Gospel Story Finder

Almost a year into her mission, Sister Berry was transferred to Macau island, which had eight missionaries serving there at a time.
The protests had calmed down, and the work continued and progressed as new missionaries were finally arriving. However, after one transfer, the mission received direction from President Phillips, who felt it was best to remain inside until further notice and leave only for food shopping and exercise, and work within their apartments, due to a virus outbreak.
After staying in for around ten days, Macau’s missionaries received a phone call from President Phillips to pack up like it was transfer day and head back to Hong Kong.
President and Sister Phillips warmly greeted all eight of the missionaries and then helped move them into a temporary apartment for the night.
The following morning, all the missionaries within the China Hong Kong Mission received a text message from President and Sister Phillips with the code word ‘Jell-O-nation’ and expressing their love. He said that all the missionaries would sadly need to evacuate Hong Kong that night.
The missionaries were confused at first, as they thought the evacuation plan put in place seven months earlier was to help assist in case of social unrest. It became clear that the plan was preparing the mission for a more significant storm ahead, the COVID-19 outbreak.
The entire mission headed to the mission office that night and said goodbyes to their cherished mission president and companions. Each group headed off to the airport in coaches, ready to fly to their home countries to continue their missionary service.
Due to the ‘Jell-O-nation’ plan, over 100 missionaries evacuated Hong Kong and returned home safely within 24 hours.

Sisters from the Primavera First Branch of La Vega Dominican Republic District were reminded of the selflessness of women from early Latter-day Saint history and of their enduring legacy through the branch’s celebration on March 17.
Each sister who participated dressed in the style of pioneers and shared a message about Relief Society. María Elena Pichardo de Gómez, first counselor in the Relief Society presidency, reminded the sisters of their responsibility to prepare for difficult times, as taught by modern prophets. She added, “The great strength of the Primavera First Branch Relief Society is in how different we are but how we are united by the same gospel.”

I. You suggest that you all play on the swing. Tasha has the first turn. As Julie climbs on for her turn, a car full of teenagers drives by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, because it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.

H. You put the cigarette to your mouth. Even though you don’t breathe it in deeply, it tastes terrible. You are still holding it when Tasha’s mom drives by. She stops the car, tells Tasha to get in, and says to you, “Don’t expect Tasha to come over anymore.”
You feel awful. When your eyes meet Julie’s, you see that she is very disappointed in you. You promise that you’ll never do anything like that again. Julie gives you a weak smile and says, “I believe you, but I don’t think Tasha’s mom ever will.”
This is your last chance to get this story on the “right-choice” track. Hurry to D!

“Nicole, the Johnsons are coming again tonight,” Mom said. “Have you prayed like they asked you to?”
“No, not yet,” I said.
Elder and Sister Johnson are a missionary couple in our ward. They’ve been coming to family home evening to teach me the missionary discussions.
My family hasn’t always gone to church, so there were some things I didn’t understand. Now that I’m about to turn eight, Mom says that I need to decide if I’m going to be baptized.
Last week Elder and Sister Johnson taught me about how Joseph Smith prayed to find out the truth. Then they asked me to pray about getting baptized.
“Pay attention to how you feel,” Sister Johnson said. “That’s how the Holy Ghost helps us know what is true.”
I thought maybe I could wait until I’m 14 like Joseph Smith was.
Tonight for our lesson Elder Johnson stacked cups on top of each other to make a tower. He said if you don’t have a good foundation, the whole tower falls down.
“Why do you think the Church has such a strong foundation?” he asked.
I remembered last week’s lesson. “Maybe it’s because Heavenly Father and Jesus told Joseph Smith how to restore it,” I said.
“Right,” Elder Johnson said. “And we have living prophets and apostles to keep it on the right track.”
That made sense. I always had a good feeling when I heard about President Thomas S. Monson.
Then Sister Johnson asked me the question I was dreading.
“Have you prayed about getting baptized?”
“No, not yet,” I said.
“Do you want to be baptized?” Sister Johnson asked.
I wished I could answer her, but I just shrugged my shoulders.
My little sister thinks I’m scared of being dunked in the water because that’s what she would be scared of. But I like the water, so I wasn’t sure what I was worried about.
“Are you afraid of the responsibility?” Sister Johnson asked.
As soon as Sister Johnson said that, I knew she was right. Mom said that after I’m baptized, I’ll be accountable. That means I’ll be responsible for what I choose. I’ll have to be careful to keep God’s commandments. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that responsibility. What if I stop going to church like my dad did?
“When you turn eight, you will be accountable for your choices even if you don’t get baptized,” Sister Johnson said. “But after you get baptized and confirmed, you’ll have a lot more help in making good choices. That’s because you’ll have the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
We talked about some of the commandments I would need to keep. I already knew that smoking and alcohol and drugs are bad for you, so keeping the Word of Wisdom didn’t sound hard.
After the Johnsons left, I didn’t feel afraid of being baptized anymore. I wanted to make right choices and keep Heavenly Father’s commandments. And I was glad the Holy Ghost would help me.
I went to my room and knelt by my bed. While I was praying, I felt sure that it was a good idea to get baptized. I knew that feeling was the answer to my prayer.

