Gospel Story Finder

“Why won’t Grandma come to my baptism tonight?” Mark asked for the umpteenth time.
Mom wiped her floured hands on her apron and handed him a still-warm gingerbread man.
“Grandma’s not a member of our Church. She wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
“But why?” Mark persisted, plucking the raisin buttons off his cookie.
“I already asked her to come, Mark. She said no. That’s all we can do.”
Mark ate the raisins, then bit into his cookie.
“Maybe if I ask her, she’ll come.”
“Perhaps. But don’t get your hopes up.”
Mark dashed out the door and across the yard to his father’s woodworking shop. It was his favorite thinking place. Things were always happening there. The sound that the saw made meant that a new creation was beginning to take shape. The smell of varnish meant the completion of a new table or rocking horse.
Today the shop was empty of projects except for a small chair that his father was building for baby Emily. All that was left to do on it was to engrave her name and birthdate on the back. Mark had one just like it with his name and birthdate engraved on the back.
“Engraved! That’s it!” he shouted. His mother was always teasing him about needing to send him an engraved invitation to get him to the dinner table on time. He would give Grandma an engraved invitation to his baptism! Mark hurriedly examined his father’s scrap pile. He pulled out a block of wood, found the tools that he would need, and set to work.
Two hours later Mark got on his bike and raced the seven blocks to Grandma’s house. He hid his bike behind her neighbor’s tall hedge and crept around to her back door. He carefully placed the wood block on the stoop, knocked on the screen door, and darted back behind the hedge. He watched from there as Grandma opened the door and looked around the yard.
“Hello?” she called loudly. When no one answered, she turned to go back inside. Then she noticed the block. Mark watched anxiously as she picked it up, placed her reading glasses on her nose, and read the uneven gouges: “Grandma, Please come to my baptism. Love, Mark”
Grandma looked around the yard once more, then walked back into the house.
Mark hurried home, his heart beating in time with his frantic pedaling. He put his bike in the garage, then ran into the house.
“Mark, where have you been?” his mother scolded. “We have to be at the church in forty minutes.”
Mark bathed and dressed in record time. Before going downstairs, he got down on his knees and prayed: “Please, Heavenly Father, help Grandma to come to my baptism.”
“Time to go,” his father called.
Mark bounded down the stairs. Mother met him at the bottom and gave him a big hug. Just then the doorbell rang. When Dad opened the door, there was Grandma, standing stiffly in the doorway.
“I thought it would be easier if we all rode together,” she said.
“I knew you’d come!” Mark cried, throwing his arms around her.
“Well, I couldn’t ignore an engraved invitation,” she said with a wink.

It had been almost three months since the train of two-wheel handcarts had left for the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. Without enough money to buy teams and wagons, the emigrants had had their carts made in Iowa City. All their belongings were either loaded inside the carts or lashed to the sides of the carts. And every able-bodied person took his turn pushing and pulling them during the journey. Now the distant snow-topped mountains and the cooler nights warned the struggling band that they must waste no time, or winter would be upon them before they reached their destination.
Several fires for the evening meal had already been lighted, and all those old enough to help were busy at necessary tasks. Some of the men were greasing axles; others were repairing carts, a number of which were almost beyond repair. A few men with guns fanned out from the campsite, hoping to obtain game. Women were dipping meal from wooden casks, in some cases scraping the bottoms.
Ben Ashford, large for a twelve-year-old, walked cautiously along the almost dry creek bed. He was a good shot, and he hoped that he might scare up a jackrabbit, because the Ashford provisions were very low.
Hearing a low moan, Ben stopped and quietly looked around. The sound came again. Certain that it was a person making the noise, Ben ran back to camp shouting, “It sounds like somebody’s hurt down in the creek bed!”
“You must be hearing things, Ben. There’s nobody within miles of here,” said his father.
“Well, it could be an animal, but it sounds like a person … Honest!”
Taking the gun from Ben, his father called to two other men, “Bring your guns—the boy thinks there’s a person or a beast down in the creek bottom.”
The men stopped and listened intently as they approached the creek bed. From a cavelike hole in the bank came the sound of a barely audible moan. Brush and grass had been drawn over the opening, and while Ben’s father jerked off the brush, the others stood ready to shoot.
Glaring at them from inside the opening was a young Indian boy with a sharp pointed stick in his left hand. Blood covered his right shoulder and arm. After making signs to the boy that he wouldn’t be harmed, the men helped him from his hiding place.
Back at camp when Ben’s mother dressed the boy’s wounded shoulder, he didn’t even whimper.
There were only a few dried berries and a small serving each of oatmeal porridge for supper, but Ben’s family shared what they had with the Indian lad. As the boy began to recover, they talked kindly to him and learned that his name was White Cloud. Slowly he began to trust them, especially Ben. With signs and a few English words, White Cloud told them that he and a friend had been picking mountain berries and had gone too far from their camp. His friend had been killed, and he himself had been grazed by a bullet and had escaped by running down to the creek bed and hiding there.
“We’d better post an extra guard tonight,” advised Sandy McIntire, the camp leader, when he saw the boy. “Although we’ve had friendly relations with the Indians so far, White Cloud’s people might suspect us of shooting the boys.”
With the first light of dawn, the camp was stirring. Weeks before, Ben had discovered a bee tree not far from one of their camps. The honey had been shared, and Ben’s mother had used theirs on special occasions. Now Ben grinned broadly when he saw his mother drop a little of the precious sweet into their breakfast porridge.
After a prayer for help and guidance, the carts rolled forward. Mr. Ashford took the shafts to begin pulling the cart. His wife ducked under the cart handle to add her strength beside her husband. With Ben, his younger brother, and the Indian boy pushing from behind, the Ashford cart moved steadily over the rough, rock-strewn trail.
Without warning, White Cloud stumbled and fell, and Ben called for his parents to stop. The Indian boy made no complaint as he struggled to his feet, and when Ben’s father started to lift him onto the cart, he pulled back and shook his head violently. By not helping to push, he was able to walk along at their slower pace.
The sun was just slipping over the horizon when several mounted Indians appeared, riding out from behind a bold outcrop of rock just ahead. The carts were stopped, and an order was quickly given to remain calm and to display no firearms.
The Ashford cart was near the front of the line where they could clearly see the approaching Indians, and White Cloud recognized them at once. He cried out, pointed to himself, and ran weakly toward the braves. The riders broke into a gallop, then slowed down and stopped upon reaching the boy. The leader dismounted, and for a long moment the train waited while man and boy talked. Then, remounting with the boy behind him, the leader approached the carts with his hand raised, palm out. Ben’s father and Sandy McIntire stepped out to meet him.
“I am Walking Horse. You helped White Cloud, my son. We want peace with you.”
“We are your friends,” Ben’s father responded.
White Cloud’s good arm was held tightly about his father’s waist as they rode away.
Ben said slowly, “I’m glad I found White Cloud. I only wish he could have stayed with us long enough for us to have become good friends.”
Relieved by the outcome of the meeting, Sandy McIntire waved for the emigrants to move out, saying, “We’ll stop for the night as soon as we reach water.”
They made camp in an open space by a little brawling stream. All were exhausted from pulling and pushing the carts, often uphill. Two men had circled out ahead of the train to search for game but returned empty-handed. Suddenly two Indians on horseback entered the little valley.
Ben, who was watching anxiously, exclaimed, “It’s Walking Horse!”
Walking Horse was leading a heavily ladened pack horse. The second rider was also leading a pack animal. The members of the emigrant train were speechless as the Indians unfastened the pack horses’ lashings and dropped two elk at the feet of Ben’s father and Sandy McIntire.
Ben’s father responded instantly: “We are grateful. Our people are hungry. God be with you.”
“White Cloud said you have no meat. Now you have meat.” Walking Horse raised his hand slowly in a sign of peace. He touched his heel to his horse’s flank, and the two Indians and their horses were soon out of sight.

