Gospel Story Finder

It was dusk as my mother and I drove down the road on our way to visit my grandparents. I stared out the window, lost in my own thoughts as the conversation hit a lull.
“Pretty sunset,” my mother commented, interrupting my thoughts.
“Mmmm,” I mumbled in agreement, seeing the glorious sunset for the first time. The silence resumed until my mother broke it again.
“Do you know what Davy says?” she asked me as I turned toward her. It was not unusual for my mother to talk of Eloise’s children. Eloise, my mother’s best friend, had died two years previous after battling cancer. She left behind four children. The youngest was seven-year-old Davy.
Suddenly interested, I shook my head in answer to my mother’s question.
“He says sunsets make him think about his mother,” she said, choking back the tears. “He says it’s just like she’s smiling at him.”
I once again turned my attention to the evening sky. Davy’s words brought me a new perspective. The sunset was now more than a swirl of reds and yellows making intricate and beautiful patterns in the sky. It was a reminder of Eloise and others who had passed on and their love for those they had left behind.
As we drove on in silence, I watched the sunset fade into night. I was suddenly more aware of the beauty of the trees, the stars, the moon, and the clouds. I am thankful to Heavenly Father for the beautiful gifts he gives us every day. And I am thankful for a wise young boy who can see Heavenly Father’s love in something as simple as a sunset.

Members of the Pennsylvania Historical Society hushed as Thomas L. Kane rose to address them. Colonel Kane,7 son of a prominent judge, and member of a highly respected Pennsylvania family, read to them a formal paper about his experiences in the West among the Mormon refugees from Nauvoo. Eloquently he described the exodus from Nauvoo, the poverty and hard circumstances of the refugees, their ready response to the government’s call for a Mormon Battalion, and then told of their beginning efforts in Utah.
The address was so well received that Colonel Kane, at the prodding of a Mormon elder, published it as a “very handsomely gotten up” book of 84 pages titled The Mormons. The Kanes paid for the printing of two editions of 1,000 copies each, then mailed a volume to every United States senator, most of the congressmen, the President, government department heads, and other influential people.
Why his concern for the Saints? Colonel Kane became interested in Mormons four years earlier when he dropped in at a Mormon conference in Philadelphia. Afterwards he talked for hours with Elder Jesse C. Little about Mormonism. He then wrote letters to aid Elder Little in Washington, D.C., circles, and later rode west with the elder to visit the Mormon refugee camps. Near one, he happened to overhear a Saint in earnest private prayer. While listening, the Colonel shed tears. “I am satisfied your people are solemnly and terribly in earnest,” he told Elder Little.
In the camps Colonel Kane became deathly ill. Carefully nursed by Saints, he recovered, but not before witnessing much of the everyday life of Mormons. On his return east he stopped to see the near-ghost City of Nauvoo. At Albany, illness nearly killed him. Fearing death he instructed his father, a judge, to never suffer any evil to come upon the Saints from the federal government, if he had the power to do so. The Colonel survived, and then drew on his first-hand knowledge for his address to the historical society.
Colonel Kane’s published address, some critics said, seemed too sympathetic about the Mormons. With critics in mind he inserted a preface in The Mormons’ second edition to reinforce his conclusions:
“I have been annoyed by comments this hastily written discourse has elicited. Well meaning friends have even invited me to tone down its remarks in favor of the Mormons, for the purpose of securing them a readier acceptance. I can only make them more express. The Truth must take care of itself. I not only meant to deny that the Mormons in any wise fall below our standard of morals, but I would be distinctly understood to ascribe to those of their number with whom I associated in the West, a general correctness of deportment, and purity of character above the average of ordinary communities.”
During his lifetime Colonel Kane became the Church’s “Sentinel in the East.” He advised Church leaders on political matters in Washington, D.C. Once, on his own initiative, he traveled to Utah via Panama to serve as a mediator between the Mormons and the federal army sent against them by President James Buchanan. In 1873 he visited Utah again, this time with his wife. While they accompanied President Young on a long trip south through dozens of Mormon villages, Mrs. Kane wrote down her honest reactions in letters home and in her journal. In 1874 her father published a book based on her Utah writings, Twelve Mormon Homes, “with the design of commanding sympathy for Mormons, who are at this time threatened with hostile legislation by Congress.”8

When I was investigating the Church, I remember the missionaries teaching me about the importance of partaking of the sacrament after being baptized. This helped me to remember the covenant I chose to enter. I was baptized on Dec. 6, 1988. I will always remember the Sunday that followed because I was then able to partake of the sacrament. I felt joy, simple and sweet joy, peace, and confidence. I felt that I was completely part of this special meeting. My Sundays became different because of being able to come to the table of the Lord. I felt empowered by the covenant and received the promised Spirit of the Lord to start and handle the coming week.
Thirty-five years have passed since then and I think that I rarely missed a sacrament, always making it a commitment to come to sacrament meeting and partake of this special supper.

