Gospel Story Finder

A short time ago little Ruby was born into our family. As I looked into her sweet face, I marveled at the knowledge that before she came to earth, she lived in the presence of our Heavenly Father. She had accepted His great plan of happiness and chose to follow Him and Jesus Christ, our Savior. Because of her decision, she was permitted to come to earth to experience mortality and progress toward eternal life. With her spirit united with her body, Ruby has entered a time of learning in which she can prove herself, choose to follow Christ, and prepare to be worthy of eternal life.
Ruby came to this earth pure, but as part of the plan, she will face trials and temptations and she will make mistakes. Through our Savior’s Atonement, however, Ruby can be forgiven, receive a fulness of joy, and be pure again—ready to live forever in the presence of our Heavenly Father.
A few hours after her birth, I was privileged to hold this precious child in my arms. I said to her mother, "Oh, we have to teach Ruby how to be a virtuous woman, pure and priceless as her name implies."
Her mother replied, "I am starting today."

Spider pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the perspiration from his brow. The hot afternoon sun was yellow white. He had spent the day traveling from house to house in the village, hoping to wheedle a dinner invitation. Alas! His neighbors, who were generally kind and generous, had grown weary of Spider’s shiftless, greedy ways.
“Well,” sighed Spider, “I suppose I shall have to prepare my own supper.”
He shuffled slowly to his cottage. Grumbling at every turn, he managed to put together a rather sumptuous dinner. Just as he sat down and drew his chair close to the table, he heard a rap at the door.
“What now?” mumbled Spider to himself. He opened the door a tiny crack to see a bedraggled turtle staring at him.
“Could you … would you … ,” began Turtle, standing on his hind legs and sniffing hungrily at the delicious aroma that floated through the doorway, “spare a bite for a weary traveler?”
Now Spider hated the thought of sharing anything with anybody, but he feared the ridicule of his neighbors if they should hear of his selfishness. So, reluctantly, he opened the door and nodded to an empty chair at the table. Turtle sat down gratefully and reached for the bowl of steaming yams and the platter of fish.
“Tsk, tsk, my friend,” said Spider loudly. “Where are your manners? Just look at your filthy hands! You must wash them before coming to my table.”
Turtle stared at his dusty paws. Mumbling apologies to his host, he waddled as fast as he could to the river. There he washed his hands thoroughly and scrubbed his face for good measure. As quickly as he could, he returned to Spider’s table. The dish of yams was half-gone, and several fish had been devoured. Eagerly Turtle reached again.
“Dear friend,” scolded Spider even more loudly. “You surely don’t call those hands clean!”
“But the dust from your path … ,” began Turtle. He stopped. He didn’t want to sound ungrateful. Slowly he rose from the table and waddled again to the river. On his return, however, he was careful to walk on the thick grasses so his hands would remain spotless.
Turtle climbed onto his chair only to see the last bite of fish passing Spider’s lips. The bowl of yams was licked clean.
“A delectable dinner, wouldn’t you agree?” said Spider, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.
“To be sure!” answered Turtle disgustedly. “If you are ever near my home, you must let me repay your hospitality.”
Some months later Spider wandered far from his village. Tired and hungry, he stopped beside a quiet river to rest. He spied Turtle sunning himself on a large rock. Spider called to his friend.
“Well, well,” said Turtle, smiling. “At last you have come. You will stay to supper, of course.”
“Of course,” answered Spider eagerly.
“Wait here,” said Turtle. “It will take a short while to prepare.” He disappeared beneath the water. Before long he popped to the surface, munching a juicy clam. “It’s ready,” he called to Spider.
Spider dived eagerly off the rock into the water. He sank a few inches but bobbed immediately to the surface. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t propel his spindly body to the bottom of the river. He flipped. He flopped. But nothing worked.
However, Spider was as cunning as he was greedy. He hurried to the riverbank and stuffed his jacket pockets with pebbles. This time when he jumped off the rock, he sank quickly and plopped right into a chair by Turtle’s table.
What a feast awaited him! On a bed of fresh watercress lay dozens of tiny fish. There were bowls of clams and mussels and a platter of warm eels. Hungrily Spider reached for them.
“Tsk, tsk,” said Turtle loudly. “Where are your manners? It is very rude to come to my table wearing your jacket. You must remove it at once.”
Greedy Spider didn’t stop to think. As quickly as he could, he took off his jacket. Without the weight of the pebbles, he shot to the surface of the river, barely missing a large rock in his ascent. The laughter of Turtle followed him. Realizing the lesson was deserved, Spider headed for his village, still tired and hungry, but much wiser.

