Gospel Story Finder

Armed with hoes, shovels, saws, and wheelbarrows, 90 Aaronic Priesthood holders and Young Women of the Salt Lake Monument Park 15th Ward descended on the Brighton Branch chapel in the Wasatch Mountains for an ecology-in-action service project—a general beautification of the natural grounds surrounding the mountain chapel.
For the past five summers the Brighton Branch has presented Celebration, a depiction of the ten-year anniversary in Brighton of the Saints’ arrival in the Salt Lake Valley. A concrete memorial commemorating the event and an amphitheater with natural timber seating makes this annual summer pageant a meaningful reminder of the arrival of the pioneers in the Valley. The service project was intended to help make the outdoor setting more beautiful for the pageant and for the church members who attend services in the chapel during the summer. The young people volunteered to landscape the grounds around the chapel, which nestles at the foot of several ski lifts rising thousands of feet up the Wasatch Mountains.
The youths spread four truckloads of topsoil, planted 90 shrubs and trees, moved large boulders, cut down dead trees and sawed them into logs, and erected volleyball standards.
The priests and Laurels enthusiastically cut down several dead trees for firewood and cleared an area for additional seating in the amphitheater. The cry of “Timber” rang through the forest, and all hands watched from a safe distance as the massive dead trees fell to the ground. They were then sawed into log sections and split. Teachers dug holes for volleyball standards and poured concrete. The Mia Maids assisted them in digging holes and planting 90 shrubs and trees.
The Beehives and deacons spread and leveled four loads of topsoil. They also moved firewood and stacked it for use in the fireplaces.
Following an outdoor chili supper prepared by the quorum and class presidencies on the new concrete pageant stage, the youths enjoyed several square dances. As darkness fell, the group was invited inside the Brighton chapel where the theme presentation, prepared by the young people themselves, was presented. A testimony meeting was held during which many expressed their appreciation for an opportunity to help others while having such a great time in beautiful surroundings. Several commented that they would bring their own families here in years to come to show them the trees they had planted.

A six- or seven-year-old boy in the car parked ahead of you turns and sticks his tongue out at you. What should you do?
This happened to Elder Wayne S. Peterson of the Seventy while he was waiting in his car. What do you think he did? Elder Peterson remembered how important it is to choose the right. He said, “I waved at the little boy. He stuck his tongue out at me again. I smiled and waved again. This time he waved back. Soon he was joined … by a little brother and sister. [When their car] pulled away, my newfound friends continued to wave for as long as I could see them.”*
Elder Peterson chose to show his faith in Jesus Christ by following His teachings. The Savior taught, “Therefore, all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them” (3 Ne. 14:12). Elder Peterson felt good as the car drove away, because he had chosen the right.

After the bombing of Pearl Harbor by the Japanese on December 7, 1941, the United States entered World War II. Shortly thereafter, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, authorizing the removal of anyone of Japanese ancestry from regions on the United States West Coast to internment camps located farther inland. Both of my parents’ families were relocated because of this order; all but two of them were U.S.-born citizens.
My mother, June Kazuko Takiuchi, was nine years old at the time she and her parents were ordered to gather their belongings (only what they could carry) and report to an assembly center in San Jose, California. They and other Japanese families were then transported to Tanforan racetrack, where they lived in horse stalls for several weeks until the construction of the relocation camps was completed.
Their final destination was a camp called the Topaz War Relocation Center, located in a desolate region of west-central Utah, just north of the town of Delta.
June, at age 10, with her father, Tadao Ernie Takiuchi, and mother, Tsugiyo Bessie Takiuchi
Surprisingly, my mother had some fond memories of being “in camp.” My mom shared how she learned to ice-skate “in camp.” I found it weird for someone to learn ice-skating “in camp,” thinking she was referring to just your average yearly summer camp. It wasn’t until I learned about WWII and the internment camps that I understood what she meant by “in camp.”
As I was growing up, she openly shared what she remembered from her camp years, and several times she mentioned the love and kindness of her “Mormon schoolteacher,” Mrs. Westover. I later learned that Mrs. Maurine Westover went above and beyond to love and serve her students. She gave them gifts during the holidays and planned parties with the understanding that all her students were of different faiths, including Buddhism.
June Takiuchi’s fourth-grade class at the Topaz internment camp. June’s teacher, Maurine Westover (far right), was a member of the Church. (You can watch a video in which Sister Westover shares her memories of the camp at westoverfamilyhistory.org/the-spirit-of-receiving.)
My mom and her parents endured a difficult three years, but whenever they spoke of camp, they always spoke with praise and gratitude for the members of the Church who worked in the camp, and of the compassion and empathy that they had for the Japanese people.
I believe it was the seeds of charity, service, and empathy that fostered such great feelings of appreciation and respect for the Church in my family. I know that their praise led to my desire to learn more about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; about our Savior, Jesus Christ; and about His wonderful plan for families. It may have taken over 40 years for the seeds that were sown in desolate Topaz to take root, but I’m grateful for the opportunity that I will have to someday reap eternal rewards with my family.

