Gospel Story Finder

The day I played tennis for the first time was also the day I vowed never to set foot on a tennis court again.
My friend had offered to teach me how to play, and I thought it sounded like fun. I’d seen him and some other friends play before, and it didn’t look that hard.
I was right: tennis wasn’t hard—it was impossible. From the get-go, my hold on the racket felt awkward, I didn’t know how to stand, and I kept hitting the ball either too hard or too soft—that is, on the rare occasions when I actually hit the ball.
My friend tried teaching me some techniques, but no matter what I did, I wasn’t improving. On top of that, the sun was scorching hot, and I was sweating in my poor outfit choice of a gray shirt and thick black pants. An hour into it, I couldn’t handle it anymore.
“I can’t do this.” I told my friend as I sunk down onto the court. “I am the least athletic person in the world!”
He came and sat by me. “It’s OK,” he said. “We don’t have to keep going. But you can hardly beat yourself up because you aren’t Serena Williams your first day on the court. You’re just learning.”
We went home, but I thought about that day a lot after that. My friend was right—I was just learning. He had been patient with me, so why couldn’t I be patient with myself? Eventually, I broke my vow and decided to try tennis again. Guess what? I even hit a few balls over the net! So I kept at it. Now it’s one of my favorite hobbies!
We aren’t perfect. We sometimes feel scared, embarrassed, or unsure. Conditions around us can make things harder, like the hot sun did when I tried to learn tennis. In fact, with everything going on in life, it can sometimes seem impossible to just get along with ourselves.

Of course, this was a four-day youth conference, so there had to be at least a little recreational time! One fun event was a dance. Yet even here the dance became more meaningful than usual as a result of some visitors.
During the week, the youth had an unexpected treat when they met a group of Saints from New Caledonia (a group of islands in the southwest Pacific Ocean that belong to France) who were also visiting the temple. They quickly became friends and had the opportunity to sing hymns and also perform ordinances in the temple in English as well as French.
On the night of the dance, the Saints from New Caledonia came to visit these youth. As soon as they arrived, the youth from New Zealand danced joyfully in a circle around them to welcome them. They hugged each other in friendship formed over a shared love of temple work.

One night I read 3 Nephi 14:13–14: “Enter ye in at the strait gate; for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, which leadeth to destruction, and many there be who go in thereat;
“Because strait is the gate, and narrow the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” [3 Ne. 14:13–14]
I got up from my chair and walked outside. Alone in the darkness, I could see myself standing at that narrow scriptural gate, pacing back and forth, afraid to go in. I realized at that moment that I had found the way. The Lord spoke to me that night, not as we speak to one another, but with a still, small voice that said, “What are you going to do about it?”
I went back to tell President Conley I wanted to be baptized. But he was in Salt Lake City. Thinking that only the branch president had the authority to baptize, I left, intending to return a week later.
During that week, Satan placed another stumbling block in my path—more doubts. “Do I have to start all over again?” I wondered. After struggling with my doubts for three days, I started reading a book President Conley had given me—Truth Restored, by President Gordon B. Hinckley. As I did, the Spirit, which had borne witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, also bore witness to me that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s true church.
When President Conley returned from Salt Lake City, I told him I wanted to be baptized. As we drove to Gilmer, Texas, for my baptism on 19 October 1970, I asked him, “Do I understand correctly from what I have read in the scriptures that just because I’m being baptized, I’m not saved, but that I have to endure to the end?”
He said, “That’s exactly right.”
I cried all the way to my baptism. I felt very strongly that the Church was true. After baptism, I felt it ten times more strongly.
Many times after, I wondered, “Why me? Why do I know the truth while many good Christian people don’t?” And a scripture always came to my mind, “Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (Luke 11:9).
Several weeks after I was baptized, I had the privilege of receiving a witness of the Holy Ghost once again, stronger than before. One morning at about 3:00 A.M., I sat up in bed with tears streaming down my face. The Holy Ghost was bearing such a powerful witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and of the Church that I felt like saying, “Please, Lord, no more, no more. I know it’s true.”
I do know with all my heart and soul that the Book of Mormon is true. It led me to the living God, to his Son Jesus Christ, and to his church guided by a living prophet.