The Hmong (pronounced “mong”) people don’t know how to eat with chopsticks, but then neither do I. When I go to Kou Moua’s home for dinner, I like to make white, sticky rice balls with my hands like Kou showed me. She has lots of cousins for us to play with, but no brothers or sisters. Kou’s family, like many other Hmong families, came from Laos to live in America.

The Castle in the Attic*, by Elizabeth Winthrop. When the housekeeper, Mrs. Phillips, tells William she is moving back to England, William is very sad. Mrs. Phillips gives William a special good-bye gift—an old toy castle. When a tiny knight comes alive, William discovers that the castle is magic!

Four years after Grandfather joined the Church, my father, then a young lad eight years old, accompanied his family and the members of two other families to a baptismal service. Grandfather was to baptize his young daughter and the daughters of a neighboring family on that cold December 3, 1899. As they traveled toward the stream at Reynold’s Mill, they were approached by three men on horseback. When the men asked where they were going, Grandfather explained their intentions. The leader threatened to bring a mob upon them if they carried out the baptismal service. Grandfather informed him that he and the 20 people with him would complete their errand regardless of what the man and his associates did. Grandfather and his party continued their journey to Reynold’s Mill.
Arriving at the mill they located a secluded spot for the baptism. The hill above the river was covered with trees, scrub oak, and ivy. My father, young John, was perched on a fallen tree that stretched out across a sandbar into the slow-moving stream. Here he could observe every detail of this sacred ordinance. Grandfather waded out into the stream to find the right depth and then returned to the riverbank for prayer. In the quiet of the prayer John heard the sound of a cracking limb. Opening his eyes and glancing quickly up the hill through the trees he saw the men who had stopped them earlier. They had arrived with a mob to carry out their threat. One of them was by a pile of rocks and was ready to pelt the baptismal participants. Suddenly all eyes were opened as a big redbone hound owned by the leader of the mob bounded down to within a few feet of my father. Young John looked fearfully at the hound as it growled menacingly. These men and their associates were determined to stop the baptisms from being performed. My Grandfather Pinegar courageously proceeded with the services.
Convinced now that these Mormon families were unafraid of his threat, the mob leader commanded his dog to attack Grandfather Pinegar. At this moment an amazing thing happened. The dog let out a low growl and his hair bristled like that on an angry hog’s back. Suddenly it bared its teeth and turned on its master, leaping at his throat and knocking him to the ground. The rest of the mob fled in fear when they saw the dog turn on its owner. As soon as the astonished leader could free himself from his dog, he left in hurried pursuit of his associates, with the dog yelping close at his heels.
A miracle had occurred! The Pinegar family and their neighbors thanked the Lord for their deliverance, and the baptismal service continued without further interruption.
That evening the families returned to Grandfather’s home. After darkness had fallen upon the mountain cabin, the troublemakers returned and again threatened to mob my grandfather and his Mormon friends. As they taunted him from the gate, Grandfather commanded them in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ to leave. The mob departed and did not return.