Kevin* always planned on continuing his education at a university. He knew he could make good grades if he studied hard, but in ninth grade he was having too much fun with his friends to get all his assignments turned in. His grades were low, embarrassingly low, but he thought he would just have to do well the next three years to make up.
Kevin decided that to make sure he got good grades, he would take the easiest classes he could in high school. His sophomore year he coasted through with as many elective classes as he was allowed and was happy with his Bs and Cs.
By his junior year, things were getting serious. Graduation was less than two years away. He worked hard that year, but he decided he didn’t have time for seminary and dropped out.
Then Kevin decided to postpone taking his ACT test until the beginning of his senior year. He didn’t feel really up-to-speed after being out of school all summer, but he hoped he did well enough on the test to meet the university’s requirements.
Kevin got everything together on his application to mail to the university admissions office. He knew when the deadline was, so he didn’t worry about getting it in early. He mailed his application two days before the deadline and assumed the mail would get it there on time.
Kevin was turned down for admission to the school he wanted to attend. He made several big mistakes that seriously hurt his chances. Here’s what Kevin should have done differently:
Take charge early. What many students like Kevin don’t realize is that all four years of high school count in their cumulative grade point average. Because Kevin’s ninth grade year was in a junior high, he thought he could have a good time, not do the work required, and that somehow it wouldn’t matter. It matters.
Take college prep classes. Kevin thought that he could help his grade point by getting good grades in less demanding classes. Many universities are paying particular attention to the type of classes students chose to take in high school. For example, BYU adjusts a student’s high school GPA to give more weight to the college prep classes. “We want students to take a more rigorous program in high school,” said Erland Peterson, dean of admissions and records at BYU. “We go through a process of recalculating or adjusting the grades according to the difficulty of the course.” Classes that are considered as college preparatory include advanced mathematics, laboratory sciences, history, English, literature and writing, and foreign language.
Stay ahead of the deadline. Kevin made the mistake of waiting until the deadline to get his application in. It is important to make sure your application is complete and mailed in early. This is especially important if there is an enrollment ceiling on the school you are interested in.
“We encourage students,” said Jeff Tanner, associate dean of admissions and records at BYU, “to apply as early in their senior year as possible. If the application is not complete and in our office by the deadline, it is shuffled into the late pile and is not considered in the first group. If our freshman class is filled out of the first group, the late applications may not be considered.”
Kevin decided to stay at home and attend a community college before going on his mission. He worked hard and earned nearly straight A’s his freshman year at his community college. Earning such a good grade point while doing college level work will make it possible for him to be considered as a transfer student to the university he wants to attend following his mission. But Kevin wishes he hadn’t had to find out the hard way what he needed to do to get into the school of his choice.

Over 100 years ago, in the Samoan Islands of the Pacific Ocean, a young man named Tom Fanene was an important help during a life-and-death situation for members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Tom lived in a village called Sauniatu, which had been founded by Latter-day Saints in the area as a place for them to gather and make a community. Just like Saints of God in other times and places, they experienced trials as well as miracles as they worked to build God’s kingdom together. One trial came in 1918, when an influenza pandemic reached the village.
As soon as the illness arrived, it was devastating, and it spread quickly. Nearly every one of the roughly 400 villagers was bedridden because of it. Only a couple of them were well enough to get around: an older man and 12-year-old Tom.
During the 1918 influenza epidemic, Tom exercised faith as he worked hard to care for the people of the village. “Every morning I went from house to house to feed and clean the people and to find out who had died,” he said.
He fetched buckets of water from a spring and brought water to every house. He climbed coconut trees, picked coconuts, husked them, and opened them to collect the juice to bring it to the sick. He also killed all of the chickens in the village to make soup for each family.
The 12-year-old Tom Fanene helped nurse his village to health during a pandemic.
Illustration by James Madsen
During this pandemic, around one-fourth of all of the people in Samoa died of influenza. Some of the people in Tom’s village died as well. Tom helped dig graves and bury more than 20 of them, including his own father, Elisala.
But thanks to Tom’s hard work and loving care, many people in his village survived. He made a big difference to those people and to the building up of the Lord’s kingdom in Samoa. He was “laying the foundation of a great work.”
The 1918 influenza pandemic hit them hard. But Tom helped many to survive. Children went back to school, and villagers again formed the Sauniatu Branch Band (above).

