Gospel Story Finder

Christmas was coming, and Miguel’s teacher was talking about his school’s annual holiday food drive. “Our goal is to collect two thousand pounds of food—a whole ton—to share with others who are less fortunate,” Mrs. Stevens said. “We’ll need everyone’s help to gather that much.”
As he trudged home after school, Miguel wondered what he could take for the food drive. His father was away again, harvesting crops for others. He sent money from time to time, but often they had to get along on what his mother earned cleaning houses. Sometimes the tiny cupboards in their trailer were almost bare. But Miguel knew that other families in the trailer park had even less.
He unlocked the trailer, shrugged off his backpack, and opened the kitchen cupboard. He found rice, some beans, tomato sauce, a few cans of soup, a sack of cornmeal, and some canned corn.
When his mother returned from work, Miguel told her about the food drive. “It’s to help poor people,” he explained.
“Of course we must give something,” she said. She handed him a can of refried beans. “Take this.” The can weighed one pound twelve ounces. Miguel put it into his backpack so he wouldn’t forget to take it to school.
Gradually the pile of food in the corner of the classroom grew into a small pyramid. Every day the class divided ounces into pounds and added up the new total. As often as he could, Miguel brought something else from the cupboard in the trailer. Mamá was happy for him to help the poor with whatever they could spare.
One night Mamá came home especially tired. She put a big brown sack on the tiny kitchen table. “Is something wrong, Mamacita (Mama)?” Miguel asked.
“The Ostermans are going to Florida for the holidays,” she said, “and they won’t need me to work for three weeks. But look at what I have! Mrs. Osterman gave it to me.” She pulled a shiny oval can out of the bag.
“Ham?” Miguel licked his lips as he studied the colorful picture on the can. Then he read the label. “Ten whole pounds! Caramba (Wow)!”
“We’ll eat it on Christmas Eve,” Mamá said. “Let’s invite Tía (Aunt) Margarita to join us. She has no one to enjoy the holiday with.” Tía Margarita was not really Miguel’s aunt, but she lived in the trailer next door and often visited Miguel and his mother.
“Will we have a Christmas tree?” he asked.
“Our home is small, my son, but look!” She pointed out the window to the tall scraggly pine tree near the entrance to the trailer park, decorated with a few strings of lights. “We have a huge, beautiful Christmas tree right there.”
Miguel looked at the canned ham almost every day. A thought was growing in his mind. The night before the last day of school, he asked, “Mamá, are we poor?”
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she smiled at him. “Of course not, mi hijito (my son). We have a cozy place to live, we have food in our cupboard, I have work; and best of all, we have each other. We are rich.”
“But, Mamá, about the ham …” Miguel hesitated and swallowed hard. “I want to give it to the food drive.”
“But why, Miguel? Don’t you want it for our special dinner?”
Miguel hugged her. “Yes, Mamacita, but—but I want to do more to help the poor people.”
“Of course, of course,” she said, hugging him back. “Take it tomorrow. I am pleased that you are so generous. I will make your favorite chili tacos for Christmas Eve, instead, and we can pretend that they are full of ham. Tía Margarita will think that we are doing the right thing too. Now it is time for me to say the blessing on our supper.” Miguel bowed his head. “We are thankful for this food,” she prayed. “We are grateful that we have enough to share. …”
The next day, after his mother left to clean for the Maxwell family, Miguel slid the ham into his backpack. It thudded against his back as he jogged to school, but he didn’t mind. “Look what I have brought for the food drive,” he said to Mrs. Stevens as he placed the shiny oval can carefully on her desk.
“How generous, Miguel! Are you sure you should give this away?”
Miguel nodded. “The poor people need it,” he said.
Late that afternoon the principal reported that more than a ton of food had been collected by the students. “I’m so pleased!” he announced. “Because of you, many of your neighbors will have a happier holiday.”
Miguel felt cheerful until his mother returned from work with bad news. “Mrs. Maxwell’s grandchildren are coming to visit for the holidays,” she said. “She won’t need me for two weeks. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid, Miguel. Maybe your father will send money soon, but we can’t count on it. He does his best, but he has to live too.” Then she smiled. “But we will have our special dinner with Tía Margarita. That will make a special Christmas treat for us, sí (yes)?”
While Miguel was washing the dishes after their supper, he heard footsteps outside. Someone was running near the trailer. He opened the door and peered into the darkness.
“Mamá, come quick! There’s something by our door.”
Miguel and his mother lifted two large boxes into the kitchen. Food spilled out of them—potatoes, rice, canned fruit, soup, flour, sugar, oranges, tuna fish. At the bottom of one box, he saw a familiar shiny oval can. “How can this be?” he asked. “I gave our ham away. Now it has come back to us.”
“I don’t know, Miguel. Someone must think we need it.”
“But we don’t, Mamá. Not nearly as much as some others. You said yourself we are rich. We must find someone who really needs the ham.”
“You are right, Miguel. Let’s do that,” she replied.
They put on their coats and stepped outside into the frosty night air. Miguel cradled the ham gently against his chest like a newborn babe.
The trailer park was quiet, and the windows of the neighbors’ homes glowed softly in the dark. Miguel and his mother walked from door to door until they came to a trailer where a little boy opened the door. His eyes grew wide when he saw the ham.
“For us?” he asked.
Miguel smiled and handed it to him. “For you,” he said.
The boy’s mother came to the door and thanked them, tears shining in her eyes. Miguel’s mother put an arm around him, and together they hurried home through the cold, feeling warm inside.
On Christmas Eve, Miguel, his mother, and Tía Margarita sat down to their chili tacos and laughed together. Miguel thought of the little boy with the ham and the people at school who would have a happier holiday because of what the class had shared. He knew then that giving had made Christmas better for everyone.