“Don’t ask me how the science fair went!” Michelle declared, walking into the house after school.
“What happened?” Morgan asked.
“Didn’t you just hear me say don’t ask?” Michelle snapped. She walked right past her little sister and up the stairs. Bang! Her bedroom door slammed shut.
Morgan asked Mom why Michelle was mad. Mom explained that Michelle was hoping her project on hermit crabs would win at the science fair, and that it must not have happened.
“So why won’t she talk to me?” Morgan asked.
“Maybe she will later, honey. For now, we should leave her alone,” Mom said.
“But I want to play with her, like I always do when she comes home from school.”
“I don’t think she wants to play games right now. Maybe you could color or play dolls while I start making dinner,” Mom said.
Morgan went to her bedroom and took out some paper and crayons. She started to draw a picture with flowers. She colored it for a few minutes and then stopped. She quickly jumped up and ran to Mom.
“How long till dinner?” Morgan asked.
“About 45 minutes.”
“Is that enough time to make a happy book for Michelle? I want it to be done by dinner,” Morgan said.
Seeing Mom nod her head yes, Morgan ran back to her room and closed the door.
“Michelle! Morgan! Dinnertime!” Mom called a little while later.
Morgan hurried out of her room and ran to Michelle’s spot at the dinner table. She placed some papers facedown on Michelle’s plate. Then she sat in her own chair.
When Michelle came to the table, she pointed to the papers and grumpily asked, “What’s this?”
“It’s a happy book,” Morgan said softly.
“Oh.” Michelle picked up the papers and turned them over. She studied the first one.
“That’s a picture of a trophy. ‘Cause I liked your hermit crabs the best,” Morgan said. “The next one is a picture of a sad face.”
“Why?” Michelle asked.
“Because I got sad that you were mad and didn’t want to talk to me or play games with me.”
Michelle flipped to the next picture. “I know this one is a heart, right?”
“Yes,” Morgan said. “A heart means I love you.”
Michelle looked at the last picture, then at her sister.
“It’s my favorite. It’s me and you playing a game together.” Morgan looked at her older sister. “Did my book make you happy?”
“Yes, very happy,” said Michelle. “I’m sorry for being angry when I came home from school. I wasn’t mad at you. My project didn’t win anything, and I thought it would, so I was upset.”
“That’s OK. I still love you,” Morgan said.
“I love you too, Morgan,” Michelle said with a smile. “After dinner do you want to play a game?”
“All right!” Morgan cheered.

In the following months, Robert struggled to find and keep work due to uncertain economic conditions. He considered emigrating with his family. In January 1855, his mind was set: “I have been six weeks out of work, and we expect to emigrate this season for we are heartily sick of this land.” A month later, Robert was still out of work. The Hazen family, now resolved to emigrate and sold their furniture. They looked forward to “Gather with God’s people this year”. However, they still didn’t have enough money. Robert had been without work for over three months; what could they do to pay for passage to the United States of America?
The difference was made up by Robert’s elderly mother-in-law, also a member of the Church, who sold her house and joined them on the journey to Zion. On 25 March 1855, a small group of the Newcastle Saints set off for Liverpool on the first step of their journey. Ultimately, Robert and his family arrived safely in the United States of America and eventually made their way to join the Saints in Utah.