John Lloyd Stephens, a New York lawyer, and Joseph Smith never met, nor is there any evidence that Stephens ever read the Book of Mormon. Yet Stephens’ most important achievement in life would later stand as a physical testimony to that spiritual book translated by his fellow New Yorker, Joseph Smith.
That achievement began in the Honduran jungle on a hot, steamy November day in 1839 when John Stephens and his two native helpers dug up a statue from the forest floor. “Francisco found the feet and legs, and Bruno a part of the body,” wrote Stephens, “and the effect was electric.” Victor W. Von Hagen wrote that on that date, “a new world, a new science—American archaeology—came into existence.” John Lloyd Stephens was its founder.
No stranger to travel or fame, Stephens had already rambled through and written about Europe, the Near East, Egypt, Arabia, and the Holy Land. But he still had itchy feet and visions of the past and had not yet discovered his real destiny.
On a visit to London, Stephens first stumbled over his future in the form of Descriptions of an Ancient City, by a Capitán Del Rio, who had visited a strange, ruined city in Mexico called Palenque. He later learned of a second lost Mexican city, Uxmal. In 1835, he eagerly pounced upon a professional journal describing a ruined Honduran city, Copan.
Palenque, Copan, Uxmal. His mind now stirred with visions of nebulous civilization that had existed in Central America. Amazingly enough, he seemed the only one interested. “Instead of electrifying the public,” he wrote, “little notice was taken [of the Copan article].” Nonetheless, he announced his intention to search for those lost cities.
“Nonsense!” roared scientists and public alike. Indians had never progressed beyond savagery. Americans of that age could believe in almost anything other than an “Indian” civilization, in spite of evidence from the conquest. Such proofs were either ignored or downgraded as Spanish public-relations puffery. Scholars and historians held fast to their antiquated beliefs and scorned Stephens’ efforts.
There was, in truth, little documentary evidence to counter what scholars supposed. Joseph Smith’s detractors would vilify him for plagiarism, for example, when there was nothing to plagiarize. Even in 1839, the very well-educated—and rich—Mr. Stephens had great difficulty scraping up any real evidence of an ancient American culture. His meager references were poor in detail. And in Joseph Smith’s time, records were even poorer—or nonexistent.
This dearth of information made even the irrepressible Stephens a bit skeptical, but he had high hopes. In company with a kindred spirit—and accomplished artist—Frederic Catherwood, he set sail for Central America.
Their first goal, Copan, was a sickly village of mud-walled huts. But discovery loomed near. A native guide led them through the jungle to a riverbank. Opposite reared a hundred-foot-high stone wall—the edge of ancient Copan and of a new era in history. Quickly crossing the river and scaling the wall, they found themselves amid the fallen relics of a forgotten civilization.
“Working our way through the thick woods,” Stephens wrote. “we came upon a square stone column, about fourteen feet high … sculptured on all four … sides … in very bold relief … they were works of art … some equal to the finest monuments of the Egyptians.
“America [said historians of the 1830’s] was peopled by savages; but savages never built these structures, savages never carved these stones. When we asked the Indians if they knew who made them, their dull answer was ‘Quién sabe? [Who knows?]’”
The scholars and historians of the Western world could not have answered any better. Copan—and the Mayas—surged to their lofty level of art and culture while Europe descended into the gloom of the dark ages. They conquered the jungles and strung their cities through Yucatan like sparkling gems on a jeweled collar. But for the Old World, their deeds and histories were as quiet as the silent jungle they lived in.
Sometime before A.D. 900, however, the Mayas abruptly and mysteriously stepped off the stage of history. For a thousand years, Copan lay buried by the thick, heavy Honduran jungle until disturbed in 1839 by Stephens and Catherwood.
The pair could not see it all—the jungle was too thick. They concentrated on the unburied “idols,” or stelae. These were huge, thirty-ton monoliths carved with an incredible profusion of figures, flowers, and animals. Erected on set dates to commemorate events unknown to us, they climaxed the Mayan genius.
In a two-year journey, Stephens and Catherwood discovered and rediscovered Copan, Palenque, Uxmal, Chichén Itzá, and forty other ruined Mayan sites. The mystery deepened, and Stephens’ reactions were rhapsodic. At Palenque, he said:
“Here were the remains of a cultivated, polished, and peculiar people, who had passed through all the stages of the rise and fall of nations; reached their golden age, and perished entirely unknown. The links which connected them with the human family were severed and lost, and these were the only memorials of their footsteps upon earth … In the romance of the world’s history, nothing ever impressed me more forcibly than the spectacle of this once great and lovely city, overturned, desolate, and lost; discovered by accident, overgrown with trees for miles around, and without even a name to distinguish it.”
The dedication of the two explorers in uncovering these mysteries baffles the modern mind. In an age when gentlemen stayed at home, these two suffered hunger, malaria, myriads of insect attacks, extreme physical discomfort, and near brushes with death. To accomplish what?
History judges Stephens among the great. His contribution is rated equal to Jean Francois Champollion (1790–1832), French Egyptologist who discovered a stone that had writing in three languages. From the stone, he was able to decipher ancient Egyptian writing; or to Heinrich Schliemann (1822–1890), German archeologist, who excavated the city of Troy in Anatolia, proving this legendary Greek city actually existed.
From our point of view. Stephens’ importance is momentous: John Lloyd Stephens and Joseph Smith never met, but the Book of Mormon’s cry in the wilderness was now reinforced as Stephens’ physical testimony of Lehi’s people swept over the world.

In the early days of the Church there was a good and faithful woman, Mary Smith, widow of the martyred patriarch Hyrum Smith. She firmly believed in the promises of the Lord. Her son, Joseph F., and her grandson, Joseph Fielding, lived to become presidents of the Church. President Joseph F. Smith related an incident that occurred when he was a 10-year-old boy:
“I recollect most vividly,” he said, “a circumstance that occurred in the days of my childhood. My mother was a widow with a large family to provide for. One spring when we opened our potato pits she had her boys get a load of the best potatoes, and she took them to the tithing office; potatoes were scarce that season. I was a little boy at the time, and drove the team. When we drove up to the steps of the tithing office, ready to unload the potatoes, one of the clerks came out and said to my mother, ‘Widow Smith, it’s a shame that you should have to pay tithing’. … he chided my mother for paying her tithing, called her anything but wise or prudent; and said there were others who were strong and able to work that were supported from the tithing office. My mother turned upon him and said: ‘… you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Would you deny me a blessing? If I did not pay my tithing, I should expect the Lord to withhold His blessings from me. I pay my tithing, not only because it is a law of God, but because I expect a blessing by doing it. By keeping this and other laws, I expect to prosper and to be able to provide for my family.’” (CR, April 1900, p. 48.)

I wandered through the crowd at my California high school. I’d just finished taking my geometry final, and I was trying to clear my head of angles and parallelograms to get ready for the Spanish final that was coming up next. My overtaxed brain was just starting to conjugate a particularly tough verb when three students I didn’t recognize walked up beside me.
“If you’re going to be a Mormon, why not be a good one?” one girl spat out.
“What?” I answered timidly.
“We saw you at the dance on Friday!” the girl retorted.
I quickly scanned my memory trying to figure out what I had done to convince them I wasn’t a good Mormon. I had been at the school dance last Friday. I had worn a dress that was stylish but modest. I was with a group of friends, and we had danced and had a nice time and gone home.
“So?” I asked in bewilderment.
“Mormons don’t dance!” another student accused.
I had to chuckle as my mind’s eye surveyed my bedroom at home. At that very moment my bed was piled high with yards and yards of pink taffeta fabric. I was in the midst of sewing my ball gown for a dance festival in Salt Lake City. Ten thousand youth from all over the country would be gathering for the event. Of course Mormons dance!
I happily told them of the event and also told them about the great stake dances that were held every month at the church with up-to-date music, and no smoking, alcohol, or drugs to interfere with the fun. I even told them how Brigham Young instructed the pioneers to pull out their fiddles and organize dances from time to time when the wagons were pulled into a circle at night while crossing the plains. I told them that members of the Church like to enjoy life and that dancing can be a natural part of that.
Three stunned accusers now stood with their mouths open. I invited them to the next stake dance and told them how to get there. One pulled out his notebook and took down directions.
The anger on their faces had been replaced by understanding smiles. As they walked away, my mind went back to my seminary lesson from that morning. It was from Matthew 5:16—“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” Wow, it was true! I realized that for good or bad, I am an example to the world around me of what members of the Church say and do. My experience proved that people were watching me and judging the Church by my actions. Before I headed to my Spanish final, I said a silent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for His help in that discussion and asked for the strength and conviction to always be a good representative of His Church.