By this time, I wanted to continue going to church on my own, but that was such a challenge! It was hard for me to sit alone at church. I felt like everyone was staring at me and feeling sorry for me because my family wasn’t with me. To ward off sympathy, I would sit with my head bowed, reading a book until the meeting started. I felt sorry for myself and thought the challenge wasn’t worth it. I decided that without a family, the Church was not going to be true for me.
It was another small miracle of friendship that brought me back. Wendolyn and I had been friends since childhood, but we’d slowly drifted apart. One afternoon, Wendolyn and her mother sat me down and told me about the importance of going to church. They offered to have me go and sit with their family. My main stumbling block was removed! I had people to sit with who cared!
Through the rest of my high school years, my friendship with Wendolyn deepened, and my testimony of the gospel along with it. Wendolyn’s mother even offered to help me pay for a mission if I ever decided to go. I was touched by their willingness to sacrifice for me and for the gospel.
I know it is sometimes hard to accept an outsider into your family, but these two families accepted me, and to them I owe my active participation in the Church today. I will be eternally grateful to these friends. What small miracles of friendship can do!

Apparently Dusti thinks a big part of her plan includes service, as it is often the basis of what she does. For another Value Project, Dusti made arrangements for her ward’s Young Women group to volunteer at an elementary school for severely disabled children. Dusti had already spent countless hours there as a volunteer, and she wanted her friends to have the experience as well. Dusti feels a special connection with the children she works with, and is sensitive and understanding of their needs.
“I know the children are smart, and they’re thinking of stuff. They just can’t tell people,” Dusti explains.
Dusti’s first thought is to serve, but when she’s not organizing clothing drives or working with disabled preschoolers, she likes playing with her dog, Puck, and her bird, Kiwi. She also has two horses, two cats, a hamster, and a goat. She enjoys acting and playing bass clarinet, and she places high priority on getting things done.
Yet in the background, the surgeries, operations, and medication are a very real part of Dusti’s life. She tries hard to maintain a positive attitude.
Dusti remembers a time when she was 13 and came to terms with her condition. “I thought, Why am I in so much pain? Why does this have to happen to me? I just thought that it was part of the plan for me, and that I am going to know why some day.”
Dusti may not know now why she has to attend therapy sessions every week, or why she can’t go to the mall without her wheelchair. But she does know God has a plan for her life, and she knows that serving others is what brings her true happiness. She lives a life full of faith, determination, and service. And that’s anything but average.
If you want to help provide clothing for those in need, you are encouraged to contribute to Deseret Industries where available or to other established relief agencies in your community. Much of the clothing donated to Deseret Industries is sent by Church Humanitarian Service to needy people worldwide.

Let me share with you two contrasting responses: The patient was a 36-year-old woman; I’ll use the name Mary. She announced that she was certain she had cancer. When asked why, she said, “My mother died of cancer, my sister died of cancer, another sister now has cancer, and I have just found this big lump in my abdomen, so I know I have cancer.” I attempted to reassure her, but when we operated on Mary, we found malignancy, not localized, but spread throughout her entire abdominal cavity. When I faced Mary the next morning, she asked soberly, “I have cancer, don’t I?” My reluctant response was, “Yes, you have cancer.” Her next question was, “How long do I have to live?” I explained the impossibility of setting an exact time. She hoped I wouldn’t misunderstand her question. She was not afraid to die, she said, for she had made peace with her Maker.

Her response was similar to the one Thoreau made on his deathbed when asked if he had made peace with his Maker. He replied, “I never knew that we had quarreled.” (August Derleth, Concord Rebel, Chilton Co., 1962, p. 201.)

