Gospel Story Finder

In the course of our daily activities, we have many opportunities to teach others about the gospel. For six years, I have worked as an electrician on seagoing oil drilling rigs around the world. It is shift work—one month on and one month off. Relationships are temporary; if you want to make friends, you must concentrate your efforts because you may never see your fellow crew members again.
While working for an oil company in the North Sea off the coast of Great Yarmouth, England, I made a wonderful friend—a crane operator from Norwich, England, named James MacDonald.
One day as I entered the dining area for lunch, I saw James sitting at the table with his head bowed, asking a blessing on his meal. I was surprised to see someone so unafraid of being religious in the rough environment of the drilling business. Here was a man who truly desired the friendship of our Father in Heaven and who thanked him for his goodness. From that first day, I hoped I would have the opportunity to teach this man the gospel.
As I got to know James, we spent many hours discussing points of religious doctrine and comparing them with what the Savior taught. James had an excellent knowledge of the Bible. As our four-week tour of duty drew to a close, we both felt a sense of urgency. I wanted James to gain a conviction of the truth of the things I had taught him before we parted.
But there was one complication in our success: he was not sure that the Book of Mormon was really necessary. He had read it, and he said that it was a beautiful book. But he said, “Isn’t the Bible enough? We don’t need any more Bible. We have the teachings of Jesus to his people in our Bible.”
I then explained the principle of fasting and prayer and asked James if he would fast the next day. I told him that he should pray and ponder the questions he had in his heart until he felt he had received an answer.
As James retired to his room at the end of the day, he knelt in prayer to ask his Father in Heaven whether or not the Book of Mormon was necessary. He told our Heavenly Father that when he arose from prayer, he would open the Book of Mormon to find his answer. He knew that if it were true and necessary as holy scripture, the answer would come from it.
When he arose from praying, he opened the Book of Mormon and placed his finger upon a passage. It read:
“Thou fool, that shall say: A Bible, we have got a Bible, and we need no more Bible. Have ye obtained a Bible save it were by the Jews?
“Know ye not that there are more nations than one? Know ye not that I, the Lord your God, have created all men, and that I remember those who are upon the isles of the sea; and that I rule in the heavens above and in the earth beneath; and that I bring forth my word unto the children of men, yea, even upon all the nations of the earth?
“Wherefore murmur ye, because that ye shall receive more of my word? Know ye not that the testimony of two nations is a witness unto you that I am God, that I remember one nation like unto another? Wherefore, I speak the same words unto one nation like unto another. And when two nations shall run together the testimony of the two nations shall run together also.” (2 Ne. 29:6–8.)
As he read these words, he felt the thrilling warmth of the Holy Ghost. He fell again to his knees to give humble thanks to his Father in Heaven. He then made his way to my room and knocked on the door.
His countenance was bright, and his handshake was confident and strong. He told me: “I have received an answer to my prayers. I know the Book of Mormon is a true and necessary book and that you have taught me the truth.” He then said, “I want you to teach me, and I will listen and believe it all.” Far into the night we discussed gospel principles and prayed together, that we might both be enlightened, strengthened, and filled with knowledge.
The next day we left the oil rig to begin our respective journeys home. I told James that he could look up the Church in the telephone directory in order to set up a meeting with the missionaries. I didn’t know what would happen, but I trusted in the Lord that James would be able to find the elders without difficulty.
A week or so later I received a letter from a missionary in Norwich, England—a missionary who was originally from my own stake in El Paso, Texas. It read:
I am writing to thank you for giving us the opportunity of teaching and baptizing one of your friends. He is truly one of the Lord’s “valiant.” I wish you could have been there when James and I walked down into the font and I had the great honor of baptizing him into the Church of Jesus Christ. Brother MacDonald has been an answer to many people’s prayers. My companion and I had been fasting and praying forever a month to be led to someone to teach. When James called us and asked us to come and teach him, we knew that our prayers had been answered. May the Lord bless you.
Elder Barton
Within a few days, another letter came. This one, from James, read:
How grateful I am to our Heavenly Father for answering my prayers for guidance, wisdom, and knowledge! How thankful I am for the many blessings he has bestowed on me and my family! How great is the joy I have through the knowledge of the truth, for I know that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the Lord’s true church restored to the earth in these last days. I know that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, the Creator of all things, in whose image I am made. I know that he died as an atoning sacrifice for the sins of the world and that he could and did overcome death that all men could return to our Heavenly Father—to eternal life. I know that our Heavenly Father and our Lord Jesus Christ are two personages with flesh and bones and that they visited Joseph Smith and reestablished the Kingdom of God upon the earth. I have been and continue to be blessed with all manner of knowledge and wisdom in answer to my prayers. How great is my desire to serve the Lord faithfully to the glory of the Father and the Son.
With love in Christ,James P. MacDonald
These letters brought me great joy. I had obeyed the Lord’s commandments to every member: “Be a missionary,” and “Feed my sheep.” And through that obedience, I had not only gained a great friend, but I had also shared the joy of the gospel with him. As the Lord has said, “And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!” (D&C 18:15.) I have tasted of that joy. It is great! And I hope to continue to bring souls unto him.