One Sunday morning some 30 years ago, while I was serving in a stake presidency, we received a telephone call from one of our faithful bishops. He explained that his ward had grown so rapidly that he could no longer provide a meaningful calling to all worthy members. His plea to us was that we divide the ward. While waiting for such approval, we decided as a stake presidency that we would visit the ward and call all these wonderful, worthy brothers and sisters to be stake missionaries.
About the third person I visited was a young female student attending the local university. After chatting for a few moments, I issued the call to serve as a missionary. There was silence for a few moments. Then she said, “President, don’t you know that I am not active in the Church?”
After a few moments of silence on my part, I said, “No, I did not know you were not active.”
She answered, “I have not been active in the Church for years.” Then she said, “Don’t you know that when you have been inactive, it’s not all that easy to come back?”
I responded, “No. Your ward starts at 9:00 a.m. You come into the chapel, and you are with us.”
She answered, “No, it is not that easy. You worry about a lot of things. You worry if someone will greet you or if you will sit alone and unnoticed during the meetings. And you worry about whether you will be accepted and who your new friends will be.”
With tears rolling down her cheeks, she continued, “I know that my mother and father have been praying for me for years to bring me back into the Church.” Then after a moment of silence, she said, “For the last three months I have been praying to find the courage, the strength, and the way to come back into activity.” Then she asked, “President, do you suppose this calling could be an answer to those prayers?”
My eyes started to water as I responded, “I believe the Lord has answered your prayers.”
She not only accepted the call; she became a fine missionary. And I’m certain she brought much joy not only to herself but also to her parents and probably other family members.

As Heber grew older, his persistence and fortitude were put to good use in business ventures. Offered an appointment to the United States Naval Academy, he opted to stay near his mother and to become a businessman instead.7 After finishing his schooling at age 16, Heber got a job as a bank clerk and learned bookkeeping. His honesty, ability to work hard, and great desire to learn soon opened up many opportunities. By the time he was 20 years old, he had been made the assistant cashier of Zion’s Savings Bank and Trust Company, and he had purchased an insurance agency.8

In my own life I have seen the power that sinks in when a story continues to be written over time. Let me now share a story from my own life that surprisingly continues to be rewritten. At the age of twenty-seven, I gave birth to our second baby girl. At six weeks old she entered the hospital for three days straight as she battled a respiratory virus. Simultaneous to this event, I had been called to be Relief Society president. I found myself overwhelmed, exhausted, and worried sick about how I was going to fulfill my responsibilities in my Church calling and motherhood at the same time.

My doctor had advised against making home visits with our sick infant, and I had a three-year-old daughter who also needed my care and attention. That evening I had a fitful night’s rest and felt engulfed by the feeling of failure on all fronts.

I got up in the middle of the night and sat in the rocking chair rocking my baby back and forth, back and forth. I poured my heart out to God in prayer during those wee hours of the morning, explaining my predicament and pleading to God for direction on what to do. In that dark room, seven words came to my mind with more intensity than I had ever felt before. These words were “Treat her like she is your last.”

I pondered what those words could mean. By morning I had decided that God was encouraging me to pour my heart into caring for my two sweet daughters and to rely more heavily on my counselors and secretary to fulfill my Relief Society responsibilities. And so I did.

Over time I would pick up the story again, pondering its message that I knew came directly from God. Five years later, my husband and I found ourselves unable to bring more children into our family. My heart ached as I recalled dreams of having a large family like my own mother did.

