Gospel Story Finder

Moeaki began art while attending Liahona High School in Nuku’alofa, Tonga. He once placed third in a Danish international art competition, and later gained a bachelor of fine arts from BYU-Idaho in the United States. He has been teaching art for the last nine years at his alma mater, Liahona High School.
Moe works in oil, acrylic and watercolour and describes his art as abstract expressionism. He is most interested in drawing things that are “beyond the veil.”
“I had some near-death experiences when I was a child, which have influenced me. When my father was a mission president, he asked me to do a drawing of the plan of salvation as a missionary tool. . . . It really fired my imagination to think about what it is like beyond the veil.”
His selected work is a tapa collage and acrylic on cardboard entitled, “All Are Alike unto Christ.” A unique feature of this piece is that it includes a strip of tapa cloth.
“Tapa is a very important part of Tongan culture. Newborn babies are wrapped in it, brides and grooms wear it on their wedding day and caskets are draped with it at funerals. It literally is the fabric of our lives,” Moeaki says. “To me, it is an actual veil between this life and the spirit world so it’s important that it is included in my art.”
In his painting, tapa separates our mortal life and a heavenly existence. Beyond that veil, ministering angels are depicted eager to reach out and bless those in times of great need.
“All are alike unto God. . . . We all long for peace, love, and comfort,” Moeaki says, “we all feel that we are being ministered to by the Saviour and His angels in times of need.”

When I was called to serve as a General Authority, I had an interview with President Faust. He noticed that I was concerned because I felt inadequate for such a call. In his tender way, President Faust told me, “Athos, be yourself. Be yourself.” That night I lay awake in bed, thinking of my new responsibilities and of President Faust’s words. And I prayed. I asked myself, Who am I? And the answer came as clear and bright as the dawn of that brand-new day. I am, like each one of you, a child of God who wants to obey the Lord and serve wherever He sends me and thus be a better child of our Heavenly Father and a faithful member of the true Church of Jesus Christ.