After we were baptized in 1992, my family did everything together, including attending Sunday meetings, Church conferences, and other activities. But time passed, things changed, and I eventually found myself alone at church—the rest of my family having become less active. Thereafter, whenever I heard someone in church teach about eternal families, my heart ached and a profound sadness overcame me.
In 1995 I decided to receive my patriarchal blessing to learn more of what the Lord expected of me and to receive strength. My blessing contained the following promise: through fasting, prayer, and family home evening, I would have my family “in the gospel.” I constantly prayed and fasted for my family, but I didn’t follow the counsel to hold family home evening.
“If this can happen to families in my mission,” I wondered, “why not to my own family?”
After my mission I was determined to hold family home evening with my family. At first, all participated grudgingly, and I had trouble finishing my lessons as planned. But I knew the Lord wouldn’t counsel me to do something that wouldn’t be a blessing, so I didn’t give up. Eventually, the promise in my patriarchal blessing was fulfilled.
If I didn’t hold family home evening, I heard about it. Family members all participated with opinions, ideas, and counsel, and they listened attentively to the message. Even though we were older then, when game time came, we had a party!
As a result, members of my family once again began obeying commandments they had ignored, and they became more active in the Church.
I can truly say that my home was transformed into a little bit of heaven, thanks to an inspired program that should be a tradition in every home: family home evening.

The epitome of celebrating the beautiful and overlooking the misfortune is the story of Thomas Moore.
Soon after he was married, Thomas Moore, the famous nineteenth-century Irish poet, was called away on a business trip. Upon his return he was met at the door, not by his beautiful bride, but by the family doctor.
“Your wife is upstairs,” said the doctor. “But she asked that you not come up.” Then Moore learned the terrible truth: his wife had contracted smallpox. The disease had left her once flawless skin pocked and scarred. She had taken one look at her reflection in the mirror and commanded that the shutters be drawn and that her husband never see her again. Moore would not listen. He ran upstairs and threw open the door of his wife’s room. It was black as night inside. Not a sound came from the darkness. Groping along the wall, Moore felt for the gas jets.
A startled cry came from a black corner of the room. “No!” she said. “Don’t light the lamps!”
Moore hesitated, swayed by the pleading in the voice.
“Go!” she begged. “Please go! This is the greatest gift I can give you now.”
Moore did go. He went down to his study, where he sat up most of the night, prayerfully writing. Not a poem this time, but a song. He had never written a song before, but now he found it more natural to his mood than simple poetry. He not only wrote the words, but he wrote the music, too. The next morning, as soon as the sun was up he returned to his wife’s room.
He felt his way to a chair and sat down. “Are you awake?” he asked.
“I am,” came a voice from the far side of the room. “But you must not ask to see me. You must not press me, Thomas.”
“I will sing to you, then,” he answered. And so for the first time, Thomas Moore sang to his wife the song that still lives today:
“Believe me, if all those endearing young charms which I gaze on so fondly today, were to change by tomorrow and flee in my arms like fairy gifts fading away, thou would’st still be adored, as this moment thou art—let thy loveliness fade as it will.”
Moore heard a movement from the dark corner where his wife lay in her loneliness. He continued:
“Let thy loveliness fade as it will, and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still—”
The song ended. As his voice trailed off on the last note, Moore heard his bride rise. She crossed the room to the window, reached up, and drew open the shutters.

Nine years ago, I took two of my sons back to Tonga for a visit. There, we decided to fly to the island of Vavau to visit my brother. On the way back to the main island, we decided to take the boat for “site seeing.” It took us 16 long hours to get back, for we had to drop off and pick up people along the way especially from islands in Haapai. As we got to Nomuka Island, two guys couldn’t wait for the small boat to pick them up, so they jumped off our boat and swam ashore. An old and wise man turned to me and said, “This is what I call ‘TUKU E VAKA KAE FAI E KAKAU,’” a Tongan proverb that says, according to Brother Hafoka, “Forget the boat. Swim.” I wondered, “Why would someone leave the safety of a boat and swim? The boat was perfectly fine. There was no fire onboard or emergency, and though they could swim faster than the little boat, the little boat was still safer, so why would we leave the safety of the boat to swim?” Why would we leave the safety of the Church and try to find our own way and struggle, and suffer, and may not make it when the Savior said, “I am the way.” Brothers and sisters, unless the boat is on fire or has an emergency, we are still safer onboard, so stay onboard and don’t leave the Church.

When traveling on assignment in Africa I met many of our brothers and sisters who have very little in the way of this world's goods. Some families live in humble one or two room dwellings, eating mainly the food they grow and living a very simple life. But never have I heard more sincere and grateful prayers or met with happier people.

I have a clear memory of a training meeting in Kenya. A member of the Jinja Branch opened the meeting with prayer. He began each sentence by addressing Heavenly Father with the most sincere and simple expressions.

"Father, we thank thee we could all come to this meeting.Father, we thank thee we are strong enough to walk here.Father, we thank thee it did not rain so the roads are dry.Father, we thank thee for sending leaders to teach us.Father, we thank thee we have fresh water to drink for our bodies and our souls.Father, we thank thee we have received the truth from thy messengers."

This good brother went on for several minutes with the most sincere and happy expressions of thankfulness. He was not multiplying words but rather his heart was overflowing with gratitude and he joyfully expressed it. And it was clear to everyone present that he knew Heavenly Father was listening.

I can testify of the joy and spiritual power that comes from being a missionary, because some of the most memorable experiences in my life are a result of this glorious work. I remember visiting with a young lady in a shopping mall in Arizona one day who was weeping because of the death of her husband. I suggested to her that there is a way that she could be with her husband for time and for all eternity. She was concerned and asked about it; I enlisted the help of our missionaries to teach her.

Several weeks later, while visiting in that same community, I went to her home with the stake president, was invited in, and walked to a piano where sat a beautiful picture of her and her husband Bob and their three lovely sons. This time she was weeping for joy as she pointed to the picture and indicated that on the morrow she would be baptized into the Church. Then, holding onto my hand tightly, she said, “Just think, Brother Goaslind—in one year from tomorrow we can be an eternal family.” There is nothing that brings greater joy than doing missionary work in the kingdom.