But as this story came to my mind once again, those seven words took on new meaning. I remember shuddering at the new realization of those words. I understood that the words “Treat her like she is your last” were actually God’s way of preparing me for the reality that she would be my last baby. He didn’t explain it that way to me at the time because He knew it would be far too painful, and I would have grieved and complained at my circumstance instead of truly enjoying my sweet baby. All these years later, I acknowledge and thank God for His sweet and thoughtful care for me—such a gift!

And yet the ache of not having another child haunted me. For years I would silently count the number of children that other families had and use that as a measure of my own righteousness and worthiness in God’s eyes. Over time I worked my hardest to trust God’s plan for me. I finally began to feel some peace as I studied again the parable of the talents, in which one was given five, another two, and yet another just one talent.8 I committed then and there that I would take the number of children God had given to me and make the most of these incredible blessings and talents. Over time my heart healed as I accepted the path that God had placed me on, even though it differed from my original plans.

Fast-forward a few decades to when I unexpectedly picked up this story from my life again. This time I found myself in the office of the academic vice president at BYU. He was interviewing me about the possibility of my becoming dean of the McKay School of Education. Never in my wildest dreams had I planned or sought for a position such as this—let alone becoming a professor. And yet, over time, this unimagined life has become my story.

Academic vice president Justin Collings said, “Tell me a little bit about yourself. Tell me your story of how you got to this place.”

Imagine my shock and surprise when the words that came tumbling first out of my mouth were the words God had put on my heart decades earlier: “Treat her like she is your last.”

Then I explained the importance of these words to the vice president. While the astonishment of sharing that story didn’t make much sense to him, tears fell as I walked back to my office in a drizzling rain. In that moment I realized that those seven words weren’t just about healing my heart but were now about realizing that God had a different plan for me—from the beginning. I realized that my life wasn’t an alternative or backup plan that I was living. No, this was His plan all along: plan A.

I felt a wave of His deep love for me—His daughter—wash over me. And I was reminded again of President Kevin J Worthen’s plea to all BYU students: “Please, let Him love you.”9

Interestingly, my story doesn’t end there. You see, a few weeks after my visit with the academic vice president, I was asked to give this devotional. In preparation for this talk, I was struggling—as I think most do with the stress of selecting a topic for a talk. I thought briefly of sharing this story of mine but opted for a less personal story. That is, until one of my seven brothers sent me the following email:

Sarah, I feel I should share some impressions I’ve had over the last couple of days. . . . I know you would have liked to have had more children, but for whatever reason it was not in the cards. I look at you kind of like Rachel, who also desperately wanted more children but likewise didn’t get what she wanted. But look at the quality of her children.

With your current job/calling, the Lord has carefully prepared and called you with your superb talents to have a profound influence on literally thousands of youth and children. That is no mistake. Oftentimes it is not the path that we would choose that the Lord puts us on. But He’s got you where He wants you. I have no doubt.

I read my brother’s email and wept, knowing that his email was God’s way of reassuring me once again that my interpretation of this particular story from my life was accurate and that I was on the right path—His path for me specifically.

Can you see how He lets others write parts of your story too? Do you see how God continues to teach and instruct, using the same story over and over throughout your life? He might work through new ways of thinking and understanding but use the exact same words and messages. The same has been true for my patriarchal blessing, as I’m sure it has been for your own blessing.

We all knew President Spencer W. Kimball as a man of love. He thought of love as a way to overcome even unknown offenses. Such an incident occurred with one of his neighbors. This neighbor would go out and talk to President Kimball whenever he saw him in the yard, until one day the neighbor’s wife said, “You mustn’t do that. The only time President Kimball is alone is when he is in the yard, and then you go over and impose yourself upon him.” After that, the neighbor stayed in and just watched President Kimball through the window.

A few weeks passed before President Kimball rang the neighbor’s doorbell and handed him a casserole. “What’s this for?” the neighbor asked. “I don’t know,” replied President Kimball. “I’ve come to make amends for whatever I’ve done to offend you. You never come and talk to me anymore, so I decided I must have done something wrong.”

It took nearly a year for Helio da Rocha Camargo, a former minister in another church, to decide to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A short while later, his wife, Nair Belmira da Rocha Camargo, decided to follow her husband’s example and be baptized as well.
At that time, Nair was pregnant with the couple’s son, whom they would name Milton. The Camargos’ unified decision to join the Church would forever bless future generations of their family.