“Remember, just five minutes,” warned the attendant as he ushered Salt Lake businessman Nephi L. Morris into the plush Chicago office of important financier Thomas N. McCauley. Handing the tycoon the caller’s business card, the attendant posted himself by the door to be sure the five-minute limit would not be exceeded.
“From Salt Lake City I see,” remarked the busy executive. “Sit down Mr. Morris. Because you are a Utahn, I want to tell you about an experience I had years ago out in your part of the world.” Not waiting to find out Brother Morris’s business reason for the visit, Mr. McCauley disregarded his own tight business schedule—and his upset attendant—and for a full hour related to his visitor a singular experience cherished in his memory.
Mr. McCauley explained that while still a young man he had amassed a fortune in the East before the turn of the century. But the strain of business finally broke him physically. His doctor warned that the only hope for recovery was for the young executive to spend six months to a year in the West, living in the open. Reluctantly accepting this advice, Mr. McCauley turned his extensive business affairs over to associates and went west, accompanied by the doctor.
For months the two men camped in a covered wagon while leisurely traveling about the Rocky Mountain regions. Then, when recovery seemed near, McCauley suddenly developed a fever of 102 degrees and severe chills. The doctor, fearing for his patient’s life, hurried the wagon to the nearest settlement: Bunkerville, Nevada, a small Mormon settlement near the southwest corner of Utah. Having a deep dislike for Mormons, the doctor nevertheless swallowed his pride and appealed for help at the home of a local farmer, Edward Bunker, Jr., who turned out to be the town’s bishop and the son of the man for whom Bunkerville was named.
The strangers had not known that this man’s home often served as a hospital or hotel for people passing through those barren regions. While bishop from 1883 to 1908, Brother Bunker served as the local doctor, setting about 40 broken limbs, amputating fingers, lancing sores, and once even successfully sewing on a boy’s foot that had been amputated by a mowing machine. According to local tradition, the Bunker family rarely dined alone because of the good bishop’s hospitality. Travelers could stay at the Bunker home as long as they wanted, said the Bunker rule, but they would be treated like one of the family and could not disrupt the normal family life.
The Easterners were quickly made welcome and were promised every accommodation within the tiny community’s power to give. Their wagon and team were cared for. Food was provided. Bedding and supplies materialized, and the Bunker parlor was converted into a makeshift hospital ward.
Day after day the doctor and the Bunkers carefully nursed the critically ill patient. Weeks passed and McCauley made only slow progress. The doctor spent his time with the sick man or off by himself. While confined helplessly to his bed, however, the young man was in a unique position to witness the everyday activities of this humble Latter-day Saint family.
At times the parlor door was left ajar, and McCauley could look into the next room where, after a day of hard farm toil, the family blessed and then ate their evening meal. Many times at nightfall McCauley observed them kneeling in family prayer, the bishop himself often praying aloud.
At last the patient’s condition improved enough for the doctor to allow him to resume the journey. On the morning of the doctor and McCauley’s departure, the Bunker family arose early as usual. Unknowingly they had awakened their guests, who could not help but overhear the special family prayer offered in their behalf. The family gathered in the dining room where the sturdy bishop, kneeling beside his children and as humble as they were, reverently poured out his soul in supplication. Among other things he fervently thanked God for blessing their guest with a great recovery of health, and he invoked a special blessing for a full and complete healing.
During the prayer McCauley noticed his doctor friend slip quietly from the parlor with tears on his cheeks. McCauley, recognizing the faith being exercised in his behalf, could barely suppress his own tears as a deep feeling of gratitude welled up in his heart. As he confessed while telling the story to Brother Morris years later, “I have never heard such a prayer in all my life.”
Arising from prayer the family went about their daily chores while Bishop Bunker came into the parlor to say goodbye to his guests. Shaking hands with McCauley, he expressed to the Easterner his great pleasure at “having been favored with the privilege of rendering an act of kindness,” then wished him and the doctor a pleasant journey.
“I am greatly indebted to you, Bishop Bunker,” said McCauley, “and I desire to properly compensate you for your merciful kindness and care of me, which is responsible for saving my life. I am a man of ample means and to reward you generously would be a great pleasure to me.”
Knowing the Bunkers’ existence was hard and that they lacked many material things, he was amazed when the bishop kindly refused the offer. “No,” said the Mormon, “I can’t accept anything from you. I have only done what any man should do for his brother.”
“But I must do something to compensate you for what you bestowed upon me. I cannot let you go uncompensated. Please tell me what I can do for you in money or otherwise.”
To this earnest request the hospitable bishop replied: “I am already amply repaid for my helpfulness to you. The only way you can pay me is by doing for some other person who stands in like need of help as I have cheerfully done for you.”
And that closed the transaction as far as Bishop Bunker was concerned.
But McCauley never forgot the debt he felt he owed, and in following years he repaid it—mainly by helping Latter-day Saints. When donations were sought to build a monument in Utah to Brigham Young, McCauley’s name headed the donors’ list with a $1,000 contribution. During Utah Senator Reed Smoot’s membership trial in the United States Senate, the influential financier personally lobbied with Vice-president William Howard Taft in defense of the Mormons. He offered financial opportunities to various Utah and Church leaders. When two prominent Mormons suffered financial reverses during the panic of 1907, McCauley gave them back their notes and canceled their loan obligations to him.
And whenever opportunities presented themselves, even if it meant turning a five-minute appointment into an hour’s discussion, the financier felt an obligation to tell Utahns like Brother Morris about his struggle with death in the Nevada wastelands where a Mormon bishop, whom he had not seen before or since, had exercised faith in God to help a stranger recover. That was something, McCauley explained, which all his own wealth and power could not accomplish.
The story so impressed Brother Morris that he immediately noted it down. Twenty years later, in 1943, he wrote to Bishop Bunker’s descendants and shared the story with them, for whom it now is a source of family pride and inspiration.

After hearing Church leaders encourage youth to save money for full-time missions, we held a special family home evening with our two children, 10-year-old Allana and 7-year-old Ulric. We discussed the importance of saving for a full-time mission, then presented them with piggy banks to help them begin saving.
After that evening it was incredible how the money has accumulated. Ulric collects and saves every coin he can find; both children save any money they receive from relatives. In three months Ulric has saved enough to pay for the first month of his mission, and Allana is almost there. The children also make sure to pay tithing on the money they receive, and our family has seen great blessings as their testimonies of serving and sacrificing have taken root and grown.
Luiz and Andreia Pereira, São Paulo, Brazil

Eight-year-old Porter Ashby was having a bad day. He wasn’t in the mood to be at the children’s hospital—again. From the time Porter was a baby, he had a very serious hearing loss. He couldn’t hear his mom calling his name or someone banging on pots and pans. The doctors gave Porter hearing aids, but they were uncomfortable and didn’t help him hear much better.
When Porter was three years old, he went to the hospital and had an operation to get a cochlear implant in his left ear. Porter was excited about all the new sounds he could hear.
Since then, Porter has gone back to the hospital many times so the doctors can find out how well his implant is working. Usually this is fun. He gets to see his friends at the hospital and play games while the nurses test his hearing.
But not today. Porter had already been at the hospital for several hours. He had already played the games and answered the questions the nurse asked him. He was tired and ready to go home.
Then the doctor wanted to test how well Porter was pronouncing words. He asked Porter to sing “Happy Birthday.”
Porter said he didn’t feel like singing that song, so the doctor asked him what song he would like to sing.
Porter remembered that he had been learning “Called to Serve” in Primary. It was his favorite song, so he sang both verses.
“That was amazing, Porter,” the doctor said. “What a wonderful song!”
By then Porter was feeling much better. When all the tests were finished, the doctor called one of the nurses in. “Porter just sang an amazing song. Will you sing it again for the nurse, Porter?”
Porter was happy to do it. He sang his favorite song again, smiling from ear to ear.