I want to introduce you to my friend, Aaron Franco, one of the Young Single Adults in our ward in Salt Lake City. Aaron has been on a different path than most of us church members. Here is his story in his own words…

“I was raised devoutly Jewish in New York City. I have always had a testimony of God because the Jewish faith believes in the Old Testament. However, I always knew something was missing.

When I was twelve, I was in the car with my soccer coach who was listening to Christian music for several hours. I distinctly remember the lyrics to a song. '...He knows my name, He knows my every thought, and He hears me when I call.' Somehow, I knew the 'He' in that song was Jesus Christ and I felt the spirit so strongly. But I quickly denied those positive feelings because believing in anything other than Adonai, which means Heavenly Father in Hebrew, was considered blasphemy. I was jealous of my friends who celebrated Christmas or could make the cross symbol on their chests when entering a soccer field.

On another occasion, I remember feeling the Spirit when a friend was talking about Jesus. I felt an overwhelming joyful emotion that was difficult to describe. She assured me that it was the Holy Ghost. That feeling left a spiritual yearning in me that I could never quite replicate in Synagogue.

I had always felt connected to God. But as the years passed and my life choices took me away from religion, I stopped believing that God loved me. I had left home and was playing semi-professional soccer. My lifestyle reflected the way I imagined God felt about me. Following a traumatic soccer concussion in 2017, I began to battle depression, anxiety, and many other traumatic experiences. One night, when I thought my life was over, I got down on my knees and begged for help. I told God, 'Take my life. I will do anything and go anywhere you tell me to. Any church, any temple or any mosque. Please end my suffering and help me find the truth that will heal me.' Then God intervened in my life. He replied to me, 'I’ve got you in Utah now. Go talk to some missionaries.' I laughed. That was a mistake; that can’t be. So, I asked several more times and God plainly told me to go investigate The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The rest is history.”

Aaron continues, “Three months later I was baptized. I now hold the Aaronic and Melchizedek priesthood, and I attend the temple weekly. I have callings in my ward, I received my patriarchal blessing, and I have a beautiful girlfriend who is a returned missionary and is helping me navigate my covenant path. God moves quickly when you’re willing to listen. I’m so grateful. I walk by faith, not by sight. I have a testimony that Jesus is the Christ, that Heavenly Father loves His children, that the Book of Mormon is true and that we have a living prophet today. I love my new relationship with Jesus Christ. He knew me long before my conversion, and many seeds were planted for me along the way. My spiritual questions closely paralleled those of young Joseph Smith, when he prayed to know which church he should join. The First Vision was an answer to his prayers, and my new life is an answer to mine.” End of quote.

It has been a privilege to watch Aaron find his way to the covenant path and thrive there. He is my friend and example. How many Aarons are out there? My faith is renewed when I think about his journey. I’m so grateful he didn’t give up— and that the gathering of Israel is happening all around us as missionary work continues in our day.

The young missionary had spent the morning scrubbing the floors of the mission home, washing and ironing his shirts, and mending his socks. Then, since it was preparation day, he had decided to visit the university library. Finding nothing of particular interest in the book stacks, he pulled out his own copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and began reading section 76—Joseph Smith’s vision of heaven.
He became so absorbed in the Prophet’s description that he didn’t notice the passing of time, and it was night when he finally left the library. As he walked across the spacious lawn toward the streetcar, he looked up into the heavens: “There was no moon, but the sky was clear. … The Southern Cross and other brilliant stars, visible in the Southern Hemisphere, shone with unusual grandeur. As I gazed in wonder, I seemed to see beyond the stars the things I had been reading about. I could not then and I have not been able since to recall walking across the lawn.”
Retelling this experience in 1965, President Romney said: “Since that Saturday evening in Sydney, Australia, forty-three years ago, I have never been content to view life through the lens which reveals only the narrow span between mortal birth and death. I cannot remember of having made, during the intervening years, a single voluntary major decision or judgment without testing it by my knowledge of revealed truth.” (Address delivered at Brigham Young University, 27 May 1965, p. 20.)

Are we there yet? Most parents and grandparents remember this question. Naume and I were asked this question over and over by all four of our children as they were growing up, but especially on our annual family trip to the Johannesburg South Africa Temple. This drive was between 12 to 18 hours depending on the border situation with immigration officials, which were unpredictable.
During these trips, because of the distance and many hours on the road, our children would constantly ask, “Are we there yet?” Our response in trying to describe the distance of the trip to our children was as follows: “You will sleep, wake up, sleep, wake up, sleep, wake up, and then we will be there, or almost there.” Sometimes our children would try to fake the sleep segments of the trip when it seemed too long and too boring for them, hoping that eliminating sleep would somehow reduce the distance.
We tried to be as creative as possible to make these long trips enjoyable for the children. Although we often faced fatigue and sometimes disappointments, we did not let these circumstances deter us from the goal we had established as husband and wife. Our goal was to make sure that our children had the blessing of touching the walls of the temple and participating in baptisms for our kindred dead at least once a year. When we look back on those experiences, we would never trade them for anything else.