Frequently the profound influence one life has on the lives of others is never spoken and, occasionally, little known. Such was the experience of a teacher of girls, even twelve-year-olds in the Beehive class of Mutual. She had no children of her own, though she and her husband dearly longed for children. Her love was expressed through the devotion to her special girls as she taught them eternal truths and lessons of life. Then came illness, followed by death. She was but twenty-seven.
Each year, on Memorial Day, her girls made a pilgrimage of prayer to the graveside of their teacher. First there were seven, then four, then two, and eventually just one, who continued the annual visit, always placing on the grave a bouquet of irises—a symbol of heartfelt gratitude. This year marked her twenty-fifth visit to the resting place of her teacher. Today she herself is a teacher of girls. Little wonder she is so successful. She mirrors the reflection of the teacher from whom came her inspiration. The life that teacher lived, the lessons that teacher taught, are not buried beneath the headstone which marks her grave, but live on in the personalities she helped to shape and the lives she so selflessly enriched. One is reminded of another master teacher, even the Lord. Once, with His finger, He wrote in the sand a message. (See John 8:6.) The winds of time erased forever the words He wrote, but not the life He lived.

With a physical handicap and learning disability, Billie, at 15, was all but forgotten by our quorum. It was not necessary to baptize him. He had his own school to attend. With his physical handicap, Scouting had not seemed realistic. Then a new teachers quorum adviser was called. “If Billie is going to be on the rolls, then he should at least be included in the activities.” Brother Wilson made the first contact, and the response was overwhelming. Sure Billie wanted to come. “No one had even thought to ask,” his mother said apologetically.
Over the next few months of spring and summer Billie was at every Mutual activity, and we started to get acquainted with him. He felt like he belonged. Some of the boys didn’t understand Billie and were critical of him for being clumsy and awkward, but Billie felt wanted and knew our adviser loved him.
When Billie turned 16, he was forgotten again, but only until some of the rest of us turned 16. We remembered Billie and started bringing him out; with us around again Billie felt even more accepted.
Volleyball season came. We knew we were the best team in the stake. For two years we had been knocking on the door, and this was our year. We had the veteran “senior” boys. We had the height; we had the talent. And we even had a mascot—Billie. We even let Billie play. Just hitting the ball was a major achievement, but everyone clapped and encouraged him, so Billie really felt that he was making a contribution.
Being at each game was more important than ever to him. During the regular season, Billie might have cost the team a few points, or even one game in a series, but everyone recognized the sparkle in his eye when he played and we all felt good because of our sacrifice.
Finally the stake championship came. It was the same rivalry that had been there for the last two years. This time we would win. We had beaten them during the regular season, and we would beat them in the championship. Perhaps as an extra precaution someone “forgot” to tell Billie about the game.
Saturday afternoon at game time some of our players were overconfident and had run down to the store for some pop. The first game started without them, but the second string was good enough. Then in came the bishop with Billie. Both teams were well coached. The game was close, but we lost. We couldn’t afford to hold back. We had to have the next game if we were to win two out of three.
Billie had been at the coach’s side the whole first game. “Now? Should I go in now? Do you want me to play now?” His persistence was distracting. The coach spoke firmly but kindly, “Go sit down; I’ll tell you when, Billie.”
At the end of the first game, Billie couldn’t wait any longer. Scores didn’t mean anything. The only thing that was important was playing. The coach looked at Billie; for a long minute he agonized. He had always played all the boys. Would he change the rules now? Was the principle more important than the game?
This was a unique group of boys. Just weeks before, the coach had told us that sometime in his life every coach should get a chance to work with a group like ours. He felt that we could understand principles. There wasn’t any choice; he had to let Billie play.
The other team served—right to Billie. Another serve—to Billie; and another. Again and again the serve was to Billie. The other coach called time-out; he was talking to his server. Another serve—right to Billie. The score was 11 to 0; no service had been returned. Finally a service went into the net, but it was too late. The final score was 15 to 6. It was our year to win, and we lost.
The other team walked off the court with heads lowered. We were fighting back tears. We didn’t understand. We went outside, and the coach tried to talk. “I thought I knew what was right.” Even he was fighting for composure. “I believe it’s important for everyone to play. I’ve always let everyone play. I hope I’m doing what’s right.” The bishop was there with Billie. He looked as if he wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. Finally Billie broke in and said, “Well, we won another one!”
Something happened after that. The bishop gave a lesson in priesthood meeting on winning. He said something about an inactive father going to the temple because his handicapped son was loved by our quorum. He said that was winning. Somebody said if Billie could play volleyball he could come to priesthood meeting. All of a sudden Billie was really part of us. We’d invested a volleyball championship in him, and he was important to us.
Basketball season came. Everybody knew Billie by now. Everybody knew he would be playing. The referees knew what to do when he tried to dribble. The teams made certain allowances. He was really part of things.
Stake championship again. We worked our way through the teams in the stake, and the final game was between us and—you guessed it—them.
Well, it was close the first half, but then we fell apart. The coach could see what was happening, and by the third quarter it was pretty obvious that nothing was going to work for us that night. While we were looking for some way to get even with the same guys that beat us in volleyball, something unique was happening on the basketball court.
Billie was playing. He really couldn’t shoot. One arm and hand was withered, and he couldn’t give much direction to the ball. But every time he got the ball, their coach yelled for someone to foul Billie. That was the end; I was fighting mad. Even the people in the crowd couldn’t believe their ears. Why was our bishop smiling? Then one of their players gingerly went out and tapped Billie. One referee was so mystified by what was happening that he just stood there. In fact everybody just stood there for several silent seconds. Then the other referee blew his whistle, and when he did everyone understood. Billie got to shoot a foul shot. In fact, he got to shoot two foul shots (intentional foul), and when he missed those, one of the boys on the other team was standing with his foot over the line and Billie got to shoot again, in fact several more.
The crowd was clapping and cheering for Billie; we were cheering for him, but so was the other team. Was this really losing? Everyone was pulling together. No one seemed to care what the score was; everyone was helping Billie. Both teams were helping and cheering and pulling for Billie.
Billie shot a lot of free throws that night. We all cheered; we laughed a little; and Billie went home the star of the evening. Who won? They did, we did, and the stake did.
We found out that when we forget ourselves and our selfish goals, scores aren’t as important as the individual; and we found out that we all care about the same thing. Those guys on that other team aren’t so bad. The referees are really human. And losing a game isn’t the end of the world, not when you’re winning.
We went on that year to play in the Explorer Olympics. We played team sports in volleyball and basketball, and we won some and we lost some. But our investment in Billie was there, and we taught some other teams—or Billie taught some other teams—that winning only matters if you’re building your own stature or, as our bishop says, “if you’re developing character.” And I guess that’s what we learned from Billie—character.
Our bishop said that Billie is here to teach us. We’re all watching him a little more closely to see what other lessons we might learn from him.