I suppose most kids dream about being rich. When I was little, I’d mooch along looking for money on the sidewalk. As I grew, so did my dreams. I’d think, “What if I see an unmarked envelope dropped into the weeds, and it’s stuffed with thousand dollar bills?” Since there would be no way to find the owner, I could keep the whole wad.
I quit looking for sudden wealth, because the most I ever found was a dime, which a bigger kid took away from me, and I began to think about relatives.
What if a great aunt or uncle died and, come to find out, they were not only secretly rich but—even more secretly—I’d been their favorite nephew, and they left me with a bundle.
But since my relatives ignored me, mostly, except to ask, “What are you studying in school?” I decided to treasure hunt.
I’d daydream about going out with a crew, and we’d find a Spanish galleon loaded with gold which had sunk off the coast of Quintana Roo, or I’d fancy myself fighting my way gamely up the Amazon River, where I’d stumble across an emerald mine.
By the time I was 16, I’d about given up my dreams of wealth, and then Mr. Boyd moved in next door.
Dad said the freeway took the elderly widower’s home, so he bought the house which had stood empty for a couple of months. It was a pleasant place, quiet, shaded by old trees and lilac bushes.
Mom said the rumor that got started about Mr. Boyd being rich had variations like a Bach prelude and was more fanciful. She said she was sure Mr. Boyd had as much money as the rest of us—just barely not enough—but I knew better.
To be sure, the car he drove wheezed like an elephant with the croup, and although he looked neat, with his bushy white hair and clear blue eyes, he sure didn’t dress like a millionaire, at least not like I’d dress if I had a bunch of money cornered.
Still, the vibes I got from Mr. Boyd convinced me he was an eccentric who had funds squirreled away in banks all over town. And when I found out he didn’t have any living relatives except for a lady cousin who lived in Arizona somewhere, I decided to become Mr. Boyd’s next of kin through adoption.
The way I had it figured, I would be underfoot in such a persistently helpful and noticeably warm-hearted way that I couldn’t help but be lovable.
I about wore out my eyes watching Mr. Boyd, waiting for chances to be helpful, although what I got in return were corner-eyed looks which told me he hadn’t been around teenagers for maybe 200 years. I could just feel the elderly man thinking I was a pill freak who roared around on a bike when I wasn’t lurking on street corners waiting to snatch purses from tottery old ladies.
That attitude irritated me. I wanted Mr. Boyd to notice I didn’t even own a motorcycle. I’m not big on them. And since he saw me in priesthood meeting every Sunday I felt he should know I wasn’t into drugs or alcohol. But since he never spoke to me, I couldn’t think of any clever way to tell him I could get a high—a near heaven kind of high—from listening to a Liszt rhapsody or looking at dew on rose leaves.
But for three months Mr. Boyd barely nodded to me except for the time I trimmed our side of the hedge, then went around and trimmed his too. Then he did say, “Thanks,” but nervously.
I sighed, because after he said “Thanks” he hurried into his house, and I noticed that the way I happened to be holding the hedge clippers looked a lot more threatening than lovable.
I decided I’d have to change tactics if I was ever going to make myself adoptable, so I began to wait for Mr. Boyd’s car to limp into his driveway. Then I’d dash over to carry his grocery bags, or what ever, into his kitchen. I’d try to make conversation with remarks like, “Awesome day, right? Sort of majestically inspirational,” and he’d look at me like I’d just stepped out of a UFO.
Dad was pleased with me because I was trying to be nice to Mr. Boyd, although of course he didn’t know about my plan. Dad said, “Your neighborly acts are very commendable, David, and don’t get discouraged if Mr. Boyd doesn’t warm up to you right away.” He’d remind me that adolescents take so much getting used to that by the time an adult gets used to them, they aren’t adolescents anymore. That didn’t cheer me up a whole lot.
Still, I went on playing it cool with one ear cocked for the sound of opportunity knocking, which I heard from half a block away one afternoon—a knock from Mr. Boyd’s car, which was then taken with a severe coughing spell at the corner, where it gave up the ghost.
My trigger-quick mind sent me rushing to his aid. While Mr. Boyd steered, I pushed his deceased automobile into his driveway. When the old man got out he said mournfully, “Guess the old crate’s done for.”
I almost asked, “Why not buy a new one?” but I was afraid that would let him know I knew he was secretly loaded. Instead, using my bright and most lovable tone of voice I said, “Let me work on your car, sir. I’m sure I can revive it.”
Actually, motorized objects and I have no special rapport, but Dad thinks an education should be well rounded. His notion had me taking a class in auto mechanics, so I was able to get Mr. Boyd’s car running again.
I had my head under the hood one afternoon, whistling loudly while I gave the spark plugs a final check, when Mr. Boyd went “Harrumph!” just behind my right ear. The sound startled me so much I gave a leap and banged my head smartly on the hood. I was still seeing afternoon stars when Mr. Boyd demanded, “Is that Rossini you’re whistling?”
Rubbing my dented head I said, “Yes, sir. The Thieving Magpie Overture.”
“Good gracious!” Mr. Boyd stared at me as if I’d sprouted an extra nose. “You mean you know opera?”
A bit miffed I said, “Why not? Dad’s a music professor at the university. Opera and classical music got piped into my bassinet.”
Then, for the first time, I saw Mr. Boyd smile. He said, “I thought kids nowadays never listened to anything but that loud noise you call stone.”
“Rock, sir. Anyway, some of that music is very good, Mr. Boyd. There are quite a few groups who really know about music, and I like them, but I prefer Beethoven, Vivaldi, Wagner …”
“Have you ever heard of Enrico Caruso?” Mr. Boyd interrupted, his blue eyes fixed anxiously on my face.
“Sure. Dad says Caruso was about the greatest tenor opera ever had.”
“Come inside.”
Mr. Boyd trotted toward his house. I followed, wondering what had gotten into him.
The living room of the house was cool, quiet, high ceilinged. Heavy furniture rested on a carpet with roses woven into a soft pattern. Mr. Boyd walked briskly to a corner and put his hand on a tall, boxy object.
“This,” he told me, “is a Victrola which still works.” After he explained that a Victrola is a sort of old-time stereo, he told me he had records for it that were priceless, and the most valuable of the old recordings were those done by Caruso.