I stood in the warm font, my white dress billowing around me. I was excited to be baptized, to be clean! Elder Daniels put me under the water, and I came up soaking and smiling. When I opened my eyes, I felt so good. I never wanted to do anything wrong again. My parents smiled at me.
“You did great,” my mom said after I was confirmed. She had even written me a poem for my baptism day. My dad was not a member of the Church, but I knew he felt OK about my choice since he let me take the missionary discussions.
Two of my best friends from the fifth grade came to see my baptism, and my parents took us all out for yummy ice cream afterward. My favorite food!
My friends and I took our cones and explored the gardens near the ice cream shop. The creamy ice cream on my cone looked so good. But on my first lick, the whole scoop fell off the cone and onto the grass!
Without thinking, I said a word my mom had asked me not to say. I slapped my hand over my mouth, realizing what I’d said. I was so sad. I didn’t know what to do. My parents thought I was just sad about my ice cream. They offered to buy me another, but I didn’t feel like eating anymore. Who cared about ice cream? I’d just made a terrible mistake and ruined my perfect day. I wasn’t clean anymore!
The rest of the day I felt awful about what I had said. And I didn’t want to tell my mom because she might get mad at me for saying a bad word. I was embarrassed that I had spoiled my new clean record so soon after being baptized.
That night I prayed for forgiveness. “Heavenly Father, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to say that word. It just came out. I don’t want to say it again.”
I went to bed unhappy, and on Sunday morning I still wasn’t feeling very good. When we got to church, I waved hello to Elder Daniels with the same crummy feeling in my stomach.
I felt even worse when my mom said, “I’m so glad you decided to be baptized.”
During sacrament meeting a familiar tune made me look up. It was the sacrament hymn. The words were about Jesus. As I started to sing, I concentrated on the words. They spoke about Jesus’s amazing Atonement and how wonderful it was. Then I remembered something the missionaries taught me. They said that every time I sincerely repented and took the sacrament, it would be just like I was baptized all over again! I could repent. Instantly my heart felt lighter, and I realized that everything would be OK.
I was so relieved and so grateful for the sacrament that day. I took the bread and water and promised Heavenly Father I would do my best the next week to keep all His commandments. I was so happy. I knew that I was clean again.

In 2015, I was doing proxy baptisms in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. While I was there, a man asked me if I was preparing to serve a mission. I said I hoped to serve someday. Then he said, “I think you need to prepare to serve a mission and speak French.”
I thought to myself, “Why French? I’m from Brazil. How will I serve a French-speaking mission?” Nevertheless, because of that experience in the temple, I started studying French.
A few months later, I was at a bus terminal in São Paulo reading the Book of Mormon in French. When the woman next to me saw the book’s cover, she started speaking to me in French. I had been studying the language for only a few months, but I understood her perfectly!
To my surprise, she knew about the Book of Mormon because she had met the missionaries in Paris, where she lived. She asked me many questions about the Nephites and the Savior’s visit to the Americas. Inexplicably, I was able to speak to her as if I were speaking in my native language. I gladly gave her my Book of Mormon.
At the beginning of 2020, I went to England to study English through an exchange program. I met a girl there from Morocco. Her questions about why I didn’t drink alcohol led to a discussion about the Word of Wisdom, the Church, and the Book of Mormon. I showed her my Book of Mormon in French, and I was again able to answer questions about the gospel in French.
I realized that people need to know about the gospel and this special book in their own language and that I could use the Book of Mormon to be an instrument in God’s hands to help others.
Inaê Leandro (right) with one of her companions, Sister Wongsin Elisaia, while serving on Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah.
Later, when I opened my mission call, I learned I was going to Temple Square in Salt Lake City, speaking Portuguese.
“Really?” I thought. “Everyone there already knows about the Church, and they don’t even speak French in Utah.”
When I told my family, my father asked, “You are leaving your high school teaching job, your home, your career—everything—for a mission? How much will they pay you?” He was surprised when I told him I would pay for my mission myself.
At first, I didn’t know why I was called to Utah, but Heavenly Father knew where I needed to be. At Temple Square, I quickly learned that if you know 10 languages—or only 2 or 3—you can teach in all 10 languages there. My companions and I gave tours in Spanish, Portuguese, and English at Temple Square and at the Humanitarian Center at Welfare Square. We also taught online in different languages through the ComeuntoChrist.org website.
I have experienced the gift of tongues for myself. When we have the desire and the enthusiasm to learn a language, and if we work hard, God blesses us in miraculous ways that help us speak and understand.
“When we have the desire and the enthusiasm to learn a language, and if we work hard,” says Inaê, “God blesses us in ways that help us speak and understand.”
I love reading the Book of Mormon in other languages. Doing so helps my language skills and grows my testimony and understanding of gospel principles.
Whenever I called home on preparation day, I shared details about mission successes and experiences. I focused on what I had in common with family members, and they shared their travels and things that were happening at home. They even told me how they fed the full-time missionaries pizza because they had heard stories of nice people in Salt Lake City taking care of my companion and me.
It has been 16 years since my mother passed away. That was a difficult day, but I know that families can be eternal. I know I will see my mother again. I know she will recognize me as her daughter. Many people don’t have this knowledge.
That’s why I served a mission. That’s why I learned new languages. And that’s why I still try to help others find gospel answers for themselves.

Another simple practice many parents use is to remind teenagers as they leave on a date, “Remember who you are.” We always did that with our dating children, and I believe that last-minute reminder was a shield and protection for them. It had one unintended consequence, however. Many years later, after the death of my wife June, the time came for me to remarry. I was on my way to what you would call a “date,” if I had not been 67 years old. A daughter followed me to the door and with a twinkle in her eye said, “Now, dad, remember who you are.”

When I was a little girl and throughout my youth, my father would come into my room each night and ask me about my day. I can’t remember much of what I said to him; I just remember that he would listen. He showed he cared enough about me to give his time to me. Because of that, I adored my father and trusted the things he said. Just by being kind and interested in me, he made me feel like I put the moon in the sky!