On the evening of 4 April, TV Successo in Mozambique aired a show that they had never run before. Instead of the usual lineup of evening television programs, the station aired uplifting musical items and inspiring messages from Church leaders around the globe. For the first time ever, this local TV station aired the Sunday morning session of general conference.
It was close to midnight on the same evening when President Russell M. Nelson addressed members of the Church to end the conference. It was then that he announced that several more temples would be built.
“We want to bring the house of the Lord even closer to our members, that they may have the sacred privilege of attending the temple as often as their circumstances allow,” said the prophet.1
“And then,” says Freeman Dickie, who is currently serving as the Beira Mozambique Stake president, “They announced that we were getting a temple in Beira!”
Despite the late hour, “messages were being sent around on the WhatsApp groups. People were awake and celebrating! First, we were able to watch general conference live on TV for the first time, and then the same night came the temple announcement! You can imagine how exciting it was.”
Sister Emilia Cristina Chaimane Paulino, a member of the Macuti Branch in the Beira Stake, says she felt “overwhelmed with happiness,” when she heard the news. “The moment I heard, I started crying with gratitude for this blessing. I don’t even know how to express what I felt.”
Her husband, Ernesto Paulino, was out of town for work and feeling ill the night the announcement was made. Sister Paulino woke him from a deep slumber by phoning him with the exciting news.
“Truly speaking, I suddenly recovered from my illness!” says Brother Paulino. “When I heard the news, I thought, ‘I’m feeling better now!’
“I felt that amazing grace of the Lord,” he says. “This is a day of celebration for us. It is something very special.”

But no team’s members will be more loyal to each other, their coaches, and their fans than the priests quorum of the Kagiso Ward, Soweto South Africa Stake, even though they won’t be playing for the World Cup. A little over a year ago, six of these young men were introduced to the Church by their football coach, who is himself a recent convert. Now they are at the heart of another “team”—their priests quorum—and working with another “coach”—their bishop—as they live the gospel day by day and prepare to serve as full-time missionaries.
Like many people in South Africa, 29-year-old Solomon Eliya Tumane loves football. He spends tireless hours each week coaching the Hurricanes Football Club. He loves his players and rejoices in their successes. They love and respect him in return. So when Coach Solomon joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, his players were curious.
“He would come to practice straight from his institute class,” says McDonald Siyabulela Manyakanyaka, 17. “We could see the scriptures and Church magazines in his bag, so we started asking questions, and to answer, he would read to us,” says Thapelo Benjamin Sesinyi, 17.
“I was eager to teach these young ones because I love them so much,” Coach Solomon says. “I want them to go in the right path. I told one of them, ‘You would do well if you read the scriptures,’ so they all started reading the scriptures. They enjoyed it, so then I taught them about prayer. Then one day they surprised me. I got to practice early, and I was taking a nap when they woke me and said, ‘Coach, we need to visit your church.’ That was a day I will never forget, because I knew then that they were on the right path.”
But the coach wouldn’t go further without parental approval. He went to each player’s home, one at a time, to ask if it was all right to invite the players to church. The parents agreed. “We came to church three weeks in a row,” Thapelo remembers. “We wanted to learn more and more.” So the coach again asked parents for permission, this time for the players to study with the full-time missionaries. Again the parents agreed.
“The missionaries gave us each a copy of the Book of Mormon,” McDonald says. “They told us to read it and pray about it because it is true, so we did. I prayed and read and found the Book of Mormon to be true.” So did other players, who were then baptized and confirmed. Five of the team members are now Latter-day Saints.
Most teams set goals for a winning season, but these five young Hurricanes are also shooting for another goal in the not-too-distant future. With the guidance of Bishop Bongani Mahlubi, a man they consider a spiritual coach, they are preparing for full-time missionary service.
“They are a great strength in our ward,” the bishop says. “And they are part of that great priesthood team of Aaronic and Melchizedek Priesthood holders all over the world. These young men do everything together—they walk to school together, play football together, go to seminary together, and serve in the priesthood together. If I call one young man to ask if he can help, I get all five.” McDonald says the priests quorum also studies regularly from Preach My Gospel, and Thapelo says that in addition to inviting friends to church, quorum members seek out those who no longer attend. “In many ways, we are learning to be missionaries now,” he says.
“We often hear from these young men in testimony meeting,” the bishop says. “They often promise Coach Solomon that they will go on full-time missions.” Nothing would make their football coach happier. “I can’t wait for them to serve,” Solomon says.
Unity, gospel knowledge, and an orientation toward service—those are all part of a solid training regime for prospective missionaries. And in addition, these young men have already developed a great desire to work together to do good. Just like the football teams competing for the World Cup, they depend on each other, on their coaches, and on their fans (including ward members, families, and friends) to get them through to their “championship.” With that kind of team spirit, their goals will be achieved.

