Gospel Story Finder

Several years ago we had a young paperboy who didn’t always deliver the paper in the manner intended. Instead of getting the paper on the porch, he sometimes accidentally threw it into the bushes or even close to the street. Some on his paper route decided to start a petition of complaint. One day a delegation came to our home and asked my wife, Frances, to sign the petition. She declined, saying, “Why, he’s just a little boy, and the papers are so heavy for him. I would never be critical of him, for he tries his best.” The petition, however, was signed by many of the others on the paper route and sent to the boy’s supervisors.
Not many days afterward, I came home from work and found Frances in tears. When she was finally able to talk, she told me that she had just learned that the body of the little paperboy had been found in his garage, where he had taken his own life. Apparently the criticism heaped upon him had been too much for him to bear. How grateful we were that we had not joined in that criticism. What a vivid lesson this has always been regarding the importance of being nonjudgmental and treating everyone with kindness.

When President Gordon B. Hinckley spoke to the Saints of Ghana in 1998, Adjoa Darkoa Asare-Addo, 11, was present. She stood and sang “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” with undisguised joy. “The Holy Spirit was with me, and I knew that President Hinckley was a prophet of God,” she recalls.
When President Hinckley announced that a temple would be built in Accra, Adjoa was thrilled. “Temples are so important!” she explains. “That is where families are sealed forever.” She intends to be married in that temple someday.

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

In 2016, Jayne Kyprianou was serving in the stake Primary presidency of the Poole Stake. After hearing Elder Kearon’s April 2016 talk, “Refuge from the Storm”1, the Primary presidency wanted to do something to help refugee children who were arriving in their area.
After a lot of prayer and discussion, they ended up hosting an online auction and a cake sale. They beat their goal of raising £500, by raising almost £1,800.
The money raised was used to buy items for educational packs for the refugee children. These would be packed by stake Primary children in a forthcoming Primary conference.
During that time, the stake public affairs directors, Brother Roger Head and Sister Moira Head, began to have contact with Unity in Vision, Bournemouth, a voluntary group founded by members of ethnic minorities.
Unity in Vision was invited to attend the stake’s Primary conference, and this was the start of a great working relationship between the Church and Unity in Vision.
Following this, the stake became involved in hosting monthly lunches at Bournemouth Chapel, refugees cooking the meals and practicing their English as they did so. The lunches were open to the local community.
These lunches involved not just people from Unity in Vision, but also representatives of the Westbourne Rotary Club (a local branch of the global Rotary organisation of volunteers). Through the work of Greg Singleton, of Westbourne Rotary Club, funding and grants were awarded to help with the lunches and to put on an educational course for refugees and asylum seekers.