Joseph and Hyrum Smith’s martyrdom shocked every Latter-day Saint, including the youth of the Church.
One hundred and fifty years ago this month on June 27, 1844, Joseph and Hyrum Smith were murdered by a mob of angry men. The events of that tragic afternoon at Carthage, Illinois, have usually been seen through the eyes of adults. Yet there were many young men and women who knew the Prophet and the patriarch and who felt great grief at their passing. While we don’t have a great deal of information about young people who were affected by the deaths of their leaders, a few records do give us a view of the martyrdom through teenage eyes.
Fifteen-year-old Mary Ann Phelps told of being asked to help the Prophet. “When [Joseph] found he had to go to Carthage [to meet with Thomas Ford, governor of Illinois], he wanted a man by the name of Rosecrantz, who was well acquainted with the governor, to go with him.”
At the time, Mr. Rosecrantz’s wife was ill. The Prophet thought that if someone could be found to take care of her, Mr. Rosecrantz would be more likely to make the trip. He asked Mary to stay with Mrs. Rosecrantz.
“I went to stay with Mrs. Rosecrantz,” Mary recalled. “As [the Prophet and Hyrum] were going, they called at the gate with their company of about twenty men, and Joseph Smith asked me if I would bring them out a drink of water.” Mary took them a glass and a pitcher. Joseph leaned over and said to her, “Lord bless you.”1
Another young person, William Hamilton, met Joseph and Hyrum when, on their first night in Carthage, they stayed at his father’s inn. They arrived at the Hamilton House hotel five minutes before midnight on June 24. Early the next morning, the Smith brothers voluntarily surrendered to a constable. After a court hearing during the day, they met with Governor Ford. During the interview a justice of the peace appeared with a paper from a judge authorizing the jailing of Joseph and Hyrum Smith until they could be tried for treason—which was a change from the original charge of rioting.
Despite protests from their attorneys, Joseph and Hyrum were hurried off to Carthage jail, only a few blocks away. Several friends and associates were allowed to stay with the Prophet and the patriarch that evening. On the next day, June 26, the treason hearing was held. No witnesses appeared, so Joseph and Hyrum were required to stay in jail until another hearing could be held, this one scheduled for June 29. But the conspiracy to murder the Prophet and his brother was already in motion.
On June 27, 1844, William stood as lookout on the roof of the county courthouse. It was hot and humid. Sometime near five o’clock, William noticed a group of about 100 men with blackened faces going toward the jail. He hurried to report the movement, but it was already too late. The soldiers assigned to protect the prisoners were outnumbered by the mob. They stormed the jail, rushed up the stairs, and fired shot after shot after shot. Then a yell that the Mormons were coming caught everyone’s attention, and the mob fled.
William went into the jail, where he saw the body of Hyrum Smith. Outside the jail, the Prophet Joseph also lay dead in a pool of blood. John Taylor was severely wounded. Willard Richards was only grazed on his ear by a bullet.2
Fourteen-year-old Eliza Clayton also entered the jail. The doors were still open. She said it looked “as though the people had left in great haste.” When she went upstairs, she saw “some Church books on the table and the portraits of Joseph’s and Hyrum’s families on the fireplace mantel.” But when she saw the “blood in pools on the floor and spattered on the walls,” Eliza started to cry.3
Fifteen-year-old Henry Sanderson was one of the first in Nauvoo to hear the tragic news, “when a runner went past our house shouting that the Prophet was killed.” Henry recalled how “sad a blow” it was to him and his family.4
The news spread quickly. At Hyrum’s home on Water Street, not far from Joseph and Emma’s home, George D. Grant knocked at the door and delivered the sad tale to the family.
“The news flew like wild-fire through the house, and the anguish and sorrow … can be easier felt than described. But that will never be forgotten by those who were called to go through it,” recalled Mary Ann Smith, one of Hyrum’s children.5
On the morning of June 28, the bodies of Joseph and Hyrum were gently placed on two different wagons, covered with branches to shade them from the hot summer sun. William Hamilton and his father Artois accompanied Samuel Smith and Willard Richards to Nauvoo with the bodies of the slain Church leaders.
They left Carthage about 8:00 A.M. and arrived in Nauvoo about 3:00 P.M., where they were met by a great assemblage. When the bodies were returned to Nauvoo, they were washed and dressed. Then family and friends were ushered in to see them.
When young Joseph Smith III entered the room, he dropped upon his knees, laid his cheek against his father’s, and kissed him. He was heard saying, “Oh, my father, my father!” Other children of the Prophet and the patriarch crowded around to see their slain fathers. It was an almost unbearable scene.6
On the following day, June 29, the bodies lay in state in the Mansion House while thousands of Saints silently filed past the coffins, grateful but sobered to see their beloved leaders one last time. Mary Ann Phelps’s father took her to the Mansion House early in the morning, before the bodies were prepared for the public viewing.
“I went down, saw them, and laid my hand on Joseph’s forehead,” she said. “The sheet that was around him was stained with blood. Still he looked very natural.”7

Then, a few weeks before Christmas 1989, Jaanus met 30-year-old Enn Lembit, who told Jaanus, “I have a new testimony about Christ and what prophets say nowadays. Come to my house to hear about this wonderful news.”
“Imagine that,” Jaanus thought, “a prophet speaking to people on earth today!” His spine tingled as he and his friends went to Enn Lembit’s apartment for a meeting.
At that first meeting, Enn Lembit explained, “My father-in-law, Valtteri Rötsä, was converted to the Mormon church in Finland. He returned to Estonia to his family with his pockets full of literature about the Mormon faith.” Enn’s eyes shone with enthusiasm as he explained the gospel message to Jaanus and others in that small room.
About an hour after the meeting had started, Brother Uusituba, a businessman from Finland, suggested they pray and ask God if this church were true.
Jaanus thought, “I feel really good in this home, and I like what he is saying.” When they prayed, he felt a warm glow and believed that the gospel was true. Jaanus took the news home to his mother, and together they attended the first sacrament meeting held in Estonia.
On 16 December 1989, Enn Lembit was the first convert baptized on Estonian soil. Jaanus and his mother were baptized on 6 January 1990.