I’m serving in the Venezuela Barcelona Mission, and I find that the articles in the Liahona (Spanish) help my companion and me teach investigators. For example, a young mother listening to the discussion on the restoration of the gospel bore testimony that President Gordon B. Hinckley is a prophet of God. She said this testimony came to her as she read a First Presidency Message by President Hinckley in the Liahona.
Sister Lenna Chirino,Venezuela Barcelona Mission

Caleb grabbed his shovel. It was time to work in the garden!
He helped Mom carry the tools. There was a little rake. And there was a shovel for Mom too. They were ready to start working.
Mom and Caleb walked to the garden. Oh no! It was full of weeds! There were short, spiky weeds. And there were tall, wispy weeds. So many weeds!
But Caleb knew what to do. He got right to work. Caleb dug under the weeds. Then Mom pulled the weeds out of the dirt. They made a great team! Soon they had a giant pile of weeds.
It was time for a break. Caleb took a big drink of water.
“What are we going to do when the weeds are gone?” Caleb asked.
Mom brushed some dirt off her hands. “Once the weeds are gone, we can plant seeds. Like tomatoes and beans and—”
“And corn?” Caleb asked. He loved corn.
“And corn,” Mom said. “We can’t forget that!”
Caleb stood up. “OK. Let’s get back to work.” He picked up his shovel. He needed to make room for corn plants.
Caleb dug and dug. It was hard work. But Caleb was a hard worker. He could do hard things. Together, he and Mom made another pile of weeds. Then another. Then another. So many weeds!
Finally Caleb and Mom had pulled out all the weeds. Caleb flopped down on the grass. He was so tired! Mom flopped down next to him.
“You are such a hard worker,” Mom said. “Those weeds would have taken me all day. You made it fast and fun.”
Caleb smiled big. He was a hard worker. “It’s good when we work together.”

In 1947 the Navajo Indians on the reservation needed help desperately. Many had little to eat and nothing warm to wear. Elder Kimball spoke to the Church Welfare Committee, and truckloads of food and warm clothing were sent. Then he called a newspaper. A reporter and a photographer were sent to check the situation. When the article they wrote was printed, an Indian Aid Caravan was organized. Elder Kimball wrote to a senator in Washington, D.C., as well. He wrote to service clubs and mailed out pamphlets asking for aid.
His friends were helped, and they were grateful. One said, “Thank you. I will not freeze now.”

When I was a boy, my family had a small farm with cows and hayfields. Growing up on a farm was hard work. Also, I had bad allergies, and the dust from the hay sometimes made me sick.
One hot summer day, my brother and I were working in the field. The wind was blowing hard, and there was a lot of dust in the air. My eyes were watering. It was hard to breathe. My nose even started to bleed because I’d rubbed it so much.
When my mother came out to the field and saw me, she told me to come inside the house. She had me lie on the couch with a wet cloth on my face. A few minutes later, she came back with two farmers in overalls.
The farmers were members of our ward. They placed their hands on my head and started to give me a blessing. My dad wasn’t a member of the Church then, so he didn’t hold the priesthood. But I’ll never forget the feeling I had as those men blessed me. It was warm, peaceful, and calming. And I didn’t feel so sick anymore.
Later in life, I realized that feeling was the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost is sometimes called the Comforter. I like that name because it was the Holy Ghost that brought me comfort. It made me feel better on the outside and on the inside.