Mary was at peace with her Father in heaven because she had just completed a special course for senior Aaronic Priesthood bearers. It was called “Project Temple.” She spoke of her husband and her teenage daughter who had not been active in the Church until the three of them had attended the “Project Temple” meetings. At the conclusion of the experience, the bishop had assured them that in six months they could go to the temple if they would do the things they knew they should. Mary’s plea was to stay alive for that six months so she could go to the temple and be sealed to her family. “If I can stay alive that long, then I will die without complaining,” she would tell me. Mary stayed alive for that six months. During her entire stay in the hospital, she was cheerful and seemingly without pain, even though her body was riddled with a disease that ordinarily is extremely painful and requires large amounts of narcotics. Mary needed none, and she literally folded her arms and died—without a complaint.

My favorite thing to receive in the mail is the Friend. Every month I read the whole thing. Last spring my third-grade teacher said it was important to read your favorite books and magazines again because you notice and learn things you missed the first time. In the garage I found a file cabinet with Friend magazines dating back to before 1980, when my oldest sister was born. I pulled out a stack and began to read them every day during my snack time.
This summer I was reading issues from 1993, the year I was born, when I recognized a story I had heard before. My dad had borne his testimony in sacrament meeting the month before and had told a story about some ancestors from his family history. I showed the story to him. It was the same story! (“Faithful Elizabeth” by Jenny Hale Pulsipher, August 1993). I felt that the Friend was really my magazine and that now I had two reasons for 1993 to be my favorite year!
I have read over 20 years’ worth of Friend magazines, many of them more than once, and I still look forward to each one every month.Cedar Ben Nye, age 9Wexford, Pennsylvania

Doyle pushed the runny eggs across his plate with a fork. They were so different from the eggs his mother cooked.
“Better eat up,” his aunt called from the bedroom. “It’s a long time until lunch.”
Doyle eyed his breakfast again and decided he could wait. Pulling on his worn coat, he plopped a hat on his head and slipped out the back door.
The snow squeaked beneath his feet as he walked up the path to his uncle’s store and service station. Doyle shivered. He couldn’t remember the air ever being this cold back home in Kansas. How he wished he were there now.
Christmas bells jingled as Doyle opened the service station door. “Morning, Uncle Claude,” he said quietly.
“Morning back to you,” his uncle replied cheerily. “Probably won’t be many customers today. Too cold for anyone to be out and about.” Behind his uncle’s desk hung the last page of a 1935 calendar.
Doyle grabbed a broom and started sweeping the floor. He thought about the huge dust storms that had swept across his family’s farm in Kansas, and he remembered his mother’s constant sweeping. Mom and Dad had sent him to live with his aunt and uncle so there would be enough food for his brothers and sisters.
“How about making a deal?” Uncle Claude said.
“What kind of deal?” Doyle asked.
“If you sweep the entire station, I’ll pay you a small sack of candy.”
“OK,” Doyle agreed. His uncle had recently received an order of Christmas candy—boxes filled with colorful hard candy, chocolates, and peanut clusters.
After the sweeping was done, Doyle slid open the glass door of the candy case and inhaled the rich, chocolaty smell. He filled a small sack with candy and popped a raspberry-filled piece into his mouth.
Out the front window, two cars laden with people and belongings slowed to a stop in front of the station. One car had a mattress strapped on top. Doyle watched as a small hand made circular motions on the car window until a peephole in the frost framed a boy’s face.
The drivers climbed out and walked toward the store. Then Christmas bells jingled and Uncle Claude stood up from his desk. “Hello, folks. What can we do for you?”
One of the men rubbed his forehead and stared down at his rough hands. “Sir, we’re on our way from Oklahoma to Oregon,” he said.
They were Dust Bowlers too! Doyle and his uncle had watched many cars drive past the station last summer and fall, abandoning the dry prairie lands.
“If you could spare some gas, we’d be much obliged,” the man continued.
“It’s awfully late in the season to be moving west with a family,” Uncle Claude said. “Wyoming winters are plenty mean.”
Sliding closer to his uncle, Doyle gripped his uncle’s arm and gave him a pleading look.
Uncle Claude paused. “Well, it’s nearly Christmas,” he said. Then he took two big paper bags from under the counter and began handing Doyle groceries from around the store. Together they filled the sacks with cans of pork and beans, loaves of sliced bread, and a generous slab of bologna cut at the meat counter.
Then his uncle said, “If you men will pull your cars up to the hose, we’ll pump you a little gas.”
Clearing his throat several times, one of the men coughed, then choked out, “This is the best Christmas I ever had.”
While the men shook hands, Doyle reached into his pocket, pulled out the sack of candy, and ran out the door toward the boy inside the car.
As the two cars pulled away, Doyle and his uncle watched from the frozen driveway. Somehow, the icy temperatures didn’t seem quite so icy.