Last year I picked out a book at the library about a girl who started a blog. I thought it would be a fun book because the main character was the same age as me, and my mom is a blogger. So I thought it would be a book I could relate to.
I had only read a few pages of the book when the girl took the Lord’s name in vain. I didn’t feel very good inside after I read that part. But I kept reading, hoping it was just a one-time thing. I read a few more pages, and she said it again.
I went and told my mom about what I’d found. I didn’t know if I should keep reading or not. My mom told me it was my choice. But she agreed it probably wasn’t a good thing to keep reading if the girl was saying things we knew to be wrong. My mom said that it especially wasn’t good if she was taking the Lord’s name in vain.
I thought I would see if it happened more, so I flipped through the book. I found that taking the Lord’s name in vain was the way this girl regularly talked. I decided to return the book to the library without reading any more.
I felt sad that the author of the book took the Lord’s name in vain. But after I returned the book to the library, I felt happy that I made the right choice. I know I was following “My Gospel Standards” from my Faith in God book that says, “I will only read and watch things that are pleasing to Heavenly Father.” I know we are only supposed to use the names of Heavenly Father and Jesus reverently and with respect.

Christmas that year had promised to be one of our best ever. Jim had graduated from dental school earlier in the year, and we had expected that he would open his own office soon and that we would have plenty of money for a wonderful Christmas. I dreamed of new clothes, new Christmas decorations, fruitcake baking in the oven, and gifts for everyone.
Instead, our lives were in turmoil for months. It had been more difficult than I had imagined to leave our cozy apartment and good friends and move to a different part of the country. The move had depleted what was left of our scanty bank account, and new bills were piling up.
Then I became pregnant with our second child, nearly lost the baby, and was required to severely limit my activities. Jim was gone for what seemed endless hours, working late night after night trying to get the new business ready to open. When he was home, he was cheerful and good company, but I had never felt so alone.
The business finally opened its doors in November—one month later than we had planned—which left us behind on paying our bills. Earlier in the year, we had comforted ourselves with the belief that by this time, money would be coming in from Jim’s new dental practice. But it wasn’t happening yet. We had little money for food—and no money for anything extra.
I became more depressed as Christmas approached. We squeezed a few dollars from the budget to buy some storybooks and a toy for our eighteen-month-old son, Erik. I told myself that gifts under the tree were of no real importance, and that the spirit of Christmas was what truly mattered. But I just couldn’t feel that Christmas spirit.
I gift-wrapped the books and the toy and placed them under our much-used, second-hand artificial Christmas tree. We set up our cardboard Nativity scene and strung a few mismatched ornaments around the room.
When Christmas morning arrived, we carried Erik to the tree to open his presents. There was a lump of sadness in my throat as he opened his gifts. Where was the joy I was supposed to feel?
Then Jim put his arm around my shoulders and placed a small package on my lap. My fingers trembled as I tore away the wrapping paper and found a red velvet box. I couldn’t believe it! Only expensive gifts came in boxes like that. Where could Jim have found the money?
As I opened it, my heart seemed to stop. Inside was the pendant Jim had given me for an earlier Christmas, before we were married. With it was a note: “With love—again. Jim.”
My eyes filled with tears as I realized that the pendant represented his love for me. The ache in my heart vanished and was replaced by a feeling of inexpressible love and joy. I felt the spirit of Christmas at last.
I will never forget the lesson a compassionate husband taught me that Christmas morning—that love is the most precious gift of all.