Some years ago, I was traveling in the Democratic Republic of the Congo with other Church leaders. We had been driving in complete wilderness when we suddenly hit a big bump in the road. Our driver struggled to steady the truck, but it landed on its side.
After we pulled ourselves from the wrecked truck, we said a prayer of gratefulness that no one was seriously injured. Then we set out on foot to find help. We came to a small village and explained our predicament. The villagers told us that sometimes it was possible to make a call on a cell phone by climbing one of the tall anthills nearby.
We climbed one of the anthills, but there was no signal. We tried again with the same result. Finally, on the eighth or ninth anthill, we were able to detect a small signal by raising the cell phone high in the air. We were able to get help.

Latter-day Saints are weird.
I mean that in a nice way. After all, my best friend and next-door neighbor, Ben Blanchard, is a Latter-day Saint, and he’s great. Ben has a wild sense of humor, is good at sports, and likes to build model cars and planes, just like me. The rest of his family’s pretty neat too. Mr. Blanchard is a whiz at repairing bikes and go-carts and other mechanical things. Mrs. Blanchard makes scrumptious pies and cakes. Becky’s OK, Joel’s not bad for a baby, and Tom, who’s just younger than Ben, is all right too.
So, they’re a nice family, just a little weird. Like on Mondays. Not long after we moved into the neighborhood, I went over to play at the Blanchard’s one Monday night after dinner.
“I can’t,” Ben said when he came to the door.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m doing stuff with my family,” he said.
“Like what?” I asked.
Ben shuffled a little and looked flustered. “Well, on Mondays we have family night. We sing, have a lesson, play games, and have a treat. It’s churchy.”
“Oh,” I said. “Every Monday?”
“Every Monday.”
I wouldn’t mind the games and treats, but I don’t sing, and a lesson sounds boring. Sometimes Ben tells me about the lessons. Once he went through the whole day at school being real polite and not cracking his usual jokes about the teachers.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as we got on the bus. “Are you sick?”
Ben looked put out. “We had a lesson last night about being kind and thoughtful and had to set goals for the week. I’m trying to be more considerate of my teachers.”
“Oh” was all I could say.
Soon I could tell when Ben had a family-night goal to be considerate, or to say thank you all the time, or to pick up litter, or to get to bed early, or to watch out for his younger brothers. He would act really strange for a week or two, then gradually slip back toward his old ways.
Sometimes the Blanchards went places on Monday nights. The next day I’d ask Ben where his family had gone, and he’d say to visit his aunt or to pick apples for Church welfare or to a widow’s house to weed her garden.
One Monday in November I was helping my dad change the oil in the car when the Blanchards drove off, then came back so quickly that I couldn’t figure out where they could have gone.
“Where’d you go last night?” I asked Ben the next morning.
He got a funny look on his face. “Oh, somewhere,” he answered.
I couldn’t believe it. Ben always told me where they went! “What is this, some kind of secret mission?”
Ben half-laughed, half-choked, “Sort of.” He looked behind him and then leaned toward me and whispered, “Becky made me promise not to tell anyone.”
I spent the next week trying to puzzle out what the Blanchards could have done that Becky wouldn’t want anyone to know about. Had they discovered gold or silver? Were they rehearsing a circus act? Or maybe they were plotting to take over the world!
The next Monday the Blanchards stayed home. I was outside with Dad again, helping him replace the porch light. We were nearly done when a car came up the street. I was instantly alert because we live on a dead-end street, and we hardly ever get strange cars on it. Even more mysterious, this car was creeping along at a snail’s pace. As soon as the car passed our driveway, its headlights blinked off. But the car kept on going and stopped just beyond the Blanchard’s house.
I nudged Dad. “Something fishy’s going on here,” I whispered.
We tiptoed to the hedge that divides our property from the Blanchards’ and watched. A figure got out of the car and crept up the driveway to the Blanchard’s porch. He—or she or it—placed something by their door, pressed the doorbell, and scooted down the driveway.
Dad squeezed through the hedge and grabbed the skulker’s jacket. “What are you doing?” he asked.
I squeezed through the hedge, too, and ran up to the door while Dad marched the boy—we could tell that much now—up the driveway behind me.
By the time Dad got to the door, Ben and the rest of his family were crowding around the door, wide-eyed.
“Do you know this boy?” Dad asked.
“It’s Frank Adams,” Mr. Blanchard told us.
Frank was absolutely crimson. He bent down and picked up a plate of cookies. On top of the cookies was a ghost shape cut out of paper. “I just left these,” he explained weakly.
The Blanchards all whooped with laughter. “He was phantoming us!”
“Huh?” Dad and I stared at each other.
“Can I go?” Frank looked desperately at Dad. “Mom’s in the car and probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”
Dad let go of Frank’s jacket. “Sorry. I was just trying to watch out for my neighbors,” he said, shaking his head as Frank rushed down the driveway.
I was dying of curiosity. “What was he doing?”
Becky sighed. “Different families in our ward—our church congregation—have been going around on Mondays and secretly leaving treats on other people’s door-steps. We say that the Family Night Phantom left them.”
Dad and I stared at each other again and raised our eyebrows.
“Better cookies than vandalism,” Dad finally said with a shrug.
“I bet that’s what you were doing last week. Right?” I asked Ben.
He nodded, embarrassed.
As Dad and I walked home, I thought again how weird Latter-day Saints were. Who else would leave cookies and stuff at people’s houses without being seen? Crazy!
The next Monday night our doorbell rang. Mom, Dad, and Tina were all watching TV, so I went to see who was there.
Nobody was there! At first I thought it was somebody’s idea of a dumb joke. Then I looked down. The Blanchards had phantomed us! They’d left a plate of brownies and a silly drawing of a ghost.
Nutty, right? Absolutely nutty. But I must say, the brownies were delicious. Maybe family night phantoms aren’t so weird after all.