In 1986, President Ezra Taft Benson promised the Saints that the power of the Book of Mormon would begin to flow into our lives the moment we began a serious study of the book (see Ensign, November 1986, page 7). Inspired by his promise, my wife and I decided to start reading the Book of Mormon with our family.
At the time we had four children, ages six months to six years. At first, we were able to read only one column each day. With 531 pages and twice that many columns, the book seemed like a never-ending undertaking.
Despite, or maybe because of, how slowly we read, we made every effort to read each weekday. Our children were eager to please—often waking us to start reading. Although we missed very few days, it took us more than six months to read 1 Nephi.
By this time our two oldest children were able to read a few words by themselves. As we slowly made our way through 2 Nephi, including quotations from the writings of Isaiah, we were growing as a family in spiritual as well as other ways. We added a daily devotional time and another child to the family. Dirty diapers and cries of hunger often interrupted our reading, but each day we would finish our allotted column no matter how long it seemed to take.
About the time our oldest turned 11 years old, we started reading at an accelerated pace—one page per day. As we neared the middle of that year, we received word that the Alberta Temple would be rededicated the next spring, an event our family had been looking forward to. We did some calculating and found that if we continued reading at the same pace, we would have one chapter of the Book of Mormon left to read on the day the dedication would begin. We planned to travel the 1,200 kilometers to attend this event, rise early that morning, and drive to the temple grounds to read the last chapter.
The morning of the dedication dawned bright and clear. The temple grounds were beautiful, and we sat down behind the old stone monument as we prepared to read.
The Spirit seemed to be with us more strongly than usual as we finished the chapter and concluded the volume of scripture. It had taken us about five years to complete reading it. We each took a turn praying for confirmation that the Book of Mormon was indeed the word of God. We didn’t see any angels or hear voices, but we did feel the calm, peaceful, loving presence of the Holy Ghost. Tears filled our eyes as the Spirit testified to each of us of the truthfulness and sacredness of the Book of Mormon.
We gave thanks for the opportunity we’d had to become closer to the great prophets of the Book of Mormon and for the blessings that we had received through reading their words—blessings of increased faith, strength in the face of adversity, and greater love and tranquility in our home. Indeed, we had received the blessings a prophet of God had promised us.