To get the answer, you’ll have to skip back about three years, back to a time when Patrick was rebellious. “I wasn’t too right and correct,” he recalls, speaking with formal phrasing that identifies his Jamaican roots. “As they call it in scriptural terms, I was a wayward person.”
That may be a rather harsh assessment. But Patrick knew he needed to change. And when he decided he could change, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints played a big part.
“At that time our family seemed to be falling apart. Then one night my mother was watching TV, and she saw a ‘Mormon’ commercial about putting the family first. She decided to order the video so it could maybe reinforce our family ties.”
And she and other family members continued to work on Patrick. “They weren’t happy with the way I was behaving, and, to be honest about it, neither was I. So I started trying to do the things I knew were right. Then, precisely at the time when I was changing, the sister missionaries arrived at our door with a Book of Mormon and a video. They came into our home and started to teach us. I was really glad for the message and for the change they brought into our lives, even though I’m the only one (so far) who has joined the Church.”
Once Patrick started learning about the restored gospel, the change was remarkable.
“It took a year before I got baptized. My mother wanted me to be sure about my decision. So during that time I studied, I went to church, and I was active with the other LDS youth. I tried my best to participate in meetings and social events. I even enrolled in seminary before I was baptized. I was learning and growing in the scriptures and in prayer. By the time my baptism came, I felt ready.”
And Patrick kept right on growing. First, he was called to be the teachers quorum president. Now he’s first assistant in the priests quorum of the English-speaking Montreal Ward. He continues to study the gospel and to share his knowledge with others.
“There are four members in our priests quorum, and we try our best to reinforce each other in the gospel, to prepare ourselves to serve the Lord with all our capacities. Receiving the Melchizedek Priesthood is my goal as a young man. I want to be able to serve a mission.”

In the fall of 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic had the world on its knees. We were certainly all affected in some way.
Given my vocation in the culture and tourism industries, the pandemic posed a serious challenge to me professionally. So, I was full of expectation when I learned that our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, would deliver a special address to the world on Nov. 20, 2020.
As he began, President Nelson told of some of the challenges he had experienced in his life and expressed great concern about the pandemic. Then he said, “There is, however, a remedy—one that may seem surprising—because it flies in the face of our natural intuitions. Nevertheless, its effects have been validated by scientists as well as men and women of faith.
“I am referring to the healing power of gratitude.”1
President Nelson invited us to use social media as our personal gratitude journal and to express our thanks to God in our daily prayers for the innumerable blessings in our lives.
I applied the “therapy” he suggested and felt it helped me in that difficult time to experience healing and have a cheerful, believing heart.

Let’s consider some examples. I was an inexperienced priest in a large ward. My bishop called me on the phone one Sunday afternoon. When I answered, he said, “Do you have time to go with me? I need your help.” He explained only that he wanted me to go as his companion to visit a woman I did not know, who was without food and who needed to learn how to manage her finances better.

Now, I knew that he had two seasoned counselors in his bishopric. Both were mature men of great experience. One counselor was the owner of a large business, who later became a mission president and a General Authority. The other counselor was a prominent judge in the city.

I was the bishop’s newly called first assistant in the priests quorum. He knew that I understood little about welfare principles. I knew even less about financial management. I had not yet written a check; I had no bank account; I hadn’t even seen a personal budget. Yet, despite my inexperience, I sensed that he was deadly serious when he said, “I need your help.”

I have come to understand what that inspired bishop meant. He saw in me a golden opportunity to prepare a priesthood holder. I am sure that he did not foresee in that untrained boy a future member of the Presiding Bishopric. But he treated me that day, and all the days I knew him over the years, as a preparation project of great promise.

He seemed to enjoy it, but it was work for him. On our return to my home after we visited the widow in need, he parked the car. He opened his well-worn and heavily marked scriptures. And he gave me kindly correction. He told me that I needed to study the scriptures and learn more. But he must have seen that I was weak and simple enough to be teachable. To this day I remember what he taught that afternoon. But even more, I remember how confident he was that I could learn and be better—and that I would.

He saw beyond the reality of who I was to the possibilities that lie inside someone who feels weak and simple enough to want the Lord’s help and to believe that it will come.