My best friends from school were trying out for a competitive soccer league. The tryouts were on Sundays. My mom told the coach that I was not going to try out for the team because the tryouts were on Sundays, which is our Sabbath day. The coach called back a few days later and said he had scheduled a special Wednesday tryout for me. I made the team. I know Heavenly Father blesses us when we keep the Sabbath day holy.

Ray Ivie is also the Scoutmaster of Troop 477 chartered to the 77th Ward of the Orem Utah South Stake. A couple of years ago he and his Scouts had built some pioneering projects, lashing poles together with rope to form furniture, camp equipment, even towers.

“We had poles and ropes,” he said. “And we’d been talking about a river trip, but we didn’t have any canoes. One of the projects mentioned in the pioneering merit badge book is to build a raft. I don’t think they had anything elaborate in mind, but it started me thinking, hey, we could do that; it wouldn’t cost much.”

That’s what happens when an engineer gets loose. Soon the boys in Brother Ivie’s troop were fashioning willow sticks into model rafts.

“We did some calculating of flotation needed for the weight we planned to carry, what we’d need to do in terms of water displacement,” Brother Ivie said. “We figured out that inner tubes would give adequate flotation, and we found some businesses where tubes with holes in them were just throw-aways. For the cost of patching materials and the time spent a couple of Saturdays fixing the tubes, we had the materials we would need.” The two-level rafts were designed with inner tubes lashed together underneath a log framework.

“The whole principle of pioneering is to use what’s available,” Brother Ivie added. “Teaching the boys about that is much more valuable than hiring some commercial company to ferry them down the river. And when you know you’re going to be floating on your own raft, you make sure it’s well built. It’s not like some tower you sit on for a minute. If a raft falls apart, you’re in the drink.”

After reviewing safety procedures and checking with Green River (Utah) State Park officials, Troop 477 set sail in the summer of 1983. The trip was so memorable that Brother Ivie and his boys automatically talked with friends and family about what they had done, inviting others to go with them the next year. Brother Ivie gave them copies of his assembly and instruction manual, “The PT-13 (Patrol Transport, 13-tube, 13-foot pole, Live-aboard Ship).” By the following summer, two more troops (from the Orem 15th and 27th Wards) manning a total of five rafts were scheduled for the second flotilla.

They would test a stretch of the Green originally explored by another river lover, John Wesley Powell, at identically the same time of year that the Powell expedition came through the area in July 1869.

“The Indians called it a river of no return. They told Powell that around a bend in the river there were mighty falls,” Michael Weatherred, 13, explained. “So every time his explorers went around a bend, they’d get nervous. I bet they took time to pray they’d be all right. They were glad when they got through that they’d never met up with the supposed falls.”

The Scouts and their leaders arrived in the town of Green River on a Monday morning and started building the rafts at a state park where a boat ramp provides easy access to the river. It took a little longer than expected to assemble everything. In fact, launching was delayed until the following morning. But once underway it didn’t take long for the fun to begin.

“It was like a moving summer camp,” said Brother Ivie’s 13-year-old son, Brian. “You didn’t have to worry about getting bored. The scenery was always changing.”

The Green River Canyon is a place where the earth gets down to basics. Rock and water, water and sand, sometimes some red rock to add brightness to the land. The Missouri-wide water twists through curve after wandering curve, past side canyons where Indian petroglyphs and explorer’s signatures are etched in the stone of thousand-foot cliffs reaching to a cloudless blue sky.

“It’s such a big place,” said Adam Pitcher, 13. “A massive river, massive canyons, huge rocks. How could there ever be so much rock in one place? It’s strange to imagine a place so big, but so empty.”

“It’s kind of nice to watch the world’s history book open up as you go down the different layers,” said Brother Ivie’s other son, 14-year-old Richard. “Those rocks must be some of the oldest rocks in the world. It makes you think back to the creation. You look from the beginning back up to the tops of the cliffs.”

And then there was always the water. If you got hot or bored you just jumped in the river.

“My dad, my brother Richard, and I would all go floating at the same time,” said Chris Higbee, 12. “At night, Dad and I would sleep next to each other on the deck and Richard would sleep up on the second level. We’d just lie there and talk to each other. It was neat. I’ll tell my kids about it some day.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw my Scoutmaster dive off the second deck,” said Andrew Owens, 12. “I didn’t know he could be crazy like that. But he got right in there and did the same things we did. He likes to have fun, too.”

Jim Oldroyd, 12, told of running across flat places on the bank where silt had accumulated.

“At first it was solid, but then we’d keep running on it and it turned into mud,” he said.

“The mud’s buoyant, so you can’t sink, and it’s a lot warmer than the water, because it’s been out in the sun. A warm mud bath was just the thing to get rid of mosquitoes,” Richard Ivie said. “Of course, when you got out you looked like a chocolate statue.”

Mosquitoes were a constant plague to the adventurers. “They were the worst where there were plants and bushes,” said Scott Hafen, 14. “When we tried to pull in to shore and tie up, they’d mob us. And they’d buzz and bite all night long while we were trying to sleep.”

But despite the whining attacks of buzzbombing mosquitoes, everyone who floated the Green would return home enchanted. They’d tell of visiting Geyser Springs and Anvil Bottom, of renaming Trinity Alcove “Cobra Swamp,” in honor of the shape of a nearby rock formation. They’d brag of their climb up the steep sides of Bowknot Bend, where fast winds snatched some of their hats and tossed them thousands of feet down the canyon. And they’d tell how the river makes a nine-mile elbow to come back within 600 yards of where it started.