Carefully he removed a brittle, black record from a paper envelope, cranked the machine with a handle, and then for the first time I heard the voice of Enrico Caruso. Was he something! Mr. Boyd said that since he could tell I appreciated good music I was welcome anytime he was home to come over and listen to his records.
I grinned. At last! Mr. Boyd was going to get to know me.
One evening I was sitting in front of his Victrola, enjoying the fringe benefits of Caruso, when Mr. Boyd came out of his bedroom carrying a photograph album. He looked edgy, old, and there was a loneliness in his eyes deeper than usual when he asked, like he expected me to back off, if I’d like to see his family pictures.
The truth is I wanted to back off. I had to remind myself sternly about the hard work I’d already put in to make myself lovingly adoptable before I could put the proper enthusiasm in my voice when I cried, “I’d enjoy that!” I jumped right up to sit beside the old man on what he called the “davenport.”
I don’t know where the evening went. Who would have dreamed that a peaceful-appearing man like Mr. Boyd could have lived a life of such high adventure?
He’d been raised in southeastern Utah. By the time he was my age he was already running the Colorado River in a canoe, and that was before they dammed those violent waters. He’d been sheriff of a county bigger than some states. He’d been member of a rescue posse that patrolled the wild Canyonlands, and he’d served as a stake missionary on the Navajo reservation.
He told me about so many exciting adventures that I had goosebumps all over. That evening he showed me only a few of his family pictures, but he did tell me that his wife had died ten years earlier, and that their only child, a son, had been pilot of a B-17 bomber during World War II, and that he had been shot down over Italy.
“Missing in action,” Mr. Boyd said. An old sorrow dimmed his eyes. “Thirty-three years have gone by, and never a word about what happened to our Dan.”
I don’t know if he knew there were tears on his cheeks, but I knew the lump in my own throat was still there when I went to bed that night.
From then on I hardly bothered to knock before I walked into Mr. Boyd’s house. A special feeling had developed between us. It was like, when we were together, he forgot he was 76, and I forgot I was 16. Each of us was so much aware of what thoughts and emotions were going on inside the other that what was outside didn’t matter.
I can’t remember when it finally began to dawn on me that Mr. Boyd not only didn’t have funds hidden in any banks, nor musty bills in his mattress, but that while his monthly pension check stretched far enough to cover his utilities and groceries, the covering was often skimpy.
The knowledge that my friend was anything but rich penetrated my skull for good the day I asked why he didn’t have a telephone. Smiling, Mr. Boyd said, “For one thing, son, all the people I’m interested in live no further than a brisk walk away. For another, if you let that company install a telephone they begin to expect you to pay for the use of it.”
Then one day, when Mr. Boyd and I were walking home from sacrament meeting, he cleared his throat in a way that warned me he’d been working to get up enough nerve to say whatever he was trying to get out. After another self-conscious “Harrumph!” he blurted, “Son, you got any plans to get married?”
That stopped me cold in my tracks. I squeaked, “Good grief, Mr. Boyd, I haven’t even been on a mission yet!”
He laughed in the hearty way he has that always makes me grin from the inside out. He said, “I planned to come at you slantways with that, not scare you to death, but what I’m trying to find out is if your future plans include a wife?”
I said, “Sure. But please,” I pleaded dramatically, “can I wait to get married until I find a girl?”
As we walked beside lilac bushes in bloom Mr. Boyd put his hand on my shoulder. He said, “Even nice girls can be picky. Maybe the one who waits for you won’t want a lot of old relics, but,” his steps slowed, “I have a few belongings of mostly sentimental value, like my records and Victrola, a copper kettle my great-grandmother brought across the plains in a handcart, similar things I wouldn’t want just anybody to have.”
I stopped to pick a lilac because I didn’t know how I could look at Mr. Boyd when he said what I expected him to say next, which he did.
“I’m making a will, David. I’ll leave my home to Cousin Bertha, but what I own that is really important to me I want you to have.”
I studied that lilac like it was going to help me pass a botany exam, which I’d have flunked because the lavender blossoms kept going blurry on me. I was remembering how I’d schemed to become Mr. Boyd’s adopted son so I would be his heir. Now I could hardly believe I’d ever been greedy and dumb enough to think that money could have as much value as a very special friend.
Pretending a ladybug on my sleeve needed loving care I lifted the orange insect off and placed it on the sidewalk, which gave me time to get hold of myself. But I guess Mr. Boyd thought I was trying to think of how I could tell him I wasn’t interested in his keepsakes, because when he spoke again it was in a slow, explaining sort of way.
He said, “I’ve never worried a great deal about working for material goods, David. I’ve tried to live by what Jesus told us in Matthew, ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven’” (Matt. 6:19–20). Mr. Boyd smiled. “So I haven’t laid up many earthly treasures. I’ve felt the most important work I could do here is to learn how to get back where I came from, and to send ahead what I could.”
I looked with affection at Mr. Boyd’s face, which was lined with age but beautiful with dignified peace. How much he had taught me about what’s important in life and about what doesn’t matter very much, like money.
As his officially unadopted son, Mr. Boyd had already given me many valuable gifts, like the way I was able to understand what he meant when he spoke of treasures, and when his face took on a look of quiet happiness I knew he was thinking about his wife and his son, Danny.
I stopped to pick a few more lilacs, then caught up with Mr. Boyd.
I said, “Sir, I want you to know I’ll be proud to take care of the material things you treasured on earth. And I promise I won’t marry a girl until I know for sure she’ll appreciate them as much as I do.”
Then, with what I hoped was a courtly flourish, I held out the lilacs to Mr. Boyd. There were many tender and loving phrases tumbling around in my head that I wanted to use, but all that came out was a humble, “Thank you.”