While serving a full-time mission in the Philippines, my husband, Robert, and I traveled to Cagayan de Oro to set up a Family History Center in the Cagayan de Oro East Stake Center and to do some training. We also invited members from the Malaybalay district to join us. Non-Filipinos are not allowed to go into some parts of the region, and Malaybalay was an area where we could not go. For almost a year, the Malaybalay district had had the equipment for a Family History Center; all they needed was some training to be able to set it up.
We contacted the Malaybalay district president, Leandro Miole, and asked him if he and the Saints in Malaybalay could come to the Cagayan de Oro East Stake Center for our seminar. President Miole responded that they would be happy to come, even though it meant a drive of more than two hours on mountain roads. My husband wrote a letter to President Miole confirming the date, place, and time of our training session.
On the day of the seminar as I was doing my portion of the training, a man walked in and started talking with my husband. The man drew a letter from his pocket and opened it for my husband to read. I could see the conversation was quite serious.
At the end of our training session, my husband informed me that the man was President Miole from the Malaybalay district and that he and 10 members of his district had been waiting at the Cagayan de Oro Stake Center since 8:00 A.M. President Miole had shown my husband the letter stating the details of the training. To my husband’s chagrin, he realized he had forgotten to identify the place as the east stake center. We felt bad that these faithful Saints had waited hours for training that had never come, and we happily agreed to go to the Cagayan de Oro Stake Center to conduct the training session.
The Saints were happy to see us when we arrived. We opened with a prayer and a hymn, then launched into the training.
As I began demonstrating how to use the microfilm reader, I noticed that a film had been left in the reader. So instead of using the film I had brought for the demonstration, I used the film already in the reader. As my husband turned the crank and I showed where to look on the film for names, I heard someone crying softly. Looking up, I realized President Miole was in tears. I quickly asked if I had said something to distress him.
Through his tears he quietly said, “I found them!” Pointing to the names on the screen of the microfilm reader, he told us he had searched and prayed to find these names—the names of his ancestors—for more than three years. And now, there they were—on a microfilm reader he should not have been looking at, in a building he should not have been in.
That day we were reminded that “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).

I really appreciate the New Era recognizing how some of the stakes try to help the youth find a greater understanding of the Book of Mormon. I attended youth conference in Medicine Hat, and it will be a lifetime of memories. We almost left our shoes in the mud, and we also had other challenges such as a six-kilometer trek the first day while pulling our luggage on travois. But I guarantee that I will never forget those four days we spent reenacting the Book of Mormon in the “wilderness.” And I’m sure that anyone else who has experienced something similar to it will never forget it as well.
Krista LivingstoneMedicine Hat, Alberta, Canada (via e-mail)

“Not long ago, my dad was caught in the beaters of a forage harvester bin. I know that Heavenly Father gave him the strength to break the drive chain to prevent further damage. As it was, his skull was broken in ten places and his neck was cut open to the windpipe. He said prayers and was given a blessing before he was raced from Kingaroy, where the accident happened, to Brisbane, the capital city of Queensland.
“From this I learned that someone could be lost at any time, so we should all endeavor to lead a worthy and clean life. This has brought me closer to my dad and taught me that if we have faith, the Lord will look after us. I love my mom and dad, and I know the Church is true and that Jesus lives.”
John Taylor, 14Kingaroy, Queensland, Australia

Seven years ago, our son Daniel died by suicide.
The day of his death, we didn’t know where he was. We called all his friends, hospitals, and the police, but nobody had seen him. Daniel had been struggling with depression and suicide ideation for five years, so my wife and I had a feeling about what might have happened. Finally, my wife, Celi, got hold of his roommates, who found him in his room.
I think that losing a child might be the worst thing to happen to a parent. And nothing can take away that pain, but the people around you can do much to help you through your grief. During that horrible time, we did not lack for family, friends, or help. From the very first night we found out he was gone, people reached out. Our neighbors, Daniel’s friends, and our Church leaders came over. Relief Society sisters brought meals, and anonymous donors contributed enough for our needs.
Our bishop later told us that many people had wanted to help but didn’t know how. And so they asked him, “What can we do for the Hunts?”
It hasn’t happened often, but sometimes when people hear about Daniel, they don’t know what to say or how to treat us. I think it’s like when we don’t know how to approach someone who speaks a different language. We don’t know what to say or worry about saying the wrong thing, so instead we just don’t talk to them. But please reach out. Loss is lonely and can be isolating. The fact that we were surrounded by so many who did reach out made all the difference.
One thing we appreciated was how many stories we heard about our son. We do not worry for Daniel. We know what kind of kid he was. We know he was sick, and we know that “the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). And Daniel had a big heart. We know that. But to hear people tell their own stories about Daniel was wonderful.
Nate Olsen was one of Daniel’s friends. They had been buddies since first grade. When Nate had to come home early from his mission for medical reasons, Daniel immediately invited him to lunch. Nate told us how Daniel had been there to listen, love, and encourage—in a time when Nate felt lost and alone. As Nate said, Dan was the kind of person who truly cared about people.
It’s important to be the person you are and to admit you’re human. Sometimes we need to ask for help, to reach out—even when we’re the ones hurting. We can let others in and let them see who we are.
Seven years later, it’s still hard. Sometimes Celi will suddenly start crying, saying, “I miss my baby. I miss my baby.” But she has expressed that she has had comfort through those times—spiritual comfort. Spiritual comfort is perfect communication. Seeking spiritual comfort is the best way to feel perfectly included. And this spiritual comfort includes the human angels who feel inspired to come and help.
Sheri L. Dew, former Second Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, once shared a story about a General Authority who asked how to tell if someone is a true follower of Jesus Christ. The answer confused me at first, but now I fully agree: “The way you can tell if someone is truly converted to Jesus Christ is by how that person treats others.”1 The Christlike way to treat others is with respect, love, and compassion—no matter who we are or what we’re going through.

