Gospel Story Finder

When I married my husband, Ryan, we fought a lot during the first six months of marriage. For reasons I still don’t understand, he was unable to recognize the correctness of all my opinions. After an intense argument, Ryan had an inspired thought. What if we went to the temple once a week together?

I hesitated. Neither of us had ever attended the temple that often. We had challenging careers and a young family. But I knew in my heart that this would help us, so I agreed.

It is hard to overstate the lasting impact the decision to attend the temple regularly has had on our marriage and our lives.38 During that first year there were many times we entered the temple not speaking. But by the time we left, we were apologizing and holding hands. The temple softened our hearts and blessed our children. The covenants we made in the temple decreased our anxiety. The temple helped us to “think celestial”39 and to realize that our disagreements were insignificant in the eternal scheme.

The Spirit whispered many things to my heart. I felt my Heavenly Father’s love. Each time I was washed and anointed in the house of the Lord, I felt that I was a royal daughter of God who was immensely loved and that I was forgiven for my shortcomings. I felt empowered as a woman in God’s Church every time I witnessed my sisters performing sacred priesthood ordinances in the Lord’s house.40 I experienced to my core what the prophet has lovingly taught: that my most important identity is as a child of God, a child of the covenant, and a disciple of Jesus Christ.41

Now, eight years since my husband and I started attending the temple weekly, as I think about the dramatic changes in my life, including joining the Wheatley Institute at BYU, getting on social media to talk about Jesus, and even being blessed with a miracle baby in my forties, I know that these changes have come because of my time in His house.

When Elder Abrea was president of the Argentina Rosario Mission, his daughters noted that he regularly interviewed all the missionaries under his direction. They asked him for the same one-on-one opportunity. Through these interviews, he has often provided exactly the counsel his daughters needed to handle problems. His technique is not to tell them just what to do; instead, they talk about the problems and arrive at a solution together. “Things that seem really difficult for me seem easy for him,” Claudia comments.

On the subject of prayer, Elder Abrea said, “I know my prayers have been answered many, many times. One of the first times I remember was when I was eleven years old. My father also used to sell a variety of grains that had to be mashed for cattle to eat. One day he had an appointment and he couldn’t finish mashing the grain. I told him to leave me with the machinery and that I could finish it for him. He said he felt I was too young and wouldn’t be able to do it.
“‘Oh, father,’ I insisted, ‘trust me, I can do it.’
“Well, he decided to let me try. The job took about four or five hours, and I began by putting the grain into the machine. Things were going all right and then suddenly the machine jammed. I knew that you had to take one of the parts off the machine and put it on again and then it would work. I removed the part but I couldn’t get it back on the machine. I started to cry because I didn’t want to disappoint my father.
“At that time I had been a member of the Church for about six months, and I remembered one of the lessons I learned in Primary. Still crying, I kneeled down. I remember I said, ‘Father, I need Thy help, in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.’ After that I went back to the machine and tried again, and it worked!
“The next testimony meeting was the first time I gave my testimony in public. I expressed my experience with prayer very simply and sat down. I know that the Lord does hear and answer our prayers.

A group of young members of the Church with recommends were going to the Salt Lake Temple to be baptized for the dead. One of them was hesitant because she felt that she didn’t really understand what temples were about. Her teacher said, “If you don’t feel that you’re ready for this experience, maybe you’d be willing to help a young lady in a wheelchair. Would you go with her, help her dress, help her into the font, and take care of her?” The girl said that she would.
In helping the young lady in the wheelchair, whom she hadn’t even known before, this girl became close to the Spirit of the Lord. She was so touched that she asked for the privilege of doing baptisms herself.

A fine example of this are Erick and Gloria Corazon Andrada from San Fernando, La Union. Their two sons are part of the 4600 missionaries whose desire to serve is not deterred by the pandemic.
As parents, they naturally felt some fear for their health and safety, but their faith is stronger, and their trust in God full, so they gave their sons their full support and encouragement.
Their older son Alvin Joshua came home in July 2022 after serving for two years in the Philippines Baguio Mission. He was originally called to serve in Manchester, England but due to travel restrictions he was reassigned to his home mission. Their second son Dallin Ivan is currently serving in the Philippines Quezon City Mission. I have met Elder Andrada when I recently toured their mission. He was doing very well training a new missionary.
Brother Andrada says: “As parents we only want our children to be happy, and they found it while serving full-time missions. We can never exchange the joy they feel and gain from serving the Lord for anything. Sending them to serve missions despite the pandemic has been a wise and inspired decision.”
For Brother and Sister Andrada, the best way to prepare their children to serve missions is by being examples of covenant keepers who serve and minister joyfully. They would invite the missionaries for family home evening, provide them with referrals, and they would help and support young adults in their ward as they prepare to serve missions.
They counsel parents not to prioritize academics and careers over seminary, attending FSY, and serving missions. According to Sister Andrada, “school will prepare them for life, missionary service will prepare them for eternity. Our son returned as a more loving and caring person. He was totally transformed by his mission, and he found the kind of joy that any parent could only wish for their child.”
Thank you to all the Erick and Gloria Andradas in the Church for preparing and helping your children to come unto Christ, make and keep covenants and serve a full-time mission. I invite all of us to follow their examples.