One day I watched an interview with Brother Tad R. Callister, who was then the Sunday School General President. As I took notes, I had an impression on how to heal my relationship with my son, John. I was impressed that we should read the entire Book of Mormon together prior to his baptism six months later.
This impression was so clear that I even knew which room we should read in and at what time we should read. I also felt a distinct impression that we should finish our reading on the grounds of the Meridian Idaho Temple.
As we took time to read one-on-one each night, our relationship sweetened. We had more patience for each other, we better understood each other’s perspectives, and we regularly felt the presence of the Holy Ghost.
The night before we finished the book, we read Moroni’s promise that if we ask God with a sincere heart, with real intent and faith in Christ, if the Book of Mormon is true, we will know the truth of it by the power of the Holy Ghost (see Moroni 10:4–5). We felt the confirmation that the Book of Mormon is true, that Joseph Smith was a prophet, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the kingdom of God upon the earth.
The next day we sat on a bench on the temple grounds. We looked up at the statue of angel Moroni and read again his final testimony. Since that day, John has mentioned on multiple occasions the time we read the Book of Mormon together at the temple. Now every time I attend the temple, I see the bench and reflect on the special moment John and I had when we completed our inspired goal.

Julia Mavimbela’s life suddenly changed in 1955 when her husband, John, was killed in an automobile accident. Evidence at the scene suggested that the other person involved, a white man, had veered into John’s lane. Yet that man was not ruled at fault. Rather, white police officers said that blacks are poor drivers, so John was responsible for the crash.1

On her husband’s tombstone, Julia inscribed these words:
In loving memory of
John Phillip Corlie Mavimbela.
By his wife and relatives.
But the lump remains.
May his soul rest in peace.

Describing the fourth line, Julia said, “At the time of writing, the lump that remained was one of hatred and bitterness—for the man who caused the accident, for the policemen who lied, [and] for the court who deemed my husband responsible for the accident that took his life.”2 One of her greatest trials was to overcome this bitterness and anger.