My parents, Apparecido and Mercedes, came from different religious backgrounds, but their life experiences prepared them to accept the restored gospel.
My father was raised in a good family but not religious. Nevertheless, as a young man he was interested in religion. He read the Bible, attended Bible classes, and studied the life of Jesus Christ. His studies caused him to have great interest in both the Savior’s gospel and the family, leaving him with a desire to marry someone of like mind.
By contrast, my mother came from a deeply religious family. They embraced gospel principles, attended church services, and faithfully practiced their religion. Growing up in that environment, my mother became the type of person who never missed a church meeting.
And so, after my parents married and my three brothers and I came along, they did their best to raise us within the light of their knowledge of gospel principles. One day my aunt, who was an inactive member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, said to my father, “You have four boys, dear. If you really want to raise a family centered in Christ and have God in your family, you need to go to my church.”
My father heard what she said, but he didn’t take any action until the day the full-time missionaries tracted in our neighborhood, knocked on our door, and began teaching us. He quickly realized that they represented the church my aunt had encouraged him to investigate.
One of the things that initially interested my parents in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ is the importance the Church places on the family and the teaching that “much of God’s work of salvation and exaltation is accomplished through the family.” Before they were baptized, my parents were so impressed with what they were learning that they invited neighbors to join them for the missionary lessons.
As they met with the missionaries, and continued studying the gospel after their baptism, my parents learned of ways “to bring up [their] children in light and truth” and how to spiritually “set in order [their] own house” (Doctrine and Covenants 93:40, 43).
They learned that “the family is central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children” and that “happiness in family life is most likely to be achieved when founded upon the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
They learned that “successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities.”
They learned that families can be eternal and that the “same sociality which exists among us here will exist among us there, only it will be coupled with eternal glory” (Doctrine and Covenants 130:2).
And they learned that “the ultimate purpose of every teaching, every activity in the Church is that parents and their children are happy at home, sealed in an eternal marriage, and linked to their generations.”
With that knowledge, they desired to be sealed as a forever family.
After my parents were baptized, they practiced what they were learning, moving from the world to the gospel kingdom. They worked to unite our family by having home evening and family scripture study, faithfully attending Church meetings, and doing family history work. With those efforts toward unity, they hoped to create a family centered on the plan of salvation with an eye toward eternity.
In 1965, the year my parents were baptized, the closest temple to São Paulo, Brazil, was in Mesa, Arizona, almost 6,000 miles (9,650 km) away. Travel was too expensive for our family, so my parents had to wait until the dedication of the São Paulo Brazil Temple in 1978 before they could receive their temple ordinances and be sealed. At that time, I was serving a mission in Rio de Janeiro.