Soon after Will’s fourth birthday, his Grandpa Swaner died. Grandma Swaner was old and in very bad health, both mentally and physically. Grandpa had been caring for Grandma, so when he died, she needed someone not only to comfort her but to care for her. She needed help getting in and out of bed, chairs, or wherever she wanted to be. Several family members took turns spending the night with her.

Two nights after Grandpa’s death, it was my turn to spend the night. Will and his daddy and I were with her that afternoon and evening, and Daddy was going to take him home while I stayed the night with her.

But when Will was told to clean up his toys so that he and Daddy could go home, he said, “No. I’m going to sleep with Grandma.”

No matter how much we tried to persuade him to go home, he insisted on staying. Finally we let him put his pajamas on and get in Grandma’s bed. We thought that he would go to sleep right away, and Daddy could take him home. An hour later, I went to see him. He was still awake. He said, “I’m not asleep because I’m waiting for Grandma to come to bed. She needs me because Grandpa isn’t here.”

He was still awake when Daddy and I helped Grandma into her bed. Will snuggled up to her. During the night when I checked on them, I often found Grandma covering his shoulders with the blankets or rubbing his back while he slept.

Will knew best. Grandma was sad and needed comforting and someone to care for, and he wasn’t going to leave her alone that night. He was truly trying to be like Jesus Christ.

Jackeline Martinez Roman of the Colon Ward, Quito Ecuador Colon Stake, was recently selected as second runner-up in the Miss Quito contest, part of the annual celebration of Ecuador’s capital. She was nominated by her employers. Jackeline, along with the girls selected as Miss Quito and first runner-up, will spend time during the year raising funds for the elderly and underprivileged and attending activities sponsored by the city.
Jackeline hopes her new position will offer some good opportunities for missionary work. In fact, Miss Quito and the first runner-up have already asked about the Church and its beliefs, and Jackeline was happy to explain.
Although born in Ecuador, Jackeline lived for nine years in Maryland in the United States, where she attended school. She has served as seminary president and as a teacher in the Primary and Sunday School, and she is presently serving as Primary secretary.

“Today we’re going to talk about temple marriage,” my Mia Maid teacher said, smiling sweetly. I braced myself. It was going to happen—again.
Whenever subjects like temple marriage or the Word of Wisdom came up, someone always seemed to mention my dad, who was both non-LDS and a smoker. Many times he had even been used to illustrate the point.
Two hours later, still flushed and embarrassed from the class comments, I walked home.
My dad has a bad habit, but he’s not a bad person, I thought angrily. How can they judge him when they don’t really know him?
That night after church, I looked up some scriptures on judging others and found just the one I was looking for: “But … as you cannot always tell the wicked from the righteous, … hold your peace until I shall see fit to make all things known unto the world concerning the matter” (D&C 10:37).
I read the words over and over again, and each time I felt angrier and angrier at the ward members.
This scripture is proof that I’m right and they’re all wrong, I thought angrily.
I pictured myself at the pulpit quoting this scripture and setting everyone straight. No doubt, the congregation would be moved to repentant tears. I could hardly wait until testimony meeting next Sunday.
But during the week, my anger began to wear me down. It was too great a battle for one person to fight.
How can I take on the whole ward? I worried.
By Sunday, I’d formulated a better plan—one that would really show my resentment. I’d stay home with my dad on Sundays.
As my mom and sisters got ready for church, I put on sweats and an attitude and plopped down in front of the television with my dad. Mom was upset, but I was sure Dad would be on my side.
After everyone had left, he asked why I was home. I told him everything, including how harshly he was being judged by some ward members.
He just sat there for a moment. Then he asked if the Church was important to me.
“Of course,” I said.
“Do you believe it’s true?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s true,” I said, wondering what he was getting at.
“If it’s true, then you should never let what someone says or does keep you away. Besides, I thought Mormons weren’t supposed to judge,” he said, nudging me playfully.
“Hold your peace,” the words from the scripture rang in my head. It suddenly seemed to apply more to me than to the ward.
In my anger, I had forgotten that people make mistakes and sometimes say things that hurt, though they don’t mean to.
Perhaps I had judged the ward members unfairly, I thought. Next Sunday I would go back to church.
All my life my father had been teaching me honesty, respect, hard work, and love, but that afternoon he taught me to forgive.