Jason Von Zomeren, 16, would remember how he cooled off watermelons by floating them next to him in the river. Scott Hanson, assistant adviser to the teachers quorum in the 27th Ward, would remember demonstrating his black powder rifle, teaching the young men how to load and shoot it. Months later he would still be talking about how the river trip had taught everyone to reach out to others.

“It’s a lot easier to get your boat to shore if there’s someone there to throw a line to,” he said.

Even though the Green River seems to meander, the current at the center is an express lane. At the end of four days, the rafts had traveled 68 miles. It was time for the Friday night campfire, the closing ceremony of the trip.

Each boy’s parents had sent a letter for him to read.

“We read the letters and then just thought for a few minutes. Then we bore our testimonies to each other and said how much we’d grown closer by working together,” said Jeff Barrett, 14. “People don’t always tell you how they feel right at the time, but we all did. You told everybody how you felt.”

He remembered one special incident from the trip:

“When we were coming in the last night, there was a storm and it was blowing. We all tried to row against the current and the wind. Our two leaders, the Scoutmaster and my dad, were wearing themselves out trying to get the boat in. We had to take everything down that would prevent us from getting to shore. If we missed the landing, we’d be gone down river for 70 miles more. So we said a prayer for help. After that, the wind died down for a minute and the rain stopped. We made it in before it started up again.”

The next morning, as tubes were deflated and lashings untied, as rafts became mere piles of poles to be loaded onto trucks, Brother Ivie said the journey down the Green could not have been better.

“To do a Tom Sawyer float is something every man dreams about some time in his life,” he said. “The reason I put in the hours I did was because I decided years ago that when my sons were in Scouting we’d do things together. Next year we’re going bicycling. But I can see a few years from now that I might get my daughters to build some rafts. Maybe we can take them down to Lake Powell and float next to the big houseboats.”

Isn’t that just the way Tom and Huck would discuss it?

When I was called to be a mission president, I was fearful that at a most critical time in the lives of my eight children I might not have sufficient time to be a good father. I had determined that being a father was as important a call from the Lord as being a mission president. That meant that even though I would dedicate myself to the mission, I would have to double my dedication as a father.
With that in mind, one of my first important tasks was to tie a big rope to a high limb on the huge ash tree that grew in our front yard and make a swing. With the swing came instant neighborhood friends for our younger children.
A few months after our arrival, we attended a mission presidents’ seminar. Each president was asked what he felt was the best idea he had put into practice so far in his mission. When my turn came, I said, “The best thing I’ve done so far is to build a swing.” Everyone laughed. I described the swing and explained that my major goal was to be a good father and that the swing was my symbol of this priority. The leader sustained my action.

My favorite experience with fasting involves a sweet elderly woman I home teach. She once had a stroke and ended up in the hospital. The doctors didn’t expect her to make a recovery and told us we should say our goodbyes.
We asked the ward to fast for her. I had already been fasting for her health and that I could accept God’s plan for her. Afterward, she made a miraculous recovery. It was a really special experience for me and strengthened my testimony a lot.
Michael D., 18, Minnesota, USA

When I retired from the Air Force, my desire for automotive was still alive but again I saw no chance to get in the automotive industry. I was a bishop in Redlands, California. We loved the area and the ward and looked hard for something to keep us there. I looked for more than 6 months and got very discouraged. During that time my mom passed away and I got to spend some great time with her. It was a great blessing to have time to share her final moments on this earth. She had done so much for me.

Finally during an interview with a company that I had little desire to work for the Spirit was intense – on several occasions. I was very surprised at its strength. An offer came and we would be required to move. We were not anxious to leave friends and the ward and move our children to a new school. But I knew I should accept the offer. I did not know which way the path would lead. I was reminded of Nephi’s words, “And I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do” (1 Nephi 4:6). I did not dare go against the Spirit – I had already tried that and will forever regret it. The Lord knows what is best for you. Follow the Spirit.

When the time came our home sold quickly and I went to work as the head of an engineering consultant group. When I got to work I found out that the company was going through hard times and within 6 months over half of our section of 53 people had lost their jobs including the Vice President that hired me and his boss. I had survived but what had I gotten myself into? Fortunately I was pulled into a small group that was pursuing new business – providing manufacturing systems to the automotive air bag industry. This was a venture that was totally out of the character of our company but provided a wonderful opportunity for me. We were incredibly successful. We won contracts with every major automotive airbag producer. I got to lead efforts to design production lines, design a lights out plant, and finally to provide a production line to the leading automotive airbag supplier. The desires of my heart were being fulfilled in a way that I could not have imagined.

Anna Lisa sat dejectedly in her Aunt Lois and Uncle Owen’s house and worried about her father. He was in a hospital far away getting a new heart so he could be healthy. Her mother was with him, and her aunt and uncle were taking care of her.

Aunt Lois was sewing, Uncle Owen was watching a football game, and Anna Lisa had nothing to do. It was Sunday, but her aunt and uncle didn’t go to church. No one offered to take Anna Lisa, so she stayed home too. Anna Lisa sighed.

"Why don’t you go downstairs and snoop around? There are some old toys and books down there," Aunt Lois said. She must have read her mind—or heard her sigh.

Anna Lisa made her way down the rickety stairs to the basement, which smelled cool and damp and musty and was full of all kinds of things. There was an old washing machine, several trunks, various pieces of furniture, and lots of boxes. At first she didn’t see the toys or books, but then she noticed a box with BOOKS written on the side. She opened it carefully and found a treasure—dozens of children’s books. Anna Lisa read all afternoon until Aunt Lois called her for supper.

