Gospel Story Finder

Just over a week after the prisoners were arrested, Joseph F. Smith, son of Hyrum and Mary Fielding Smith was born. When he was about three months old, his mother struggled to escape Missouri because of the extermination order of Governor Boggs. Besides her three-month old baby, she took with her five other children who had been born to Hyrum and his wife, Jerusha, who had died. She eventually reached Nauvoo, Illinois.

Mary's trials can hardly be imagined without having experienced her sacrifices. Hyrum, who of course was in prison, said: “Our enemies carried off nearly everything of value, until my family were left destitute.”[2] Mary might well have said, as did Abigail Adams during the establishment of this nation: “Posterity who are to reap the blessings will scarcely be able to conceive the hardships and sufferings of their ancestors.”[3]

About five months later the brethren imprisoned in the Liberty Jail escaped and made their way to Nauvoo, their families, and the body of the Church. For the next five years, Joseph F. Smith and his parents enjoyed a period of relative peace. During this time, Mary Fielding Smith wrote the following to her brother who was living in England.

"The situation is very pleasant and you would be much pleased to see it. How long we will be permitted to enjoy it I know not; but the Lord knows what is best for us. I feel but little concerned about where I am, if I can but keep my mind staid upon God; for you know, in this, there is perfect peace."[4]

Joseph F. Smith was younger than six years old when word came that his father, Hyrum, and his uncle, the Prophet Joseph, had been martyred in Carthage Jail. Age nine saw him crossing the plains filling the assignment of an adult teamster driving an ox team for his widowed mother. Two months short of his fourteenth birthday, his beloved mother, Mary Fielding Smith, passed away. When he was fifteen years old, President Brigham Young called him to serve a mission to the Hawaiian Islands. That mission lasted four years, and his service left an indelible impression on the people there. The Hawaiian Saints still remember him and hold his name in reverence and honor.

In time he was called to be a General Authority where he served for fifty-two years. Seventeen of those years he presided over the Church.