Not all who received mission calls were enthusiastic about serving. John Alma Hess referred to his mission call as “that cursed letter from Box B,”6 but went on to serve a three-year mission to Germany. A surprised Eli Beckstead wrote, “I am not a believer in the gospel … but will investigate the Church works a little more fully, and you might possibly hear from me in the future.”7 When Clarence E. Post responded, “Dear Bro., I am ready to go but don’t want to go very bad,” President Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918) assigned the Church mission secretary to “comfort him.”8 Elder Post began serving in the Northwestern States Mission one month later.

Until the white man came and explained that he was a collector of fossils, agates, and semiprecious stones for an eastern museum, Black Otter had not realized that these colorful rocks might have value. The man laid out many rock specimens to show the various stones he was seeking. “I have not come to cheat you,” he said. “These samples are not as valuable as diamonds and rubies, but I have brought brass and iron pots, good hunting knives, and metal fishhooks to trade.”

The man looked disappointed when nothing was offered. The tribe was very poor. The people wore many necklaces but they were fashioned of drilled bone, claws, or hard seeds, not colorful stones. The specimen hunter saw how the Indians admired the trade goods when he began to pack up. Their fishhooks were thick bone ones that allowed many fish to escape. Now he selected a large and small metal fishhook for each brave and presented them as gifts.

Black Otter had stayed back in the crowd, timid about approaching the white man. But he had watched his mother’s eyes that kept returning to the largest cooking pot. It was made of black iron with legs and a hook for hanging over a fire. Hesitantly, he stepped forward and laid the smallest of his three rocks near a similar specimen. Black Otter’s rock was clearer and gave off more colors in the sunlight.

The man examined the stone, then he smiled and offered a skinning knife and a small mound of fishhooks in trade. His smile faded and he sighed regretfully when Black Otter pointed to the iron pot. “I’m sorry, but your crystal is not worth that much,” he said. The youth felt that the man was being honest. He obviously wanted the rock.

The white man caught his breath when the Indian boy pulled out the two larger stones. When the deal was finished, Black Otter owned the pot, a razor-sharp hatchet, two fine knives, one for hunting and the other with many blades that folded into the handle, and a mound of fishhooks. Such sudden wealth stunned his parents. They’d never expected to own such things.

Black Otter was disturbed by the envious looks on the faces of his tribesmen. The youth did not want envy to set his family apart from the rest of the tribe. The price of jealousy could mean the loss of their friendship. “If I bring many stones, will you return with tools and utensils for all my people?” Black Otter quietly asked. The man agreed to return with a larger supply of trade goods, and so the youth had set out to search for the beautiful cavern.

One woman who attained this loving nature with the Spirit’s help expressed it in this way: “There was a time when I was so frustrated with what my husband wasn’t doing that I didn’t appreciate the good he was doing. I was hung up on the letter of the law and forgot the more important things, such as love, patience, forgiveness, and faith. I seemed obsessed with impatience for him to change.
“Then somehow, I realized I was wrong. I knew my attitude towards my husband was without hope. I sought Heavenly Father for a change of heart, praying and fasting. Like a miracle, gradually my heart began to change. The more I felt the warmth of the Spirit in my life, the more I lost the compulsion to criticize. Not only that, but I was able to love and respect him in ways that I had overlooked before. I began deeply appreciating his patience with the children, his tolerance for others, his cheerful disposition, and his way of working with his hands—he could accomplish in one hour what many men would in half a day!
“Oh, of course I still wish he would become active in the Church, but I’ve gained a real tolerance for him to grow in his own way, and I pray that I will be the example of love that he needs in order to feel free to grow. I want him to see by my actions that the gospel of Jesus Christ is really wonderful, sweet, and exciting.”

Several weeks ago my mind was stimulated when Elder Douglas L. Callister of the Seventy was asked to give a brief history of his grandfather LeGrand Richards in a quorum meeting. Among other interesting things he reported was this: When Elder Richards was a young bishop, he visited those who were less active. He boldly invited them to speak in sacrament meeting to the subject “What my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints means to me.” Remarkably, several of them responded positively, and that experience put them on the road back to full activity in the Church.