My father was the most excited among us to learn and share the truth. He used to wake up early in the morning to study the scriptures for over two hours every day. After work he went with the missionaries to visit our family, friends, and neighbors nearly every day. Seven months after we were baptized, 23 of my family and relatives became members of the Church. That was followed by the miracle of seeing 130 people baptized in the following year through my father’s member missionary work.

Illustration by Carolyn Vibbert
When I was six or seven years old, I knew I wanted to be an oceanographer. I focused on my goal, worked hard, and got into a good college. I took several courses in zoology and loved it. But as I got further into my studies, I became fascinated with the human body, particularly on the cellular level. I decided to become a pathologist.
I soon met my future husband, and we decided to get married. Having a family was always part of my plan, but while I knew I could be a great doctor and a great mother, I felt that I couldn’t be great at both at the same time. Because family is essential to the Lord’s plan of salvation, I decided to become a mother first. I figured that once my kids got into school, I could go back to school myself.
When my youngest child entered kindergarten, I began the application process for a PhD program in nutritional studies at the University of Texas in Austin. Just before submitting my application, I found out I was unexpectedly pregnant with my seventh child. I was in my 40s, and by the time this child entered school, I would be nearly 50.
“A little late to start a new career that takes extensive schooling,” I thought.
All at once I saw my life’s career dreams crumble around me. As I began to despair, a scripture came to my mind and my heart: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). I had always considered this scripture to mean one person dying for another, but now it means so much more.
I realized that the greatest love I could show was to lay down the life I had planned for myself and give my time and energy to raising my children. I felt that for me, this was what the Lord would have me do. Yes, I could have helped a lot of people as a doctor, but I also know that the greatest eternal impact I can have is in the lives of my own children.

Many years ago John Orth worked in a foundry in Australia, and in a terrible accident, hot molten lead splashed onto his face and body. He was administered to, and some of the vision was restored to his right eye, but he was completely blind in his left. Because he couldn’t see well, he lost his job. He tried to get employment with his wife’s family, but their business failed due to the Depression. He was forced to go door-to-door seeking odd jobs and handouts to pay for food and rent.

One year he did not pay any tithing and went to talk to the branch president. The branch president understood the situation but asked John to make it a matter of prayer and fasting so that he could find a way to pay his tithing. John and his wife, Alice, fasted and prayed and determined that the only thing of value they owned was her engagement ring—a beautiful ring bought in happier times. After much anguish, they decided to take the ring to a pawnbroker and learned it was worth enough to pay their tithing and some outstanding bills. That Sunday, John went in to the branch president and paid his tithing. As he left the office, he happened to meet the mission president, who noticed his damaged eyes.

Brother Orth’s son, now serving as a bishop in Adelaide, later wrote: “We believe that [the mission president] was an eye doctor, for he was commonly called President Dr. Rees. He spoke to Dad and was able to examine him and offer suggestions to help his eyesight. Dad followed his advice, … and in due course sight was restored—15 percent sight to his left eye and 95 percent sight to his right eye—and with the help of glasses he could see again.” With his vision restored, John was never unemployed again; he redeemed the ring, which is now a family heirloom, and paid a full tithing for the rest of his life. The Lord knew John Orth, and He knew who could help him.

“President Dr. Rees” was my mother’s father, and he probably never knew of the miracle that was wrought that day. Generations were blessed because a family decided they would pay their tithing regardless of the difficulty—and then met a man who “happened by” and “happened” to be an eye surgeon who was able to make a great difference in their lives. While some may be tempted to believe these are just coincidences, I have confidence that even a sparrow cannot fall to the ground but He knows it.

Our family didn’t know this story until two years ago, but we know this about our grandfather: he loved the Lord and tried to serve Him all his life. And we know this about the Lord: He knows who we are and where we are, and He knows who needs our help.

Fortunately, there are seldom-reported but marvelous-to-consider stories of great patience. Recently I attended the funeral of a lifelong friend. His son told a beautiful story of parental patience. When the son was in his youth, his dad owned a motorcycle dealership. One day they received a shipment of shiny new motorcycles, and they lined them all up in the store. The boy did what every boy would like to do, and he climbed up on the closest one. He even started it up. Then, when he figured he had pushed his luck far enough, he jumped off. To his dismay, his dismount knocked the first bike down. Then, like a string of dominoes, they all went down, one after another. His dad heard the commotion and looked out from behind the partition where he was working. Slowly, smiling, he said, “Well, Son, we had better fix one up and sell it, so we can pay for the rest of them.”

I think my friend’s response personifies parental patience.