The next morning, we went to the Engine House (a genealogical repository and information center) in Merthyr to begin our research. It is there where the miracles began as we entered the Engine House and met miracle number one, Terry Jones.
My brothers Richard and Joe, Joe’s wife, Eileen, and I were downstairs learning about the history of the iron industry in the town when Richard’s wife, Sharon, and my friend Sandy went upstairs to wander and look for restrooms. There, they encountered a gentleman working on a computer and began a conversation with him about our quest. When they mentioned trying to find one grave amongst the 10,000 in Pant Cemetery he realized that we really did need some help. He introduced himself as Terry Jones and arranged for us to meet him at the cemetery office across the street where he introduced us to Deb, the keeper of records. Here we not only found Margaret’s grave site number, but others who were related and resided next to her. We were able to arrange with Deb’s husband, the caretaker of the cemetery, to meet later that day to see the graves.
Miracle number two occurred when we returned to the cemetery and realized that all six of us had previously stood very near the actual site of the graves at some point as we wandered the cemetery. The reason we didn’t see the graves was they were covered entirely by a huge tree that had completely swallowed them. We had previously photographed the tree because it was so immense and imposing, but for no other reason.
We returned later to cut away some of the lower branches so that Sharon could crawl inside and read the writing on the headstones, and we discovered that we had many more relatives buried in this plot than we realized.
Miracle number three came with a visit to the Colly Isaf farm upon which Margaret and Morgan Thomas farmed. It is no longer in the Thomas family, but the current owners allowed us to visit and to photograph the place where our family lived. We discovered the name of the farm listed on the back of a photograph found in material one of our aunts had given us.
Miracle number four occurred throughout the following year as Terry continued to do research for our family and discovered many more links in the family chain, but culminated with a discovery of John Thomas, a direct descendant of Margaret Rowland and Morgan Thomas.
John currently lives on Penrhiw farm which has been in the family since 1724 and he and his wife, Celia, were willing to meet with us. He sent us a lineage chart of all the siblings of Job who remained in Wales, adding much needed information to connect our family to those who had died. This discovery came about through another miracle, number five, that of Terry meeting Father Powell at St. Catwg’s Episcopal Church. While looking for Edward Rowland and Ann Miles, he mentioned John as a possible Thomas still living on the farm.
Miracle number six, cheap tickets to Wales even though it was at the time of the royal wedding. The window for these tickets was short, and directly after we booked them the price doubled.
Miracle number seven again involved Terry Jones who had looked for one year for the marriage of Edward Rowland and Ann Miles (Job and Margaret’s grandparents). Three weeks before we returned to Merthyr in 2018, he found it.
When we arrived in Merthyr, the scene had already been set by those who had been directing our lives for the past year. It felt as though we were in a giant genealogical chess game over which we had no control. Terry was beginning to feel the same forces in action as well. Every morning he would present us with a list of places we would visit that day. One day he showed us his list, which had two sides. He said that he created one list the night before and then this morning, for some unknown reason, he changed it and added a new place: Gadfield Elm Chapel in Gloucestershire. He said he didn’t know why he added it but thought it would be interesting for us to see. Of course, we acquiesced.
Miracle number eight: As we got to Gadfield Elm we discovered the reason. The first ownership of the chapel was given to Wilford Woodruff by the United Brethren, but it rested on or near brother Benbow’s farm. Many of the early members were baptized in Benbow’s pond. And Benbow was the maiden name of Terry’s wife. Terry was stunned. He kept saying he had no idea why he had changed the itinerary for the day, but we all knew why.
The next day we visited St. Catwg’s church and we were met by Father Powell and his lay reader Carolynn Corbin, who showed us around this very impressive 2,000-year-old building. While chatting, my brother Richard discovered miracle number nine that Carolynn was a Parry and quite likely a very close cousin of ours. We exchanged emails and discovered that we did indeed have a common ancestor. This led to a wonderful afternoon tea and the uniting of another branch of Welsh and American lines. After just a few minutes with this family we knew we had met before.
Miracle number ten: We discovered that we were not in charge in other ways as we went to Terry’s home for juice and to collect a book of remembrance that he had found when cleaning out the Engine House. He had asked Richard and Sharon to take the book of remembrance back to Logan where they live to find its owner. He showed Sharon this photo of a family reunion taken in 2004 (he had been doing research for the person who sent it to him), and she recognized someone. She immediately texted that person, and as a result, the connection was made between the photo and the owner of the book of remembrance.
There were more miracles during our visit that involved finding graves that were hidden in cemeteries, discovering writing on tombstones that were covered in lichen and moss, and potentially uncovering ancestors of whom we had no knowledge. If you ever doubt that the veil is thin or that there are others across that veil who wish their work done, let these experiences prove to you that you can be an instrument in their hands. If you allow yourself to be open to the impressions, the promptings, or urgings, as a member of this Church or not, the work of Elijah can be accomplished. Please always live so that you can be a vehicle in the work of redeeming your dead; so that when you meet them, they will encircle you with their joy and gratitude.

Krishna Carpenter was selected as a member of the NJCAA All-American volleyball team. Kris, who plays on the Ricks College team, was surprised and pleased by the selection. The Ricks volleyball team captured both the district and regional championships. They went on to place sixth in national competition. Kris received all-conference and all-regional honors, but the highlight was being named to the first team All-American squad. She was one of only eight to be so honored in the nation.
Kris, originally from Burley, Idaho, participated in both basketball and volleyball in high school. But when she started her freshman year at Ricks, she concentrated on volleyball and has been very successful.
Kris has been encouraged in athletics by her older brothers, and her younger sister may be following in her footsteps. Kris enjoys tutoring special education students and plans to make that her major in college.