I never felt prompted to write to the editor of a magazine before, but I had to comment on “Battlefront or Homefront” in the June New Era. I totally agree with what was written. I was discharged from the U.S. Navy this April, and I can’t emphasize enough that girls about to enlist should do some very careful thinking about it. My advice is, don’t do it. No problem is drastic enough to warrant enlisting. I thought mine was. I went in because I owed outstanding educational loans and couldn’t find suitable employment to pay them back.
Sister Smith knows what she is talking about when she mentions the strain of regimentation and the difficulty of putting your life so completely in someone else’s charge. The problem the Relief Society visiting teachers mentioned is common. How very difficult it is to keep gospel standards in mind when one is continually subject to the “rowdy, cigarette-filled barracks and the regimentation of a job for which one is neither suited nor trained.” You can keep the standards if you apply yourself. Nevertheless, you can’t live in a mudhole without getting some mud on you. I’m not saying the whole military is a mudhole. I’m saying these influences are there, and they’re wearing sometimes when you are constantly subjected to them hour after hour, day in and day out, month after month. It rubs off. It can’t help but do so.
You might be subjected to a job you are not suited for. For a time I was ordered to be a deckhand for yard oilers. It was hard, cold, dirty, heavy, dangerous work. These days such jobs are opening up more and more to women, thanks to women’s liberation groups, and you don’t have the options of quitting as on a civilian job if you can’t do it or don’t like it. You do it. I was lucky. I was the only one transferred out of that job after two months. The average time for transfer was 12 months. I know the Lord had a hand in that situation.
The attitude toward women is different in the military. You are one of the troops and subjected to a lot of crudeness. Perhaps this is just a manifestation of the attitude toward women in our society today, but I find it especially so in the military. Don’t think that because you maintain a higher standard you will be exempted from this crudeness and treated differently. You usually will not be.
I was glad to see “Battlefront or Homefront” in the New Era.
Marie Ovington ThomasCharleston, South Carolina

Most of my customers are great, but a couple of them give me nothing but headaches. The biggest skullbuster is—or rather was—Mr. Cory. He’s the kind of guy who would complain if you gave him a solid gold watch that wasn’t set to the right time.
Last Saturday, after putting it off as long as I could, I went to his house to collect. His tall wooden fence had signs all over it, saying “Keep Out” and “Beware of Dog.” I was a believer. The first time I went through that gate, Mr. Cory’s big doberman, Slash, had tried to use my leg for a chew bone. Anyway, on Saturday, I peeked through a knothole to make sure Slash wasn’t on duty.
Mr. Cory answered the door the third time I knocked. He kindly left the screen door latched so that Slash, who was pushing his nose against the mesh and snarling at me, couldn’t get to me.
Mr. Cory was a sour-faced, dried-up little man, stooped with age—but his faded blue eyes were sharp and suspicious beneath bushy eyebrows. “Is it that time again, Rosa? It seems like I just paid you.” He always said that.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “It’s been a month.”
“Well, if you’re sure … ,” he grumbled, tottering off to write a check, leaving Slash and me to glare at each other.
Mr. Cory opened the screen door a crack, slipped the check through, and took his receipt before he started complaining. “I wish you’d try to hit the porch once in a while. I don’t know why you kids don’t do your job like you’re supposed to, but I do know that I’m getting tired of chasing out in the damp grass in my slippers!”
“If I could get into the yard I’d put it right on your doorstep,” I told him. “It’s hard to throw over a six-foot fence and hit the porch.”
“And don’t throw it on the roof,” he continued as though I hadn’t even tried to explain. “I don’t want my roof covered with papers.”
“I only did that once, four months ago, Mr. Cory, and I gave you another paper.” I had even offered to climb up there and get the dumb paper, but he’d said, “No, leave it there. Maybe it’ll remind you not to be so careless.” It was still there, right by the upstairs bedroom window. I knew what window it was because if I even sneezed in the morning, that’s the one he hollered at me from.
“One more thing,” he growled. “I don’t feel well, and I’ll probably want to sleep late in the morning. Try not to disturb me!” He ended the conversation by slamming the door in my face.
The next day started out like a typical Sunday. The papers were fat with sale circulars and weighed in at a ton per copy. I reached the Cory house about seven and peeked through my favorite knothole. Slash was waiting there, all teeth and snarl.
I was getting ready to take a blind shot at the porch, when I noticed smoke pouring out of the back of the house. It didn’t seem likely that Mr. Cory, sick as he was, would be barbecuing in the backyard at that hour.
I backed off far enough to see the upstairs window and shouted at the top of my lungs, “Mr. Cory! Fire, Mr. Cory!” The only thing that happened was that Slash growled louder. I tried screaming once more, with the same result.
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to wake someone in one of the other houses and have them call the fire department, but the smoke was getting thicker and blacker, and I thought I should rouse Mr. Cory before the fumes got to him.
I did the only thing I could think of. I ran a few steps, then flung that Sunday edition like a pro quarterback heaves a football.
It went just where I aimed, smashing through the upstairs window. A couple of seconds later Mr. Cory stuck his head out and started bellowing at me.
Lucky for me, the house was on fire.
The next day, the paper said, “Due to the fast thinking of Chronicle carrier Rosa Martinez, damage was slight and no one was injured.” I bought ten copies of that edition.
Mr. Cory was waiting for me Monday morning. He opened the gate, and I almost panicked when I saw there wasn’t anything between me and Slash. Then I saw that Mr. Cory had him on a tight leash.
The old man smiled at me for the first time. “Come in here a minute, Rosa. I want you and Slash to make friends. We’ll do this every day until he recognizes you as a pal. Then you’ll be the only person besides me who can come into this yard whenever you want to.”
It worked too. After a few days I had enough confidence to carry the paper right to the doorstep. Slash would just dance around, whimpering excitedly and wiggling his entire back end until I petted him.
The best thing, though, happened just a couple of days ago. The paper printed a letter to the editor from Mr. Cory saying that I was the smartest, most reliable, most courteous newspaper carrier he had ever had the pleasure to do business with. And the old guilt paper was gone from the roof.