I was a directionless 16-year-old moving around the country when a pastor of a local church in northern California took me in. He gave me a roof over my head and my first exposure to Jesus Christ. I began to attend the local church’s youth congregation. After a few months, I was given free schooling at a youth ministry school, allowing me to become a youth minister over a group of 8–15-year-olds. Life seemed to be falling into place, but I still lacked a life plan. When my pastor suggested I enroll in the army, I realized it could help me gain the focus I needed for my life. Plus, I was excited to serve my country and knew it was a great opportunity to receive an education. So I enlisted.
I soon learned that even though there are a lot of tough things in life, basic training may be among the toughest. But on Sunday, all soldiers were given a small break to attend religious worship, which provided a much-needed rest—not just from the daily rigors of the army, but also from a stern drill sergeant as well. I eagerly accepted this opportunity and began attending a different faith’s worship services each week. When I attended The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I told the members I was already a member so they wouldn’t try to convert me. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the three-hour break, so I decided to go back the following week.
That time I took John, my training partner, with me to church. The first speaker was a woman who was graduating from basic combat training. She shared her conversion story and then sang the hymn “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” (Hymns, no. 29). I glanced at John and noticed tears forming in his eyes.
“What is this feeling?” he asked. “I’ve got the tingles.”
As I replied, “It’s called the Spirit,” it struck me that something special was going on—something about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was different.
John and I soon met with the missionaries, and they gave us copies of the Book of Mormon. John readily accepted his copy; I was more hesitant. In basic training our only free time was the four hours we had for sleep, and I did not feel like we could waste a precious minute doing anything other than sleep. But John felt differently.
That night as I climbed into my bunk, I noticed a light coming from the bunk next to me. It was John reading the Book of Mormon instead of sleeping. The night guard for our barracks later approached and asked John what he was doing. John matter-of-factly replied, “I’m reading the Book of Mormon.” The guard responded, “Oh, John, you’re not reading those lies are you?” I grimaced on the top bunk. I knew I should defend John and the Book of Mormon, but I cowardly decided to roll over and act like I was asleep.
John climbed out of his bunk, stood up, and, addressing the guard boldly, stated, “This is another testament of Jesus Christ. You take that back.”
I lay in anguish all that night. I had failed to defend my God and my training partner. I felt like I had denied my Christ and denied my discipleship. I, who was a certified minister, had lain in bed, while John, after having the Book of Mormon for only a few hours, had bravely stood up to defend it. Overcome with shame and embarrassment, I knew that the only thing I could do was to read the Book of Mormon for myself.
As I began to read, it wasn’t long before I gained a testimony that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ. I was so excited and knew I had to share the good word with my adopted family. I wrote home to my pastor and eagerly explained what I’d learned. I was surprised, confused, and mostly sad when he wrote back telling me I could never go home to them again unless I stopped going to the LDS Church and reading the Book of Mormon. I wanted to remain close to my family, but by then I knew the Book of Mormon is true and that I would do everything in my power never to let God down again, even if it meant giving up my family (see Matthew 10:37–39).
So I did what I had to do. I got baptized.
About two years later, I was praying one night when a thought entered my mind: “What about a mission?” I dismissed the idea as impossible. After all, I had signed a contract and was enlisted to serve in the army for a set amount of time. The next night the same thing happened, and I shrugged it off again. But when the thought came back for the third consecutive night, I decided to ask Heavenly Father about it.
“If I really am supposed to serve a mission, help me know what to do,” I pleaded.
About 10 minutes later I was lying in my bunk when someone knocked on the door. It was my elders quorum president, looking a little uncomfortable.
Somewhat sheepishly he said, “I’m not exactly sure why, but for the past three nights the Spirit has prompted me to tell you that you are supposed to serve a mission. Tonight the prompting was so strong that there was no way I could ever think of sleeping without telling you.”
Illustration by Andrew Bosley
I knew my answer, and so I started to act on it. I knew it’s extremely hard to get permission to take a two-year break from the army, but after much effort and many small miracles, I was finally granted leave for two years to serve a mission. I received my call to the Alaska Anchorage Mission, where I’m now serving.
The Lord has blessed my life with so much. He brought the pastor into my life so I could learn about Jesus Christ and straighten out my life. Then He helped me find the Church and the restored gospel, and He cleared the way so I could serve a mission. I am so grateful that He trusts me enough to call me to share His gospel with His children. He knows each and every one of us, and if we have faith in Him, He will always prepare a way for us and guide us to the right places at the right times.

Heather had been taking piano lessons for three years. She felt good about the progress she had made. She could even play a few hymns.
This year, Heather also started taking violin lessons. Her violin teacher announced that she would have a recital for her students. Heather and her teacher decided she would play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” for the recital. Heather was sad she couldn’t play a harder song.
At her piano lesson the next day, Heather invited her piano teacher, Sister Barton, to the violin recital.
“I’d love to come,” Sister Barton said.
“I’m not very good,” Heather said. “I still have a lot to learn.”
“We all have to keep learning. I practice every day,” Sister Barton said. She was the Primary pianist.
“You have to practice?” Heather asked.
“I sure do,” Sister Barton said. “And I still make mistakes.”
“I’ve never heard you make a mistake,” Heather said.
Sister Barton smiled. “I have a secret. I keep playing, and no one notices.”
“That’s a good secret,” Heather said.
“I have an even more important secret,” Sister Barton added. “I always say a prayer before I play.”
The night of the violin recital, Heather said a prayer. At the recital, her parents, older brother, and Sister Barton sat in the first row. When it was her turn, Heather played “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Her fingers slipped at one spot, but she kept playing.
“You did a great job,” Sister Barton told Heather afterward.
Heather smiled. “I remembered the two secrets.”

One cold day years ago, two missionaries spent hours contacting people on the streets of Nagano, Japan. They talked to a few people, made even fewer teaching appointments, and saw all those appointments fall through.
At the end of this tough day, the missionaries met a young man, only 15 years old, who was interested in learning about the Church.
That young man was me.
I met one of the missionaries that day on my way home from school. He taught me about the First Vision and testified that it was true. I did not understand everything at the time, but I wanted to learn more.
Two weeks later, the missionaries invited me to a Christmas party at the church. When I arrived, everyone was so friendly! They greeted me with smiles and handshakes and called me Brother Wada. I wondered how they knew my name and why they called me brother. Come to find out, the missionaries told everyone I was coming. I felt very welcomed and needed.
When everyone started singing Christmas hymns, they asked me to join them. As we sang “Joy to the World” (Hymns, no. 201)—a new hymn for me—the members of the Nagano Branch made me feel like I belonged. They soon became my good friends.

Alejandro Flores, 13, discovered the importance of doing as well as knowing. “Last Sunday,” he says, “my grandmother asked me to teach a family home evening lesson about dress standards, using For the Strength of Youth. Some of my cousins and I had the habit of following worldly styles, and I felt uncomfortable giving the lesson. But now my cousins and I are doing better in the way we dress.” His lesson and example helped prepare his cousins for an important event. “They’re getting baptized next week!” he says.