Paul, 11, was exhausted. He was almost too tired to look up from the river in which he was wading to the cliffs that surrounded him.
The red sandstone walls loomed high over the riverbed, spanning it like a pair of giant legs, 2,400 feet straight up, or twice the height of the Empire State Building. They seemed so close to each other that Paul felt like Jason about to steer the Argonauts between the monolithic Cyanean rocks, which crashed together and squashed ships that dared to pass through.
Moving his 80 pounds against the swift current while he looked, Paul suddenly slipped, but an older, bony hand grabbed his and held him up.
“Once when I was walking through here with some other fellows, I fell right in,” Paul’s 74-year-old grandfather, Otto Fife, said to him. “That was the first time I knew you could hear sounds underwater; I could hear all the other birds laughing at me!”
Paul giggled, and the two continued to ford the Virgin River, now hand-in-hand.
It was one of many experiences during an exhilarating two-day hike through the Narrows of Zion National Park in southwestern Utah. The trip, a family get-together in one of nature’s most supreme wonders, was one that Otto and his seven grandchildren would always remember.
For Otto, too, it was historic.
Years ago, when only a few men had tried the tramp through the huge, long defile in the Markagunt Plateau known as the Zion Narrows, he had ventured down its course. It had a lure that pulled him into its depths as surely as a cactus plant sucks up moisture in desert sand. “There’s something about the Narrows I can’t get away from,” Otto tells his grandchildren. He has hiked the Alps, the Matterhorn, the Sierra Nevadas, across the Grand Canyon, and “all over America,” but nothing compares to Zion Canyon, with its awe-inspiring combination of narrowness and depth.
Otto has hiked it 49 times—far more than any other man—and planned his 50th trip as a gala event. He invited his two daughters’ families to join him. From Beaverton, Oregon, came his son-in-law, Don Woodlief, and the Woodlief children—Donna, 15; Bruce, 13; and Graydon, 12. The Jones family arrived from Tustin, California, including Nadine, 22; Chris, 18; Richard, 14; and Paul. Only Nadine and Chris had been through the Narrows before.
On a sunny Saturday morning, early, Otto and 16 others met on a private ranch at the top of the Virgin River’s North Fork to begin the rugged, 15-mile hike. Grassy meadows and sandy flats greeted the adventurers’ first steps as they followed the meandering stream.
Paul announced enthusiastically that he would carry anyone’s pack if they got tired, but he soon relinquished his own load to his father.
The panoramic backdrop that unfolded as Otto’s companions on his 50th trip rounded the first of a thousand bends and twists in the river was stunning. “It is impossible to describe adequately the grandeur,” wrote Grove K. Gilbert in his 1873 diary of the first recorded trek down the Narrows.
Only ten years before, young Joseph Black, a Mormon pioneer, had sung the canyon’s poetic beauty from its clifftops and been laughed at by his friends. They called the place, deridingly, “Joseph’s Glory,” just as those who heard John Colter’s eulogy of Yellowstone named that park “Colter’s Hell.”
Nadine, a self-described artist, was awed by Joseph’s rainbow canyon of color through which she was walking—even though she’d been through it before. “I wonder if it could be painted,” she paused once and mused.
Not even Van Gogh, though, might have attempted to capture Zion’s picture … of brilliant-colored rocks in shades of chocolate, vermilion, lilac, maroon, blue and yellow … of white alpine fir trees, maple hardwood, ponderosa pines, or golf-course green Aspen trees, shimmering in the breeze … of the canyon’s traffic: wrens, chattering squirrels, orange and black butterflies, and water ouzels …
“Gosh!” That’s all 12-year-old Graydon could say about it, and maybe that said it all.
After about two hours out, the whole group halted in a grove of pines as the younger members began calling for lunch. The perspiring hikers made a rite of the midday meal—salami, oranges, crackers, fruit punch, and sandwiches of all sizes and fillings. Richard finished early and poked his walking stick in the riverbank mud. “Anyone for golf?” he shouted, as he took a swing at the water and doused Donna. She hastened back to the safety of more peaceful picnickers, and Richard went off by himself to drill in the mud for oil.
“How many more miles do we have to go?” Paul asked, a little tuckered-out.
Grandfather Fife looked at him, and winked. “About 100 miles!”
With a second wind, the group pushed out again, this time wading in the water. Marching through the Narrows is one excursion where everybody gets their feet wet. There’s no way to avoid baptizing those walking appendages—eventually. In places the water is knee-high, and waist-high in others. To wee-er ones, that translates to neck-high, and a little swimming or piggyback is required.
Once, when Otto was leading a San Fernando, California, LDS Boy Scout Troop, he gave a small, laughed-at lad the important task of notching his stick with a nail each time they crossed the river. Faithful to the task, the boy scratched 252 marks on the stick by the trip’s end. (Brother Fife, now choir president of the Cedar City [Utah] 5th Ward, has led 1,060 LDS Scouts through the Narrows in all.)
“My feet feel like squeegees,” Paul piped, as he sloshed along a riverbank and up on a little pine-cone strewn plateau.
Many obstacles appeared before the hikers along the path—upturned redwood trees spanning the canyon and huge, wedgelike rocks, some so square they looked like massive beef bullion cubes. Potholes and brief caves offered extra enticement to those with spunk and spirit. Bruce was off into a series of caves that burrowed through one sandstone wall like an anthill before anyone could call him back.
About mid-afternoon the 17 hikers found an obstacle that stymied them—a 20-foot rocky waterfall. When it appeared there was no other way down, Otto asked for a volunteer, while veteran Nadine quietly smiled over this trick she’d seen on her last Narrows trek. Graydon stepped forward and, imitating the beginning of a leap, was held back by the all-knowing Otto: “There’s another way.”
He took the group through some trees and bushes on the left bank to a small crack in the rock, barely three feet wide. As they descended the hidden, natural cleft staircase, Otto was laughing with his arm around Graydon. “I did have to jump that the first time I went through,” he explained. “But the next trip I saw deer tracks leading up here. I followed them, and found this crevice.”
By this time it was late afternoon, and the distance between the weary hikers, whose packs had grown heavier and heavier, began to widen. Bruce, deacon’s quorum president in his home ward, surged in the lead. “This is what they mean by getting away from it all,” he told Richard, when the hikers reassembled. “I like to be where no one else is—to see everything before everyone else.”
The hikers had gathered at the Y-shaped confluence of the North Fork and Deep Creek—known locally as Crystal Creek because of its sparkling-clear water, as compared to the muddy Virgin. The area was a natural, red-and-white temple set off by emerald-green cottonwood and the bright, yellow beams of the sun, which were slanting on the tall walls. From this waterstop on, it was a race to the campsite for the night. Caution was always required, as the marchers felt around on the riverbottom with their walking staffs for safe footing or took care to avoid soggy sand along the bank.
At one point, Graydon and Donna, who had been bringing up the rear with their father, stepped into some quicksand—more accurately, water-saturated sand. Graydon quickly leaped free, but Donna struggled too hard and was soon in the bog up to her waist. Graydon and his father couldn’t pull her out, and the others were too far ahead. But Chris Jones, who had arrived later in the day and started the hike with a friend, caught up to them from behind like the Cavalry. Between the four men, a branch, and stepping stones that kept sinking in the mud, she was extricated, a little shaken after the half-hour ordeal. “Guess I don’t have to find those scissors to cut your legs off,” Chris laughed, trying to cheer her up.
Fires were lit and sleeping bags set up at the Grotto, a sandy, flat alcove in the canyon wall. Boots and sneakers were propped up on sticks next to the fires, wet clothes tossed over tree branches, and some of the cousins took off to find some drinking water—after a change into dryer clothes.
Following a meal of hot dogs roasted over the flames, the group sat on logs and viewed the hasty Zion Canyon sunset, too tired to move. Walls turned the shades of sunset, becoming ghostly cliffs of greenish-white sandstone as the moon shone on them, “The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.” Thoughts like the 19th psalm came easily there.
Donna was whispering to her cousin, “It’s so beautiful, all of it. It makes me appreciate what God has given us.”
A spoonful of fruit cocktail in his mouth, Otto overheard.
Women had spoken this way in this place before. An adventurous group of University of Utah coeds in 1920 had made international headlines by exploring the entire Zion Park in pants-and-boots fashion. One of their group had noted in her diary: “Zion Park is a beautiful world of its own, a good world. For when one looks upon the gigantic grandeur of it all, it makes one wonder if anything vile or criminal could ever happen in its surroundings. One can only think beautiful thoughts amid such splendor.”
None of these latter-day adventurers could disagree as they bedded down for the night, tucked in by the rush of the river, the whispering leaves. A blaze of stars shining down into the canyon insured peaceful dreams.
Richard was the fastest riser the next day. Others tumbled out, sleepily, behind him.
None but Otto seemed to look forward to a plunge in the cold stream again, since sunrise doesn’t warm the Virgin River until after 10 A.M. when the sun is more directly overhead and can get into the canyon. Breakfast quickly vanished, though, and packs were donned to begin the tramp again, this time more quietly.
The Narrows hike can be made in a day—only weeks before, Otto had done just that. But it’s an arduous hike and should be taken slowly, unless expediency requires it. One early pioneer reported that he was out of the canyon by sunset “after spotting fresh cougar and bear tracks along the way. I didn’t want any of them critters for sleeping companions.”
It wasn’t long before the hikers entered one of several sets of Narrows. The defile was more than 2,000 feet high and demanded the walkers stare up at the faraway clifftops nearly straight above the base of the river. “To all the aches and pains that must be endured on this walk, you have to add a kinked neck from looking up,” Otto said.
At one spot, Otto encouraged his family to toss rocks into a pothole scooped out of the sheer wall, about 12 feet above and across the river. Only a few could keep the stones inside the hole. That accomplished, they continued to amble along the winding walls that are the hallmark of the park—and as impressive as vaulted Medieval cathedrals like London’s Westminster Abbey.
When the dark, narrow canyon opened out again, Otto’s family was again stunned by an array of colors and sheer beauty that make even adjectives about it sit up and take notice. Even though Otto has been through the Narrows far more than any other person in the world, it is always new to him, he said. “It always surprises me. Something different about it every time.”
The real Narrows were reached by noon. Because of potential flash floods, those who attempt these must check weather reports and go after the cloudburst season is over, in September or October. Inside the Narrows, which extend several hundred winding yards, the tall walls stand shoulder to shoulder. In places they are only 20 feet apart and give an Alice-in-Wonderland sensation—something like a flea would feel on the scrimmage line between the Dallas Cowboys and the Washington Redskins.
Paul clasped his grandfather’s reassuring hand tighter as the group unconsciously sped faster into the dim and echoing corridor.
Throughout the Narrows, it was wall-to-wall water they hiked in, except for a few gravel beds. The powerful Virgin River has alone cut this deep, knife-gash gorge into the park. For ages the grit-bearing water has eaten its way like acid through the sandstone. Even now it carries out millions of tons of silt a year, at the rate of 80 railroad boxcar-loads a day.
Once past the Narrows, the family who came on Otto’s Golden Anniversary trek began to meet packless hikers walking upstream on short outings. Yet even toward the end of this trip, Otto’s grandchildren still saw sights that were new. They saw the “hanging gardens” of Zion—bright, green moss growing out of the water seepage that wetted and blackened the river’s awesome perpendicular partitions.
A closer look revealed Rhysa Zionis, little pinhead-size, freshwater snails, peculiar to this canyon only, that cling to their vertical homes and look like so many black dots.
As they sloshed out of the water for the last time at the beginning of a paved tourist trail leading to the parking lot (CARS! No more walking!), the hikers heaved their soggy packs onto the wet sand. Both mothers were there to meet, and hail, their hardy children, soon to whisk them back to comfortable homes and beds in California and Oregon.
Otto set his pack down somewhat reluctantly.
He wondered if his tired grandchildren had learned what there was to learn in this land of Zion he could not leave. Like Antaeus, the mythological giant who drew his strength by touching the earth, Otto somehow pulls philosophy and poetry from that canyon.
Had they understood what one pioneer felt in his very veins? He was a Mormon who had written about his turn-of-the-century trek:
“I was now thankful for every condition which had combined to bring me into this mighty thought-inspiring solitude, this place called Zion, where the stars shine by day and brighter by night. Where earthly achievements and thoughtless, indefinite desires appear as things not worth while, if they are to be charged to our eternal account; where simple, silent thought comes to be regarded as the highest and most perfect expression of prayer; where man learns to fear God, to pray to God, to rely on God. Where man can stand without the support of his fellow men when he feels that he is right; where hope and faith in the universal scheme of things is inspired; where man is made to feel that if he is anything, he is the humble servant of God.”
Perhaps it was too much to understand, Otto thought, and said his goodbyes. But in later letters came the verdict: “When can we go back again? When can we?”
“Zion Canyon is a great symphony I want to hear over and over again,” Otto had said. “When I can’t go down it anymore, I’d better be six feet underground!”
And the family was with him.