One Sunday evening, all of the youth and their parents were invited to a meeting to launch Moroni’s Promise. It was the young, valiant captains of ten who gave the vision, reviewed the promise (see Moro. 10:3–5), spoke of agency and obedience, explained the program, and called for volunteers to join one of their teams.
One young captain of ten, Michelle Gardner, referred to the promise made by President Gordon B. Hinkley to all the members of the Church who read the Book of Mormon. He promised those who read daily that “there will come into your lives and into your homes an added measure of the Spirit of the Lord, a strengthened resolution to walk in obedience to his commandments, and a stronger testimony of the living reality of the Son of God” (Ensign, Nov. 1979, p. 9).
Appealing to the youth for whom she now felt a keen sense of responsibility, she added her own personal testimony. “I know when I read each day, especially when I study and don’t just skim over what I’m reading, I do feel a greater desire to live the commandments and to have the Spirit of the Lord in my life.”
Individualized packets were provided which included the quote from Moroni printed on parchment ready for framing, a system for recording progress, recommended target dates, helpful study methods, a promise of celebration stations, and a letter to be sent to a trusted friend or relative requesting support and continuous encouragement during the coming months as they read the Book of Mormon. An application form was also provided requesting the parent’s signature as well as the signature of a member of the bishopric.
Each participant was invited to add his or her own signature as an indication of willingness to be diligent in endeavoring to reach the goal of having read the entire Book of Mormon within the set time limit. This could be accomplished by reading approximately 16 pages per week. A captain of ten also signed the application indicating a willingness to be in touch each week to determine progress and provide encouragement to each member of his or her team.
Individual progress was not a public matter. However, increased interest was awakened when the aggregate “scores” of the teams were recorded on an attractive chart that was periodically displayed in the chapel foyer with pictures of various activities.
As eager participants finished the last verse of Alma 63, “And thus ended the account of Alma,” they would rush, regardless of the hour, to Sister Bonnie Guthrie, who helped with the records, assisted in making calls for captains as needed, and dispensed T-shirts to each one finishing the book of Alma. The T-shirts with “STOMP” (for “Students Trying Out Moroni’s Promise”) printed in bold letters across the front provided the incentive that urged many through the pages of Alma.
A celebration station was an event scheduled at regular intervals along the way to give strong incentives and provide continuous encouragement to the captains, who in turn, inspired their team members as they made their weekly contacts. The captains were to then give an accounting to the specialist in a brief weekly meeting following sacrament meeting. Many, many extra calls at various times were required to accomplish this necessary follow-up.
As the group completed Alma, a celebration station was scheduled. The snow had been falling all night, and it was unseasonably cold, but nothing would daunt the plans for the scheduled tree planting celebration. A flowering cherry tree had been selected. The hole was dug, and all ward members were invited to gather at the church.
Robert Davis stood before the group holding a scroll containing all the names of those who at that time had finished reading Alma. He rolled the scroll, put it in a plastic-coated container, sealed it, and then respectfully placed it in the hole at the base of the tree and explained, “You’re probably wondering why we are planting a tree. If you will recall in Alma the planting of a seed which became a tree has meaning because of the analogy to a growing testimony.” He then read Alma 32:27–41, “But if ye will nourish the word, yea, nourish the tree as it beginneth to grow, by your faith with great diligence, and with patience, looking forward to the fruit thereof, it shall take root; and behold it shall be a tree springing up unto everlasting life.”
On Mother’s Day following sacrament meeting, the entire ward was invited to gather around the flagpole for yet another celebration station. Richard Newman and Mike Bettilyon, both captains of ten, unfolded the beautifully designed flag with the large dark blue letters “Moroni’s Promise” centered in a white open field.
There were other names on that flag also. Those who had finished the Book of Helaman had added their signatures to the flag as an official Mother’s Day record. Bishop Bradford reminded everyone of the stripling warriors who did not fear death for they had been taught by their mothers that if they did not doubt, God would deliver them (see Alma 56:47). The captains attached the flag and pulled the ropes raising it to the very top of the long silver pole. Hearts were opened and feelings were tender as expressed by a younger member of the group, who whispering to a friend close by, said, “My name is on that flag,” and his friend responded reverently, “So is mine.”
By now the flowering cherry tree planted earlier was bursting into bloom nearby as a reminder of growing testimonies.
What difference has all this effort made? There have been 120 readers, 38 adults and 82 youth, participating in Moroni’s Promise.
Thirteen-year-old Wid Covey, standing before an audience, volunteered his testimony, “I’m thankful for this Moroni’s Promise program because it helps me understand the scriptures. When I sit down with my dad to read the Book of Mormon he helps me understand about it also. I’m thankful for Michelle Gardner. She calls me every week, and it helps me a lot and she encourages me.”
Sister Margaret Kirkham reported, “Our whole family looks forward to Richard Newman, our captain of ten, coming to encourage us. This project has been a great influence to our entire family.”
Bishop Bradford reflected on the past eight months. “It has made a great difference. There are few activities that could have unified our youth as well as this. I can’t say that all our youth now have a strong personal testimony of the Book of Mormon, but it’s a super beginning. With the help of our inspired specialist, a great number of young people will be better missionaries in every aspect of their lives, and all of them are better prepared to withstand the evils of the world.”