“We just have to get that colt,” I whispered to Jared as I thought of Woody Peterson’s new colt wobbling around on his long, skinny legs. Since we had seen him that morning, I hadn’t thought of anything else.
Jared scrunched up his nose and closed one eye as we sat in the front yard under our willow tree. Finally he asked, “Jarom, do you think that Dad would buy us Woody’s colt?”
I shook my head sadly. “If we’re going to get a colt, we’ll have to buy it ourselves.”
“But we don’t have any money.”
I sighed and nodded my head. For a long time we lay on our bellies under the willow tree, trying to think of some way to buy Woody’s new colt.
Suddenly I yelled, “I know! Let’s start a store.”
“A store?” Jared asked. “What would we sell?”
I pressed my lips together really hard and squinted so that I could think better. “First we have to save up our candy and treats. And we can make lemonade. … We can sell anything we want to!”
That night when Mom served us chocolate cake, Jared poked me and whispered, “Jarom, remember—we have to save this for the store.”
I froze. I stared down at Mom’s chocolate cake, then thought of Woody’s wobbly colt. I wanted that cake badly, but I wanted Woody’s colt more. So we wrapped our cake in plastic and stuck it in the freezer. And later, when our home teachers brought a plate of cookies, Jared and I put ours in a plastic bag and stored them in the freezer too.
Before we went to bed that night, we checked our drawers. Jared found three sticks of gum, and I found two candy canes that I’d saved from Christmas. From then on, every time we got ready to eat something, we’d stop and ask ourselves if we could sell it in our store.
The next morning Mom gave us oatmeal mush for breakfast. Jared made a face at his. Suddenly he jumped out of his chair, ran over to the kitchen cabinet, and jerked out a plastic bag. Before Mom knew what was happening, Jared had dumped his mush into the bag.
“Jared!” Mom scolded. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m saving my mush for the store.”
“Nobody’s going to buy mush in a bag,” I growled at Jared.
“Maybe there’s somebody who just loves mush,” Jared argued.
“I don’t care who loves mush,” Mom said to Jared. “You’re going to eat yours—right now!”
Two weeks later, after Jared and I had saved everything that we could, we dragged the family picnic table around to the front of the house and set it under our willow tree. Then we spread out our treats on it: four pieces of pie—two cherry and two apple—cake, candy bars, gum, cookies, candy canes, licorice ropes, fudge, brownies, and other stuff. Mom made the lemonade for us, then printed a huge sign—THE JJ WILLOW-TREE STORE.
I grinned at Jared. “With all this stuff, the whole town will come to our store. We’ll be able to buy Woody’s colt today!”
Jared looked at a piece of cake. “Do you think that this stuff is still good?”
“We kept it in the freezer, didn’t we?”
“Don’t you think that we ought to make sure? We don’t want anybody buying bad stuff.”
I grinned. “Well, maybe you’re right.” Without another word, we each gobbled down a piece of cake.
Besides Mom and Dad, who each bought a cup of lemonade, Sister McCauley, from across the street, was our first customer. “Well, my, my,” she twittered, looking down at all the good things that we had there on the table. “I’m just dying for something good to eat. How much is that piece of chocolate cake?”
Well, I knew that Sister McCauley had plenty of money, and we were going to need lots of money to buy Woody’s colt, so I told her, “One dollar.”
She gulped. “It must really be good cake,” she said, looking down the table at the cookies. “How much is one of those cookies?”
“Only a dollar,” I answered. “They’re good too. Most of this stuff’s a dollar,” I explained. “Everything except the pie.”
“How much is the pie?” Sister McCauley asked, her face brightening up.
“Just two dollars. You see, the pie’s the best thing we have.”
She coughed. “I only have a quarter with me.”
“We sold Mom and Dad some lemonade this morning for a quarter,” Jared blurted out.
“I’ll take it.” Sister McCauley slapped her quarter onto the table.
“Don’t you think you’re charging too much?” Jared asked after she left.
“The more we charge,” I explained, “the more money we’ll make. Shoot, by the time we sell all this, we’ll have about a hundred dollars. We’ll be able to buy Woody’s colt for sure.”
“What are you two doing?” our friend Robert asked. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking up and down our table.
“We started a store,” Jared announced. “Do you want to buy something?”
“How much are those brownies?”
“A dollar apiece.”
He frowned, dug his money out of his pocket, and counted it. “I only have seventeen cents,” he finally announced.
“Oh, come on, Jarom,” Jared protested. “Let him buy something for seventeen cents. After all, he’s our friend, and how are we going to keep any friends if we sell things for a dollar?”
“We’re trying to buy a colt, remember?”
“There are things more important than colts,” Jared came back. “I’ll give him something of mine for seventeen cents.”
“Oh, all right,” I gave in. “What do you want, Robert?”
“I’ll take a brownie,” he said. He stuffed the whole thing into his mouth and swallowed it in about three chews. Then he hurried off.
As soon as we lowered our prices, business picked up. Mr. Gibson bought two cups of lemonade when he came home for lunch. James, Randy, and Russell, who live down the street, finished off our cake. Aunt Salina bought our fudge and a cup of lemonade.
A little before noon two boys who had moved in down the street the week before came tromping down the sidewalk with their little sister. They were all sweaty and tired, and they stopped in the shade of our willow tree to rest. They stared wistfully at our goodies. After they’d been there a while, I asked, “What do you want to buy?”
The older boy shook his head and mumbled, “We’re just looking.”
“Well, if you’re not going to buy anything, you’d better not be using our shade,” I grumbled. “The shade’s just for customers.” I looked away so that I wouldn’t see the little girl, who was staring longingly at the pitcher of lemonade. Jared saw her staring, too, and he grabbed a cup, poured it full of lemonade, and pushed it across the table to her.
“But she doesn’t have any money,” I protested.
“I know, but she looks awfully thirsty.”
“How are we going to make money if we give our stuff away?”
Jared shrugged. “What’s wrong with making people happy instead?”
“Well, her brothers look thirsty, too,” I grumbled, grabbing the pitcher and pouring two more cups of lemonade.
By a little after lunch we had sold everything except one squashed brownie, but we had made only four dollars and seven cents. I glared at our empty table and the little pile of money.
“It’s all right, Jarom,” Jared said. “We can have a store another time.”
“I wanted to buy Woody’s colt today,” I muttered.
“But we had fun running the store.”
“I didn’t want to just have fun. I wanted Woody’s colt.”
“A lot of other people had fun because of our store too. That’s as good as a colt any day, isn’t it?”
Just then we heard Trina Wheeler coming down the street; she was rubbing her eyes and sobbing. “What’s the matter, Trina?” Jared asked.
“I was going to Becky’s birthday party,” she sobbed. “I didn’t have a present to give her, so I was taking her two dollar bills that I’d saved. But I lost them. Now I don’t have anything to give her.” She sat under the willow tree and began to cry even louder.
“Where’d you lose the money?”
Trina shrugged. “I have a hole in my pocket. I’ve looked all over, but I can’t find the dollars.”
Jared reached for the squashed brownie. “You can take this if you want. At least it’s something. Becky will understand.”
Trina shook her head and cried.
I fidgeted on the picnic bench, feeling sort of empty inside.
“Shoot! Don’t cry, Trina,” Jared burst out. “We’ll give you two dollars.”
“Two dollars!” I put my arms protectively around our little pile of money. “What about the colt?”
“Well,” Jared said, shrugging. “We don’t have enough for the colt, anyway. In fact, we don’t even have any place to put the colt if we could buy it. Couldn’t we give her two dollars?”
I shook my head furiously, still thinking of Woody’s colt. Then Trina sobbed again, and I wondered what it would be like to have to stay away from a birthday party because I’d lost my present. “Oh, all right—we’ll give her the two dollars.”
Jared handed Trina our only two dollar bills, and her face lighted up with the happiest grin that I’d ever seen. It was so big that it spread right over to my face too. “Oh, thank you!” she squealed, jumping to her feet. “You’re the best friends ever.”
I felt a warm, happy tickle in my stomach. “You might as well take this, too,” I said, pushing another dollar’s worth of change toward her.
“Oh, no,” she said. “You have to save something for your colt.”
I shrugged. “We still have over a dollar left. That’s plenty.”
As Trina headed down the street to Becky’s party, I broke the last brownie in two, and handed the bigger piece to Jared. The happy feeling that we had was lots better than a colt any day.