As Anna Lisa put the books back in the box, she saw another book that caught her attention. It read Book of Mormon on the cover, but it didn’t look like the one her mom and dad owned. This one was a gold color with black letters, and its pages were uneven on the sides and crinkly. She decided to take it upstairs.

"You must have found something interesting down there," Aunt Lois said as she dished up a bowl of tomato soup in the kitchen.

"I found a box of books."

"Your mother has told me how much you like to read. I’m glad you found something good."

That night in bed, Anna Lisa looked at the Book of Mormon. There were no chapters or verses—just paragraphs like other books. Anna Lisa tried to read some of it, but it was hard for her, and she finally put it aside.

The next evening, Anna Lisa showed the book to Uncle Owen as he sat reading the newspaper. "Have you read it?" she asked him.

"No, I never did. When your mom and dad joined the Church they gave us a Book of Mormon. But we were busy with our trucking business, and I wasn’t interested. This one must have been in our basement for years. Maybe missionaries brought it to my grandparents."

"It’s hard for me to read," Anna Lisa said. "My dad reads to me sometimes from the Book of Mormon. Could you read some of it to me?"

Uncle Owen looked at his newspaper, and Anna Lisa knew that he’d rather read that, but he looked at her with a kind face as if he knew she was missing her dad. He smiled and opened the book.

"What part should I read?"

Anna Lisa snuggled up next to her uncle. "Well, I’ve heard the first part a lot, about Nephi and his brothers and crossing the sea. Why don’t you just open it up in the middle—it will be a surprise."

Uncle Owen smiled at her and opened to the middle. He began to read.

"‘Behold, he changed their hearts; yea, he awakened them out of a deep sleep, and they awoke unto God. Behold, they were in the midst of darkness; nevertheless, their souls were illuminated by the light of the everlasting word’" (Alma 5:7).

Anna Lisa sat up straight. "That’s what’s happening to my dad—a change of heart. And he said that they will put him in a deep sleep while it happens."

Uncle Owen laughed gently. "I think this is talking about a different kind of change of heart, like deciding to believe in God."

Anna Lisa leaned against Uncle Owen as he read more. She began to feel very sleepy, but as she dozed off a little, she could still hear Uncle Owen reading. Then he was silent, but when she looked up, she saw that he was reading to himself. And when Aunt Lois came and got her and led her up to bed, he was still reading. The next morning, when Anna Lisa went down to breakfast, he was still reading from the book.

"Did you read all night, Uncle Owen?" she asked.

"Well, no," he said, "but I read very late, and when I woke up I started reading again." He laid the book carefully on the table and came to breakfast, but after breakfast, he read some more. Anna Lisa was glad he liked the book so much.

That night her mother called and told her that her father was doing just fine, but he needed to stay in the hospital a little while longer. Anna Lisa sighed one of her big sighs. She wanted very much to see her parents again.

Every night that week, before Anna Lisa went to bed, Uncle Owen read to her from the Book of Mormon, and Aunt Lois sat and listened too. On Saturday night, Anna Lisa said, "Could we go to church tomorrow? I want to be in my Primary class."

"But you won’t know anybody. It won’t be your own class with your friends," Aunt Lois said.

"I know, but it will feel the same; people will be nice."

Uncle Owen and Aunt Lois looked at each other. Then Uncle Owen ruffled Anna Lisa’s hair. "OK. We’ll take you."

As Anna Lisa drifted off to sleep that night, she felt very happy. She knew there was more than one way to have a new heart. Maybe her uncle as well as her dad would receive one.

It certainly did in Dallas, Texas. A young woman in the Dallas Texas East Stake invited her non-LDS friend to be a part of their service celebration. Her non-LDS parents were passing by the stake center and wanted to see what their daughter was doing there. They came in, listened to the program, felt the light. “We want to become a part of your church,” they said afterwards. The missionaries are now giving them the discussions.

When I was young, I too wanted to prove myself through some heroic gesture. My great-grandfather, David Patten Kimball, was one of the young men who spent hours in the frigid Sweetwater River carrying members of the Martin Handcart Company across that icy water.34 That sounded like a significant kind of consecration. Later, as I visited with my grandfather, Crozier Kimball, he explained that when President Brigham Young had sent the men on their rescue mission, he had instructed them to do everything they possibly could to save the handcart company. Their consecration was specifically to “follow the prophet.” My grandfather told me that consistent, faithful dedication to one’s duty or to a principle is to be much admired. I now understand that as heroic as it was for David Patten Kimball to help rescue the pioneers, it would be equally heroic today to follow our prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, by striving to gather Israel on both sides of the veil and helping rescue them.

I still miss my brother, Sergio. He, my sister, and I were very close. We spent a lot of time together and had a lot of fun. We loved to play and joke around. Before Sergio went on his mission, he baptized me. Sadly, though, he passed away while serving in Peru.
I believe that Sergio is in a better place and that he is an angel. My sister, Ximena, and I feel blessed to have him as a brother, and our parents feel blessed to have him as a son. I know that he is waiting for us. We must put forth our best effort to become an eternal family so that we can all be together forever.
I know our Father in Heaven loves us and wants the best for us. I love my parents and my sister very much. I try to take care of them and help them however I can, including working with my parents in our family store.
Sometimes I still get sad, but I can’t stay that way because I know that Sergio is happy, that he is in a safe place, and that he is all right. He loves us and protects us.
I have faith that we are going to be together again and be an eternal family. This faith helps me to stay strong.
Ruth O.,14, Argentina