I was baptized and became a member of Pacdal Ward, Baguio Philippines Stake, on 12 July 1992, one month before my seventeenth birthday. My baptism was the greatest birthday gift I have ever received.
Although I had a testimony when I was baptized, my heart desired a deeper understanding of the gospel and a stronger testimony of the Church. But this was a difficult time in my life. It seemed my testimony was under assault from many directions.
My grandmother often tried to discourage me from observing the Sabbath day. She disliked the fact that my sister Mila and I had to spend so much money to get to church. Our house was far from the meetinghouse, and transportation was expensive. But for me, the value of the word of God I received at church was worth millions of times more than the money we spent getting there!
I also had a difficult time in my peer group. Among my friends were four young men who were members of another religious group. They often shared with us teachings from the Bible. When they learned that I was a Mormon, they gave me a pamphlet that argued that ours is not a Christian religion. In giving me the pamphlet, they sincerely believed they were helping me.
I was interested, so I began reading the pamphlet. It included a lot of discouraging, negative comments about our church. As I read, confusion and doubt about the Church filled my heart. I still wanted to believe the Church was true—I had had some wonderful experiences while learning the gospel and attending church. But now my feelings were so confused that I began to doubt. I felt as though my soul were wandering. I stopped going to church and quit reading the Book of Mormon. I was frightened.
Finally I decided that I could not clear up this confusion on my own. I went to Joey, one of my friends who had given me the pamphlet, and shared my feelings with him. Being a Christian, he suggested that we pray. In his prayer, he asked God to help me know the truth and to give me peace of mind.
After he finished, I felt inspired to pray for help myself. Joey had taught me a valuable lesson: During my confusion, I had not bothered to pray. How ashamed I felt! Why hadn’t I prayed? I was a Latter-day Saint—but a very emotional one, one who had been easily overcome by this adversity. I went home that day with my heart filled with a prayer that God would tell me the truth.
He answered me. I can’t tell you exactly how, for what I felt came from the deepest part of my soul. But I knew, and boldly declare to the world, that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints contains the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It is true!
To the youth of the Church around the world who may be confused, I say, Don’t forget to pray! God will answer you.

The river is a poem, a rune, a mystery. The water flows deep with rhythm and verse and beauty. But beneath the beauty, beneath the constant silk flow and tranquility, there are teeth.
“If you aren’t afraid of the river, if you don’t respect it, it will get you,” Bill Barnes said. But he reassured us that all of the guides are expert swimmers and are trained in lifesaving and first aid.
We started quietly, two to a boat, a zigzagging line of canoes desperately pursuing our guide’s course downstream. The current coaxed us away from the shore and slapped us back and forth in the choppy waves. We knew we had experts leading us, but a wariness gnawed at us just the same. The sheer power of the current increased rapidly, pulsing and coursing with a raw anger that could snap a tree trunk. Soon paddles seemed almost useless, but paddles were all we had.
“They had warned us not to run into trees,” David Black of Cottonwood said. “But we thought we could push against one. We tried to push away and it didn’t work. They had told us not to lean the wrong way, but we leaned the wrong way. We went under.”
Thanks to his life preserver, David popped to the surface, grabbed his paddle, and this time following instructions, clung to the canoe. A guide raced up alongside, made sure Dave and his partner were safe, righted their canoe, and coached them as they climbed back in. It was a scene repeated often, sometimes several times for the same partnership. “I’m wetter than a wet dog,” one frustrated Explorer yelped after he had swamped for the fourth time in a row.
“I tipped over nine or ten times,” said Steven Allred of Brigham City. “It demoralized me. But after a while you got used to cold water. And you figured out that if you didn’t want to spend all day swimming, you’d better pay attention.”
As the day wore on, confidence grew. We learned that there were difficult times and times to recover. At a smooth place in the river, everyone was relaxing.
“King Rapids is next,” one of the guides shouted. “Get ready!”
The guides had been talking about King Rapids for two days. It was the biggest, meanest, orneriest, most grizzly rapid on this stretch of the Snake. There were stories about it throwing canoes clean out of the water.
We were close to the base. We could stop and carry out our canoes if we wanted to and avoid King. But none of us did.
“I knew if I quit I’d regret it,” Doug said. “I’d look back later and say, ‘That would have been fun.’ I knew I could make it if I’d just keep trying. I’d already made it through a lot of tough things.”
The water sprayed. It pounded our canoes. We lost our breath, but this time from exhilaration. Even though many of us capsized, we didn’t panic. We glided on down to a smooth basin where the current eddied and fished ourselves and our boats out of the water. Then we all returned to the base to head for home.