Weeks into their voyage, the crews that were with Columbus grew restless and fearful, and the captains of the Nina and the Pinta both wanted to turn back. Columbus would not give up, however, and he finally promised that if land was not sighted in forty-eight hours, they would turn back. That night in his cabin, Columbus “prayed mightily to the Lord,”* and on the very next day, October 12, land was sighted.

By 1946, schools in Dortmund had reopened. But young Enzio’s remaining high school years began a period of sincere questioning and deep confusion for him. Before the war, his teachers had extolled Hitler’s doctrines as the cure for Germany’s ills; now they disavowed ever having taught them. What could this mean? Did adults not know right from wrong? As his disillusionment deepened, he became scornful and bitter and filled with the melancholy of a searcher.

Let me tell you a story about two children—a boy who was about six years old and a girl just over seven. They went for a ride one hot summer day with their dad in their grandpa’s old Jeep. They drove for an hour and a half, and the Jeep started making funny noises. It died completely as they rolled into a gas station in the next town. “We can fix it,” the attendant said, and he directed them to walk across town to a parts store. Once inside the store, the children found lots of things to look at, and they didn’t notice their dad go into the back with the manager. All they knew was that they couldn’t see him. They looked outside and saw a man down the street who was wearing a hat like their dad’s. He was just turning a corner, so they ran after him crying, “Dad! Dad!”

By the time they figured out it wasn’t their dad, they were lost. They couldn’t find the store, they didn’t know where they were, and they didn’t know anyone in that city. The girl wanted to go this way; the boy thought they should go that way. How could they find their dad, or at least the Jeep? She said, “We need to pray.” He felt self-conscious about praying in public, but after they prayed, they both started walking in the same direction. They found the gas station, crawled in the back of their Jeep, and waited. After a little while—it seemed like a long time to them—their father came. He had also been praying that he’d find them and find them quickly.

In a western city a young man had been preparing for 18 years to go on a mission. He was excited, his parents were excited, his girlfriend was also, and he was ready.
One evening at the city swimming pool, he and some friends were diving from the highboard. The second he hit the water, he knew his approach angle had not been good. He was in trouble. His head pierced the water and struck the bottom of the pool with a sickening thud. He was immediately knocked unconscious. He was brought carefully to the poolside and then rushed to the hospital. After weeks of medical attention, he was finally told that he would be paralyzed for the rest of his life from his neck down. He couldn’t move a finger or a toe, an arm or a leg. He would now lie in bed forever. His body would become a useless thing, and unless something unusual happened, so would his spirit.
A wise bishop recognized the problem. After talking with the boy’s parents and the doctor, the bishop gave him an assignment. It was unbelievable, unreal, impossible! The assignment: would he please write a letter each month to every missionary and serviceman from their ward? Was the bishop just not thinking or was he inspired? How could the boy write with no hands or fingers to assist? Some had learned to use their toes in such an emergency, but he couldn’t move his. Having faith in their bishop, the boy and his parents started to work on the assignment. It took days, weeks, and months of effort and discouragement. In time, it began to happen.
By putting a pencil between his teeth and moving his head, he learned to make a mark, then a word, next a sentence, and finally a page. He wrote and wrote.
For over 20 years he has been writing beautiful letters. He has inspired thousands. The side benefit is that his own spirit, simply stated, is magnificent. Is it worth the effort to follow our leaders’ counsel no matter how hard or how difficult? He thinks so. So do I.