The youth I saw confined to a wheelchair was a startling contrast to the boy I remembered from the year before. I remembered him as a happy, 18-year-old Indian boy whose swift, strong legs had carried him up and down the basketball courts. But that was yesteryear. Today he was in a wheelchair. Today his dark eyes and handsome smile caused me to be amazed at his youthful courage.
I first met Don a couple of years ago and learned that he was a convert to the Church. His widowed mother lived in a remote section of the Navajo Indian reservation, and he was a participant in the Indian student placement program, a program that places Indian children and teenagers in foster homes during the school year so that they may get a better education. His school work was excellent; he played the piano skillfully; and with the same slim brown fingers he could paint beautiful pictures or strum the guitar in accompaniment to his clear soft voice. Don’s personality was pleasant, his standards were high, his testimony strong. He was soon to graduate from high school, and his plans were to spend a short time with his people on the reservation before returning to live with his foster parents, where he would work preparatory to receiving his expected call to the mission field.
Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a small truck with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he expressed the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor told this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he left the room he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was filled with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He eagerly read the words of this book for three days and two nights, resentful of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with his new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps away the feeling of unhappiness.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble prayers to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known cheerfully as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often sang as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for singing and entertainment and patients joined together with singing and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name.
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to get enough courage to ask the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special program was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song sung in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had affected the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had accepted the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the wind of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

My decision stunned my family. My older brother declared that if I went on a mission, I should not plan on having anything to do with my family in the future.
But as Nephi promised, the Lord prepared a way for me to do what He asked (see 1 Ne. 3:7). I left for the Taiwan Taichung Mission in May 1996. Right before I left, my brother held me in his arms and tearfully told me that he opposed my going because he hated to lose me. Throughout my mission, my family gave me their full support.
Serving a mission changed my life. I came to understand more clearly my relationship with Heavenly Father. My testimony grew, and the significance of the work, of bringing souls to Jesus Christ, became eternally impressed on my mind and heart.
What is most dear to me now that I have completed my mission is the promise I made to God that I would endure to the end. I remember my mission president’s words as a group of us were soon to be released. He said he wanted us to stay worthy so we could all be together again in heaven someday. I have thought of this challenge often, especially during times of trial.
My heart is filled with gratitude. I am grateful that God has protected me and provided me with learning experiences. Many of these experiences were surprising and unexpected, but they all have stretched me into becoming more like the servant of the Lord I so much want to be.

She also held her own with the other missionaries. Once, as a joke, two elders replaced her coconut’s natural water with regular water at breakfast. The joke “disappointed” Emma, but she paid the elders back by serving them coconut covered with salt instead of sugar.

Such joking aside, the missionaries had an immense respect for “Sister Purcell.” One missionary observed that she was “full of the spirit of her office and calling.” Another elder wrote with appreciation about her kindness. Once, Emma left some bananas along a trail so that he and his companion had something to eat while traveling.

Not long ago while sitting on the stand during the closing session of a youth conference, just as the young priest conducting the meeting stood to bring the meeting to a close, Kathy, sitting next to me, jumped up and unhesitatingly slipped in front of the young man, took her place at the pulpit, faced the audience, raised both hands in front of her with outstretched fingers, and said, “I’ll bet you’ve all been wondering why I’ve been wearing this ugly green nail polish.” A soft ripple could be heard across the audience, and I realized I was not alone in my curiosity.
“Well,” she said, “it’s like this: I knew my responsibilities as one of the leaders of this conference were big. I knew I had some real challenges ahead, and I didn’t want to be sorry after the chance was gone that I didn’t do what I really wanted to do.
“You see, I needed something that would remind me of what I really wanted to do and help me through the things I didn’t want to do. So I thought of a plan. And it worked! You see,” she went on, “I wanted something that would remind me of what I really wanted to make myself do. I knew my fingernails would always be right there.”
After further details, and bearing a strong testimony of the joy that comes when you do what you should, she took her seat. From this insight I was reminded of the message of the Apostle Paul as he was counseling the Corinthians:
“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things” (1 Cor. 13:11).
Kathy had helped us all understand the importance of reminders, but it was the combined voices of young people singing the closing song, resounding like a sacred sermon, that brought forth new appreciation for sacred reminders. They sang:
I marvel that he would descend from his throne divine
To rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine;
That he should extend his great love unto such as I,
Sufficient to own, to redeem, and to justify.
(“I Stand All Amazed,” Hymns, no. 80)