Silhouetted with their boats against the evening sky, they looked like a party of mountain men or trappers. Just like the early explorers of the great Northwest, they had portaged their canoes over rugged terrain, retraced their tracks, and then carried food and equipment to the site of their camp.
They had been pushing hard. Muscles and spirits were tired. They were probably as sore and stiff as any group of travelers ever could be. But now the tents were pitched, supplies were stashed (safe from bears) high in the trees, dinner was steaming in the pot, and the campfire beckoned anyone near to mellow in its warm, yellow glow.
It was time to recover from the strains of the day, to let nature calm and soothe with a serenity unique to the out-of-doors. Snowcapped peaks stood like an honor guard in white dress uniform. The sun, small on the horizon, dipped through strands of gray, leaving an orange tinge in the sky.
“This day has not been a piece of cake,” said Eric Peterson. “But now is when you know you’ve earned it. The view is marvelous, worth every blister.”
Eric was one of the younger members of our group, but after a few days on the Bowron Lakes, he, like the other boys and fathers of Troop 266 from Tacoma, Washington, already felt like a seasoned veteran. Paddling and portaging all day, sleeping out in the woods with your father and your friends and leaders, getting up early and working hard—it makes you feel responsible for yourself.
Our decision to head north into the Canadian wilderness between Kamloops and Prince George, British Columbia, had initiated months of work, preparation, and planning. Fall and winter months had been filled with passing merit badges, repairing the troop’s canoes, fundraising, and the gathering of food and clothing, all under the direction of Scout and priesthood leaders in the Tacoma Sixth Ward. Then came the high excitement as spring gave way to early summer, school let out in June, and we were on our way. It was the second trip to the area for some of the older boys. As much as possible, fathers accompanied their sons and were assigned to the same canoe with them.
And what memories we made! Fighting stiff head winds that could have pushed us across the water easily, if only we’d been traveling in the opposite direction. Sudden storms that pelted us with rain and ice. The sweet “sleep of a labouring man” (see Eccl. 5:12). The one bear that did wander near camp climbed a tree and tried to get into our food. The aches, the pains, the blisters—and going on in spite of them. The wind that did, once, mercifully fill our makeshift sails as we raced across Spectacle Lake in record time.
It all served to bring us closer together, as young men and leaders, as brothers in the priesthood, as fathers and sons. How can you not talk to someone while paddling across the 26-miles of choppy waves on Lanezi Lake? Especially when he has struggled with you, side-by-side, to carry a canoe through rocks and underbrush on the banks of the Caribou River; and shivered with you when “deadheads and sweepers” (submerged logs in the language of Canadian rangers) tipped your canoe into the bone-chilling waters.
None of us will forget the 18 hours we spent drying out around an old potbellied wood stove heated to a red hot glow. Or the ranger who entertained us with tales of his Montana cowboy days. Or the impromptu testimony meeting when Lynn Wilbur read to us from the Book of Mormon.
Sure, we returned home eager for pizza, bathtubs, and nice clean sheets. But we returned home richer and stronger—and ready to head north of the border again just as soon as we are able.

Every spring, the mother hen on the farm by Aaron’s house hatches new baby chicks. Aaron enjoys watching the mother hen take care of her chicks.
There are a lot of animals like snakes, foxes, and hawks near the farm that are dangerous to the baby chicks.
The mother hen watches for danger. When she sees an animal that could hurt her chicks, she clucks to warn her babies.
Some of the baby chicks quickly run under the wings of their mother for safety.
The mother hen keeps her chicks under her wings until the danger has passed.
Other chicks do not go to their mother quickly. Not listening to their mother’s calls for them is dangerous because the chicks cannot protect themselves from the animals.
In Primary, Aaron learned that Jesus said He is like a mother hen and we are like baby chicks. When we follow Jesus’s commandments, He will protect us like the mother hen protects her babies.
Watching the mother hen and chicks makes Aaron happy because it reminds him of how much Jesus loves us.

I confess that I used to think we reached the tree and partook of the fruit at the end of life, when we had finally fought our way through the mists of darkness. Now I understand that by exercising faith and hope, we begin in this life to taste the sweetness of the Lord’s love for us—to become filled with charity. That gives us strength to continue forward confidently and successfully, pressing forward in faith and holding fast with hope.

The second great example from Hyrum’s life that we may wish to follow occurred very early in the Restoration. According to Lucy Mack Smith, when young Joseph first told the rest of the family about his experience in the Sacred Grove, Hyrum and all the others received the message “joyfully.” The family sat “in a circle, … giving the most profound attention to a boy … who had never read the Bible through in his life.” In contrast to the reaction of Laman and Lemuel to their younger brother Nephi’s divine calling and to the jealousy of the older brothers of Joseph who was sold into Egypt, there was no jealousy or animosity in Hyrum Smith. Instead, real faith was born in him of the simple and joyful response he felt to the spiritual truth of his brother’s message. The Lord let him know in his heart what was right, and he followed Joseph—faithfully—for the rest of his life.