In Kentucky, in the southern United States, it gets hot and muggy during the summer. One day people noticed that green mold was growing on the fence around the Louisville Kentucky Temple. And not just a little—there was a lot!
So the Primary children of the Crestwood Second Ward in the Louisville Kentucky Stake decided to do something about it. One warm June day they had an activity. “We took rags and buckets of water and soap to clean the fence and help keep our Heavenly Father’s house clean,” said Sara M., age 10. She got soaked, but “it was fun because all our friends were there.”
Josh H., age 9, said he got a little tired cleaning the high parts of the fence. But he had lots of help. In fact, almost all of the Primary children came, about 75 in all. Many brought their brothers and sisters and moms and dads to help.
The children knew they were on the temple grounds, so they tried to be reverent. And no one complained about the hard work. “We had to scrub really hard because the stains had been there for a while,” said Megan H., age 6. But it was worth it. “I knew we were taking care of our Heavenly Father’s home.”
Sara felt the same way. “I really felt the Spirit because I knew Heavenly Father was happy we were doing that,” she said.
After the work was done, the group gathered at the Church building next door to eat hot dogs and to talk about what they learned.
The Primary children can’t wait until they can go in the temple themselves to do baptisms for the dead. But for now, they are happy knowing they helped the outside look beautiful—just like Heavenly Father’s house should.

Dear Buddy,
Today was a Thanksgiving Day that I’ll never forget! We spent the morning tracting without much success. It was cold, and everyone was busy and didn’t want to talk. Then we spent the afternoon with some members who had invited us for Thanksgiving dinner. And did they ever put on a feast! The food was so good that I kept eating and eating until my belt yelled for mercy. Sister Marshall seemed to enjoy watching us eat, and she kept passing the food around. Then when we left, she gave us each a big package of leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil. It’s great to have members like the Marshalls who help the missionaries.
But it was what happened as we were riding our bikes home that made this an unforgettable Thanksgiving Day. Even though it was cold and windy and almost dark, we took the long way home to help work off some of our dinner. On a lonely road on the outskirts of town, we came upon a girl with long black hair who looked about your age. She was gathering sticks at the side of the road, and she was wearing a long-sleeve blouse, a shawl around her shoulders, a skirt, and sandals.
Elder Butler and I stopped, concerned about her being out in the bitter cold. Her name is Rosita. She didn’t know much English, but she took us to her mother, who was also gathering wood not far away. We helped them gather broken branches and old sticks until everyone’s arms were full. Then they took us to their home.
They live in a small shack with a woodburning stove in the middle. The only one who speaks much English is the father, and he was on a mattress in the corner, sick with a fever.
Their name is Morales. They recently came from Central America. Mr. Morales said that he brought his family to the United States to have a better life. He had a job here, but he lost it when he got sick.
There was hardly any furniture, and the room was smoky and drafty. They need so much—even simple things, like clothes for winter. All they had was what they’d brought in three suitcases. And each other. As I looked into their faces, I felt that I was in the presence of modern Pilgrims. Suddenly Thanksgiving became much more real to me. It is more than parades and football games on TV and tight belts from eating too much turkey and yams and pumpkin pie. Thanksgiving means hope and freedom.
Elder Butler and I gave Mr. Morales a blessing, and we gave our leftovers from dinner at the Marshalls to the Morales. They thanked us again and again and asked us to come back to visit them. We will.
Riding home, I no longer felt the cold wind blowing in my face and up the sleeves of my coat. All I could feel was the warmth of gratitude for all the blessings that we enjoy.
Love,Reed

Another LDS woman named Sarah Sellers also had a remarkable experience that day. She heretofore, has had no big name in the running world, but on that day of the worst possible conditions she placed 2nd in the race. Her brother wrote this about her:
“When you ask God for help with doing something great, He answers. His answer, however, doesn’t usually involve instant supernatural empowerment to swift victory. More often it consists of setting you on a long, hard course of training, building, and learning. He quietly walks beside you, sustaining and encouraging each step, but letting you push through storms and doubts and heartbreaking setbacks. Why? Because He knows it is the only way to prepare you to accomplish the triumph you have asked of Him.
“Since middle school I have watched my sister strive and strain, stretch and stumble, struggle and stay the course in pursuit of running greatness. I have seen her fiercely stubborn commitment. More than once she dragged our dad out into a rainy night in the middle of a family hiking vacation just to get in her daily run. She relished running on cold, snowy Utah days, because while she hated being cold she knew plenty of other runners would stay home. But I have also seen her moments of doubt. She burned with frustration when injuries knocked one season after another off course. She gave her absolute all in pinnacle races and came just cruelly short of her cherished goals and dreams.
“Why? We all asked, and I know she did too. Today we got one answer, because I believe nothing else could have prepared her for this day. Nothing else could have built up the strength, patience, endurance, and granite-solid mental toughness to pound through 26.2 miles of freezing wind and rain and then stand all amazed at an unfathomable 2nd place finish. God didn’t give her golden wings to fly upon today, instead He sent a nightmare storm that He had built her up to break through.” (by Marcus Neil Callister)
She felt God’s love for her even in the storm. She was able to capitalize on the physical stamina and spiritual faith she had gained through years of challenges.

The adoption of our second child was just as miraculous. The opportunity to go to Korea for a semester came about unexpectedly. It came just when I was coming up for tenure, and when I told my wife we needed to go, not for research or teaching but for an administrative assignment, she said it didn’t make sense. It didn’t. But I told her I had a strong feeling that we should go. Two weeks later, after she had wrestled with the idea, she told me that she finally agreed; we needed to go. Then she said, “There is another baby waiting for us.”