Later in the day the Dunns arrived. “We don’t get many General Authorities up here,” one boy explained as the group clustered on the shores of the lake waiting for the Dunns’ helicopter. “When they do come, we get excited.” The excitement was very real when the whirr of the propeller and the roar of the engine turned all faces skyward. As the Dunns stepped out of the craft, camera shutters clicked, handshakes were exchanged, and swarms of smiling people enveloped them. Suddenly a chorus of “Shall the Youth of Zion Falter” filled the air as everyone lifted their voices in unison. “Only in Alaska, only in Alaska,” murmured one boy almost to himself.
From that point on, the tenor of the conference intensified. A still-vibrant, but now-hushed feeling swept the crowd as they gathered in the sands with their backs to the shimmering sun and listened to Elder Dunn in the first of three addresses to them.
“I know that many of you have traveled long distances to come to this conference. Yet I get the feeling that it was all worth it,” Elder Dunn said, looking into their faces. “I think I see here spiritual eyes that are very comforting. I don’t have too much concern about the future when I can look out at such a sea of righteousness.”
He spoke and they listened. They listened until their hearts overflowed, the fullness glistening down sun-bathed cheeks. And then they listened some more. When it was time to climb back on the buses, many were reluctant to leave. Only the promise of hearing Elder Dunn the next day, Sunday, gave them the will to part.
Sunday began early, and many of the now-scrubbed faces were drooping a little as they entered the large cultural center on the university campus for church meetings. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over a month,” one girl on the planning committee later admitted quietly. But the tiredness almost felt good. It came from days filled to overflowing with Mormon-style work and fun.
It wasn’t long before the faces began to glow with spiritual awakening. The group divided for the first meetings. The boys met with Elder Dunn for a priesthood meeting in front of a huge mural of the Fairbanks countryside.
“Can you imagine,” he said, “what we could do if we took faith in God, confidence in self, and added that third ingredient—determination?” Then he answered his own question. “There isn’t a boy or a man in this room who couldn’t go all the way in doing anything he needs to do.”
Meanwhile the girls were meeting with Sister Dunn in the auditorium. The sweet spirit of womanhood at its best radiated from the girls as they listened to Sister Dunn bear her witness of the growth that can come through service in the kingdom.
“You know, girls, service is the only way to develop our capacities,” she said with quiet conviction. “The Lord wants us to grow and develop.”
From the third row a baby began to fuss and then cry. Sister Dunn paused for a moment, and everyone smiled as the mother offered the child comfort. Somehow it all seemed very right.
When the boys joined the girls in the auditorium for the final event of the conference, a three-hour testimony meeting, each paused for a moment in the greeting. The mysterious transformation that had occurred over the short night was most pleasing. Shirts and ties had replaced T-shirts, and soft dresses had replaced blue jeans. But the change was more than washing off the dirt and donning the Sunday best. They felt cleaner through and through. It was as if the words of the last night and the anticipation of the experience to come had brought a renewal of spirit, a new understanding of life.
As the meeting progressed, this renewal grew. Heart joined heart in a declaration of the power of righteousness that bowed many heads and filled many eyes. The lines of those waiting to bear testimony grew up the stairs the length of the auditorium.
“Do you know that the group sitting right here in this room could change the shape of Alaska?” Elder Dunn began the testimony bearing. “People want what you and I have if we are bold enough and courageous enough to share it with them. I’m just naive enough to think that you and I can convert the world.”
He spoke with boldness, and they answered with conviction.
“There is a feeling in this meeting that I can do anything that’s right,” one boy said, adding his testimony to Elder Dunn’s.
“I look around me and everyone is just sort of glowing,” observed one girl, her voice hushed in marvel.
And they did. It was a glow more beautiful than that of the midnight sun from the tallest mountain. It welled up from three days of nurturing and spilled over, moving all within its touch to swelling hearts and wet cheeks. Nonmembers stood to express their gratitude and testimonies in embryo. Adult advisers wept silently beside their youth. The Dunns watched in quiet wonder. And every heart joined in the silently resounding chorus, “His truth is marching on.”

So is his sense of humor. There is usually a smile on Si’s face, and he loves a good practical joke. When his mother went to the hospital once for her daily visit, she was in for a shock. Two hospital orderlies with very serious faces were sitting near Si’s room, and his door was closed. She opened the door and went in.
Si’s room was darkened, and he was covered with a white sheet. Anita’s heart faltered. She walked over and pulled back the sheet. Si was laughing! Then the orderlies came in, and they were laughing too.
Si is an inspiration to his whole family. His youngest sister, Barbie, reflects, “I was only five years old when the accident happened, so to me having Si like this is just a part of our way of life. It’s not a burden for us. I guess it would be if Si made a big fuss about it, but he doesn’t, so neither do I. Sometimes I wish I could make him better, but then I think no, because he’s blessed so many people’s lives. I do hope that sometime he’ll be well again. He’s really a great guy.”
Si’s father, Dr. Frank Peterson, concludes, “It’s unfortunate that he’s immobilized, but everything else about this has been positive. I’m proud of him.”
Si has a firm testimony, and he bears it frequently. His mother reads his lips and then gives voice to his feelings to the accompaniment of the rhythmic hum of his respirator.
“One of the main purposes of this earth life is to be tried, to prove ourselves worthy to return to our Heavenly Father, and so trials that come to us are an important part of our lives. Every one of us will be tried in one way or another. The important thing is how we accept our trials and grow from them. They can be stumbling blocks or stepping stones.
“I am grateful for my membership in the true and living Church, and I am grateful for the priesthood that I hold. I am grateful for my family who loves and supports me, and for the many others who help me so much. I know that my Heavenly Father lives and that he hears and answers my prayers. I am grateful for my Savior, Jesus Christ, and for his sacrifice for me. I know that my accident had a special purpose in my Heavenly Father’s plan for me.
“I feel fortunate that the trial I have been given is so obvious that I receive a lot of encouragement and help from many people. Your trials may be just as difficult as mine, but perhaps not as obvious, and so I pray that you will be able to accept them and have the strength to endure and grow from them.”
This thought is typical of Si Peterson. Trapped inside the prison of his own motionless body, with every possible excuse to turn his thoughts bitterly inward, his mind reaches out to others in prayer and service. Even lying flat on his back, he is a giant. Si Peterson—a typical young Latter-day Saint and a unique human being.