As families, we all have needs. Just a few heartfelt words about mothers who parent alone: Let me share with you the story of a mother of five whose husband was deployed overseas. She relates:
“When my husband left in early February, we had reliable vehicles. However, by November, they had broken down, and we were not able to repair them. During this same time, my 17-year-old son let me know that he wasn’t planning to serve a mission because he wasn’t sure if the gospel was true. If ever there was a time in my life that I needed the blessings of the priesthood, it was then. I don’t remember all the details or when and where, but I distinctly remember receiving more than one blessing from caring priesthood holders during that time. I always knew that I could call on my home teachers and they would be there. Neither one could fix my van, but they could give me much-needed priesthood blessings, and they found someone who could fix the car.”

I well remember when I was seven years old, baptism seemed to be far away, as though it would never be my turn. I watched with a fever of excitement as several members of my Sunday School class were baptized and confirmed. They somehow seemed different to me after baptism, and very important.
At last summer came, and Sister Nielsen, our teacher, reminded the class that I was next. I could hardly believe the time had come. I was to be baptized on my birthday, the 24th of July—Pioneer Day among the Latter-day Saints. At the water’s edge I was confirmed and promised that I could have the Holy Ghost as a constant companion. A feeling of happiness and contentment filled me.
But as the days melted into months, I began to feel with some disappointment that, for a constant companion, the Holy Ghost had been uncomfortably silent. At times I wondered if somehow I had failed to live up to my special promise and confirmation.
Then came the second summer after my baptism. I was ten, and large for my age. I could quickly complete my assigned tasks at home and escape to my grandmother’s house on her farm some distance away. My feet seemed to have wings, and I flew the distance, anxious to be with the dearest person I knew.
It was haying time, and the men on the hay crew were already in the field as I hurried along my way. At grandmother’s there would be long tables burdened under the weight of wonderful food: produce from the garden, fresh-baked bread, and berry pies.
The day seemed to fly by, as did all the special summer days spent with my grandmother. It was with great reluctance that I said good-bye and took my departure. As always, I hated to leave the happy warmth of my grandmother’s pleasant kitchen, but I had seen the shadows lengthening over the trees and down the hill beyond her house. I knew if I delayed much longer it would grow dark before I reached home—an uneasy thought, even though I would be able to see the lighted windows of my home beckoning in the distance in the river valley below.
I sat a few moments on the step, savoring the sweet scent of the ripening fruit in the orchard and the roses trailing up and over the back porch. “Why does it have to get dark?” I thought.
With a sigh of resignation, I moved down the walk and through the garden gate. As I crossed the yard beyond and went through the gate on the hill, I realized suddenly that night had fallen. Even the shadows had disappeared. I kicked some rocks as I made my way down the steep hill. I could hear them bounce all the way to the bottom. Usually it was fun to kick rocks down the hill, but tonight the sound they made seemed ominous as they disappeared into the night.
On reaching the bottom of the hill, I remembered that there were big ruts filled with water where many wagons had crossed during the day. I had jumped from rock to rock to cross when I came, but the darkness made that impossible now. “Oh well,” I thought, “it’s warm and my shoes are old anyway.” I plunged across, slipping and sliding on the rocks and oozing mud.
The frogs that had been intoning with stentorious sound now grew silent, causing my fear to grow like a dark specter. “I’ll sing,” I told myself, and began singing a song that I felt was designed especially for those who, like myself, grew faint of heart: “Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war!”
The words were hardly out of my mouth when a voice in my mind said, “Be still, and listen.”
For a moment I was startled, but then I thought it was foolishness and began to sing with more vigor still, “With the cross of Jesus marching on before,” and marched to build my flagging courage.
This time my head filled with the command, “Be still, and listen!”
I stopped short, and my heartbeat seemed louder than the thud of my marching, squishy-wet shoes just moments before. Resolutely drawing a long breath, I began again, “Onward—” But before the words would come, more demanding than ever I heard, “Be still!”
I stopped. The last shred of courage disappeared as if it were a leaf caught in a whirlwind. What should I do? Terror gripped me from all sides, and I began to pray in my heart, “Heavenly Father, please bless me!” I couldn’t even think what it was that I should ask for. Just over and over the prayer, “Heavenly Father, please bless me,” until the flood of terror subsided and a sweet reassurance filled my being. Then I heard the words, “Get off the road!”
This time I obeyed at once, and as silently as I had been loud before, I walked, sensing rather than seeing my way. I covered a half-mile in the field adjacent to the road, swallowed up in a void of blackness. My breathing seemed suspended, and I was intent on the night sounds around me, some easily identified and others strange and labored.
The creek crossing was just ahead, and I thought at once of the gate nearby, and whether I should crawl over it or through the fence. Almost before the thought came the answer, “Don’t cross at the gate.”
Where should I cross, then? I paused again, this time to contemplate the thought of the creek and the boggy swamp with cattails and brush that followed its sides. It would be difficult enough in the daylight, but at night? …
Then I smelled an odor borne on the night air that brought terror and instant knowledge: the smell of tobacco smoke, acrid and penetrating! There was someone near the gate assuredly, and every strained nerve assured me that this presence was menacing.
How I crossed the swampy creek and gained the ground on the other side has long since passed from my memory. What is plain and very vivid in my mind is my arrival home and my explanation for the torn and disheveled condition I was in, and the circumstances surrounding it.
My father believed my words without question. He put on his boots, took down his shotgun, and set off in the darkness across the fields. He returned many hours later with no explanation but with the comforting assurance that I had most certainly done the right thing.
Although that marked the end of my long and pleasant evenings walking home in the dusk, I felt a happiness and gratitude for the knowledge that came to me that I indeed had the companionship of the Holy Ghost. How grateful I am for this knowledge, for it has served me well. I trust it will to the end of my life. Has not the Savior promised, “And, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.” (Matt. 28:20)