Cooper’s video game system was getting old. Whenever he raced cars, the screen froze and he had to restart the game.
“Can I get a new game system for my birthday?” Cooper asked Dad.
Dad shook his head. “I don’t think it fits into our budget. Remember how we spent quite a bit of money last year to buy your guitar and pay for music lessons?”
Cooper frowned. He wasn’t taking music lessons anymore.
“What if I earn the money?” Cooper asked. “Then maybe you could help me order one online.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Dad said.
Cooper went to work doing extra chores and mowing lawns for neighbors. He saved all summer.
Finally he had enough money, and Dad sent it to an online seller advertising the best price for the gaming system Cooper wanted.
Cooper couldn’t wait. Whenever the mailman came, Cooper checked the mailbox. When a delivery truck came down his street, Cooper hoped it was bringing a package for him. But none of the trucks stopped at his house. Weeks went by.
“When is it going to get here?” Cooper asked.
Dad looked worried. “I’m not sure. The seller never sent me the tracking number.”
A few days later, Dad told Cooper some bad news. “I think the seller we chose is dishonest. I can’t contact him on the phone or through email.”
Cooper couldn’t believe it. “You mean he stole my money?”
“It looks that way.”
Cooper hoped it wasn’t true. At night he prayed for a way to still get the gaming system he’d earned. The next day he asked Dad if he could have one for Christmas, but Dad just said, “I’m sorry this happened. Next time we’ll both know to be more careful.”
It seemed there was only one thing left to do: start saving money again. But school had started and Cooper didn’t have as much time for extra chores. “It isn’t fair,” he complained to himself as he sat moping in his room one afternoon. Then he noticed something he hadn’t paid much attention to for a while—his guitar.
Cooper picked it up and tuned it. He strummed a few chords and played through the songs he’d learned. It didn’t take long because he hadn’t had many lessons. He sat with the guitar on his lap, his fingers itching to play something new. He wondered if he could make up a song of his own.
A few hours later, Cooper played his brand new song all the way through. It felt so great that he couldn’t wait to write another one.
Cooper practiced his guitar all winter. He read books about playing the guitar. And when he had time, he earned a little extra money.
When spring came, Dad said, “How are the savings coming? Are you ready to pick out a new gaming system?”
Cooper thought about it. “I don’t know if I want one anymore.”
Sometimes he played video games at his friends’ houses, but he hadn’t really missed playing them at home. Playing guitar was fun, and he felt like he’d accomplished something great every time he wrote or learned a new song.
“I think I’ll leave the money in savings until I know what I want to use it for,” Cooper said.
“Sounds smart.”
Cooper was surprised at how much fun he was having playing his guitar. All year long, his plan had been to play video games. Now he didn’t even miss them. Heavenly Father hadn’t helped him get the video game system, but He had blessed Cooper with something better—the ability to be happy without it.

Mix lots of strips of newspaper, lots of young women, a well-written script, missionary-minded enthusiasm, and what have you got? The Freeport Ward, Pittsburgh East Stake’s Young Women community service project.
They used papier-mache-masked players in a program introducing the concept of family home evening to local parent/teacher groups as a free public service. It was a major project, which included handouts with family home evening ideas and brochures on marriage and communication. “It felt good teaching nonmembers gospel principles that could strengthen their families,” said one of the girls who participated. Everyone involved, both spectators and cast members, learned from the experience.