It’s no fun to want a dog more than anything else in the world and end up with a silly chicken. But that’s what happened to Peter.
“Poor little thing,” Aunt Helen said when she gave the poult to him. “A great big rat got into the coop and almost killed it. I told Mr. Raines I knew a boy who would love to take care of it.”
Peter mumbled, “Boy! Thanks a lot.”
“You’ll learn to love it, dear,” Aunt Helen said. “You’ll love it just because it belongs to you.”
“I could love you a lot more if you belonged to somebody else,” muttered Peter to the bird as he filled a can with fresh water.
The chicken stretched out its neck and pecked at the freckles on the back of Peter’s hand. “Ouch!” he yelled. “Talk about dumb.”
The chicken made a noise like a squeaky hinge. Peter poured some of the purple medicine his father had bought into the wound in the chicken’s side. After a few days, the chicken did look a little better. But it still walked like one leg was shorter than the other. That purple stain doesn’t help its looks much either, Peter thought.
“I can’t even give you a proper name,” Peter grumbled, “because I don’t know whether you’re a hen or a rooster. I guess you’ll just have to be plain Chicken.”
He put some food in another dish and sat down to watch it eat. “Boy, are you ugly,” he said. “It wouldn’t be so bad if you were a dog. An ugly dog would be better than no dog at all.”
Peter’s best friends Dick and Andy had dogs. Would they ever laugh if they found out about the chicken! But Peter was determined that they’d never find out. The old toolshed where he kept it was behind the garage, and they never went back there.
Then one day Peter’s father said, “You can’t keep that chicken penned up in the shed all the time. It needs to be out in the fresh air and sunshine. And it needs bugs and worms and gravel.”
So every day Peter took Chicken out for a short time and dug worms while the poult scratched around in the dirt. He was careful to keep Chicken in back of the shed though.
It wasn’t long until the bird began to wait for Peter. When the shed door opened Chicken half-flew to the shovel Peter was carrying and perched on top of the blade.
“Hey,” Peter would laugh. “That’s pretty clever.” But when Chicken tore after a butterfly and smashed headfirst into the fence, Peter would groan, “What a dumb chicken.”
When Chicken flew onto Peter’s shoulder and picked at the cracker he held in his mouth Peter said, “Not bad, Chicken.” But when Chicken swallowed one of Peter’s marbles and almost choked to death, Peter said, “Serves you right, stupid bird!”
As Chicken grew bigger and bigger, Peter had to spend more and more time exercising the bird. The chicken’s wound healed and it no longer limped.
Whenever Peter heard his friends Dick and Andy calling him from the front of the house, he hurriedly locked Chicken in the shed and ran to answer them. Then the three of them would take off on their bikes with Dick’s and Andy’s dogs running behind. Toby and Duke are sure swell dogs, Peter thought. How I wish I had a pet I could be proud of instead of an ugly, dumb chicken I have to keep out of sight.
One Saturday morning Peter hurriedly carried fresh water and feed out to the shed for Chicken. Dick and Andy would be along soon. The three of them were taking a picnic lunch down to the river on their bikes.
But when Peter got to the shed he found the door open, and the peg that held the hasp closed was lying on the ground. He had failed to push it in all the way the night before. Chicken was nowhere in sight, and Peter’s heart jumped to his throat. Maybe Chicken was out all night and wandered into the street and was run over! he worried.
Peter ran all around the yard, calling, “Here, Chicken! Here, Chicken! Where are you?” He was still on his hands and knees, crawling by the flower bed, when Dick and Andy rode up. “What in the world are you doing, Pete?” Dick asked.
Peter felt his face get hot. “I’m—I’m looking for a—a chicken,” he stammered.
“Looking for what!” the boys exclaimed.
“My pet chicken,” Peter answered, turning his head away.
The boys started laughing. “You mean you have a chicken for a pet?”
A surge of anger went through Peter. “Well, not an ordinary chicken!” he defended hotly.
Then he told them all about Chicken—how he had nursed it back to health, and how it rode on the shovel when he dug for worms, and how it ate a cracker out of his mouth.
“And besides,” he added, “Chicken is mine.”
“We’d better find your chicken before something happens to it,” said Dick.
The three boys rode around the neighborhood searching everywhere. “Here, Chicken! Here, Chicken!” they called.
Suddenly there was a loud squawking and a flutter of wings. Chicken flew clumsily from under a laurel hedge and landed on the handlebars of Peter’s bike.
“Chicken!” Peter cried. “You’re all right!”
The chicken stretched out its neck, looked into the boy’s face, and made a loud, squeaky noise that sounded like static.
The boys laughed and the chicken made the noise again, louder.
“You crowed!” exclaimed Peter. “You’re a rooster! I won’t have to call you Chicken anymore. And whether you’re a hen or a rooster doesn’t matter. From now on your name is Lucky, because it was lucky for both of us that I learned to love a chicken.”

Several years ago I traveled to Declo, Idaho, to speak at a Young Women camp. While I was there, the young women participated in an iron rod experience. When it got dark the young women were taken in groups and told to hold fast to the iron rod, which was a PVC pipe. They were led along a dark, narrow, steep trail. I joined a group of young women and held to the rod. A little girl who was there for the evening with her father and mother held on behind me. I could hear her little voice making comments to her mother as we stumbled through the dark holding fast to the rod. We stopped now and then to witness a spotlighted scene. One was a group of young people partying. There were definite signs of alcohol. The young people in the scene pointed at us and laughed and called us "goody goodies." They urged us to let go of the silly rod and come and join them in their fun. We held on tighter. We continued to move along the trail and viewed several other scenes until we came to a grandmotherly lady who was holding a plate of cookies. She said, "I have some delicious warm chocolate chip cookies. They are for you. All you have to do is to let go of the iron rod for only a minute and come and have one. They are so good." The little girl behind me said, "I bet she's lying. I bet those cookies have raisins in them instead of chocolate chips."

Later that night as I drove down the canyon with the little girl and her parents she suddenly blurted out, "I'm not safe anymore." I asked her why she wasn't safe. She answered, "I'm not holding onto the iron rod any more." I put her parents on the spot as I asked, "Do you have family scripture study?" She told me they had it every morning. "Good," I responded, "that means you're safe. Having scripture study is holding on to the iron rod." She gave a relieved sigh and sat back in her seat.