The knot was tight around my foot—
I could not get it loose!
It couldn’t be much worse, I thought,
Unless it were a noose.
I struggled vainly, searching for
A way to pull it free.
But like a giant octopus,
That knot was holding me.
“Please, someone, help!” I shouted out
And hoped someone would hear.
“I’ll never get this knot undone!”
But no one else was near.
At last I felt it give a bit—
I laughed until I cried!
It was a lot of trouble.
But I got my shoe untied!

At the end of a row of headstones, we found a whole family: all five of their children had died in the same year. When we got home, we did some research and found out there was a cholera epidemic in that same year in England. We could feel the grief of that mother who buried all her children.

A few years ago several friends from institute and I planned a two-day backpacking trip. We were experienced campers, quite familiar with the areas we would be traveling in and well equipped for most situations. We would soon learn, however, that without the guidance of the Holy Ghost our gear and knowledge would have been next to useless.
A few days before our trip the sky was clear and the temperatures were moderate. Our destination was Mount Chocorua in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. While it is true that the mountains of our region do not boast summits as high as those found in other parts of the world, the elevation gain from trailhead to summit is often quite substantial, and New England is known for its highly unpredictable weather.
The day before our departure it started to rain. Normally this would not concern me; it often rained as we hiked. This time, however, I felt a growing sense of unease. I checked the forecast—light showers, nothing more. Still, I felt very uncomfortable as the evening progressed. The feeling grew as I prepared for bed, read my scriptures, and said my prayers.
Finally I went to my pack and pulled out my guide map of the White Mountain National Forest. As I located Mount Chocorua on the map, my sense of unease doubled. It was so intense I considered calling off the trip, but that didn’t feel right either. I found another mountain we had on our list to climb and immediately felt better. After a prayer I felt good about this new destination. My only concern was possibly disappointing my friend Glenn, who had put much effort into planning this trip.
The next morning it was still raining lightly. After we all arrived at our departure point, I voiced my concerns and told my friends of my prayers and feelings. To my relief, two others had had the same feelings, and Glenn was more than willing to change mountains. We then prayed and asked the Lord to watch over us in our travels and to help us make the right decisions. We all felt comfortable with our new plans and departed.
Although the rain continued, our drive and climb passed without incident. After dinner the rain stopped and the clouds broke, revealing a beautiful sunset. Our spirits lifted, and we went to bed.
At midnight we were awakened by an intense electrical storm that lasted most of the night. While the rain, wind, and lightning were heavy where we were, we felt no impending danger. The lightning was far worse to the east where, from my vantage point, it was striking a particular area nearly every second and continued to do so for at least an hour. Glad that I was not there, I drifted back to sleep. The remainder of the trip was wet but passed safely and was very enjoyable.
A few days later I attended an institute cookout. All those who had gone on the backpacking trip were there. When Glenn arrived he had a curious look on his face. He showed us a section of a guidebook for the White Mountains. It stated that while Mount Chocorua is not as elevated as its neighbors, its bald face and position make it dangerous as one of the mountains in North America most frequently struck by lightning. We also confirmed that the area we saw bombarded by lightning was the Chocorua area.
How grateful we were that we were warned by the Holy Ghost not to go there at that time.

When I was 15 years old, missionaries used to eat with some of our neighbors. My older sister saw them coming and going every day, and she asked them if they were selling something. They said no, and that was the way they were introduced to our family. My father, my mother, and my brothers and sisters received the lessons and were all baptized. But I didn’t join. At that time I was investigating another church, but I was sincerely searching.
The 10th of May in Mexico is Mother’s Day. That day, my mother asked me if I loved her. I said, “Yes, I love you.”
She bore her testimony to me and asked me to be baptized. I decided to get baptized that day. The following Sunday, I was confirmed and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. At that time my life completely changed. I started reading everything I could get about the Church, especially the teachings of Joseph Smith. I had faith, and as I studied, I accepted the teachings of the Church. My faith grew as I grew in the gospel.