One day when my companion and I went to visit a recent convert in Colombo, Brazil, the house was full of family members. It was crowded, but they still invited us to share a message. We were about to start when the convert’s brother came in. He was not a member of our Church and was not happy about our visit. He seemed to find any way he could to contradict us.
He had a notebook of all the members of his congregation and their sicknesses. He asked us if we believed in the gift of healing. “Of course we do,” we replied. “Well then,” he continued, “I’ve healed all the people in this notebook. How many people have you healed?”
We tried to explain the priesthood, faith, and how things happen according to God’s will, but after a few moments, we felt like we had been cornered and attacked.
Then “in the very moment” (D&C 100:6) we needed it, the Spirit whispered what to say. I explained that while we do believe in healing, our work as missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was to bring spiritual healing to those we taught, which healing is available only through accepting the Atonement of Jesus Christ through faith, repentance, baptism by immersion, receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost, and enduring to the end.
So while we believe in physical healing, we explained, the most important healing is spiritual healing. And that kind of healing was the kind we saw every day. It really didn’t matter if people were healed physically if they didn’t repent and change their lives to follow Christ.
As the Spirit guided us to respond in a calm manner, the tension in the room dispersed, the brother stopped trying to fight, and we were able to share our message.
How grateful I am that the Spirit prompted two somewhat trapped missionaries to remember our purpose was the saving of souls.

“I actually struggled for months to know the right time. I pondered and prayed every night. A few months later, my bishop asked if I had my patriarchal blessing. I said no, and he said, ‘OK! Let’s do an interview after church today!’ After talking with my bishop, I felt ready to receive my patriarchal blessing. I realize now that my bishop’s question was an answer to those prayers I felt weren’t being answered.”
Makaya S., Texas, USA, received blessing at 15

Poor Dusty! He always seemed to be in trouble. He had been in town only a few months, but already just about everyone in Redwood was mad at him.
Mrs. Gillis was angry because he had gotten into her garden and trampled all over her vegetables, looking for the carrots. At the feed and grain store, Dusty had chewed a hole in a large sack on the loading dock and had eaten half the oats in it before Mr. Brock chased him away. You could hear Mr. Brock’s yelling a couple blocks away. Dusty didn’t care, though. He trotted away, looking carefree and innocent.
Dusty was a long-eared, sand-colored donkey with big, gentle, brown eyes. To look at him you wouldn’t think such a little donkey could cause so many problems.
Dusty used to belong to Mr. Fisk, an old hermit who lived up in the mountains. When Mr. Fisk died, Dusty was left to fend for himself. He spent a lot of time alone, grazing in the meadows near town or roaming the hills. No one in town knew anything about him, though, until one day Dusty came strolling down Main Street as if he had lived in town all his life.
After that, several times a week, he came to town and usually ended up in trouble. Most people said he was a good-for-nothing pest and didn’t belong in Redwood. They had even threatened to send him to a glue factory.
But Dusty was always welcome in the schoolyard. We kids loved having him around. My brother, Bay, fed him the carrots Mom put in our lunches, so Dusty was our friend for life. Only Mrs. Hayes, our teacher, didn’t want Dusty hanging around school. She was afraid he’d hurt us, so she’d chase him away. But he would always return an hour or so later.
“I feel sorry for Dusty,” I told Bay one fall day. “He seems lonely. And what will he do this winter when it gets cold?”
“He’s smart enough to take care of himself,” Bay said. “Besides, he may not have to worry about winter. If the folks in town catch him, they’ll get rid of him.”
“But he’s a good donkey. All he wants is some love and attention. Why don’t people give him a chance?” I asked.
Bay didn’t have an answer. Then, two days before Thanksgiving, a surprise snowstorm hit. By three o’clock five inches of snow had already fallen, and Mrs. Hayes told us to hurry home.
My best friend, Robin Quinn; six-year-old Pete Newly; and Bay and I all lived outside of town. We walked back and forth to school together every day. We knew a few shortcuts, and that afternoon, because of the storm, Bay thought that we should take the shortcut through Otter Creek Meadow.
As we followed the trail through the woods behind the school, I could feel the wind come right through my coat. None of us had boots on, and Bay didn’t even have his gloves. At the edge of the woods was Otter Creek Meadow, but we couldn’t see it at all. In fact, we couldn’t see more than two feet in front of us.
“Maybe we should go back to school,” I said.
“No,” Bay replied. “It’s closer to go home now. Everyone hold hands, and no matter what, don’t let go.”
We waded across the field with no idea where the path was—or even if we were going in the right direction. When we finally reached the creek, we were at the edge of a steep, snowy bank. We usually crossed over a bridge, but in the blizzard we didn’t know if we were to the left or right of it.
Pete suddenly slipped and tumbled down the bank toward the creek. Bay scrambled after him and grabbed him before he fell into the water. Together they struggled back up the bank, where Pete just sat and cried. I knew how he felt; I was scared too. I kept praying that we would get home safely.
Bay shoved his red hands inside his coat pockets. “Come on,” he said kindly. “We have to keep moving, or we’ll freeze.”
We didn’t go far, though, before Bay stopped again, saying he’d heard something. He called out, and Dusty appeared! I knew Dusty was the answer to my prayers. He came right to us, and Bay buried his hands in the thick hair of Dusty’s mane.
Bay boosted Pete up onto the donkey’s back. Then he tied one end of Robin’s long scarf around Dusty’s neck and the other around his own right hand, and we started off again, with Dusty leading the way.
Dusty had spent a lot of time in this meadow, so he knew it well. He also knew the way to our barn, having eaten from our haystacks a time or two.
Trudging along, head bent into the wind, he found the bridge and led us across it. As the snow piled up, even Dusty had to struggle to get through the deeper drifts. We picked our way through a grove of trees and came out in the field near our barn.
Dusty continued to plow our way for us almost to the back door of our house.
Mom and Dad hurried us inside. We changed into dry clothes and sat by a roaring fire. It felt good to be safe and warm again, and we owed it all to Dusty.
Dad took our long-eared friend to the barn, gave him some fresh hay, and two big carrots as a special treat.
That Thanksgiving we were especially thankful that Dusty had been around to help us. Even the folks in town treated him better and spoke kindly of him.
Dusty stayed with us for a while, but he was happier when he could come and go as he pleased. He still spent his time wandering from place to place, but now he was welcome wherever he went. And he still got into trouble now and then, but now nobody seemed to mind too much. He was, after all, the hero of Redwood.