During the second discussion, the missionaries challenged my mother and me to be baptized. Our reactions were very different. After reading a good portion of the Book of Mormon, I had fasted and prayed and received a confirmation of the truth of what the missionaries were teaching. My mother, however, did not have the slightest intention of being baptized.
When the missionaries left, my mother presented me with a difficult choice. If I chose to be baptized, I would have to live somewhere else. For me there was no question. I knew what was right; I left my mother’s home that night.
The following day the missionaries, the branch president, and I went to my mother’s home to try to resolve the problem. During the discussion that followed, I accepted my mother’s request to wait a month before being baptized—but I did so only out of respect for her and to prove to her that my desires were sincere.
During that month the missionaries continued teaching us. Nothing changed for my mother, and it became clear that she wanted me to again delay my baptism. But I could not wait, and on 15 February 1985—the best day of my life until then—I was baptized.
My mother was angry at my decision, and I didn’t know what I was going to do. I met with my branch president, and as we prayed together, I felt inspired to ask my father’s brother to let me live with his family.
My uncle agreed but on the condition that I return to the university. Soon, however, our relationship deteriorated because he did not want me to go to church or to help the missionaries. Finally, he prohibited me from leaving the house for the district conference where I was to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood.
Once more I had to choose between a tranquil life and the gospel. For me there was no question. That Saturday I arose early, packed my clothes, and left.
It was not easy being a member of the Church, but the Lord blessed me as I made my own way without the support of my family. One of my greatest blessings came when I went to visit the home of a newly baptized couple on an assignment from the elders quorum. There I met their daughter Giovanna.
After a time Giovanna was also baptized, and we planned to be married. But on the day of our wedding a legal notice arrived stating that the marriage could not take place. My mother had found a way to prevent it. After several difficult months we resolved the matter and were married. We now have four beautiful children.
As a family we have had difficult experiences, but these experiences have strengthened our testimonies. The Lord has blessed us greatly, and He has used our trials and difficulties to guide and bless our lives. Of this there is no question.

“Since childhood it has been very easy for me to believe in the reality of the visions of the Prophet Joseph Smith,” said President David O. McKay to a Tabernacle audience six months after he became president of the Church in 1951. Then, vividly recalling a childhood experience on the family farm in Huntsville, Utah, he continued:
“When [I was] a very young child in the home of my youth, I was afraid [one] night … Father was away with the herd or on some mission, … [and] I could not sleep … I imagined I heard noises around the house. Mother was away in another room. Thomas E. [his younger brother] by my side was sleeping soundly … I became terribly fearful, and I decided that I would do as my parents had taught me to do—pray. I thought I could not pray without getting out of bed and kneeling, and that was a terrible test.
“But I finally did bring myself to get out of bed and kneel and pray to God to protect Mother and the family. And a voice as clearly to me as mine is to you said, ‘Don’t be afraid. Nothing will hurt you.’ Where it came from, what it was, I am not saying. You may judge. To me it was a direct answer, and there came an assurance that I should never be hurt in bed at night.”