Some time before I was called as a General Authority, I faced a personal economic challenge that persisted for several years. It did not come about as a consequence of anyone’s wrongdoing or ill will; it was just one of those things that sometimes come into our lives. It ebbed and flowed in seriousness and urgency, but it never went away completely. At times this challenge threatened the welfare of my family and me, and I thought we might be facing financial ruin. I prayed for some miraculous intervention to deliver us. Although I offered that prayer many times with great sincerity and earnest desire, the answer in the end was “No.” Finally I learned to pray as the Savior did: “Nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done” (Luke 22:42). I sought the Lord’s help with each tiny step along the way to a final resolution.

There were times when I had exhausted all my resources, when I had nowhere or no one to turn to at that moment, when there was simply no other human being I could call on to help meet the exigency before me. With no other recourse, more than once I fell down before my Heavenly Father begging in tears for His help. And He did help. Sometimes it was nothing more than a sense of peace, a feeling of assurance that things would work out. I might not see how or what the path would be, but He gave me to know that, directly or indirectly, He would open a way. Circumstances might change, a new and helpful idea might come to mind, some unanticipated income or other resource might appear at just the right time. Somehow there was a resolution.

Though I suffered then, as I look back now, I am grateful that there was not a quick solution to my problem. The fact that I was forced to turn to God for help almost daily over an extended period of years taught me truly how to pray and get answers to prayer and taught me in a very practical way to have faith in God. I came to know my Savior and my Heavenly Father in a way and to a degree that might not have happened otherwise or that might have taken me much longer to achieve. I learned that daily bread is a precious commodity. I learned that manna today can be as real as the physical manna of biblical history. I learned to trust in the Lord with all my heart. I learned to walk with Him day by day.

A few days ago Elder Butler and I were at the grocery store and started talking to a man named Frank Cooper. He said that he had always been curious about the Hill Cumorah Pageant but had never gone to it. So we invited him to go to it with us. As we sat on the lawn at the foot of the Hill Cumorah with hundreds of other people, Book of Mormon stories came to life before our eyes. The music was beautiful, and the costumes were colorful.
Mr. Cooper was deeply touched by the pageant and wanted to know more about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith and the Church. The very next day we went with him, first to the Joseph Smith house and then to the Sacred Grove, where we taught him a discussion about Joseph Smith. It was a powerful experience for all of us. Helping just one person like Mr. Cooper find real meaning in his life is worth all the hard times and discouragement that we might have on a mission.

After they reached Clay County, Missouri, news arrived that a mob of nearly four hundred men were preparing to destroy them. When Joseph heard the news, he knelt beneath the clear blue summer sky and prayed for divine protection.

Not far off, gunfire sounded. The men of Zion’s Camp wanted to fight, but Joseph counseled them to wait and see what God would do.

Suddenly a small black cloud appeared in the west. It moved eastward, growing bigger as it moved, until it filled the heavens with darkness. The first ferryboat of mobbers had crossed the Missouri River south of Zion’s Camp and was returning for another load, when a violent burst of wind hit the boat. Rain poured and the wind soared so hard that the members of Zion’s Camp ran from their tents and found shelter in an old Baptist meetinghouse nearby. Safely inside, Joseph told them that God was in that storm.