Many years ago I read a book titled The Way to the Western Sea by David S. Lavender. It provides a fascinating account of the epic journey of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark as they led their famed expedition across the North American continent to discover an overland route to the Pacific Ocean.
Their trek was a nightmare of backbreaking toil, deep gorges which had to be crossed, and extensive travel by foot, carrying with them their supply-laden boats to find the next stream on which to make their way.
As I read of their experiences, I frequently mused, “If only there were modern bridges to span the gorges or the raging waters.” There came to my mind thoughts of magnificent bridges of our time which accomplish this task with ease: beautiful Golden Gate Bridge of San Francisco fame; sturdy Sydney, Australia, Harbour Bridge; and others in many lands.
In reality, we are all travelers—even explorers of mortality. We do not have the benefit of previous personal experience. We must pass over steep precipices and turbulent waters in our own journey here on earth.
Perhaps such a somber thought inspired the poet Will Allen Dromgoole’s classic poem titled “The Bridge Builder”:
An old man, going a lone highway,
Came at the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast and deep and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.
The old man crossed in the twilight dim;
The sullen stream had no fears for him;
But he turned when safe on the other side
And built a bridge to span the tide.
“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,
“You are wasting strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again must pass this way;
You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide—
Why build you the bridge at the eventide?”
The builder lifted his old gray head:
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,
“There followeth after me today
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been naught to me
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building the bridge for him.”
The message of the poem has prompted my thinking and comforted my soul, for our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ was the supreme architect and builder of bridges for you, for me, for all humankind. He has built the bridges over which we must cross if we are to reach our heavenly home.
The Savior’s mission was foretold. Matthew recorded, “And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name Jesus: for he shall save his people from their sins.”
There followed the miracle of His birth and the gathering of the shepherds who came with haste to that stable, to that mother, to that child. Even the Wise Men, journeying from the East, followed that star and bestowed their precious gifts upon the young child.
The scripture records that Jesus “grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom: and the grace of God was upon him” and that He “went about doing good.”
What personal bridges did He build and cross here in mortality, showing us the way to follow? He knew mortality would be filled with dangers and difficulties. He declared:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
Jesus provided the bridge of obedience. He was an unfailing example of personal obedience as He kept the commandments of His Father.
When He was led of the Spirit into the wilderness, He was weak from fasting. Satan was at his seductive best in the offerings he proffered. His first was to satisfy the Savior’s physical needs, including His hunger. To this the Savior replied, “It is written, Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.”
Next Satan offered power. Responded the Savior, “It is written again, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.”
Finally the Savior was offered wealth and earthly glory. His response: “Get thee hence, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.”
The Apostle Paul was inspired of the Lord to declare for our time, as well as for his: “There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.”
Lest we equivocate, I mention something Ted Koppel, TV news journalist, said in a university commencement address: “What Moses brought down from Mt. Sinai were not the Ten Suggestions. They are commandments.”
A bit of humor is found in an account of a conversation between author Mark Twain and a friend. Said the wealthy friend to Twain, “Before I die, I plan to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I will climb to the top of Mount Sinai and read the Ten Commandments aloud.”
Replied Twain, “Why don’t you stay home and keep them?”
The second bridge provided by the Master for us to cross is the bridge of service. We look to the Savior as our example of service. Although He came to earth as the Son of God, He humbly served those around Him. He came forth from heaven to live on earth as mortal man and to establish the kingdom of God. His glorious gospel reshaped the thinking of the world. He blessed the sick; He caused the lame to walk, the blind to see, the deaf to hear. He even raised the dead to life.
In Matthew 25, the Savior tells us this concerning the faithful who will be on His right hand at His triumphal return:
“Then shall the King say unto them … , Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
“Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.
“Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
“When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?
“Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
“And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
Elder Richard L. Evans (1906–71) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once counseled, “We can’t do everything for everyone everywhere, but we can do something for someone somewhere.”
May I share with you an account of an opportunity of service which came to me unexpectedly and in an unusual manner. I received a telephone call from a granddaughter of an old friend. She asked, “Do you remember Francis Brems, who was your Sunday School teacher?” I told her that I did. She continued, “He is now 105 years of age. He lives in a small care center but meets with the entire family each Sunday, where he delivers a Sunday School lesson. Last Sunday Grandpa announced to us, ‘My dears, I am going to die this week. Will you please call Tommy Monson and tell him this. He’ll know what to do.’ ”
I visited Brother Brems the very next evening. I could not speak to him, for he was deaf. I could not write a message for him to read, for he was blind. What was I to do? I was told that his family communicated with him by taking the finger of his right hand and then tracing on the palm of his left hand the name of the person visiting and then any message. I followed the procedure and took his finger and spelled on the palm of his hand T-O-M-M-Y M-O-N-S-O-N. Brother Brems became excited and, taking my hands, placed them on his head. I knew his desire was to receive a priesthood blessing. The driver who had taken me to the care center joined me as we placed our hands on the head of Brother Brems and provided the desired blessing. Afterward tears streamed from his sightless eyes. He grasped our hands, and we read the movement of his lips. The message: “Thank you so much.”
Within that very week, just as Brother Brems had predicted, he passed away. I received the telephone call and then met with the family as funeral arrangements were made. How thankful I am that a response to render service was not delayed.
The bridge of service invites us to cross over it frequently.
Finally, the Lord provided us the bridge of prayer. He directed, “Pray always, and I will pour out my Spirit upon you, and great shall be your blessing.”
I share with you an account described in a mother’s letter to me relating to prayer. She wrote:
“Sometimes I wonder if I make a difference in my children’s lives. Especially as a single mother working two jobs to make ends meet, I sometimes come home to confusion, but I never give up hope.
“My children and I were watching a television broadcast of general conference, and you were speaking about prayer. My son made the statement, ‘Mother, you’ve already taught us that.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he replied, ‘Well, you’ve taught us to pray and showed us how, but the other night I came to your room to ask something and found you on your knees praying to Heavenly Father. If He’s important to you, He’ll be important to me.’ ”
The letter concluded, “I guess you never know what kind of influence you’ll be until a child observes you doing yourself what you have tried to teach him to do.”
No relating of a prayer touches me so deeply as the prayer offered by Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. I believe Luke describes it best:
“He … went … to the mount of Olives; and his disciples also followed him.
“And when he was at the place, he said unto them, Pray that ye enter not into temptation.
“And he was withdrawn from them about a stone’s cast, and kneeled down, and prayed,
“Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.
“And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him.
“And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.”
In due time came the trek to the cross. What suffering He endured as He made His burdensome way, carrying His own cross. Heard were the words He uttered upon the cross: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
At length Jesus declared, “It is finished: and he bowed his head, and gave up the ghost.”
These events, coupled with His glorious Resurrection, completed the final bridge of our trilogy: the bridge of obedience, the bridge of service, the bridge of prayer.
Jesus, the Bridge Builder, spanned that vast chasm we call death. “For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.” He did for us what we could not do for ourselves; hence, humankind can cross the bridges He built—into life eternal.
I close by paraphrasing the poem “The Bridge Builder”:
“You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide—
Why build you the bridge at the eventide?”
“There followeth after me today
A vast throng whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been naught to me
To that great throng may be a pitfall be.
They too must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building the bridge for them.”
I pray that we may have the wisdom and determination to cross the bridges the Savior built for each of us.