All morning the low black clouds hovered over the valley, and the air was hot and still. Up in the hayloft Sarah pitched the sweet-smelling hay over the oak beam and down to the barn floor, where her sister, Amy, scattered it around for fresh bedding when the cows came in for their evening milking. Sarah was twelve, and she and Amy, who was two years younger, did most of the barn chores. They also helped their father with the cows’ care and milking.
Each time Sarah pitched a forkful of hay she’d call, “Look out below!” Then she’d catch a glimpse of Amy’s freckled face grinning up at her.
And Amy would always shout back, “If I had a penny for every time I’ve heard you say that, I’d be rich by now!”
Sarah laughed and brushed at a trickle of sweat that ran down her cheek, then stopped to scoop up her long blond hair and tie it back with a piece of baling twine. She felt uneasy as she glanced out the open loft door and saw lightning flash on the distant horizon in the direction of the city where her parents had gone that morning to shop.
She leaned out the door, her gray eyes searching for her father’s familiar green truck. A dark mass of low-moving clouds was gathering over the valley, and a new sound filled the air. Sarah looked out at the heavy rain that had begun to fall. The once-quiet river had become a gushing torrent of muddy water. She busied herself by stacking the smaller bales of hay to save her father any extra work. As she stacked, she could hear the thunder overhead and the rain pounding on the tin roof. She pushed the last bale into place and sat down to wipe her sweaty face.
A sudden cry from Amy sent her scurrying down the ladder. There was a look of alarm on her sister’s face as she pointed at the river. The churning water was rapidly overrunning the riverbank. Sarah’s heart pounded with fear as she remembered another time when a flash flood had swamped the entire valley.
Sarah tried to be calm as she turned to Amy and said, “We’d better hurry to the house. Mom and Dad should be coming back soon.”
The sudden sharp ring of the telephone startled the girls a few minutes later. Sarah ran to answer it. Against the crackling sound of static, a faint voice asked, “Sarah, are you and Amy all right?”
Sarah clutched the receiver tightly and replied, “Dad! Where are you? We’re having a terrible storm!”
The calm, controlled voice of their father gave the frightened girl some assurance as he replied, “Sarah, we can’t make it home tonight. Everyone in town is moving to higher ground, and all the roads are underwater. In another hour it will hit the valley. You should have enough time to get over the bridge to open the lower pasture gate and herd the cows up to the barn. But hurry!” Another burst of static followed, and she barely heard the last fading words before the line went dead, “Sarah, don’t go near Sam. He’ll be wild and dangerous with fright. …”
For a moment Sarah stood still with fear as she uttered one word, “Sam!” She had forgotten about her father’s prize bull and how much she feared the huge animal. Only that morning her father had led Sam down to the edge of the river and had chained him to an iron stake.
Amy tugged at Sarah’s arm and looked at her sister’s frightened face. “What’s wrong, Sarah?”
The older girl tried to keep her voice from trembling. “Amy, we have to work fast. Mom and Dad can’t make it home tonight. The roads are underwater. We have to bring the cows up from the lower pasture before the bridge is washed away. I’ll run down to open the gate and herd them across. You stay ahead to lead them into the barn.”
Sarah had barely finished her instructions before Amy was running toward the barn to unlatch the big sliding doors. Sarah braced herself against the sharp wind and cutting rain as she ran across the bridge and opened the gate where the restless cows were jammed together. The animals pushed excitedly over the stone bridge as floating debris began to wash over the top. Sarah shooed and waved her arms wildly as the last drenched animal crossed over. She caught a glimpse of Amy running ahead, her little figure dwarfed by the frightened herd that followed her into the barn.
The breathless girls sank down onto a bale of hay, water rolling down their faces and their wet clothes clinging to them. The barn was filled with the sounds of the animals’ heavy breathing and the crunching of hay beneath their hooves as they began to settle down.
Amy brushed the hair off her forehead and said, “We made it! We got them all back safely.”
Sarah stood up and walked to the open door, shaking her head sadly. “No, Amy, not all of them.” She saw Sam’s huge black form struggling against the wild current of the river. And he was unable to free himself from the chain that kept him staked to the ground.
Amy walked over to her sister, and for a long moment she watched the river rising up to the frightened animal’s chest. As though reading Sarah’s thoughts, she protested, “You know Dad said not to go near him.”
The girls watched Sam finally stop struggling, bowing his great head as though he had resigned himself to his fate. Amy’s eyes filled with tears. “Poor Sam!” she whispered.
Desperate thoughts and her father’s warning combined in Sarah’s mind. Suddenly a glimmer of hope lit up her eyes. She cried out, “Look Amy! A big log has washed up against the bridge, and it goes clear over next to Sam! I could crawl along the top of it and open the lock on Sam’s chain. I know I can do it!”
Sarah turned toward Amy, took her gently by the shoulders, and looked into her tear-streaked face. “I have to try to free him, Amy, or at least give him a chance to save himself!”
Amy’s trembling lips uttered one word, “Yes.”
Sarah reached for the key that hung on a chain over Sam’s pen, put it around her neck, and ran out into the howling storm. “Open his pen, Amy!” she shouted. “Then go up to the loft and stay there till I get back!”
Sarah raced down the path toward the log and started to shinny across it, clinging desperately with both hands and feet. As the water pounded against her, Sarah was barely able to stay on the log. Slowly she inched across it until she reached Sam. The animal seemed numb with fear as she tried to turn the key in the lock. Each time she reached out, the fierce current almost swept her away. But at last, with a final tug, the lock sprung open and the chain dropped into the water.
Above the roar of the river she shouted, “Swim, Sam! Swim!”
Slowly the waterlogged animal turned his shaggy head and looked at the girl through half-closed eyes.
Sarah was making her way back across the bobbing log when suddenly something whammed into it and whirled it around until one end lodged on the shore not far from the gravel path. Sarah was pitched ashore, where she lay stunned. Then slowly she raised her head and looked around for Sam.
He was still standing in the same place, not realizing that he was free. “Sam! Come on, boy!” she shouted, scrambling to her feet. “Swim!”
Slowly the dazed animal turned his head and realized the restraining chain was gone. With a ponderous movement he swung his heavy body around and began making his way across the river. Floating debris slammed into his sides, and the waves lashed at him. But at each onslaught, he reared his powerful neck to meet the river’s torrent. Sam’s massive strength kept him plowing straight toward Sarah who was still gasping for breath.
She trembled anew at the sight of the huge animal rising up out of the water, his wild black eyes fixed on her. And when a loud clap of thunder struck close by, he let out a bellow that swelled his sides and shook the ground.
The frightened girl was surprised at her own calm voice as she called, “Steady, boy! We’ll make it now.”
The bull, unbelievably docile now, lowered his head and kept a steady pace beside her as she made a beeline for the barn. Quickly she swung the pen gate shut and pushed the bolt safely into place. Then she sank down weakly on the dry hay, every muscle and bone in her body aching. From the loft she heard Amy whisper, “Is it safe to come down, now?”
Sarah looked up at her sister and managed a smile. “Yes, Amy. We made it. We saved Sam.”
They watched the bull toss the hay around, picking out the tender stems. When he raised his head, a pile of hay was perched on top with some of it sticking out of his ears. He looked so comical that both girls burst out laughing.
With the busy sound of the munching animals settling around them, the girls slipped out of the barn and trudged up to the house.
Sarah lit the kerosene lamp, and a cheery glow filled the room. Silently, the girls struggled out of their wet clothes and wrapped themselves in warm robes. Curled up in the comforting armchairs, they were soon sound asleep.
Bright sunlight streamed through the window, and the sound of a blaring horn brought Sarah to her feet as Amy rubbed her sleepy eyes. The girls rushed to the window to see their father’s truck splashing across the bridge over the ebbing river. The storm had ended.
Their worried parents called out, “Sarah! Amy!”
Both girls rushed into their parents’ open arms. Sarah then noticed her father’s anxious look in the direction of where Sam had been tethered.
With a suppressed smile, she said, “Come out to the barn, Dad. We want to show you something.”
Amy danced ahead. “Yes, we have a surprise for you.”
When they slid the barn door open, their father stood speechless at the sight that greeted him. Sam was contentedly pacing back and forth in his pen. And the impatient cows, waiting to be milked, seemed relieved that their owner was here to look after them.
The look on her father’s face filled Sarah’s heart with an unequaled joy. “We’ll tell you the whole story,” she promised. “But we’re too hungry right now.”
Father put his arms around both of his daughters. And as they walked back to the house, he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll bet your mom is making a special breakfast for two hungry and very brave girls right now. I’ll race you to the kitchen!”