My jaw fell open. I was flabbergasted, but it suddenly made sense. Things fell into place. I went to see my department chair and told him that I needed an emergency leave and that I needed to go to Korea. He was surprised—and skeptical. But I put all my cards on the table and told him about the adopted daughter that would soon be born, and he completely supported my request. As it turns out, he had special sympathies for me—he, too, was adopted. On short notice I found a perfect replacement to teach my classes. Details on the Korean side were much more complicated, and a series of obstacles appeared in our path, but one by one everything fell into place.

My wife’s mother had died the previous year, and my wife and I are convinced that somehow—I don’t know how these things work—she engineered the details from her side of the veil. Our second baby is the sweetest child a set of parents could ever hope to have. She is a joy to us, and she has become our second greatest blessing. We love these gifts from heaven. They have given us life. They have given us love. We have been sealed for time and all eternity, and we enjoy all the blessings of the temple.

I should like to spend the few minutes I stand before you today to salute a group of people who have developed what I believe to be a Christlike characteristic, and that is the ability to “hang on.” At this very moment, there is a man, a good member of the Church, who hovers between life and death in a nearby hospital. In the last few weeks he has withstood crisis after crisis; and yet to the amazement of all, he still hangs on. I know not whether the Lord will ordain that he should ultimately live or die at this time, but I do know there is something noble about his tenacious fight for life and the desire to hang on. In the lives of each of us come these trials—trials of all kinds which shake us to the very core and cause us to explore to the very depths our ability to hang on.
I think of the person who, in the quiet of night, could not be persuaded to compromise virtue and decides instead to hang on, though the temptation is great.
I think of those who have withstood the test of many years, some of whom are confined and bedridden and who, in spite of the infirmities that age brings, will not give up. I see etched in the faces of these wonderful older people something of our pioneer heritage—lives so filled with determination and faith, lives so filled with the overcoming of adversity and trial that by their nature they simply can’t let go.
It reminds me of two trees that were close to my home when I was growing up. The one was a Russian olive and grew right in our yard. It was watered every time the lawn was watered, and in that kind of protected environment it grew to be a beautiful tree. Yet one night a tremendous wind came up. Trees all over town were blown down, and with them went our Russian olive. We had watered it so well that the roots did not have to reach down into the soil; and because they were so close to the surface, the tree toppled over.
The second tree withstood the gale. It was a tremendous cottonwood, which still stands in the lane just half a block from where I was born. This tree was in the fullness of its growth when I was a child. It has always stood by itself, completely exposed to the elements, with nothing but a ditch running by, which most of the time is dry. It is gnarled and tough, and its roots have had to sink deep in order to drink of the water of life; but because its roots were forced downward, it lives. I was out home the other day and noticed that most of the trees around this cottonwood are gone. But in all of its power and majesty, it still hangs on.
I see in many people this same kind of beauty. Adversity and trial have driven the roots of faith and testimony deep in order to tap the reservoir of spiritual strength that comes from such experiences. By nature they know how to stand and fight and hang on.
One person who has sunken deep the roots of faith and testimony because of the trials and affliction of years is the man whom we will sustain tomorrow as prophet, seer, and revelator. His branches can offer shade because his roots are deep.
My own mother and mother-in-law are characteristic of these kinds of people. One suffered a broken hip and the other underwent a severe sickness. But they have both fought back and, like so many others, are enjoying active, useful lives. When we as a family are with them, we draw strength from them and their ability to hang on in severe crises.
A few years ago, while on a mission tour in Europe, I was asked to interview a young man who was recently out and wanted to go home. He had not been away from home before in his life and he was homesick and in despair in a strange country. He had actually run away once, but had come back.
I had quite a conversation with this young man, and from my own missionary experience I knew something of the despair that can come into the life of a missionary when he first goes into the field and begins to make that initial adjustment. If he can just hang on through those early trials, then gradually he will get into the spirit of his mission and find the peace and joy that every missionary has a right to experience.
At first he was adamant in his desire to return home, but gradually the spirit of the conversation began to change. We talked about his call from a prophet. We talked about the love of his parents and their desire for him to stay and succeed. We talked about those he had been called among to teach, and finally I asked, “Elder, do your father and mother want you home?”
His answer was, “No.”
“Well, do your brothers and sisters want you home?”
And he said, “No.”
Then I said, “Does your girl friend really want you home?”
And he said, “I guess not.”
I then said, “Elder, does anyone want you home right now?”
He said, “I guess not,” and then he said with a new determination, “Brother Dunn, I think maybe I better try to stay.” He had made a vitally important decision in his life—he had decided to hang on.
The months passed and one day my secretary asked if I could take a minute to see a recently returned missionary. As I walked out of my office, there was this same missionary. I didn’t recognize him at first, he seemed taller because he was standing straight. Unlike the first time, he looked me right in the eye, and his whole countenance was smiling. I can’t remember what we talked about, but I shall never forget his image. He was going home now, a servant of the Lord, having completed an honorable mission. His roots were reaching downward; and although there will be the usual trials ahead, he knows something of what it means to hang on for a while longer when everything looks its darkest.
I don’t know all the reasons the Lord tries us in this life, but there are two or three that come to mind. First, I think he wants to know whom he can trust. The Lord found he could trust Abraham because he was willing to offer his own son as a sacrifice if that was what the Lord wanted. Many thought that Zion’s Camp was a tragic waste of time, until it was later demonstrated that the Lord used this ordeal to find whom he could trust. He wanted to know who had roots of faith and testimony that reached deep into the ground and who had such shallow roots that the first wind of adversity would blow them over.
Secondly, the Lord tells us in the Doctrine and Covenants section 122 that adversity came to Joseph Smith to give him experience. There is something about the eternal purpose of life that requires us to meet and experience trial and sorrow as we seek to overcome, for the Lord has told us also, “… for if they never should have bitter they could not know the sweet. …” (D&C 29:39.)
Thirdly, I believe that only through such experiences can a person develop true charity. And I mean by charity the pure love of Christ.
Let me read the following from Moroni in the Book of Mormon: “… if a man be meek and lowly in heart, and confesses by the power of the Holy Ghost that Jesus is the Christ, he must needs have charity; for if he have not charity he is nothing; wherefore he must needs have charity.
“And charity suffereth long, and is kind, and envieth not, and is not puffed up, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil, and rejoiceth not in iniquity but rejoiceth in the truth, beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
“Wherefore, my beloved brethren, if ye have not charity, ye are nothing, for charity never faileth. Wherefore, cleave unto charity, which is the greatest of all, for all things must fail—
“But charity is the pure love of Christ. …” (Moro. 7:44–47. Italics added.)
May I say then to those who are now or will be facing deep trials: May the Lord bless you that you may continue to hang on. There is purpose in it all, and he has promised us that the severity of it all will not be greater than we can endure, for as the words of the song tell us:
“When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace, all sufficient, shall be thy supply.
The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design
Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.”
(“How Firm a Foundation,” LDS Hymns, no. 66.)
And finally this promise from the Master: “And again, be patient in tribulation until I come; and, behold, I come quickly, and my reward is with me, and they who have sought me early shall find rest to their souls. …” (D&C 54:10.) In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Once when I was in second grade I was riding the bus home after school. Some high school boys were sitting in front of me looking at a magazine. The one who was holding the magazine came back and sat by me. The magazine had pictures of immodest girls. I knew that the prophet had said not to look at bad magazines or pictures. I closed my eyes and turned away. The boys tried to get me to look, but I kept my eyes closed. I’m glad I chose the right by doing what the prophet said.