All day Bonifacio Diaz had been planning to hurry home from school, change into his old clothes, and head straight for the outdoor basketball court at Stevens School. If I’m early, I’ll have a chance to play. Then I’ll be warmed up for tryouts tonight, Bonifacio thought. I hope I’m hot tonight. If I’m not, the coach won’t notice me—not with all those tall guys there.
Bonifacio met his sister Maria on the steps between the third and fourth floors of their apartment house. She turned and called after him, “Mrs. Alvarez came home from the hospital today. She wants to see you right away.”
“But I have to practice. Why can’t you go?”
“I’m baby-sitting. Besides, she needs you. You’re her errand boy.”
Minutes later he knocked on the door marked A-1 and called out, “It’s Bono.”
Mrs. Alvarez’s voice sounded shaky. “Come in, Bono. The door’s open.”
When he saw how pale and weak his elderly friend was, Bono winced. “Hi! Maria said you wanted to see me.”
“I need some medicine from the drugstore,” she told him. “Would you get it for me?”
“Do you need it right now?” he asked.
She nodded. “The doctor told me to start taking the medicine as soon as possible,” she said, handing him the prescription and a five-dollar bill.
Bono ran all the way to the drugstore and back.
“Gracias (thank you), Bono,” Mrs. Alvarez said, holding out a dollar. “Now would you mind going to the grocery store to buy some crackers, a loaf of bread, and a quart of milk?”
Bono frowned. He felt a little frustrated but he took the money and ran to the nearest store. Maybe I’ll still get a chance to play, he thought on the way back to the apartment. When he had climbed the stairs again, he plopped down the leftover change and the groceries on the kitchen table. As he went out the door Mrs. Alvarez called, “Bono, I’m sorry, but I forgot to have you pick up the walker at the firehouse on First Avenue. If I can learn to use it, I might be able to walk again.”
Bono couldn’t believe the old woman would expect him to go on another errand. But she seemed so helpless and alone that he couldn’t refuse. Twenty minutes later he was back with the walker.
“You’re a good boy, Bono,” Mrs. Alvarez said. “Thank you so very much. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
When Bono reached the school yard five minutes later, a full court game was in play. And once a game started, no one had a chance to play until it was finished. Bono walked home muttering to himself, “Now I’ll have to go to the tryouts cold.”
Tryouts for City Center’s basketball team were scheduled for six thirty, but Bono and several of his neighborhood friends were there by five thirty. He looked at the other players and saw that he was shorter than anyone else there—just two inches over five feet.
During tryouts, Bono hit four out of ten foul shots and three out of ten set shots. Although his shooting was off, his play showed the smoothness of hours of practice on the school yard court. He stole the ball twice, never let anyone take it away, and put the ball into play. He went up under the boards but could not get any rebounds.
The coach took Bono out of the scrimmage, and he sat on the bench watching every play. There were twenty-three boys trying out for the team and he noticed that everyone tried hard to score. Those tall guys are lucky, Bono thought. I’d give anything to be tall.
The coach blew the whistle and sent Joe McMasters, one of the tallest boys, to the bench. Bono moved over to make room for him.
“Do you think I shoot too much?” Joe asked.
Bono shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen you play before tonight.”
“I thought I could make those outside shots,” Joe explained. “Did it look like I took a shot every time I got my hands on the ball?”
“Well,” Bono replied, “you didn’t pass off much and you did take some wild shots.”
“I know but everyone expects me to score a lot because I’m tall. And they depend on me to get all the rebounds. If I don’t produce every game, they don’t want me on the team,” Joe said.
“You can’t play great every game,” Bono encouraged. “Everybody has a bad day once in awhile. Nobody’s hot all the time.”
“But they expect me to be high scorer every game. If I’m not, they give me funny looks as if I’ve been goofing off. I try my best but sometimes the breaks are against me.”
“That happens to everybody,” Bono said, “even to professionals. You just have to stay in there and keep trying.”
“That’s what they say, but they’re really hoping I quit. And that’s what I did.”
Bono looked puzzled.
“Last year it was the Bulldogs and the year before that it was the Giants,” Joe continued. “I didn’t belong with them anyhow. I hardly knew the players on my own team. They were glad when we quit.”
“When who quit?” Bono asked.
Joe gestured to two boys on the court. “Mel and Gene and me.”
“I thought you guys had played together before,” Bono said. “What made you try out for this team?”
Joe shrugged. “We heard about it at school and decided to give it a try. But if people think I’m goofing off when I’m really playing my best, then I’ll quit this team too.”
Bono sat there thinking, I never realized it before. What this team needs more than anything else is self-confidence. I’m worried because I’m too short. And Joe’s worried that he won’t be high scorer or snag all the rebounds. Everybody thinks he has to score double numbers to be valuable to the team.
For the first time Bono saw that the team needed someone to give the players confidence and the feeling of playing as a team. Maybe it needed him after all. “Help me to know what to do and to be fair always,” he silently prayed.
During the remainder of the tryout session, Bono played better than he had ever played before. Afterward, the coach announced the names of those who had made the team. Then he said, “Even though Bonifacio Diaz is shorter than anyone else, we need him. He’s a team player and a playmaker.”
Bono couldn’t stop smiling as he made the rounds congratulating the players and telling them he was glad they’d be playing together. When he reached home, he told his family the good news.
“That’s great, Bono,” Maria said, adding, “Mrs. Alvarez wants to see you tomorrow after school.”
“Okay but remind me in case I forget,” Bono said. Then he thought to himself, Everybody has problems … Mrs. Alvarez, Joe, and me. We all need help sometimes. I thought being short was the worst thing in the world. I always wanted to be over six feet tall. But now I’m just going to try to be the best playmaker I can.