Elder Hammond’s wife, Bonnie, passed away two years ago. While Elder Hammond misses her terribly, he decided to do something nice for his neighbors on the anniversary of her death. He and other family members made cards for his neighbors acknowledging this anniversary. On the cards, he included a picture of a cherry atop a delicious dessert with the words “She was always the cherry on top.” He gave a bag of fresh cherries with each card. “I want my neighbors to know how much I love her and that I look forward to spending eternity together,” Elder Hammond says.

I was recently looking through some back issues of the New Era, and in the March 1985 issue I found an article about Bruce Drennan that was of great interest to me. You see, I once knew him when I lived in California. I was only six when we moved there, and so my memories of him are somewhat limited, but they are crystal clear.
I don’t remember many people from our Ukiah Ward, but Bruce stands out in my mind the most. He loved kids, and we loved him. I guess it was because he always treated everyone like they were someone special. On Sundays he was always there, telling jokes and smiling his special smile. It was always fun to see Bruce, because he would say hi and make you feel welcome and loved. My sister always had a crush on him and followed him everywhere. He didn’t really seem to mind, and called her his girlfriend. It was something to see a young man and a four-year-old together. The four-year-old would be trying to teach him to do “itsy bitsy spider” without getting his fingers tangled up.
Three years later we moved to Utah. My last memory of Bruce was after he had come to BYU. A group of kids from our ward came to dinner. I was practicing the piano, and he listened for a while. Then he started to sing along with my playing. He didn’t notice the mistakes, but just kept singing. When we were done, he said, “You play the piano very well, Jennifer” and gave me a hug. That was the last time I saw him alive, and it is the best memory of him that I have.
Your article was very well done. I’m sure I speak for anyone who was touched by this young man when I say that the article captured him well. Thank you for bringing back some wonderful memories.
Jennifer HillPayson, Utah