The horizon filled with the snaking of lightning bolts—not one after another, but atop and beside each other so that the sky was continually lit, and the thunder roared without stopping. Large hailstones broke branches from trees and destroyed crops. Torrents of rain soaked the mobbers’ ammunition and made it useless. The sights and sounds of the storm frightened the mobbers’ horses away, leaving the mobbers to find their way home, wet, horseless, and frightened.

The next morning, Fishing River, which had been only ankle deep, was more than forty feet (12.2 m) deep. One of the mobbers told Joseph Smith that he knew that God was protecting the Mormons.

Members in Falls Church, Virginia, USA, felt the joy of serving together at two homeless shelters. Scrubbing a wall, Adeana Alvarez told a fellow ward member, “I’ve had a frustrating week, and it feels good to just take out the frustration on this wall! We all need service at some time in our lives, and it’s good to do it for other people.”
Another ward member, Anne Sorensen, remarked, “It’s a great way to be connected with your community. I now feel more invested in what is going on with that organization. Every time I drive by here, I’ll think about the people who attend classes here and hope that the work we did gives them a tangible way to feel like they aren’t alone in what they are doing to improve their lives.”

“I shared this story with some of our new elders just last week when I was driving them to their first assignment. I turned to Elder Bobby Yazzie in the seat next to mine and asked, ‘Did you ever happen to meet Elder Descheenie?’ A smile came on his face, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘President,’ he said, ‘He is the one that found me, taught me, and baptized me. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here today. I’m the only one in my entire family who is a member of the Church.’
“It’s hard to explain the thrill I felt when he told me this. Only a short two years before, Bobby had never heard of the Church, and here he was riding beside me: intelligent, handsome, clear-eyed, and anxious to go forth and share his testimony among his people. Bobby had only been out for a short time when he had his first baptisms, his own grandfather and grandmother, and since then many more.”

“I saw the funniest show yesterday. You should check it out. Then maybe we could watch it together sometime!” Brooke said.
Camille loved chatting with her best friend while they walked home from school together. She loved how much they had in common.
“Sounds great!” Camille waved goodbye and walked in her front door.
After Camille finished her homework, she turned on the TV and found the right show. It would be so fun to talk about it with Brooke tomorrow!
The show was funny. The characters did silly things and told jokes. Camille laughed a lot. But not everything they said was funny. They said some words that made Camille feel like there were frogs hopping in her stomach. They weren’t good words.
What should I do? she wondered. Camille knew these words were not nice. But she wanted to know how the show ended. What would she say if Brooke asked her about it tomorrow?
With a sigh, Camille turned off the TV.
After Mom got home, Camille helped her set the table for dinner. “How was school?” Mom asked.
Camille put out the forks and spoons. “It was really good! Except … Brooke told me about a show to watch. I started watching it, but it had bad words in it. I didn’t feel good about it, so I turned it off.”
“It sounds like you made a very good choice.”
“But Brooke wants to watch it together. We’re best friends! We like the same music, the same ice cream, the same books …”
Mom set a dish of pasta on the table. “True, but that doesn’t mean you have to do all of the same things. Especially if it’s something you don’t feel good about. It’s OK to make different choices than a friend does.”
“What do you mean?” Camille asked.
“Well, we choose to avoid bad words so that we can feel the Holy Ghost,” Mom explained. “But not everyone has the same standards as we do. That doesn’t make them bad people.”
Camille was still worried about what would happen when Brooke asked her about the show. They talked about everything! What if Brooke thought she was being a baby? Or worse, what if she didn’t want to be friends anymore?
Camille said a prayer before going to sleep. Heavenly Father, please help me talk to Brooke tomorrow. Please help me be brave. Camille climbed into bed and hoped that things would be OK at school.
“Camille!” Brooke yelled across the playground. She ran through the grass to meet Camille. “What’d you think of the show? Wasn’t it funny?”
Camille took a deep breath. “I actually didn’t watch much of it.”
Brooke looked confused. “Why not?”
Camille thought for a second. Should she just say she’d been busy? What was Brooke going to say? “Well … I didn’t watch it because they said words I didn’t like. I didn’t feel good watching it.”
“Oh,” Brooke said quietly. Then she said, “That’s OK. We don’t have to watch it together. We can find a show we both like or do something else together.”
“OK.” Camille smiled. Then the two friends walked to class together, talking and laughing the whole time.
You can choose the right even if others don’t. Heavenly Father will help you be strong.