A true story from Taiwan
Yi-Hsun loves drawing in her art class.
When art time is over, everyone goes outside to run and play. Yi-Hsun wants to run to catch up with her friends.
But then she sees Yi-Ruei trip on a rock and hit her knee. “Are you OK?” Yi-Hsun asks.
Yi-Ruei shakes her head and starts to cry.
Yi-Hsun helps her friend go to the school nurse. The nurse cleans up Yi-Ruei’s knee and tells her to rest.
Yi-Hsun helps Yi-Ruei back to the classroom.
Yi-Hsun is happy that she followed Jesus’s example and helped Yi-Ruei. They finish their pictures together.

In 2010, Andre Sebako was a young man seeking for truth. Though he had never offered a heartfelt prayer before, he decided to try. Shortly afterward he met the missionaries. They gave him a pass-along card with a picture of the Book of Mormon. Andre felt something and asked if the missionaries would sell him the book. They said he could have the book for free if he would come to church.1
Andre attended the then-recently created Mochudi Branch in Botswana, Africa, alone. But the branch was a loving, tight-knit group consisting of about 40 members.2 They welcomed Andre with open arms. He received the missionary lessons and was baptized. It was wonderful!

by Debbie Jones
“Yes, it is a gold wedding band.” As the young men and women of my ward gathered around to admire the band, all sorts of questions arose. “Whose could it be? Where did you find it? I wonder how long it has been buried in the flower garden?”
While my friends had been mowing, power raking, and shoveling in the widow’s yard, I had been weeding her flowerbed. Sister Kelly and I were digging out a big clump of grass and shaking the dirt off the roots when the precious ring fell out.
It’s always fun to find buried treasure, but that one unanswered question still remained: To whom did the ring belong? I thought how sorry the owner must have felt when he lost it and how much it would mean to him if he could get it back.
That night as I said my prayers, I asked the Lord to help me find the rightful owner. I knew I would need His help because the house had been rented to many couples over the years.
You can imagine my surprise when just two days later, the doorbell rang and at the door stood Brother Huff, asking me if I had his wedding band. He explained that he and his wife were spending some time in Salt Lake City. They were waiting in a restaurant for breakfast when their good friends, Brother and Sister Thatcher, walked by. They invited the couple to join them. In conversation, Sister Thatcher, my Young Women leader, mentioned the ring we had found. How excited they all were when Brother and Sister Huff discovered that the ring was found at the house where they lived 14 years ago! He had lost his wedding ring while raking leaves.
Brother Huff had since purchased another band, but he was thrilled to find his original wedding ring again. He offered me 20 dollars in appreciation, but I refused. I knew it was the Lord who really deserved the thanks. And besides, I was as happy as he was.
A short time later, the doorbell rang again, and there stood the florist with a beautiful arrangement of flowers. I opened the card and read the words, “Thanks again. Brother Huff.” The next day I took the bouquet to church to share with the Payson Utah Third Ward and all who were involved in that service project.
From this experience I received much more than flowers. I now have a stronger testimony of church service and prayer. Don’t miss your next project, because you never know what service surprises await you!