The Appleton District of the Milwaukee Wisconsin Mission held a fun youth conference right in their own backyard. They planned to sail and swim in Lake Michigan.
The unpredictable weather served up two beautifully sunny days. Following the theme of the conference, “Chart Your Course,” the leaders cast the youth adrift, in theory only, in groups of six with a survival kit. Each group was to decide which items were necessary for survival. The exercise was used to foster a discussion of our journey through mortality and what things are necessary for a safe return to our Father in Heaven.
Workshops in aerobics and a Coast Guard presentation in boating safety were held prior to an afternoon swim in the lake. That evening, garbed in pirate costumes, the group had a banquet and dance.
The following morning, breakfast was prepared for the group by the Young Men. After additional workshops on spiritual survival and an emergency course in human relations, the young people were invited on board a sailboat built by a member of the district.
One of the special experiences of the conference was the participation by one young man who was battling a serious illness. Although he had difficulty participating in some of the activities, the others helped him enjoy the conference.
The group returned exuberant and pleasantly tired for an evening testimony meeting. They bore testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel and the appreciation for meeting together with other young members of the Church.

Snow was falling outside the kitchen windows, and the pines looked as pretty as those on a Christmas card. A perfect day for sledding! I smiled and was reaching for the juice glasses as Mom came into the kitchen.
“Morning, Jackie.” Mom gave me a big hug. “Kiley didn’t want to get dressed this morning,” she said with a happy chuckle. “She just stood in front of the window, watching the snow.”
“Is that what took you so long upstairs?” I asked.
“That, and I called Grandma. She has a cold, so Kiley and I won’t be taking her shopping today.”
“You mean Kiley is going to be here all day?” I moaned.
“She lives here, honey. Where else would she be?”
“Mom!” I groaned. “You know I invited Mary Alice over to go sledding!”
“Sure,” Mom said with a quick nod and a smile. “So?”
“So you know how Kiley always butts in when I have company! And besides, I haven’t told Mary Alice about …” I stopped and shook my head. “Oh, never mind!”
“You haven’t told her you have a retarded sister?” Mom said in a quiet voice. “Are you afraid it would make a difference to her?”
“No. It’s just that I hardly know Mary Alice yet.” I poured the juice and stared at the table.
“Honey, the fact that Kiley is retarded isn’t a crime, or a sin—it’s a fact. Jesus loves and accepts her the way she is, and you do too. Your only problem is how you feel about her when your friends are around. But don’t worry so much about it. Everything will work out.” Mom smiled and went over to the stove.
Maybe Mom wasn’t worried, but my day had suddenly turned rotten. Mary Alice probably could have gone a million places today! I thought. She’ll probably wish she had, now.
Kiley clumped into the kitchen with the toes of her slippers pointing in opposite directions and stood grinning. “Your slippers are on wrong,” I said as I knelt and picked up her right foot. I put each slipper onto the correct foot and stood with a frown. “Come on now and eat.”
Kiley went to the table and sat in her chair, then lifted her chin as I fastened a bib around her neck. “Dank you,” she said with a happy grin.
“You’re welcome,” I replied.
Mom slid eggs onto our plates, and we bowed our heads and asked a blessing. I dipped my toast into the yolk and glanced at the clock.
“What time is your friend coming?” Mom asked as she aimed a forkful of food at Kiley’s mouth.
“At 10:30. I’ll do the dishes, then get ready.”
Mom steadied a glass as Kiley raised it to her lips. “Good girl!” Mom said proudly.
Kiley replaced the glass on the table and pointed to the window. “No,” she said excitedly.
Mom smiled. “Yes, snow,” she repeated. “Good girl!”
I watched Kiley’s happy face, but crossed my fingers, hoping Mom wouldn’t ask me to take Kiley sledding. Why should I be stuck with her? I argued silently.
Mom didn’t ask me to take Kiley. Instead, when they were through eating, she and Kiley left the kitchen while I did the dishes. As I scoured the skillet, I thought, If Mary Alice wasn’t coming, I’d take Kiley sledding. I’d spend the whole day with her if she wanted. But today is different.
I was pulling a turtleneck sweater over my head when Mom called upstairs. “Jackie, a girl is coming up the lane with her sled.”
“OK!” Excited, I brushed back my hair and bounced down the stairs in time to answer Mary Alice’s knock. “Hi. Come on in,” I said as she stomped snow from her boots.
“Mom dropped me at the end of your lane,” she explained. “It sure is beautiful out here! I saw a hill on the way over. Is that where you go sledding?”
“That’s it. And wait till you see the view from the top!” I grabbed my jacket and called, “Mom, Mary Alice is here and we’re going now!”
Mom came from the kitchen with flour on her hands and a smile on her face.
“Mom,” I said, “this is Mary Alice Martin.”
“Glad to meet you, Mrs. Odgen,” Mary Alice said.
“I’m pleased to meet you, too, dear. When you two come back, I’ll have something ready for you to eat.” Then Mom returned to the kitchen.
Suddenly Kiley came into the hallway with a happy smile on her face. She went up to Mary Alice, grabbed her hand, shook it, and kept right on smiling.
“Hello,” Mary Alice said. “What’s your name?”
“She’s my sister, Kiley,” I put in quickly. “Well, let’s get to that hill.” As I zipped up my jacket, I had a hard time ignoring Kiley standing there, smiling.
“Sister,” she said, pointing to me. “Special sister.”
“Yeah, Kiley,” I replied impatiently. “We’ll see you later, OK?”
Kiley nodded. “Special sister,” she repeated proudly.
Mary Alice smiled at Kiley.
I wrapped my scarf around my neck and yanked a woolen cap down over my ears. “Come on, Mary Alice,” I said, “let’s go.”
Outside, I grabbed my sled. I could feel Kiley watching me through the window. I glanced at Mary Alice, who stood with her face turned skyward, catching fluffy snowflakes. She seems happy, I thought, and glad that she came. I looked back at Kiley. She was still smiling at me, even though I was leaving her behind. Mom was right, Jesus loves her the same as anyone else. Kiley loved me, too, no matter what I did. Did I love her as much—or did I just have time for her when no one else was around?
Mary Alice looked at me, and I gulped, “Do you mind if we take Kiley along?”
Mary Alice shook her head. “I was wondering why we weren’t. She looked like she wanted to go.”
I turned and tapped on the window, then opened the door. “Come on,” I said to Kiley. “I’ll get you dressed, and you can go too. Mom,” I called, “Kiley’s going with us.”
Mom came to the doorway of the kitchen and winked at me. “OK, honey. Have a good time.”
As I tugged at Kiley’s boots, her big grin seemed to disappear around both sides of her face. “Sister!” she announced as she banged me on the head. “Special sister!”
I just kept tugging at her boots and didn’t look up. After all, how could I explain to Kiley that tears don’t always mean that you’re sad? Maybe she would have understood; I don’t know. What I do know is that I have a special sister who thinks I’m special too.

