, she’ll be just fine.”
Seth worked carefully over the calf, then carried her to where Sweetie stood, still tethered, in the corner. The calf bumped her udder and, with tail swishing, drank the strengthening milk.
The man brushed his clothes off. “Do you have a pump I can wash off at?”
“Sure. By the back door,” Seth answered. “Say, thanks, mister. Sweetie is Grandpa’s best milker. That’s how she got her name—for her good cream. He’ll be pleased that she’s all right.”
“You’re welcome, son.” He clapped Seth on the back. “I’m a rancher myself.”
Seth looked up at him, puzzled. “Do you live around here?”
“No. My ranch is on a high desert plateau in Arizona.”
“What are you doing in Wyoming?”
“We’re missionaries of the Lord’s church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Oh, so that’s why you know how to pray.”
The man smiled and began to wash. After he washed and put his jacket on, he turned to the boy. “Now it’s time for that first lesson in prayer.” He bowed his head and addressed Heavenly Father. After he thanked Him for the new little heifer and the young boy who was caring for the farm, he asked for help for Seth and strength for his grandpa.
Seth listened in astonishment. It was so easy! Not much harder than talking to Mother on the prairie line. But did God really listen?
The men left then, promising to return the next day to help with the chores. When Seth reported the day’s events that night on the prairie line, he felt thankful. Then he went into his room, knelt by his bed, and tried to talk to Heavenly Father.
(To be continued)

John’s soggy shoes slid in the rutted ice alongside the handcart. A toe snagged on a half-buried rock, and he pitched forward into the snow.
Mama helped him up. “My feet hurt bad, Mama. Could I ride a little way in the handcart?”
“Papa’s too sick to pull extra weight, John. See the willows ahead? We’ll camp there tonight by the river.”
John peered through the falling snow. The willows were so far away! He counted steps: “One … two … three … ,” trying to forget the pain in his half-frozen feet. An ache started in his hands. It worsened until he could no longer concentrate.
His gaze fixed on Mama’s skirt, blowing stiffly in the rising wind. “Your skirt’s frozen, Mama.”
“Only the edges where it drags through the snow,” Mama said, hugging him. Then her light, sweet voice sang out, “Come, come, ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear …”
Instantly, every voice in the handcart company took up the words. It was a camp rule that when one began singing that special hymn, all must join in.
As Papa’s thin frame pulled against the weight of the handcart, his lips moved soundlessly to the words. A fit of coughing doubled him over. He staggered and fell.
John leaped to Papa’s side and cradled his head in his lap. Men dropped their own handcarts and hurried to help. Papa whispered, “I just need a moment to catch my breath.” Heavy coughing shook him.
The men lifted Papa into the handcart. Tears trembled on Mama’s eyelashes as she tucked a warm buffalo robe around him.
Papa had said that the robes they had bought in Fort Laramie were a mixed blessing. Those who chose to keep warm with them might die of hauling the extra weight. John was glad now that they had discarded other things in order to keep them.
As the men went back to their own handcarts, Mama said, “It’s up to us now, John.” She took Papa’s place in front of the handcart. John stood beside her. His body strained. The handcart bumped slowly forward.
John’s feet, clumsy with cold, trudged inch by weary inch toward the willows. After a while, he felt neither hands nor feet, numbed as they were by wind-whipped snow and sleet.
Finally they reached the willows. “Get what rest you can,” the captain told the company. “Tomorrow we cross the river.”
Cross the river? John could see no ferry. The river was dark with slush ice. He shuddered.
Papa crawled from the handcart and steadied himself against the wheel, coughing weakly.
“I can make camp, Papal” cried John. Papa reached into the handcart for the tent. “Some are working who are sicker than I am,” he said.
Digging in the snow, John found a few sticks of firewood. Soon a pot of mush bubbled over a fire.
Mama scraped the mush into three bowls. “It’s such a little bit,” John sighed, gulping the steaming gruel.
“I know,” said Mama. “The company captain said we must cut the rations in half again.”
Papa spooned a bit of mush into his mouth. “Nobody dreamed that winter would come so early,” he murmured. “Nor be so savage.”
That night John huddled with Mama and Papa under the buffalo robes. Slowly, feeling returned to his hands and feet. Exhausted, he slept.
The next morning John awakened to a camp half buried in snow. In the fierce wind, he helped Mama and Papa pack the handcart. With other Saints, they struggled through the still-falling snow to the riverbank.
“Oh, Papa!” John stared at the rushing slush-thickened water.
“If I stumble, grab the handcart,” was all Papa said. Grimly he pulled the cart into the icy water.
John splashed in behind him. He gasped as the freezing water crept to his chest. Mama hiked up her long skirts and waded after him.
Chunks of jagged ice floated by. One slammed into Papa. He staggered and fell. Trying to reach him, John stepped on a sharp rock and slipped. In an instant, the freezing water closed over him.
Hands grabbed him and steadied him in the fast-moving current. He looked for Papa. There he was! Men were helping him across the river. He saw Mama pulling their handcart onto the far bank.
By the time John reached the handcart, the bitter wind had frozen his clothes to his body. Mama tore them off and helped him into dry things. She replaced her ice-crusted skirt with another one.
Reeling with cold, Papa found dry clothing. Mama shielded him from the storm with a buffalo robe while he changed.
Nobody in the group had strength enough to pitch a tent, but Mama spread their buffalo robes in the scant shelter of the handcart. They burrowed under them, hugging each other for warmth.
John heard snorting and stamping. Horses? That creaking—was it wagons? He poked his head from the covers.
“Papa! Mama!” he called. “It’s covered wagons pulling into camp!” Papa coughed, unable to answer. Mama’s blue lips moved, but no sound came. John scrambled from the covers to get help.
“Brigham Young sent us with provisions as soon as he heard about your company,” a rescuer told John.
“Your mama and papa are suffering from fatigue and exposure,” another said. “We’ll get them into a wagon right away.”
Soon fires blazed in the camp. John stood warming himself, breathing in the smell of sizzling buffalo meat and pan bread.
Given a plate of hot food, John could eat only a mouthful. He was so tired!
The rescuers lifted him into the wagon with Mama and Papa. Bundled under heavy quilts, he listened to Papa’s racking cough and labored breathing.
“Are you all right, Papa?”
Papa couldn’t speak for coughing. The wagon began to move through swirling snow toward Salt Lake. Weak voices of the handcart company joined joyfully with the strong voices of the rescuers. “But if our lives are spared again To see the Saints their rest obtain, Oh, how we’ll make this chorus swell—All is well! All is well!”

There is a farmhouse off the highway, son.
Oh, Billy Jenkins, won’t you stay?
“No, no, my mother is a worried one.
And I must hold onto the way I’m bound.”
Back in West Jordan, he was nearly frozen, the dark had drawn around the dugout door.
The snow was piled on the home they’d chosen—
out in the West, where they would fear no more.
Digging to find the door, he was not able. He had to wonder where to make his bed.
So in the whispers of the cattle stable, he dreamed and drifted toward the dawn ahead.
On Christmas morning, when they saw his bed,
And Billy Jenkins was not there,
They found him frozen in the cattle shed.
The snows had borne him to the fair beyond.
Billy Jenkins was proud and pretty.
He was a fair and a faithful son.
He took the tithing to Salt Lake City.
The silver snowstorm had scarce begun.
(From the “Utah” album) © 1972 Embryo Music, BMI