In 1979 a large passenger jet with 257 people on board left New Zealand for a sightseeing flight to Antarctica and back. Unknown to the pilots, however, someone had modified the flight coordinates by a mere two degrees. This error placed the aircraft 28 miles (45 km) to the east of where the pilots assumed they were. As they approached Antarctica, the pilots descended to a lower altitude to give the passengers a better look at the landscape. Although both were experienced pilots, neither had made this particular flight before, and they had no way of knowing that the incorrect coordinates had placed them directly in the path of Mount Erebus, an active volcano that rises from the frozen landscape to a height of more than 12,000 feet (3,700 m).
As the pilots flew onward, the white of the snow and ice covering the volcano blended with the white of the clouds above, making it appear as though they were flying over flat ground. By the time the instruments sounded the warning that the ground was rising fast toward them, it was too late. The airplane crashed into the side of the volcano, killing everyone on board.
It was a terrible tragedy brought on by a minor error—a matter of only a few degrees.

Keeping the commandments. Our family’s income dropped considerably during the divorce process, and we struggled financially. I faced the dilemma of whether to pay tithing when there clearly was not enough money to feed and care for my large family and to make the essential house repairs. I sought counsel from my priesthood leaders and knew my answer. I decided I would pay a full tithing. I believe this single act of faith opened the windows of heaven, for many blessings were showered on our family. While I was deeply grateful for help from others, I also found myself struggling to develop humility and graciousness, as my family had never before required help. My first trip to the bishops’ storehouse resulted in tears, but I sought from the Lord what He would have me learn from the experience. Besides struggling with pride, I learned much about love and the purpose for the welfare program. Although we no longer need welfare assistance, I am grateful for that experience.

Shortly after I began my mandatory service in the Brazilian army, I was selected as corporal over a dozen men. Unfortunately, my 12 young soldiers seemed to have the lowest standards in the barracks. I came to discover that they were or had been involved in drugs, theft, sexual immorality, and other serious sins.
Rather than allow myself to be influenced by their low standards, I took advantage of every opportunity I had to share the gospel with them. For example, during breaks or when we were cleaning rifles together, I talked to them about the gospel. I thought they would make fun of my standards and ridicule me, but they listened and came to treat me with respect. However, despite my efforts to teach them gospel doctrines, they didn’t change their attitudes or behavior.
Our time in the army finally ended, and on our last day as soldiers, the men invited me to celebrate with them at a small ranch. “Corporal, you have to come to our party,” one of them said to me. “You aren’t going to insult us by not showing up, are you?”
I was about to accept the invitation so as not to insult them. But the thought came to me that their party standards would be contrary to my Latter-day Saint standards. I remembered what I had been taught in seminary about not going to places where the Holy Ghost would not go. Despite their resentment, I told the group that I wouldn’t be attending. I said good-bye and headed home.
Months passed before I again saw one of the soldiers from that group. What he told me made me grateful that I had skipped their farewell celebration, which featured lots of alcohol. While under the influence, the men had begun throwing alcohol on each other. Then, as a joke, one of them threw a match on his buddy, who was so badly burned that he died a few days later. As a result, all of the participants at that party faced criminal charges related to his death.
Had I attended the party—even without drinking—I would have been in the same predicament. That incident would have followed me and could have hindered my future. I mourned for the young man who had died, but I was grateful that I had followed the promptings of the Spirit and the counsel of Church leaders.