There are many opportunities all around us to be missionaries—we just need to recognize them. I was recently on an airplane flying home from England. I started talking to the man sitting next to me. We talked for a while about business and other things, but finally I said that I wanted to tell him about a very special book, the Book of Mormon. We spent the next four hours talking about it, and when we were through, he said, “This has truly changed my life.” All it took was the courage to open my mouth. The Lord will often tell us what to say.

Years later, when a good friend of mine took her own life, I decided to do some fundraising for a suicide bereavement group. One day I got a phone call from one of the group coordinators. She said there was another volunteer opportunity and my name just wouldn’t leave her mind.

She asked if I would be interested in volunteering as a support worker for a rape crisis center. As a support worker, I would meet with victims, talk them through what was going to happen, and tell them about the importance of counseling. I would also just be a support to them and their families. I told the woman that I felt the reason my name kept coming to her mind was because of what I had been through. I received the training and worked as a volunteer support worker for a couple of years.

This experience was so rewarding for me. Each time I would get the call to go to the crisis center, I always said a prayer. I would say, “Heavenly Father, You know this person, You know what she has been through, and You know what she needs to hear. Please let me be an instrument in Your hands to help them hear what they need to hear.”

As I helped victims work toward recovery, I would tell them that they had a choice. I would say, “Are you going to stay a victim or be a survivor? Some days you’ll feel that power is taken from you, but you can take the power and control back by not letting the memory of the event destroy who you are. That is how you become a survivor.”

Sometimes victims are not ready to go to counseling for a long time, but I would always encourage them and tell them that it is so important to go when they are ready. I always tried to make sure that a person who walked in as a victim would walk out as a survivor. On my way back home, I always thanked Heavenly Father for allowing me to be of some small help to others. This gave me the strength to move forward in my own life.

Robyn Rodgers entered a competition through school –‘The Queen’s College Translation Exchange’. This involved translating a piece of text from French into English. She and her school (Northfield Academy) were delighted to be awarded the ‘Anthea Bell Prize for Young Translators’. Robyn won the prize for Scotland. This was also a boost for the school as it has been at the bottom of the league tables for academic performance.
Robyn has always enjoyed learning languages and feels she has an affinity for translation. During the competition, whilst she was struggling, she remembered the youth theme last year – ‘I can do all things through Christ’. This gave her the inspiration to complete it.

During the final months of our mission last year, we experienced an event that taught once again this profound principle that each of us is known and loved by God.