The Phelps presented an evening concert in a new chapel in Holland, where it was requested that there be no applause. Melissa remembered: “After the concert, everyone just rose, almost as a body. We could feel the whole room vibrating, and then the presiding officer told us, ‘This is a silent standing ovation.’ Afterwards every person in the audience came through the receiving line and spoke one or two words in English to us, even if it was just good or enjoy. I’ll never forget that.”

Elder Donald L. Hallstrom (USA): On Christmas Eve in years past we would gather to have a sweet and memorable period of testimony bearing. Each family member was given opportunity to express his or her feelings about the Savior and about our Father in Heaven. Those deep feelings of love would then turn us to one another, and expressions of love for family members would be most heartfelt. My father would then express his vision for the family and give powerful encouragement to each family member to remain true to the faith. Then in unity we would kneel together in a closing family prayer.

Jai attends Robina State High on the Gold Coast, a school of approximately 1,500 students. He is very involved in his school community.
Recently, Jai was appointed to the position of school captain for the 2023 school year.
“There were 10 candidates running for school captain this year,” Jai says.
“The selection process consisted of a popular vote after delivering a speech to the school, a written application detailing our prior leadership experience, school community involvement, and then, finally, an interview with the principal.”
“During my senior school years,” he continues, “I didn’t necessarily aspire to be the school captain. However, I have always been involved in different leadership roles and community service, such as Kokoda Challenge, Lions Club Australia, Relay for Life, and debating. When my final year of high school approached, I thought running for school captain would help me continue my efforts to be involved in our school community.”
Jai is quite the musician, another of his many talents. He’s been playing the piano since the age of nine and is an extremely accomplished pianist.
On Sundays he is very often found at the piano playing for his congregation and at musical events held by the local faith community. Now, he’s being tutored to play the pipe organ at the Mudgeeraba meetinghouse. Jai also plays the saxophone in the Robina State High School Concert and Jazz Band.
Asked if he thought his experiences as a member of the Church helped him become school captain, Jai replied, “Definitely! Church has been instrumental in helping develop the skills that are required to be an effective leader.”
He added, “Giving talks in Primary, and now speaking regularly in sacrament meetings, has helped build my confidence in public speaking and in writing talks. The many social events at Church, such as dances, conventions, and youth activities, have helped me be able to relate to my peers.”
One of the most important things Jai has learned at Church is the importance of integrity. “I have witnessed this trait in my Church leaders and want to also show that same integrity as a school captain.”
What does Jai have planned? His goal is to become a high school teacher in maths and biology. He also plans to serve a mission.
“The Church principle of setting goals has been part of my life since I was little,” says Jai. “Through family home evening lessons, Primary and Young Men lessons, and now the Children and Youth Program, I have developed a strong testimony of the importance of setting goals. One of my current goals is to serve a mission. Many of my friends have started receiving their mission calls, and watching and helping them prepare has strengthened my desire to fulfil this goal.”

I was 16 years old then. I had a girlfriend I loved very much, but she left me. That was hard for me. I suffered a lot for almost a year. Because of that experience, I wanted to understand where I came from, why I was on earth, what the purpose of life is, and what happens after death. I wanted to find the answer to these questions on my own. But after thinking about them a long time, I turned to God again and said to myself, “The Creator of life knows life better than I do. I should find answers from Him.”
Reading the Bible, I learned that Jesus called twelve Apostles. “If God had a church today,” I thought, “it should have Apostles.” I became more and more attracted to religion, and I wanted to be baptized.
When I talked about God with my father, he told me that God is just. He said either you are baptized to be saved, or you are damned to hell forever. I didn’t want to believe that a loving Father in Heaven would take pleasure in sending His children to hell forever just because they hadn’t been baptized. What about those who didn’t have a chance to be baptized?
In France, there are few believers. I had friends who were nice, but they weren’t baptized. I concluded that it was not right to think they would all go to hell.
So, I decided to form my own beliefs. I believed in a God whose love is perfect and who would do everything in His power to save His children. If His children don’t want to receive His glory, that would be up to them. But He would give them a chance.
One day two full-time missionaries who were working in my village felt prompted to take a detour to go home. On their way home, they met my mother. She stopped them and made an appointment for me to meet them. I wasn’t happy about that. I didn’t want to talk to them. I thought they would say, “You must listen to us. You must believe what we are going to tell you.”
When the missionaries arrived for our meeting, I told them, “Don’t waste your time. I have my own beliefs. What you are doing is good, but I believe that family is very important. I believe that church leaders should be married. I believe that a church should have twelve Apostles. I believe that God will save as many of His children as He can. And I don’t believe in smoking and drinking.”
I was surprised to learn that their teachings matched my beliefs. They gave me a Book of Mormon and asked me to pray about it. I felt the Spirit when I read the book, and I felt the Spirit with the missionaries. But I thought, “Maybe I’m just creating these positive feelings.”
I prayed and got an answer in a dream. In my dream, I opened the Bible. Inside the Bible were tabs with the different books of the Bible. The last tab said “Mormon.” This message helped me understand that the Bible and the Book of Mormon contained the same gospel (see Ezekiel 37:15–19).
My testimony was further strengthened through other experiences reading and studying the Book of Mormon. When the missionaries invited me to be baptized, I accepted with joy. I was baptized exactly one year after my girlfriend left me. My baptism marked a big change in my life. I lost some friends when I joined the Church, but I found new ones in the branch I attended.
“The gospel brought me a lot of light and happiness,” says Nicolas. “God blessed me. I met a good woman, and we have three good daughters.”
The gospel brought me a lot of light and happiness. I was filled with the Spirit and with joy. I thought, “All that I have suffered before has brought me here.”
God blessed me. I met a good woman, and we have three good daughters. Two of them have served missions, helping others understand what I came to understand years ago: “The family is central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children,” “the dead who repent will be redeemed, through obedience to the ordinances of the house of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 138:58), and the Lord calls apostles and prophets in our day to lead His Church (see Ephesians 2:20).