One day, I was not very happy. My throat hurt, I was angry, and I wasn’t making very good choices. At breakfast, I yelled at my mom. She sent me to my bedroom to calm down.
I was sad and angry, but then I had a good idea about what I could do to feel better. I folded my arms, bowed my head, and said a prayer. My angry feelings left, and I started to feel happy inside. When I came out of my bedroom, I told my mom I was sorry and was going to make good choices for the rest of the day.

Paul, a fifteen-year-old with a delightful sense of humor, also took the bishop’s challenge seriously. Though scripture study was not a part of his daily routine, he decided to begin the day by reading the scriptures. “I didn’t know why it was so important to me to read the scriptures that day, but it was,” he explained. “Several times Wednesday night I woke up, feeling sure that I had overslept. Finally, when my alarm went off, I reached for my Book of Mormon.”
He read for about forty-five minutes. “Reading the scriptures seemed to set the tone for the entire day,” he said. “It’s not always easy to get along with school friends, teachers, and your family, and my ‘perfect day’ was not different. I made some mistakes, but I did a lot better than I do most days.
“It also helped me to be much more aware of my blessings, of the things I should be doing, and of my mistakes,” he added. “Often during the day I wondered what I could do to be better.”

It was Memorial Day evening. Jason Booker, 13, told his mother he was going for a walk. He headed up the hill to the creek where the night before his father and some other men had built a rock wall to contain the high runoff. Jason was just going to see how it was holding up.
“I was in the circle in front of Sims’s house when I heard a rumbling and cracking noise. I looked up the hill and saw the trees falling over, and rock and mud was coming down. I ran down the street and told my parents. Some friends who were visiting us left. We got the younger kids out of bed and into the car. I walked back up the hill with my dad. We got to the edge of the circle, and the mud was completely surrounding the Sims house up to the eaves. It started to move, and we just got out of there.
“We drove out of the area. The officials wouldn’t let us back into our house that night because more mud slides were coming down. On Tuesday they let us back in to get some clothes and necessities. Our house was still okay on Tuesday, but when we woke up Wednesday morning, we saw our house on the national news. We didn’t even know the mud had hit it until then.”
Jason’s house wasn’t destroyed, but the basement was filled to the ceiling with mud and the house was surrounded by several feet of mud. With the help of ward members and volunteers, the Bookers are restoring their home.

When I was 14 years old, my sisters and I were the only members of the Church to attend our school in England. People began to discover that I was a Mormon, and it was not uncommon to have jokes or weird looks directed at me. While I did get questions, they were limited to rumor and gossip, and I soon grew tired of the negative attention. A lot of students simply avoided me. One girl in particular seemed quite wary of me. One day I bumped into her in the hall and felt that I should talk to her, but she would not talk, and without saying anything, she rushed away. This gave me the false resolve that church and school were two different worlds and should never meet.
A year later an American family moved into my ward, and their children attended my school. One of them, Annie, was in my year and soon became quite popular. I started seeing students from my school appearing at ward youth activities. One evening at a joint Young Men and Young Women activity, I saw the girl who had always avoided me. She was a friend of Annie’s, and she sheepishly came over to me. It turned out the reason she had avoided me was she had been told some outrageous stories about the Church, so she was afraid of talking to me. She ended up coming to seminary and taking the missionary discussions.
I realised that I had been wrong in keeping my two lives separate. Annie was the example that made me understand that I had missed so many opportunities for missionary work. I felt ashamed. If I had been more diligent, maybe I could have been a better example to those who might have been looking for the truth only the Church could provide.

When Brigham Young and his brother Joseph Young went to see Joseph Smith in 1832, they found him chopping wood, for, as Wilford Woodruff said, “he was a labouring man, and gained his bread by the sweat of his brow.” The Prophet, according to the account of this meeting, “received them gladly, invited them to his house, and they rejoiced together in the Gospel of Christ, and their hearts were knitted together in the spirit and bond of union.”8

Life sent me a hurricane of sorrow in December 2016. Our oldest grandchild, Derek, stopped breathing, and his parents rushed him to the hospital. With a measure of confidence, I asked Heavenly Father to bless little Derek. As I was praying, the Spirit gently impressed on my mind, “Little Derek has returned home to heaven.”
Photograph courtesy of Cordon family
Wait, what? Despite my reeling shock, an instant “peace of God” (Philippians 4:7) came to my heart and mind.
The week after Derek’s passing, I was scheduled to do ministering visits at a children’s hospital. I felt overwhelmed and didn’t think I could walk back into those medical sights, sounds, and smells. But as I checked in, a sweet peace came over me. The Lord knew my willingness even though I was hurting, and He orchestrated an extra dose of love for me. I was guided to visit a young child fighting cancer. He had written on his whiteboard: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5).
To this day, that scripture is a reminder that Heavenly Father knows and loves me. I still have a hole in my heart for Derek—and will until I see him again. But until then, I gain solace in the Lord and keep moving forward.