Elder Neal A. Maxwell was coming to New York City for some Church business, and we were informed that he would also like to have a mission conference. We were so pleased to have this opportunity to hear from one of the Lord’s chosen servants. I was asked to select one of our missionaries to provide the opening prayer for the meeting. I might have randomly picked one of the missionaries to pray, but felt to ponder and prayerfully select one whom the Lord would have me ask. In going through the missionary roster, a name boldly stood out to me: Elder Joseph Appiah of Accra, Ghana. He was the one I felt the Lord wanted to pray at the meeting.

Prior to the mission conference, I was having a regularly scheduled interview with Elder Appiah and told him of the prompting that I had received for him to pray. With amazement and humility in his eyes, he began to weep deeply. Somewhat surprised by his reaction, I started to tell him that it was all right and he wouldn’t have to pray, when he informed me he would love to offer the prayer, that his emotion was caused by the love he has for Elder Maxwell. He told me that this Apostle is very special to the Saints in Ghana and to his own family. Elder Maxwell had called his father to be the district president in Accra and had sealed his mother and father in the Salt Lake Temple.

Now, I didn’t know any of what I just related about this missionary or his family, but the Lord did and inspired a mission president on behalf of one missionary to provide a lifelong memory and testimony-building experience.

At the meeting, Elder Appiah offered a wonderful prayer and made a humble contribution to a meeting where Elder Maxwell taught the missionaries of the attributes of Jesus Christ. All who were there will never forget the feelings of love they experienced for their Savior.

Fifteen years ago I, like Alma and the sons of Mosiah, experienced “a joyful meeting” (Alma 27:16). I had traveled from my home in Argentina to Salt Lake City to attend general conference and to perform temple ordinances there for my deceased relatives. To my surprise, in the corridors of the Salt Lake Temple, I ran into Brother Evans Jones, the missionary who baptized me 40 years before. Despite the passage of time, we joyfully recognized each other.
We had met previously in 1942, when I was 12 years old and living in Córdoba, Argentina. On 5 February of that year, a small group of us gathered at an irrigation canal for my baptismal service. I still remember the feeling I had when I stepped into the water and felt the muddy bottom under my naked feet. I walked carefully, knowing I was doing something very important. My heart beat loudly in my chest as I made sacred promises to the Lord.
Since then, I have been privileged to see the work of the Lord grow in Argentina as thousands have entered the waters of baptism. In those early days, we considered 10 people at church meetings good attendance. Today Argentina is home to 10 missions and 46 stakes, and we are blessed to have a temple in Buenos Aires.
Fifty-two years after my baptism, my assignment as a counselor in the Argentina Córdoba Mission presidency took me back by that canal. I was able to observe that the waters of the old canal are still running, still giving life to the plants growing there—just as my baptism in that water gave a new life to me, my family, and my posterity. Thank you, Elder Jones, and thank you to everyone who shares the precious treasure of the restored gospel.

Gus German is only 17 years old, but he cannot remember a time when he wasn’t visiting Church members with his father. In Delaware, members are spread out in different directions and in many cases they’re miles away from one another. With that in mind, members try to check up on each other. Of course, Gus didn’t become a home teacher until age 12, when he received the Aaronic Priesthood and was assigned by his bishop to be his father’s companion. But he’d already learned a lot about caring for people and about preparing and presenting meaningful lessons, so he stepped right into his home teaching role.
“Scripture stories were my staple home teaching lessons,” says Gus, a priest who grew up in the Wilmington (Delaware) West Ward. “I’d studied them in story books from the time I was five, so I knew those stories cold. Some people wonder who Nebuchadnezzar is. I know who he is.”
Over the years, Gus and his father regularly visited Sister Joyce Miller, at the time a less-active member of the Church who was battling cancer.
“The thing I remember most about Gus as a young boy was that whenever I asked him to say a prayer, he would stand up and do it,” Sister Miller says. “A lot of young boys and girls roll their eyes when you ask them to do something like praying. Not Gus.”
Now the young man who stopped by was a deacon with a priesthood responsibility. “I wasn’t active when they first started visiting me,” Sister Miller continues, “but their visits meant everything. I wanted to come back to church, but I was smoking and didn’t want to go because I was afraid people would smell the smoke on me.”
“All I knew is we always went to Sister Miller’s house and had fun when we home-taught her. I didn’t think any different of her when I found out she smoked because we were already really good friends,” says Gus. “I was pretty impressed and proud of her when she did stop smoking because I have heard how tough it is to quit.”
When she did stop smoking, Sister Miller began going to church again. “I was so glad because I liked seeing her. I would be able to see a smile on her face and be able to tell she really liked being at church,” Gus adds.
When Gus turned 16 and got his driver’s license, he was able to see that smile more and more. As her condition worsened, Sister Miller was unable to drive. Gus happily volunteered to pick her up and take her to church. “Sometimes she couldn’t stay past the sacrament in sacrament meeting so I would take her home.” Now, other ward members pick up Sister Miller when she’s able to go to church. And when she wasn’t, guess who went to her house to take her the sacrament.
“Sometimes I went with my dad, and sometimes I went with the Young Men president or one of the guys from my quorum,” explains Gus. “It’s something I did that helped her out. I liked doing it.”
Something else he did to help her out: Gus and his dad took Sister Miller to receive her patriarchal blessing.
“When we went for my blessing, Jack (Gus’s dad) took us in his car, the hot rod (a Chevy Nova). We laughed all the way down there. Gus was in the backseat laughing, and my face hurt from laughing,” Sister Miller remembers. “When I had my blessing, Jack and Gus were as quiet as church mice. After all that laughing we did on our way down, it was pretty quiet on the trip back. That is very memorable. We always have a good time, the three of us.”