As a teenage boy I watched my six-week-old sister, Carol, struggle with whooping cough at a time when there were no antibiotics. I came home one night from having been a grease monkey [mechanic] at a bus depot and saw the light was on. It was about four o’clock in the morning. I knew it meant trouble. As I came in, Carol was laid out on the round dining room table, and Dad was waiting for a neighbor to come to join in blessing her. I thought she was gone. It seemed to me she had quit breathing. Then I watched the power of the priesthood, and I watched her start breathing again. That experience let me know the reality of the priesthood at a very young age. Our prayers for her were answered.

Some prayers are answered dramatically, as with Carol. With others we must wait. But if we do that, in those waiting moments there will come to us special things.

She was busy doing her wifely chores at the second floor of their modest home when she heard knocks at the door. Quickly she opened the window to see who was knocking. Quickly she closed. What she saw scared her. Two Americans! What do they want, she thought. “Ask what the Markanos want,” she told her 12-year-old daughter. She heard them ask for her husband. Her husband was at that time at the town public market tending their small grocery store—their only source of livelihood. When she heard the Americans leaving, she half-opened the window and watched them walk away.
Maura T. Miranda is a frail-looking housewife, 43 years old, and married to a loving husband, Cesar Miranda. They have three daughters. They live a stones-throw away from the meeting house of the Biñan Branch. If you visit the Miranda family, one object you will not fail to notice is an oxygen tank. This medical equipment has saved the life of Maura several times. She has been afflicted with asthma for eight years. She had always been in poor health. She tires very easily and when asthma make its insidious attack she would have difficulty in breathing. She would gasp for air. When this happens, her husband would dutifully place a breathing tube to her nose and open the oxygen tank for the much needed life-sustaining oxygen. It has become a most valuable medical aid to her. Often, the attack would last from 3 days to one week. When this happens, her husband is forced to close their little grocery store so he could attend to her and their children. This naturally means a sizeable loss in income for a growing family. On Sundays when she passes by the Branch meeting house she would observe with growing interest a group of happy people. They are friendly, she thought. They always shake hands with each other as if they had only met for the first time. Why do they call each other “brothers and sisters,” she wondered. And yes—they sing beautiful hymns. She was touched. She was moved. They are different, she said to herself. And deep within her heart, the desire to know was born.
One day, her 12-year-old daughter Sterling arrived home with an “American” following her. “I am Elder Urari,” he introduced himself. Pointing at the meeting house, he said, “I live there with my companion. We would like to visit your family tomorrow. Puede ba?” He smiled. Maura Miranda smiled too and answered yes.
The next day Elder Urari arrived with a companion who introduced himself as Elder Canlas. The elders explained the purpose of their visit. They talked about a prophet named Joseph Smith, about the golden plates, about the appearance of two heavenly beings to Joseph, about the falling away and the restoration of the true Church in these latter-days. Her family did not understand. That was the first time they heard those things. But their interest was aroused. Before they left, the Elders gave them a Book of Mormon with the request to “read it and pray about it.”
The Elders continued to teach them. The Miranda family continued to read and pray and listened. All their doubts disappeared. They knew in their hearts they have found that which they have been seeking for—the true Church. They decided to be baptized but then something unexpected came up. A few days before their scheduled baptism, Maura Miranda became ill with flu accompanied by attack of her old tormentor—Asthma. Because of her illness she does not use cold water in taking a bathe for the past eight years. But great was her faith and strong was her desire to be baptized. She prayed and left everything to the Lord. When Elder R. Jensen who took over from Elder Urari, was saying the baptismal prayers, Maura Miranda felt something. It was a warm feeling going all through her body. She knew the Lord answered her prayer. All would be well.
Maura Miranda and her family are now members of the Church. They were baptized February 12, 1977. They are happy. The once frail-looking and sickly housewife is now healthy and full of life. She presently serve as Visiting Teacher in the Relief Society of the Biñan Branch. Her husband serves as the Second Counselor in the Branch Presidency.
Today, if you visit the Miranda home, you will still see the oxygen tank in one corner. It is no longer in use. “Since I joined the Church my asthma never bothered me anymore,” she declared. “When I get sick I turn to my husband. He has the Priesthood. I get a blessing. That’s all I need. I no longer need an oxygen tank.”

I always thought my relatives had already traced our family history back to the beginning of time. So in the October 2011 general conference when Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles invited youth to work on family history in order to take names to the temple, I didn’t think I would have much success in finding names. But something in his talk made me want to try, and I sat down at the computer to figure out how to find my ancestors.
Within 15 minutes, I found someone. His name was Stephen Barker, and he was the youngest member of his family. All of his temple ordinances had been performed except one—he was the only child who hadn’t been sealed to his parents. Suddenly I thought, “What if that were me? What if I were the only child not sealed to my family and I had waited hundreds of years for the opportunity?” I gave his name to my parents so they could go to the temple and do the work for him. I have never felt the Spirit so strongly, and that is when I knew I needed to keep doing family history.