At BYU-Idaho we have exceptional faculty. When our students speak of their teachers we see big smiles and sometimes tear-filled eyes of gratitude. Last winter semester, I walked our campus with a film crew to capture a few of these stories. Before being recorded, we asked permission to share students’ responses.
One student looked especially surprised, pulled me aside, and humbly asked, “But Sister Meredith, I’m a convert. Do you still want my story?” I was taken aback by her response and reassured her that yes, her experience is just as valuable as any other student’s experience. We are thrilled that she has chosen BYU-Idaho to continue her journey of discipleship while receiving an education.
As I have pondered her question, I have wondered if I adequately communicated just how loved she is. Though each student who attends this university comes through a unique path with differing life experiences, we hope you understand your true identity and the great love our Heavenly Father and His Son have for each of you. We feel it keenly every day. You are meant to do great things!

“Hank’s going to be our new Webelos leader?” I gasped to my best friend, Rodney. “Old Hank Thomas?”
“That’s what I heard Bishop Willis telling my mom. He said that Sister Franklin has to quit until after she has her baby.”
“But that won’t be for weeks,” I moaned. “Sister Franklin’s the best leader we’ve ever had. Why do we get stuck with Hank Thomas?”
Rodney dropped his chin into his cupped hands. “How’s Bishop Willis going to make Hank do it? He doesn’t even go to church.”
I had never seen Hank in church, although his wife came all the time. Most Sundays he was out working in his yard or driving around in his old green pickup.
The next day six of us Webelos sat on the church lawn, nervously picking at the grass and squinting down the street.
“I bet he doesn’t show,” I muttered.
“He still has two minutes,” Rodney commented, glancing at his watch.
“Here he comes!” KC shouted.
Sure enough, Hank’s pickup was rumbling toward the church. We all jumped up and stared, wondering if Hank would actually stop or drive on toward the DoNut Place, where he liked to hang out.
Hank parked his truck and climbed out. “Are you the Webelos that Bishop Willis told me about?”
One of us must have nodded. “Well, I guess I’m going to be your teacher.” Hank coughed, glaring at us. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and looked past us toward the church. “I haven’t been one to go to church much. Bishop Willis said we could have these meetings at my place.” He glanced at our bikes parked on the sidewalk. “Can you meet me over there in about five minutes?”
We nodded.
Nobody spoke as we all dragged up Hank’s driveway while he waited for us in his huge garage. We gaped about as we entered, eyeing the table saw, the drill press, the toolboxes, and the hammers, wrenches, and screwdrivers all carefully hung on the wall or lined neatly on shelves.
“Mrs. Franklin said I was supposed to teach you something about tools,” Hank announced. “I don’t know much about Webelos, but I know a thing or two about tools.”
Rodney raised his hand. “Brother Thomas, are we going to have a prayer? Sister Franklin always started with a prayer.”
Hank stared at Rodney. Rodney gulped.
“Just call me Hank, not Brother Thomas,” he muttered, rubbing his chin. “I guess we could all use a good prayer.” He pulled the battered baseball cap he always wore from his head. “So you give us one,” he said to Rodney.
Rodney gave a short prayer, and then Hank pulled a Webelos book from his back pocket and thumbed through it for a while. “Well,” he finally spoke, “according to this book, you’re supposed to learn to use a saw and a hammer and a few other things. Now all we have to do is figure out what you’re going to build.”
“I think all you have to do is watch us use each of the tools,” I offered. “When we were Wolves, we just had to hammer a nail and use a screwdriver to put in a screw and—”
“What did you make?” Hank cut me short.
“We didn’t make anything,” I told him. “We just had to know how to use the tools.”
“How did anybody know if you really knew how to use the tools if you didn’t make anything with them?”
I shrugged.
“Well,” Hank muttered, “I’m not planning to watch a bunch of boys hammer nails and screw screws for nothing.” He studied us from under his cap. “What do you want to build?” When we all just stared at him, he grunted, “When I was your age, I wanted to build a coaster car.”
“What’s a coaster car?” Rodney questioned.
Hank glared at Rodney like he’d asked whether the moon was really made of cheese. “You fellows have skateboards and fancy bikes,” he said. “When I was a kid, we had coaster cars.”
“But we don’t know anything about building coaster cars,” I squeaked.
For the first time a gruff smile cracked Hank’s lips. “You’re going to know something about them before you’re finished being Webelos.”
I figured we’d just watch Hank work, but he didn’t even touch a tool. He made us do it all. Before that first day was over, we had ruined a few of Hank’s good boards, but we finally got the ones cut out that we were going to need.
The next week Hank was glaring down at his watch as we pushed our bikes up his driveway. “When I say three-thirty, I don’t mean three-thirty-two.”