Spooked by a ravaging band of Shoshone hunters, Little Wind’s pony has escaped into high rock country. His father, Ten Days Walking, has ridden in another direction with several tribesmen to reclaim a band of village ponies that also fled during the melee.
Fearing that any delay will spoil the chance of catching his pony, Little Wind doesn’t tell his mother of his departure. But he is unaware that beyond the fog-shrouded mesa a giant winter storm is brewing.
Little Wind moved in a hurried, anxious fashion through the deepening drifts of snow. His young eyes eagerly searched the white wilderness beyond the hoof tracks for his stray pony, expecting at any moment to discover the animal patiently waiting for him in the swirls of mist. But as minutes multiplied into hours, all that greeted the boy’s intense anticipation were the dark shapes of some lightning-split scrub oak, a clump of rocks jutting up, or bunches of brushwood scratching together in the new wind.
The wind! It had returned. Its stirrings were barely noticeable at first in the wee rattlings of ice-cloaked underbrush. It was only the piercing chill that invaded even the warmth of Little Wind’s big otter coat that first kindled his awareness of the wind’s growing intensity.
The boy paused to wipe the wintry drippings from his frosted brow and looked with difficulty up the sides of the gigantic ice-blurred mesas. They loomed above him like dark mythical giants that grow out of the smoke and tales spun by the old ones around the great fires. Then Little Wind shuddered at the chilling sight of a formless black cloud mass that loomed over the top of the buttes and out of the mist.
The boy gathered the otter coat more tightly about himself and continued on at an even more urgent pace, all the while feverishly searching for any sign of his pony, whose tracks were now completely obliterated by the snow. He leaned heavily on his sense of hearing to assist him in his search, his ears straining beyond the sound of the crunching beneath his numbed, moccasined feet. But the strident whine of the ghostly wind would have made it impossible to hear the nicker of his pony, even if he were close-by.
More than once Little Wind glanced back over his shoulder through the whirling curtain of ice toward what he guessed was the direction of home. Home. How far away it seemed, farther away even than he was from heaven’s door.
Laughing Water, Little Wind’s mother, stepped out of the family tepee into the howling, icy wind. Worry spread across her countenance like mourning paint. It had been some time since Yellow Fox, himself concerned about his friend’s safety, had informed her of Little Wind’s departure from the village. The awesome skies and unusually cutting winds filled her anxious heart with mounting fear. Even her father-in-law, Red Owl Watching, who was usually optimistic, had lifted himself from his sickbed to gaze with troubled uncertainty. He had seen many frightful storms, but never one such as he now beheld.
Laughing Water had beseeched some of the husbands of the other families to seek out her son, but while they were in full sympathy with her fears and concern, they were without horses. And if they were to venture out into the killing freeze on foot—even a little way—they would most surely perish. Aside from the fact that they had their own families to care for, in the wild swirling snow they would not be able to see their hands in front of their faces, let alone a small boy in an invisible wilderness of driving ice.
Laughing Water brushed the unbidden tears from her dusky cheeks and gave a sidelong glance in the direction taken by Ten Days Walking and the others. His eyes were eagle sharp, even during the foulest weather or throughout the darkest night. She quickly looked back in the other direction, hoping somehow that Little Wind would suddenly appear alive, safe. But the only thing that broke forth from the worsening blizzard was another blast of gale-force wind. Red Owl Watching lifted his raspy, failing voice against the wind and begged Laughing Water to come inside by the fire. “We have enough souls to pray for, good mother. Let it not be that we must pray for you too.” She turned slowly and went inside.
The winds grew wilder still. Little Wind struggled along blindly in the wracking cold, banging his hands together in an effort to keep his blood from freezing up like the tiny prairie streams long since turned to ice. Still he tried to catch some glimpse of his pony, but it was useless. His hands had already become so numb that he could scarcely feel them, and his feet felt as though they were only extensions of his soaked leggings that plodded along through the drifts as if by instinct. The wind tore through his otter coat like a great spear. And everywhere shards of flying ice were so thick that he could not tell where he was going or where he had been.