“Bookworm! Bookworm!”
Katie pretended she didn’t hear Brian and Matt yelling. She hugged her books to her chest and walked faster, but the taunts still rang down the hall. “Bookworm! Bookworm!”
She felt her face getting hot, and she wanted to turn around and scream at them. Instead she half ran, half walked the rest of the way to the school library door, pulled it open, and slipped inside. She could still hear Brian and Matt laughing.
“Hi, Katie,” said Mrs. Reid. Katie thought it was funny for the librarian to be named Mrs. Reid.
“Hi,” said Katie softly, looking at the floor.
“What’s the matter, Katie?”
“Oh, just Brian and Matt. They were being mean again and calling me dumb names like ‘bookworm.’”
Mrs. Reid began to laugh. Katie looked up at her in surprise, and a sick feeling started in her stomach. “It isn’t funny!”
“Sure it is,” said Mrs. Reid, trying to stop her laughter. “I thought a bookworm was a squiggly bug that eats novels. And I have never ever seen you with your mouth full of pages!”
Katie looked down at the books in her arms and started to smile a little as she thought, What would those boys think if they saw me chewing up books and spitting out the covers? Aloud she said, “Mrs. Reid, you are the silliest grown-up I’ve ever met!”
“Sure,” said Mrs. Reid. “That’s one reason you like me. Now, can I show you my favorite book for this week? Or are you still reading the Black Stallion?”
“No, I finished it. It was as good as you said it would be!”
While Mrs. Reid went to get the book she had saved, Katie sat by one of the desks and looked at the new bulletin board. It said, BE KIND TO YOUR BOOKS.
Just last week Katie’s dad had said almost the same thing. Katie’s brother, Sam, had dropped his scriptures on the lawn after church. Dad had put his hands on his hips and said, “Samuel Jacob Rotheree, please take better care of my favorite books!”
Katie knew why they were Dad’s favorite books, even though they didn’t have shiny pictures on the covers like Mrs. Reid’s did. It was because they told about Jesus.
Mrs. Reid came back waving a new novel. “Wait until you read this, Katie!”
While Mrs. Reid was checking out the new book, Katie leaned against the desk. “Mrs. Reid,” she asked, “do you know about Jesus?”
Mrs. Reid looked surprised. “Well, sure. But I don’t think about Him much. Why?”
“Oh,” said Katie. “I just wondered.” She took the book and left the library. How could anyone not think about Jesus much?
That night when Katie was ready for bed, Dad came in to hear her say her prayers and tuck her in.
“Dad, Mrs. Reid says she doesn’t think about Jesus very much.”
Dad sat down on the edge of her bed. “Who is Mrs. Reid?”
“The school librarian. She’s really nice. She always saves her favorite books for me, and they’re good ones too. But she said she doesn’t think about Jesus. I thought everyone thought about Him.”
“Do you think about Jesus?”
“Yes.” Katie looked at the picture of Jesus she had hung on the wall. “I love Him because He is so kind.”
Dad squeezed her hand and smiled. “Why else do you love Jesus?”
Katie squinted her eyes and thought. “Well,” she said slowly, “because I like to read stories about Him—like when He went to see the Nephites and blessed all the little children.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Reid knows that story.”
Suddenly Katie felt excited. She sat straight up in bed. “Yeah, Dad! What if she doesn’t know that story? Can I take her a Book of Mormon?”
Dad was really smiling now. “Sure—that’s a good idea. I’ll tell you what, Katie. I have a brand new copy of the Book of Mormon that you can give her. I’ll get it for you.” In a few minutes he came back with a blue Book of Mormon that had a picture of the Angel Moroni on the cover. He suggested that Katie write her testimony in the front of it.
For a long time Katie chewed on the end of her pencil and tried to think of what to write. Finally she carefully wrote:
Dear Mrs. Reid,
This is my favorite book because it tells about Jesus. Jesus is Heavenly Father’s Son, and I love Him. I hope you love Him too. I love you, Mrs. Reid.
Your friend, Katie Rotheree.
When she finished writing, she felt warm, happy, and sleepy. Dad hugged her tight and said, “I’ll wrap it for you.”
The next morning Katie walked slowly to the library. She wondered if Mrs. Reid would like her present. Katie was so nervous that she almost didn’t want to give it to her anymore.
Brian and Matt came around the corner and saw her. “Hey! It’s the bookworm!” Matt sang out.
Katie ran to the library. Taking a deep breath, she walked right up to Mrs. Reid and held out the Book of Mormon.
“Good morning, Katie,” said Mrs. Reid. “What’s this?”
“My favorite book,” said Katie. “I want to give it to you so you can read it too.”
The librarian unwrapped the package, opened the book, and read what Katie had written. Then she closed the book and looked into Katie’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’ll read it. And, Katie, I love you too.”
The warm feeling Katie had had the night before came back, only stronger. She felt as if she could hug the whole world.
The warning bell was ringing as Katie waved good-bye to Mrs. Reid and went back out into the hall.
“Hi, bookworm,” said Brian as he and Matt walked past her.
Katie felt so good that she just giggled. Brian and Matt looked surprised. “I am a bookworm!” she said. “Do you want to see me eat books?”
Brian and Matt looked at her, then at each other. Suddenly all three of them were laughing and hurrying together down the hall to class.