As the stagecoach lumbered through the dark night, Mama mumbled fretfully in her sleep. Eleven-year-old Elsie was too worried to even doze. Nervously she tucked the quilts tighter around her mother. Here on the high plains of Utah Territory it was cold.
The stagecoach lurched through a large chuckhole, rousing Mama. She said clearly, “John, just put the water by the stove.”
Alarm surged through Elsie. John was Papa’s name, but he was thousands of miles away on a mission in London. Touching Mama’s forehead, Elsie found it burning with fever. There was no water, nothing to help her. How she wished she’d never listened to that doctor. He’d advised her to take Mama to St. George, where it was warmer in the winter. But traveling seemed to make Mama worse.
“I’m Sister Reed,” a kind-faced woman across from her said. “Your mother is very sick, isn’t she?”
Elsie nodded.
“She needs rest and a comfortable bed.”
Sister Reed was right, but where would they find that in this sagebrush desert? Elsie turned to the man next to her. “Sir, when will we reach the next town?”
“There’s no town between here and Fillmore. The next stop is Cove Fort.” He looked kindly at the sick woman. “The Hinckleys run the fort for the Church. They’re real good folks. You could let your mother rest there. They have good food and clean rooms and only charge twenty-five cents a night.”
Elsie’s heart sank. Where would she get twenty-five cents?
Sister Reed saw the look on her face. “I’ve heard of Ira Hinckley and his sweet wife. She’ll take one look at your mama and put her to bed—won’t charge you a penny for it, either.”
Elsie stared at the woman in disbelief. “You mean they’d help us, and they don’t even know us?”
The woman smiled tiredly. “They’ll help you and be happy to do it. I plan to stay there for a day or two myself. All this bouncing around is hard on old bones.”
Just then Mama moaned and sat up. “John, could you bring me that pail of water. I’m so thirsty!”
Gently pushing her back, Elsie replaced the covers. All through that long, bumpy night she watched over her mother and prayed that they would find help at Cove Fort.
When the sun peeked up over the foothills, the man nudged her. Pointing to a dark spot off through the sagebrush, he said, “See that? That’s Cove Fort. We’ll get there about breakfast time. So hang on, little lady. We’ll have your ma in good hands real soon.”
Her heart hammering, Elsie prayed that what they told her was true. She prayed that the Hinckleys would take them in. She prayed that her mother would soon have a place to rest and get well.
As the stagecoach pulled up in front of the fort, Elsie’s heart sank. Built of limestone blocks with thick wooden doors, it looked solid, but rough. How could a sick woman find comfort in there?
Brother Hinckley swung open the doors as the stagecoach bumped to a stop. He greeted the driver as several young men hurried out of a bunkhouse next door and helped hitch fresh horses to the coach.
Sister Reed stepped out of the coach and spoke softly to Brother Hinckley. Soon Mama was carried from the coach through those heavy doors. Elsie followed close behind.
She saw that the fort was actually a big square. Though the outside of the fort was solid rock, inside, it was divided into rooms with doors and windows. Her mother was carried into one of the rooms and tucked into a soft straw bed on a rope mattress. Homemade quilts piled on the shivering woman comforted her.
Elsie heard Sister Reed whispering to Sister Hinckley. She caught the words “… husband just left … mission … baby.” Elsie listened fearfully. Was her mother going to have a baby? Was that why she was so sick?
Elsie thought of the two baby brothers who hadn’t lived more than a few days. Would that happen again?
While she was worrying, she noticed several young girls bustling around the fort. She counted seven Hinckley girls in all. One of them came and showed her into the dining room. There they served her fresh milk and warm bread, but the food stuck in her throat.
Sister Reed came and sat beside her. “Sister Hinckley’s taking care of your mama now. She thinks a good long rest will help her get well. You’re to stay here until your ma can travel again.”
“But I don’t have any money,” Elsie moaned. “What will I do?”
Sister Reed put her arm around Elsie. “Now don’t you worry about that. Just eat your meal.” She thanked the young woman who set a plate of food before her. “That gives me an idea,” she said, looking at the girl bustling around. “You could help the Hinckleys for your room and board.”
Elsie’s heart began to lighten. Could she really do that? “What could I do?”
Pointing to a girl about thirteen years old, Sister Reed said, “That young lady takes care of the milk from thirty cows. That’s a lot of work for one person.”
“I’d love to help! Before Papa left, we had lots of cows. Mama says that I make better cheese than most grown women.”
Sister Reed smiled at her. “Then offer your help. There’s much to be done in this world. If able, no one has the right to just sit around and let others do for them.”
Gladly Elsie helped wash the dishes. Then she asked where the milk was cared for and offered her help. Soon she and the young girl were chatting happily. With such cheerful company, it seemed to take just minutes to care for the milk.
Then Elsie crossed over to her mother’s room. Mama was sleeping quietly. Gently touching her forehead, Elsie found it cool. Laying her head down beside Mama, she gave thanks.
How tired she was, but how grateful! She knew that her prayers were being answered by good people willing to help a couple of strangers. How thankful she was to Heavenly Father for these good people.