Little Wind stumbled a few more feet, turning one way, then another. Whirling around to escape the stinging ice, he lost his footing, tripped over a small log fall, and collapsed in the snow. He tried to pull himself up, but a rushing wind slammed against him. In a moment the snow began to cover the small fallen form.
Ten Days Walking and the other braves had at last returned to the village, chilled but successful. Their scattered horses had been recovered. As the Sioux chief dismounted, Laughing Water clutched at his heavy wraps, tearfully recounting the story of Little Wind’s flight into the storm after his pony. Ten Days Walking wrapped his big furs back about his face so that only his eyes were visible, eyes filled with concern and fear. He mounted his buffalo runner again and faced the screaming storm. How can I possibly save Little Wind? he wondered sadly. It had been only with great difficulty that he and the other braves were able to find their village! And the storm was now so incredibly furious that he wondered if even the Great Spirit could find his boy. He reeled his horse around, eyed Laughing Water with stinging emotions, and pitched headlong into the savage white squall.
Little Wind lay beneath a cloak of snow. Still alive, yet unable to move, and on the edge of slipping off into a final, frozen sleep, his thoughts—untouched by the weather—raced home to his father’s fires, his mother’s steaming broth, and the warmth of loved ones pressing near. And with these warm memories, he was ready to make his final journey to the land of the Sky People, who lived beyond the fury of the wind and the thrashing winter blasts, a place where the sun shone forever and the plains were green and fine. He could almost see it now. Surely, he thought, I am on my way to heaven.
He dared to open one eye, just a little. And in his delirium he seemed to see something through the falling snow. It was a glow! Could it really be the welcoming fire in the village of the gods? Yet he had not left mother earth, for the storm still raged about him.
The light grew brighter, nearer. Little Wind opened both eyes, looking with awe and disbelief. The glow came from … an animal! It was the old buffalo that he had befriended in the great four-legged’s final hours, the one with the broken horn and the ghostly blue eyes! Little Wind looked harder, scarcely able to believe what his eyes were beholding—a white glow in a white wind. “The spirit of the great four-legged!” he muttered as the bison seemed to drift nearer still, its pale blue eyes watching the boy in the snow.
In his mind, Little Wind started to question the animal’s presence. Why would the old buffalo … ?
Suddenly his father’s words, spoken to him on the great hunt when he had pleaded compassionately for the bison, came back to him as if on the wind. “Such kindness,” Ten Days Walking had promised with prophetic surety, “will one day return itself upon you, my son, whether this old four-legged lives or dies. And this because of the goodness of your heart.”
The huge animal figure, still immersed in a strange glowing light, paused a moment before Little Wind then lay down beside him, its great fur coat engulfing the boy like a blanket of heavenly warmth.
Ten Days Walking plowed forward on a prayer through the raw, heaving weather, his cries for his son muffled by the louder cry of the wind. Suddenly he pulled up, for in the lee of a jack pine he saw the outline of a figure under the snow, one so clearly seen that it was almost as though a light pointed toward it.
Ten Days Walking piled off his horse and scooped Little Wind up into his arms. He quickly bundled the boy inside his furs. But how odd, he thought, that the boy still feels so warm! He wiped tears of thanksgiving from his eyes and stood there in the storm, thanking the Great Spirit for the life of his son.
After a moment, Little Wind spoke softly. “Did you see the light, Father? It was the spirit of the old buffalo. I saw him. The Great One sent him to keep me warm until you could find me.”
The mighty Sioux warrior chief hugged his son with matchless pride, lifted his head heavenward in the fury, and cried out his gratitude with a reverence Little Wind had never heard before. Then Ten Days Walking mounted his horse with Little Wind beneath his wrappings, gave the buffalo runner its lead, and let instinct carry it in the direction of home.
Little Wind never found his pony, but that day his testimony of the love of the Great Spirit soared as high as the eagles. Two weeks later his grandfather’s spirit made its journey to the lodge of the Great One. Fifteen years later, Little Wind would take his father’s place as chief of the tribe. And the story of that day, when the spirit of the old buffalo came to a young Sioux boy to return life for life, would be told and retold around the fires of every Indian nation for generations to come.