“Elder Perry, if you could say something to the children of the world, what would you tell them?” I asked.
“I would like to tell them to learn as much as they could about the life of the Savior and to live as close to Him as they possibly can. Living the Lord’s way is the only way to find joy and happiness. If they turn from His course, there’s always a penalty involved, and they’ll find that sorrow and heartache will result from their decision.
“Children ought to start early in their lives to develop a method for retaining that which they study—a kind of filing system. Mine is simple enough for an eight-year-old to use. When I read scriptures and find one especially important, I underline it and try to pick out the main thought. If the scripture is on faith, I write faith in the margin. Then I turn to the Topical Guide, find that scripture, and underline it in red for future reference.
“I think we spend too much time just reading the scriptures without remembering them. It is said that we retain about 10 percent of whatever we read, but we can retain 50–60 percent if we do something specific about it. If a child began at eight years of age, think of the vast amount of information he or she would have from that early study of the scriptures!”
The conversation then turned to recollections of Elder Perry’s parents and his own childhood: “I grew up very close to the Church,” he said. “My father was made bishop of our ward when I was only six months old. By the time I was six years of age, our ward was building a chapel. Father would take us all over to work on it. I remember that my first job was pulling nails out of boards and straightening them so they could be used again.
“My father came from a large family. They were homesteading in Idaho and had little money. When he reached high school age, he asked my grandfather to allow him to go to high school. His father gave him five dollars and a one-way ticket to Salt Lake, where he had to make it on his own. He found a job caring for President Joseph F. Smith’s cows and lived in the Beehive House like a member of the family for three and a half years. Father attended LDS High School and then went on to the University of Utah, where he was valedictorian of his graduating class. He accepted a position as principal of a school in Rexburg, Idaho. There he met my mother who was a teacher in the same school. They were married and Dad left teaching and went to law school and became an attorney.
“Dad was a very intense man, but he knew how to relax. Saturday afternoon was spent with the family—fishing, hiking, or playing ball up Logan Canyon. He and I enjoyed pitching horseshoes together even when I was very young
“My mother was a tremendous woman. She had more energy than anyone I’ve ever been around. She was the first one up in the morning and the last one to bed at night—just perpetual motion all day long. Her family came first and she was a tremendous support to my father, who was a bishop for eighteen years and then in the stake presidency for another twenty years.
“I had some great teachers when I was a boy. I remember a Sister Johnson, who was president of the Primary for years and years. How tender she was!
“But the teacher I remember best was Sister Call. She was just a jewel. I remember how impressed I was that she was willing to go on hikes with the Trail Builders. She’d plan scavenger hunts, but they were not just the regular kind. Each one would have a connection with some part of the lesson. As we would find each thing, it would teach us another part of the lesson. Then there was always a nice reward—some special treat at the end. I can’t believe the creative ways she used to keep our attention as young boys.
“Sister Call is a person who keeps on giving. Recently I received a phone call from her son. He wanted to bring a gift Sister Call had just completed for me. He brought to my office a beautiful quilt she had made. Thousands of careful stitches prepared in a beautiful pattern. She is ninety-one years young. I could not hold back a tear as I thought of the kindness of this great teacher.”
We concluded the interview with some conversation about Elder Perry’s own family: “I have two grandchildren who live here and two who live in the East. We try to have family home evening together once a month with those who live here. One of our greatest family activities has been a garden that we planted in a vacant lot. We call it the Perry Family Welfare Farm. Both grandchildren have assignments. We plant, water, irrigate, harvest, and have a great time together! I hope I’m teaching them something about the Lord’s cycle of replenishment—that if we’re diligent, He will reward us abundantly. Each little seed brings forth a hundredfold.”
“Do you have a last word about children?”
“Children are receptive and attentive and able to follow the leader. They have freshness and are eager to learn. Children are wonderful!”

I wish to express my deepest heartfelt thanks to the New Era, the members of my ward, and my best friend, Shirley Beo, for showing me the way to Heavenly Father.
I live in Myrtle Creek, Oregon, and met Shirley in the seventh grade. Neither of us really fit in at school. She had just moved to Oregon from England, and I was a social outcast. My life up to then had been rough, but Shirley seemed to turn me around. It wasn’t until five years later that I asked Shirley to pick me up for church.
I must tell you how shocked I was to feel Heavenly Father’s Spirit so strong. The members of the Myrtle Creek Ward accepted me as one of their family, and I have never met a bishop as terrific as the bishop of our ward, David Antis, Sr. Two months later my parents, both of whom are nonmembers, allowed me to be baptized. My life was turned around from then on.
I am now assistant to the president in our priests quorum, and the oldest and one of the most active youth in our ward. I play Church basketball and volleyball and am in top form for school. Last quarter I pulled my first 4.00 report card.
I wish to thank all the people who have helped me, and also the New Era for all the encouraging articles.
Robert RussellMyrtle Creek, Oregon

The family home evening wheels are just one of several service projects these young women have completed. In an effort to help a widow from the branch feel a little less lonely, the young women decorated a basket and filled it with lots of short, happy handwritten notes. “No one is there to take care of her,” Daisy says. “So we wanted to remind her that members of the branch are thinking about her.” The young women delivered the basket in person and explained that she could read a note each day to bring a smile to her face.

In 1972, Jirí was called to be the presiding elder of the Church in Czechoslovakia and was asked to renew Church activity as much as possible. In 1975, a district was created, and Jirí was set apart as its president. For many years, Jirí and Olga and their children spent their summer vacations traveling around the country, locating, visiting, and strengthening members. Often they would find only one person; other times they would meet with a group of five or six members gathered in a home. When Church officials from outside Czechoslovakia were able to obtain visas, Jirí accompanied them on their visits around the country.

Between visits, written correspondence “was executed very carefully,” he says. “We worked out an information system interspersed in our letters so the secret police, who censored all my mail—-both overseas and domestic, couldn’t find out what was happening. It was very difficult for somebody uninitiated to see the meaning of our letters.”

Those were busy—though quiet—years for Czechoslovak Church leaders and members. “We weren’t idle!” Brother Snederfler says. Since they couldn’t officially get materials from Church headquarters into Czechoslovakia, they worked quietly and tirelessly to share with one another whatever printed Church material anyone could get their hands on. They translated Church hymns, handbooks, and manuals, finished a translation and review of the Doctrine and Covenants and scriptural commentaries, and transcribed speeches given at district conferences.

Then they typed all of these materials on old typewriters with nine carbon copies at a time. Each of the nine recipients would, in turn, make an additional nine carbon copies and hand-deliver them to others. In this way, Church materials were disseminated to members and families wherever they lived.

At all times, the members knew they were running the risk of severe consequences if they were caught with Church literature. “Our home was searched by the authorities,” says Jirí, “but they never found anything. We had many places to hide things.” And the risk was worth it. “These materials helped the members study and gain the greatest knowledge possible,” he says. “It was glorious work—preparing all of us for the time we would again be able to worship freely and openly in public.”

Although for many years the Czechoslovak Saints had no contact with members at Church headquarters or around the world—and little contact among themselves—“we never felt alone,” says Brother Snederfler. “God is above. I always felt that we were part of the larger family of Church members in the whole world.”