Next to the gospel, the most helpful thing I learned in my youth was the value of work. When I was eight, I joined 4-H Club and started raising lambs and calves. As a nine-year-old, I had the grand champion lamb at The Dalles Livestock Show. I learned to keep my own books, and I made a profit. I also mowed lawns. When I was 10, I started shining shoes in the only barbershop in town.
We had a cow, and I took care of it, milked it, and delivered milk to a couple of customers. Then I delivered the local newspaper, the Dalles Chronicle. I earned my own money and was able to buy the bicycle I wanted.
You children need to know that work is a good thing. It is enjoyable. Earning your own money is good. It gives you freedom to buy what you need. I always paid my tithing first, and I always had enough money because I did and because I had learned to work. Children, what you earn will make you a lot happier than things that are given to you for free.

I sat alone at the edge of my bed, balancing my thick biology book as I attempted to study for the next day’s test. I slowly turned through the complicated chapter on cellular respiration, my jaw tight as I tried to concentrate. But it was useless.
I looked up at the glow-in-the-dark stars clustered above my bed, dull in the light of my lamp, the sharp edges blurring as my eyes filled with tears. I had done a horrible job that evening trying out for the play. It had been my first attempt at high school theater. Although untrained in the arts of dancing, acting, and singing, I had undertaken the challenging musical tryouts at the urging of my friends. I hadn’t done well. My dancing on the first night and my singing audition seemed about average. But tonight had been the final test, the portion I had counted on for success—a memorized humorous monologue, performed in under a minute, before the critical eyes of the director and audition board. I had prepared for my monologue days in advance, writing and memorizing the script carefully until I was certain I could perform it even in my sleep. But when I had reached the school, I couldn’t think clearly. I was not only nervous but also tired and worried about my two difficult tests scheduled for the next day. I tried to remember my lines, those words that I knew so well, but they slipped from me in fragments and spilled out shaky and uncertain.
A hot tear brushed my lips, and I tried to muffle a sob. Nothing seemed to be going right the past few weeks. Between the recent cold distance of one of my closest friends, the stress of my difficult schedule, and the nagging doubts of applying to college, I was finding my senior year to be nearly impossible. And now, after the embarrassment of tonight’s audition, I didn’t know how I could study or even sleep. I shut my biology book and placed it on the floor, emotions roiling as I buried my head in my pillow.
Then I heard my door open and the concerned voice of my mother. “Do you need a blessing?” she asked softly. I looked up, tempted to send her away. My puffy red face, streaked by wetness, held the imprint of my pillow’s seams. But I knew, even as I pulled myself into a sitting position so that I could see both my parents in my doorway, that tonight a blessing was what I needed most of all. I nodded wordlessly, sniffing a bit as I stood and followed my parents across the hall into their room.
I’ve heard of blessings given by pioneers. And even in modern times I’ve heard of blessings for fire victims, children in comas, and people who are not expected to survive. I had a testimony of the priesthood before that night. I had been given my patriarchal blessing two years prior and knew of the unique truthfulness and love it contained. But as my father placed his hands on my head that evening, I could feel divine power in his phrases, in the gentle pressure of his hands. His blessing swept past my superficial wants into what I needed to hear most. And as he concluded, my heart sang at the power in those words, those simple, healing words that I knew were not his. My father couldn’t remember what he had said, but I could, and my dark tangle of stress and fears had loosened into a soft and gentle peace.
I smiled at my mother, grateful for her inspired suggestion. As I turned around and hugged my father, I could feel in the warmth of his arms an echo of the love of my Heavenly Father and His Son, both watching and caring for me more than anyone else ever could. I felt so grateful for that single modest blessing, those quietly powerful, comforting words. That night I slept deeply for the first time in weeks, unworried and sure of my future as a beloved daughter of God.