As I buttoned my coat and tied the cords of my knit cap, I shivered with excitement. The whole Christmas season lay before me, and tonight Dad was taking us out into the middle of it. I hadn’t a clue where, but it didn’t matter. Dad always had a good plan for family night.
“There’s a special event on Temple Square tonight,” Dad told us as we drove downtown. “I had you dress warmly because it’s outdoors.” Becki, my little sister, was bouncing with anticipation as we searched for a parking spot. I couldn’t help bouncing a little, too. We had only recently moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, and the granite-gray walls of the Salt Lake Temple were a source of wonder to me.
When we reached Temple Square, there was quite a crowd gathered in the garden south of the temple. Bleachers and a podium had been set up on a little slope. Dad led us to a spot slightly above and to the side of the bleachers. We stamped our feet to keep warm in the cold night air.
Dad hoisted Becki onto his shoulders. “Look,” he said softly. “There’s President McKay.” I stretched to see, and there he was! President David O. McKay! I could hardly believe it. I could see his wavy white hair and smiling face. The feeling I had was amazing. I felt tingly. I hardly had time to think about it, though, because the program was starting.
The people on the bleachers turned out to be members of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, who sang some Christmas songs. I was hearing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in person! I kept on tingling, and somehow I knew it wasn’t from the cold. Then, after an introduction, President McKay stood up and reached into a box partly hidden by the podium.
It’s hard to describe the marvelous moment when the prophet flipped the switch. The light! The color! Thousands of tiny lightbulbs sparkled in the trees. The walkways were lined with them, and the bushes, shrubs, and flower beds were suddenly transformed. A huge gasp and a sigh rose into the night as the crowd shared the wonder of the moment. We soon found ourselves moving along the sidewalks and pathways around the Tabernacle, past monuments and fountains. It was glorious! I had to keep reminding myself to breathe.
“Well,” I thought, “this is Christmas!” It seemed absolutely right to me that I should feel the spirit of Christmas so strongly this close to the house of the Lord. After all, we were celebrating the Lord’s birth. Christmas lights ought to shine more brightly here. And it was perfect to have the prophet turn on the lights. He represented Jesus Christ, and Jesus is the Light of the World. It felt like a little bit of heaven.
That was in 1965. Almost every Christmas since then, lights have gleamed on Temple Square. Going to see the lights on Temple Square became a Christmas tradition for our family, as it has been for countless others. It is more than a tradition for me, though. It has become part of my testimony. Several things happened to me as I watched President McKay turn on the lights that December night. I felt the Holy Ghost witness to me that the old gentleman with white hair was a true prophet of God. I also came to know as I had never known before that the temple is God’s holy house. I promised myself that I would feel that joy and wonder again—by being worthy to enter it someday.

I recently attended a YSA stake conference. I was late, as usual, and felt like all eyes were on me as I slid into an empty seat near the back. I folded my arms and sat quietly, trying to focus on the Spirit and the songs, but it all turned into garbled noise.
This sort of thing—a group of faithful peers singing and worshipping together—should be uplifting and spiritual, right? So why couldn’t I feel it? Why wouldn’t my mind stop racing? And why did this keep happening?
Eventually the meeting ended, and I left in tears.
When I was little, my hyperactive, daydreaming tendencies were written off as childhood quirks. But these struggles persisted into my teens. In Young Women, other girls shared moving experiences and spiritual growth. I struggled to remember to read my scriptures and pray. Others bore moving testimonies, while sharing mine felt like I was reciting a script.
Shortly after starting college, I was diagnosed with attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). Suddenly a lot of struggles in my life—being constantly disorganized, distracted, and forgetful—made sense. I began treatment, found organizational strategies to help with school, and slowly learned to be more patient with myself.
Despite improvements in other areas of my life, my church experiences didn’t change. I was trying my best, but meetings remained overwhelming. Church should be something I looked forward to, but it wasn’t.
Something needed to change, but I didn’t know where to start.
A few weeks after that YSA stake conference, I listened to general conference. I was hoping to find answers from our leaders but was disheartened when the first day passed without any new direction from the Spirit.
Then, in the middle of the second day’s afternoon session, I had a prompting: start writing.
Somewhat reluctantly, I began scribbling down the thoughts that came to mind. What I ended up with was something I’d never thought to write before: a list of ways living the gospel was difficult for me specifically because of my symptoms of ADHD. Here are a few:
ADHD inhibits the ability to regulate focus. Regular study and worship are key to receiving valuable inspiration and insight, but because they are routine, it can be hard for me to concentrate on the spiritual aspect.
While some people can build a habit after a few days or weeks, someone with ADHD can find it difficult to create routines. Scripture study and prayer are meant to be daily habits. But for someone with ADHD, it can take a lot of effort to keep up with them.
ADHD can make it hard to regulate emotions. Overwhelming emotions can lead to sudden outbursts. For some, it can also be difficult to recognize their own feelings or the feelings of others.
We may desire to be meek like the Savior but find ourselves overwhelmed by frustration. We may have trouble discerning the Spirit, which can make us feel isolated when others seem to recognize the Spirit easily.
Impulsivity can make us feel like our intentions never quite line up with our actions.
The gospel preaches repentance. But sometimes, despite a sincere desire to change, we find ourselves impulsively acting on old temptations. It can be discouraging when our righteous intentions fall apart in the face of split-second impulses.
Often, those with ADHD struggle to plan, organize, prioritize, or begin tasks. Even minor tasks can become paralyzing and exhausting.
Though not in a bad way, the gospel can require more of our time. Serving others and gathering to learn are wonderful opportunities. But balancing these extra priorities can add to the feelings of overwhelm in everyday life.
After writing out how ADHD affects my discipleship, I realized something important—these challenges weren’t moral failings. They were mortal struggles.
President Russell M. Nelson taught, “As you think celestial, you will view trials and opposition in a new light.” I received that light—and with it, a new perspective. From there, I started looking for solutions.
I used to think that spiritual improvement looked the same for every person. Now I can accept that improvement may look a little different for me. The Lord knows me (see John 10:14), and He knows my specific challenges. I began praying for ideas for how to work with my challenges instead of against them.
When I use a fidget toy during personal prayers to stay focused, I know He sees my desire to communicate with Him. When I exercise to clear my mind instead of sitting quietly, I know He sees my desire for inspiration.
There are still days I struggle. Sister Joy D. Jones, former Primary General President, reminds us that “the Lord loves effort. … He doesn’t expect perfection today.” So, when I find myself slipping back into old habits, I know that I can pause and recenter myself on Christ.
With Christ’s help, I’m working to replace feelings of guilt and shame over my shortcomings with kindness toward myself—the same kindness and mercy that the Lord already has for me.
This will be a lifelong battle, but I know Jesus Christ will continue to help me face it and thrive.