We all gulped and nodded.
“Let’s hurry and get started,” Rodney said, trying to make amends for us.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Hank demanded.
We all looked at each other and then back at Hank.
Hank pulled off his baseball cap and bowed his head. “Rodney forgot to say his prayer.”
I don’t remember a Webelos activity ever going so fast. Hank had us measuring with a square, using his power sander, chiseling boards so they’d fit together. We did all the work, but Hank was always right there telling us the how and why of every little thing. “How long do you fellows stay around?” he finally asked.
“Oh, about an hour,” I answered.
“Well, you’d better head home then. You’ve been here almost two.”
We all looked up in surprise.
“We just got here,” KC protested.
“May we come over a little earlier next time?” Rodney asked shyly.
Hank thought a moment, then nodded.
From then on, we were there right after school.
Gradually our coaster car started taking shape. It looked like a race car with a square back. Hank took us around to bicycle shops and junkyards until we found some good used bike wheels. He showed us how to fix the axles and mount the wheels. We cut the legs off an old kitchen chair and mounted it inside the car. Hank had an old steering wheel he let us use.
Some days we didn’t work on the car. One day Rodney asked why lumber was so expensive. Hank piled us all into his truck and took us to a nearby canyon. He had us hike up into the trees and told us why certain trees grew where they did and why some kinds of lumber cost more than others. The next week he took us to a sawmill and showed us how the lumber was made.
At first we were a little afraid of Hank, but after a while, he was a friend. Rodney and I stopped by his place one Saturday and stayed most of the afternoon. Pretty soon we were stopping by all the time. Sometimes we’d talk. Sometimes we’d help him in his shop or his yard.
One afternoon while Rodney and I were playing a Little League game, I glanced at the stands, and there was Hank cheering for us. I never played a better game, and afterward Hank took us to the DoNut Place for a soda and an eclair.
“Sister Franklin had her baby last night,” Rodney announced one afternoon when we were heading to Hank’s for Webelos.
We all stopped and stared at him.
“Does that mean she’s going to be our Webelos leader again?” KC asked.
Rodney shrugged.
“I really like Sister Franklin,” KC said, “but shouldn’t she stay home a while longer and take care of her baby?”
Finally we finished our coaster car. It had a sleek wooden body and polished bicycle wheels. We painted it blue, and on the side, in big green letters, we wrote: WEBELOS WINNER.
The next afternoon we hauled it over to the hill at Adams Park and took turns coasting down. It was better than any skateboard or fancy bike.
As we were lifting the car back into Hank’s truck, he announced, “I guess Mrs. Franklin’s about ready to take you fellows back.”
We were all quiet for a long time. Then Rodney asked, “Is there any way you can be our Webelos leader all the time, Hank?”
All of us held our breath. Hank turned away. “I was just kind of filling in for Mrs. Franklin. I think she’d feel pretty bad if someone took her job.”
“Oh, Bishop Willis can find her another job,” I assured him.
Hank chuckled. “The bishop has to decide that, boys, and I think he wants someone who will go to church and—”
“You can go to church,” Rodney spoke up. “Anybody can go to church. If we’d known you wanted to go to church, we’d have asked you a long time ago.”
Hank smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know anything about going to church.”
“We didn’t know anything about making coaster cars until you taught us. We can teach you about going to church.”
Hank shook his head. “People would drop over dead if I showed up at church. They’d wonder why I was barging in after all these years.”
“You could tell them you showed up to … well, to …” KC stopped and scratched his head. Suddenly he brightened up. “You could go to hear me talk in Primary! I’m giving a talk this Sunday. Honest.”
“Yeah, you could go to hear KC’s talk!” I burst out.
Hank slammed the tailgate of his truck and rubbed his chin. “Boys, it’s been a long time since—” He swallowed and shook his head. “No one would want to see me in church.”
“We would!” we all yelled.
“Honest, Hank,” I said. “And we want you for our Webelos leader too. You just have to.”
“We’ve built your coaster car. What else would we do?”
“We need another coaster car. How are we going to have races in just one car? And how are we going to build another car unless you help us?”
“What would the bishop say?”
“We’ll take care of the bishop,” I promised rashly.
A funny smile tickled Hank’s lips, and all of a sudden he was grinning. “Well, maybe I could—”
“We’ll pick you up Sunday at nine-twenty,” I told him.
“I meant I could help you build another coaster car. I didn’t say anything about going to—”
“And when we say nine-twenty,” Rodney interrupted with a grin, “we don’t mean nine-twenty-two.”
Hank didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either, and we all knew that we were going to build another coaster car and that Hank was going to hear KC’s talk on Sunday.