As he was growing up, Douglas L. Callister often accompanied his father and grandfather as they fulfilled Church assignments such as visiting members, presiding at meetings, or speaking at firesides. “They wanted their posterity to see them in the context of honoring the priesthood,” says Elder Callister, “and as we drove to and from their assignments, they would always share their experience and testimony with me.”
That caring tutelage has played an important role in preparing Elder Callister to serve in the Second Quorum of the Seventy. “A life-altering experience for me,” says Elder Callister, “was that training that came from those generations of family members who were willing to teach me.” Elder Callister continues to teach his own posterity just as his own father and grandfather taught him.

Earlier I mentioned Sister Andersen and her Beehive Girl’s Handbook. She is the wife of Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Presidency of the Seventy [now a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles], a mother, and a grandmother. I love the thought that even though she has moved so many times, she has always known where to find her Beehive Girl’s Handbook and achievement bandlo. Sister Andersen has stood by her husband and taught the gospel all over the world. She has also exemplified womanhood and goodness as a faithful member of the Church.

As an 11-year-old girl, Sister Andersen couldn’t wait to enter the Young Women program. When her birthday finally arrived, she was given the Beehive Girl’s Handbook. Sister Andersen explains:
“In the beginning of the book it said, ‘As a Beehive girl, and for the rest of your life, set your goals high’ (Beehive Girl’s Handbook, 12). I could tell this was going to be a great adventure for me. I took my book home and immediately read it from cover to cover to see what goals I should complete during the next two years.
“I discovered that there were 80 possible goals to choose from. In my excitement, I determined that if I worked hard, I could complete all of the goals in my book—well, all except one: to go to the temple … and be baptized for the dead (Beehive Girl’s Handbook, 140). I [could not] be baptized for the dead because there [was] no temple in Florida.”
Sister Andersen decided to tell her father about her situation. Her letter continues:
“My father hesitated only a moment. We had no family in the West and no other reason to travel to Utah. He thoughtfully said to me, ‘Kathy, if you [will] complete all of the other goals in your Beehive book, we will take you the 2,500 miles [4,000 km] to the temple in Salt Lake City so that you can do baptisms for the dead and complete your final goal.’
“I worked on the goals in my Beehive book for two years and completed 79 goals. My father worked during those two years to save enough money to make the journey to the temple. My father kept his promise to me.
“Air travel at that time was too expensive for our family, and so we traveled 5,000 miles [8,000 km] by car to Salt Lake City and back so that I could complete my last Beehive goal. What joy I felt as I entered the Salt Lake Temple and in proxy was baptized by my father. It was an experience I will never forget.
“I will forever be appreciative for my mother and father’s willingness to make the temple an important part of my life. … They wisely understood that as I worked on my Young Women goals, my faith would be strengthened. My parents’ faith and sacrifice in making the long journey to Salt Lake City significantly impacted me and the generations that have followed” (“I Can Complete All of the Goals—Except One,” unpublished manuscript).