Ye Receive No Witness Until After the Trial of Your Faith by Ayden Overson

My attitude for Trek before it began was very indifferent. I knew it would be spiritually strengthening, but I knew it would be hard, too. I felt no burning passion to share the experiences of my ancestors. It wasn't long into the pulling that I began to feel the true desire and faith of the pioneers. Pulling a handcart is a hard, frustrating task. The smallest rock hitting a wheel just right will throw the yoke right or left, forcing big guys like Payden Nielsen and me -let alone our smaller sisters- to stumble and knock into each other and the frame. My experience was only with mildly cold rain with periods of warmth. The pioneers endured deep snow and freezing rivers. Ours was only a three day journey, theirs were months.

I make these comparisons to illustrate the very tough, strenuous, and frightening ordeal the pioneers had. I do not believe that they could have done any of it without unshakeable testimonies and enduring faith. Faith in themselves, others, and God. I had my own trial and strengthening of faith in my Trek experience.

I gained greater faith in myself on the first day. I had a wavering faith in myself when I struggled up the mountain we crossed, and when I was falling asleep while pushing the handcart late into the night. I did not know if I could keep going at times. In Ether 12:6, it says, "And now, I, Moroni, would speak somewhat concerning these things; I would show unto the world that faith is things which are hoped for and not seen; wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith." I knew that I could do those things. With each step, I knew I could take the next. My faith in myself grew with my trials.

My faith in others definitely grew also. I learned to love my family through struggling together. Some of them I knew well before the Trek, others, I had just met. I began to have faith in them through our hard work. I knew they would push and pull right alongside me, and pick up where I faltered. In the "nature walk" activity that we had, faith was a key point of the lesson. I was led along by my trek sister Kynzie, and I pulled my brother Tanner. During the time we were blindfolded and silent. I knew that I would not let either of them go. I had to strain to an uncomfortable point quite a few times to keep both of them with me. I had faith that Kynzie would not leave me, and I would not let Tanner go to be lost or confused. My faith was once again put to light in my dependence on others.

This activity also represented faith in God. We were stopped eventually and told to do a difficult task, one which had very unlikely odds of us accomplishing. Each of us became lost at some point, unable to figure out what we should do. Eventually we were called to a spot where our leaders sat singing hymns. Our blindfolds and confusion signified how we are in daily life. Trying to go the right way, but not knowing how or where. The leaders' singing represented Jesus Christ's teachings and the teaching of his prophets. We have to look to them and have faith in their love and support for us. The pioneers had incredible faith in order to leave their homes, friends, and jobs, in order to follow the will of God. To hike and pull handcarts through plains and mountains and deserts, is a testament to their faith in Heavenly Father.

I witnessed no great miracles on Trek. I had no divine beings testify to me of the gospel. I did have small confirmations throughout the journey of Heavenly Father's and Christ's love for me and their knowledge of my worries and problems. My faith, testimony, and love for them was strengthened. I know that Heavenly Father is most deserving of my faith because he has never abandoned me. He has always been there for me when I needed him and simply asked. My trials have strengthened my faith in Him, and they will continue to do so as long as I rely on Him.

The Key to a Family Connection by Spence Wilhelm

When I was in High School, my sister Nonie asked me if I wanted an old record cabinet she had stored in her shed.  It was one of the things the family had from my Great Grandmother Gibbons.  "Of course!", I said.  It took me more than thirty five years to follow through on my word and I'm glad I finally did.

Throughout the years Nonie kept asking me and I kept saying yes but never did anything about it.  When I was in my late forties, Nonie was cleaning out her shed and showed up with it at our home in Saint Johns. It is quite unremarkable looking.  The finish is a dull and worn and it stands about two and a half feet tall.  We couldn't open the box and Nonie didn't have a key.  So it sat there for a bit longer.  One day I was talking with Mom on the phone and mentioned it would be fun to open Grandma's record cabinet.  Mom laughed and said she had a key for it somewhere.   Wow.

Two weeks later Mom and Dad came over to Saint Johns on a Saturday afternoon and brought the key.  As I remember, most of our kids were visiting that weekend.  We had decided we would make a day of it with a picnic and a ceremony to open our little time capsule.

Later that evening we huddled around Grandma's cabinet in our front room laughing and guessing what we would find.  The key was an old sliver looking skeleton key and it easily turned the lock.  Inside we found over 30 full sized 78 RPM records that Dad had listened to as a boy.  Christine and I had a record player so we started pulling records out and listening to them.  It was really fun because Dad would tell us stories about how they would listen and have fun with the records.

After pulling most of the albums out of the cabinet I found a small platter with the following written in pencil on the cover, "Grandma Gibbons".  One side of the plastic encrusted metal disc had a hand written label, "Come Come Ye Saints, Granny Gibbons 8/24/1944." - she was 85 years old. We put it on and heard Grandma Gibbons sing that wonderful old pioneer song to us.  After it was over we sat in silence for a moment, too stunned to say anything.  A few of us had tears in our eyes and all were laughing and chittering about the miracle of finding such a gem.  It is the only known recording of Grandma Gibbons voice.

To think it sat in the locked record cabinet all of those years and was still functional is amazing to me.  More than that I'm thrilled to have something to know Grandma Gibbons.  She died before I was born and until we found the record, she was someone I knew only through stories of other people.  Now I feel connected.

BLOOM by Suzanne Hancock

Each summer, I am surprised when I see something I planted actually grow and blossom. I am especially pleased when my perennials return. It is like a gift coming up from the soil to welcome the season, and I, in turn, welcome each one with gladness and quite a bit of shock. Our soil is hard and lacks the nutrients that promote easy gardening, so we do our best with what we have, even though we aren’t anywhere close to being Richard and Ethel Hext. 