Growing up in Thailand, I sometimes felt like the odd one out as a Christian. But even though I believed differently than most of the people around me, I never felt ashamed or wanted to give up the gospel of Jesus Christ. I always loved the truths it taught me, and I did my best to follow them.

But then tragedy struck my family. And for the first time in my life, I really had to choose, develop, and hold on to faith in one of the cornerstones of the gospel—God’s plan of salvation.

In 2014, my family and I were sealed in the Hong Kong Temple. I had waited for this day for so long and was so excited. But shortly after we were able to experience this beautiful ordinance, my father passed away unexpectedly.

I was struck with terrible, overwhelming grief. I didn’t know how my family and I would be able to cope with the loss of my dad. It felt like a whole piece of us was gone. How could we endure life without him?

In this dark time, as I turned to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ for comfort, I learned how to deepen my testimony of the plan of salvation and eternal families.

I had always been taught and believed that families could be together forever. But facing a difficult loss really shook this part of my testimony. I wanted and needed to know that I would see my dad again one day. I began to want to learn more about the doctrine of eternal families.

President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, recently taught:
“It is through the sealing covenants in the temple that we can receive the assurance of loving family connections that will continue after death and last for eternity. …
“Trials, challenges, and heartaches will surely come to all of us. … Yet, as we attend the temple and remember our covenants, we can prepare to receive personal direction from the Lord.”

And it’s true! When I was struggling so much to feel the love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in my life after my dad died, studying this comforting covenant and blessing helped me see small inklings of Their love and light again.

Our temple sealing became even more meaningful to me after my dad passed away. And I realized that all covenants Heavenly Father invites us to make and keep are beautiful privileges for us.

Covenants aren’t just simple promises—they are the key to helping us invite the power of the Savior into our lives. They allow us to keep moving and hoping, despite the heartbreak and challenges of life. Because of the greater access I have to Jesus Christ’s healing power, I can endure to the end with joy, knowing that I’ll see my dad again.

As President Eyring promised, “‘No matter the outcome, all will be well because of temple covenants.’”

I’m so grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ and the continuous hope and peace it brings, especially when I need peace in times of uncertainty and loss. I still feel grief, but my covenants warm my heart and help me keep going with hope.

I visited Palmyra, New York, with my stake for youth conference in the summer of 2004. While we were there, we visited Church history sites around Palmyra, including the Sacred Grove, as well as the Palmyra temple. We ended with a testimony meeting in the Church building at the Peter Whitmer Farm. What a testimony-building experience!
I loved standing where Joseph Smith stood. It struck me during testimony meeting that most of the sites were such small buildings that I must have stood in places that Joseph Smith stood, even if it was only for five seconds. But I also know that I don’t have to stand where he stood to gain a testimony of him. My testimony of him has been strengthened while I have been alone in my own bedroom as well. But I am grateful that I was able to visit where it all began.
By the end of the youth conference, after visiting all the sites, I learned that I want to know Jesus Christ and that the only way to know Him is to constantly learn of Him and to be like Him. I am so grateful for my chance to learn these powerful lessons while visiting the spot where the Restoration began.