“Dad was on his first mission and was the mission secretary in charge of the travel preparations for the missionaries in Europe. When it came time for him and his companions to leave, he booked their passage on the big “unsinkable” ocean liner, the Titanic. However, one of the boys could not go then so Dad changed their departure date. When the boys heard that the Titanic had sunk, they all knelt down and thanked the Lord for preserving them.”

In April 2021, the second wave of the coronavirus outbreak swept across Fiji. My family, like many others, had to adjust quickly to all the contingency plans that were put in place to prevent the spread of the virus. Because the initial outbreak was a four-hour drive away from where I live, I didn’t think that it would have that much of an impact on my immediate family, as I was hoping that the spread would be quickly contained.
Right before the second wave of COVID hit Fiji, I had just received news of the death of my paternal grandfather. My dad, who lives on the western side of Viti Levu, wasn’t able to make it to his dad’s funeral in Suva because of the limitations in movement across Fiji as our health workers tried to contain the virus. This made me realize that the virus was a lot closer to home as it was affecting my family’s ability to physically gather in comfort for my grandfather’s funeral.
The virus continued to spread throughout Fiji. At that time, I was running a business and still had to run errands and deliveries so that I could contribute financially to my family’s income. We continued to work and put measures in place to keep our family as safe as possible. It was a difficult time trying to adjust to the changes because we couldn’t meet and gather with our extended families, which is usually what we would do on the weekends. It became mentally and emotionally challenging not being able to gather and see our families physically.
The reality of the virus hit me even more when my little family came down with flu-like symptoms. I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s just the seasonal flu that usually goes around,” but we ended up getting tested as a precautionary measure. Our results came back positive: my husband, my 18-month-old daughter, and I all had COVID-19.
The news of our positive results affected us mentally, especially for my husband and me. It felt like our symptoms grew worse and that our recovery took longer the more we dwelled on the fact that we were infected with coronavirus. Focusing on our sickness built up more fear, which crippled us mentally, emotionally and spiritually—we had no room for faith. After two weeks of being down with the virus, we realized that we weren’t showing faith in Jesus Christ because we let fear in the way by focusing on being sick. So, to counteract that, we started shifting our focus to the Saviour and the power that comes from acting on our faith in Him.
The minute we chose to have faith in Jesus Christ and to act on it, our mentality and attitude began to change, and our actions started to align with our faith. We prayed with real intent and kept expressing in our prayers that we have faith in Jesus Christ and in His ability to heal us physically. We started reading more of the scriptures and quoting scripture around the house and to each other.
We started to be a lot more optimistic, and we continued to build on hope. We didn’t feel any more fear or worry. We were happier around the house and enjoyed each other’s company. When we really started to show our faith in Jesus Christ by doing these things, we noticed that our recovery started to pick up and we were able to fully recover shortly after.
I firmly believe that faith in Jesus Christ can bring about healing power as we exercise faith in Him. We can overcome our fears and worries when we put our trust and focus on the Saviour Jesus Christ. I am so grateful that my family managed to get through COVID-19 together with the help of the Saviour’s healing power.

Mary anxiously shifted back and forth in her seat as she listened to the other children in her Primary class take turns reading from the scriptures. She hoped her turn would never come.
Mary had a learning disability called dyslexia. When she looked at letters on a page, they seemed to run around and switch places. When she read out loud, her words were slow and sometimes out of order. Often she read words that weren’t there at all.
The closer Mary’s turn came, the more scared she was. When it was finally her turn, Mary couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said suddenly as she jumped up from her chair, sending her scriptures tumbling to the floor. Mary ran down the hallway to the bathroom. She was glad it was empty. She stood in the corner and began to cry.
A few minutes later, she heard Sister Smith call her name as she came into the bathroom. “Mary, what’s wrong?”
Mary didn’t know what to say. She was so embarrassed. None of the other children had this problem. “I can’t read!” she cried as she tucked her head into her folded arms.
“You can’t read?” Sister Smith asked, puzzled. “I’ve seen you give talks in Primary. I know you can read.”
Mary shook her head. “I memorize my talks. I practice them over and over so I don’t have to try to read them in front of people. When I read out loud, I make lots of mistakes. I don’t want the other kids to laugh at me.”
“Oh, Mary, I’m sorry. I won’t call on you to read out loud until I know you’re ready,” Sister Smith said. “And I don’t believe anyone in our class will laugh at you. They are your friends.”
“Kids at school laugh at me,” Mary whispered.
Sister Smith wiped Mary’s tears away. “Come back to class. You’ll see,” she said.
They walked back to the classroom together. Mary’s friend Betsy sat in the chair next to Mary’s, smoothing the ruffled pages of Mary’s scriptures. Mary sat down, and Betsy handed her scriptures back to her.
“Who would like to read next?” Sister Smith asked.
“It’s Mary’s turn,” a boy in the class said.
Mary hesitated, but she looked around at her classmates and saw their kind faces. Sister Smith nodded and smiled too. Mary was nervous, but she found her place and began to read.
Her words came slowly. She made some mistakes, but when she got stuck, Betsy quietly whispered the right word in Mary’s ear. Mary did not read as well as the other kids in her class, but no one laughed or made fun of her. Then it was someone else’s turn, and the lesson went on.
As they walked to the Primary room after class, Sister Smith whispered to Mary that she was proud of her. Mary was glad she didn’t have to try to hide her trouble reading anymore. “I’ll just keep practicing,” she thought. And she smiled, knowing she had good friends at church to support her along the way.