Several years ago, my favorite type of yard work used to be weed-eating. I loved getting in my anti-allergy gear and chopping down the unwanted growth. I much preferred this to trying to make anything pretty grow, as my black thumb seemed to prevent any plants or flowers from flourishing. I found a satisfaction of getting rid of what was unsavory, and that was enough. Then.

So what changed?

The answer is simple. My heart.

When my primary concern was ridding the yard of weeds, my heart was covered in its own blanket of Goatheads that choked out any hope of tulips or marigolds. I literally cut down weed after weed after weed in an attempt to figuratively rid my soul of the same. Conversely, as I made changes necessary in order to align my heart with that of my Father in Heaven and his son, Jesus Christ, calla lilies and daisies sprouted from my very being.

I was eleven, going on twelve, years old when our family moved from Clifton, Arizona to St. Johns. It was a delicate time for a young woman to move to a new town with no friends, entering 7th grade, and missing the life and home I had known for eight years. My ever-insightful and thoughtful mother gave a family home evening lesson about blooming where you are planted. I recall her having a handout of some sort that she gave to each of us, and she had a decoration in our home for many years with that phrase. 

After that time, I moved several more times as my life took me to college, to teaching in Tempe, to moving back to St. Johns, to getting married with a home of my own. Each time I have moved, I think of the mantra to bloom where I am planted.

This year, observing the sunflowers that have grown from our planting in prior years as well as from new seeds this year, I can’t stop thinking about this lesson. I had always applied it to actually moving from place to place, when it has much more far-reaching applications.

I need to BLOOM in my callings, BLOOM in my station in life, BLOOM in my relationships, BLOOM in my testimony.

This weekend has been emotional for our family. Paul’s grandpa passed away. Grandma Donna received her Temple endowments. Grandma Donna was also sealed to her parents, sealed to her deceased husband, and Aunt LaDawn, Donna’s daughter, was sealed to her mother and father.

Watching their faces, full of joy, tears of pure eternal bliss running down their cheeks, they epitomize blooming. They have taken many years of heartache, of doubts and fears, of loneliness, and they have turned those weeds into a field of geraniums. They did this the only way it is possible to do. They did it through the forgiveness, and the strength, and the enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. 

That is the only way we can truly bloom.

I still like to weed eat and even pull a few weeds here and there to get my fix (I know… I’m weird), but I much prefer to see the things of beauty emerge from the ground in spite of the soil, in spite of the lack of rain, in spite of the heat and the humidity.

I much prefer to see things bloom.

What a Wonderful World! by Lisa Trickey

It's Saturday night.  I'm sanding, painting, and smell like crawdad because the grandkids wanted to crawdad fish today.  Three weeks ago Suzanne asked me to write a blog post by today.  I've thought about it, even sat down to write it, but then something would come up.  Needless to say I'm thinking about the things I do and don't do well.  Where painting is concerned, there is absolutely NO perfection in me.  I just want it DONE!  Sanding I'm a little better at.  It doesn't have to be exact, and you are usually covering up the sand job anyway.  Crawdad fishing - marginally good.  Enjoying grandkids...amazingly good!  Procrastination - Perfect!

I'm not sure the connection, but these thoughts reminded me of a time our family visited San Diego.  One morning I woke up super early and decided to watch the sun come up while sitting on the sandy beach.  To my delight, the sand was covered with hundreds and maybe even thousands of sand dollars! I was amazed at their intricate design and tender beauty.  I was grateful and humbled to be able to witness them, and also felt a great appreciation to their creator.

As a college student I was priveleged to spend a semester at BYU Hawaii.  One day a couple of friends and I went to a beautiful bay, and on our two dollar rafts decided to relax in the calm waters.  Because we had just watched the movie Jaws, we felt the bay was much safer than the wave filled ocean.  Unfortunately, we must have fallen asleep because when we were awakened by shrill screams, the people on the beach looked minuscule.  "Shark, shark," my terrified friend shrieked.  Around us swimming in a circle were fins!  As she panicked, the fins turned into dolphins and started jumping, twisting, and eventually calming my friend with their entertaining moves.  They stayed with us, calmed us, and entertained us when we lost our cool, all the way to safety.  I was grateful and humbled to be able to witness them, and also felt a great appreciation to their creator.

As a newly retired teacher watching the new school year approach with absolutely no pressure, I have had many moments to reminisce on my few years in the classroom.  How I have loved these kids.  I think St. Johns Arizona has the absolutely, unequivically, best, brightest, most delightful kids in the world.  They are kind, smart, unique, insightful, wise, sometimes exasperating, and all the time impressive. I am grateful and humbled to have been able to associate with and get to know them, and also feel a great appreciation to their creator.

I feel a sense of awe towards our creator. He is perfection, compassion, and all.  He gives us what we need when we have the sense to ask, and even when we don't. In Mark 1:40-42 we read about the leper.  Leprosy was a horrible disease that disfugured people.  Lepers were ostricized and sent away.  For Christ to heal the leper was kind and miraculous, but he also touched him.  Something that didn't happen to this man.  Christ could have healed him just with words, but he loved him and also healed his soul with a touch. 

I am so grateful to Christ who was first our creator, then our teacher, and then our Savior.  What a beautiful world he has given us, with beautiful things, experiences, and people.  How fortunate I feel that in my mediocrity I get to experience his perfect love the way I need to feel it.  What a Wonderful World!