Many Latter-day Saint couples have asked themselves at one time or another: “Is my husband (or wife) progressing with me spiritually? Are we equal?”
In my earlier years of marriage, I found myself asking these questions and was discouraged by what I perceived to be the answers. Although my husband was an excellent father, I often felt irritated and angry. I wanted him to fit the image of what I thought he should be. I had certain ideals and goals that I wanted implanted in him.
One day, I turned to my father for advice. Because of his training as a psychiatrist, I knew he wouldn’t be too critical of his son-in-law. His first words were like a bucket of cold water over me: “Martha, if you continue like this, you could drive your husband away.”
My jaw dropped. “What do you mean by that?” I asked. This wasn’t going at all as I had expected.
He held up his hand to ward off my indignation. “Just let me explain. Not long ago, I counseled a Latter-day Saint woman who had left a basically good marriage. She felt her husband wasn’t living all the Church standards. Years of nagging and pleading hadn’t changed him. She thought that if she left him, he would change his ways in order to win her back. She never suspected that he would find someone else who loved and respected him as he was. He remarried happily after their divorce, and she was devastated.”
Why am I getting this lecture? I wondered. I had never considered leaving my husband. “Are you saying I should just quit being assertive and forget my own ideals?” I asked defensively.
“No, I’m saying lead but don’t drive. Be gentle in your persuasion while recognizing his strengths and achievements. Be an example without criticizing. In your rush to achieve your goals, you may be sending a silent message that he’s not good enough for you. He’s a good man, Martha, and he needs to know that you think so, too.”
I sat, unable to speak as tears welled in my eyes. I was torn. I understood my father’s words, but I expected my husband to be what I had always dreamed of.
My father tried a different approach. “Have you heard the story about the farmer who hitched two mice to his wagon? His neighbor saw him climbing into the wagon and laughed at the farmer. ‘You don’t really expect those two little mice to pull that wagon, do you?’ he asked. The farmer replied, ‘Why not? I have a whip.’”
I laughed in spite of myself. The image of me in the wagon was clear. I had been using anger and resentment as my whip, with just about the same chance for success.
“Okay, I guess I am being too pushy,” I said. “But I see other men who lead the way I want to be led. Is it wrong to expect that?”
Dad’s voice was gentle but firm. “You are going about this with the wrong attitude. One of the most treacherous developments in any marriage is when partners wonder if they made the right choice. The marriage begins to fall apart because they quit working at it.”
“Dad,” I interrupted, “it’s because I love him that I get discouraged. I want him to reach his full potential.”
“It’s all a matter of loyalty. Do you realize that disloyalty begins with your thoughts—that you are actually being disloyal when you compare your husband to others?”
I was losing my argument fast, and I knew it. I tried one more time: “My commitment to him is eternal. The day-to-day choices he makes as the priesthood leader affect the family eternally.”
“Patience and love are eternal, too.” He opened his scriptures and read: “No power or influence can or ought to be maintained by virtue of the priesthood, only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned;
“By kindness, and pure knowledge, which shall greatly enlarge the soul without hypocrisy, and without guile” (D&C 121:41–42).
I knew these verses. They were written for priesthood holders about exercising unrighteous dominion. Why was he reading them to me?
“These two verses,” he explained, “contain the elements for success in any relationship—and especially the relationship between husband and wife. One of the great challenges in marriage is to accept all the differences in personality, background, and motivation—and to work toward being one in purpose. That’s no easy task, and it may take a lifetime. But as you pointed out, marriage is an eternal commitment.”
Then he told me about a farmer he had known when he was a boy. The man used to catch wild horses in northern Arizona. They were free and available to anyone who wanted to catch them, but they were difficult to tame and train. Late at night, he would round up part of the herd into a temporary corral near the watering hole. Then he would select the best one and tie one end of a cotton rope around its neck and the other end to his strong white mule, leaving just enough space for them to travel side by side. Then he would leave them in the desert to work out their own compromises.
The mule knew the way home and would gladly travel in that direction. If the horse tried to go another way, the mule would stand firm and not go. If the mule got off track, the horse would be unwilling to move. So it went until they had worked through their differences. Within two weeks, the two would come trotting home to food and shelter. The horse would be ready for training, and it and the mule would behave as though they had been together all their lives. Dad added, “I almost left out the most important part: that rope around their necks was a very soft rope.”

During a priesthood executive committee meeting, our full-time missionaries reported meeting a member whose records were not in the ward. I recognized the name immediately and mentioned that she and I had been in the same ward many years ago.
One of the missionaries said, “Yes, bishop, she mentioned that and seemed quite surprised that you were the bishop.”
I asked them, “What did she say?”
They said she looked very surprised and said, “He’s the bishop?”
I had to laugh and explain that this sister knew me as a very different person 30 years ago.

In 1991 war broke out again—this time in Sierra Leone—resulting in over a decade of famine and violence. “Rebels were killing civilians and the road to Freetown was blocked,” said Mohamed. There was not enough food to feed their children and Mohamed and Abie knew they needed the Lord’s help, so they knelt together in prayer. No sooner had they finished their prayer than a Church leader came to their door with a package containing enough money to provide a bag of rice to each family in the district. Their prayer was answered.

Last fall some friends came to our home with their children and brought with them a case of the most beautiful, large peaches I have ever seen. They were almost unbelievable in their size, their beauty, and their flavor. Brother Pitt explained that they had just won first prize at the county fair for their peaches, and they had an orchard full of them. I asked how they produced such remarkable fruit, and they were eager to explain. “We learned how to prune the peach trees and thin the weak fruit,” they said. “It’s hard work and must be done regularly.”

“We also learned what happens when you don’t prune,” said one of the children. Their father had wisely suggested that three trees in the orchard be left to grow without the harsh results of the pruning knife. They explained to me that the fruit from those trees was not only very small in size but did not have the sweet taste of the other fruit. The lesson was obvious. There was no question in their minds about the far-reaching value of careful pruning.