My father was like that. He was a scientist. He lectured to audiences in countries around the world. Once I read a talk he had given to a large scientific convention. In it he referred to creation and a Creator as he talked about his science. I knew that few, if any, in that audience would have shared his faith. So I said to him with wonder and admiration, “Dad, you bore your testimony.” He looked at me with surprise on his face and said, “Did I?”
He had not even known that he was being brave. He simply said what he knew was true. When he bore testimony, even those who rejected it knew it came not by design but because it was part of him. He was what he was, wherever he was.

At such times I frequently remember my own wedding day nearly twenty-six years ago and the strong feelings of love that I had for my wife, Kathy. I also remember our high expectations for the future. I am sure that we had an ideal in mind that wasn’t necessarily peculiar to us, and yet we (or at least I) thought Kathy and I were about to begin a companionship together that would be unparalleled in the romantic history of Western civilization!

Nevertheless, despite our best intentions and efforts, the “ideal” began to collide with reality shortly after our brief honeymoon in Salt Lake City at the then existing equivalent of a Motel 6. I cannot speak for Kathy but, on my part, I soon began to feel some small sense of disillusionment–a feeling that there was something more to be had in and from marriage than I, at least, seemed capable of producing.

There began to be a gradual descent from the lofty level of our wedding day to a somewhat lower plateau where we seemed destined to live out our lives well beneath our privileges. One small example from among many will illustrate the type of memories that Kathy and I were accumulating together about that time.

We were living in Salt Lake City, where I was attending law school and Kathy was teaching first grade. The stress of both of us being new to the city, to our schools, and to each other became a little heavy and our relationship a bit testy. One night about dinnertime we had a quarrel that convinced me there was no hope for nourishment at home. So I left our modest apartment and walked to the nearest fast food restaurant a block away. As I entered the north door of this establishment, I looked to my right and, much to my surprise, saw Kathy entering through the south door! We exchanged angry glances and advanced to opposing cash registers to place our orders. We continued to ignore each other as we sat alone on opposite ends of the restaurant sullenly eating our evening meal. We then left as we had entered, taking separate routes home, finally ending this utterly ridiculous episode by reconciling and laughing together about how infantile we had both been.

When I was young, I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with my dad. He went to college all day and worked most of the night. It was really wearing him out, but he had himself, my mother, and four children to support.
I used to play with the wooden toys my dad made for us. He made such things as blocks, wooden animals, and puzzles when he had time. But my favorite was the little knife he carved for me from a small piece of wood. It wasn’t using the knife to fight an imaginary foe that intrigued me so much. It was the fact that my dad had made it himself, just for me and no one else.
I was so proud of my dad. I thought there was nothing better than someone who could turn an ordinary piece of wood into something as magnificent as my little knife. I would just sit and hold it in my hands, looking at it and thinking about the time he spent making it for me.
Years later, when my dad was out of school and had a good daytime job, I was able to spend a little more time with him, but the value of that knife never lessened.
One day I walked outside and what I saw sent a flood of memories into my mind. My dad was sitting on the steps, a pocketknife in his right hand, and in his left a piece of wood slowly taking the shape of a little knife. I could see little slivers of wood fly as he whittled and whistled a happy song. He turned to me and smiled.
Before I knew it, I was sitting right next to my dad, a pocketknife in my right hand and a piece of wood in my left. Twice as many little shavings of wood flew as my dad taught me how to carve a little knife by myself. Mine didn’t look nearly as good as his, but it was okay. My dad was sitting next to me, and that was all that mattered.
Every once in a while, I looked up at him, all smiles, to compare my knife with his, as he kept carving the wood and whistling his songs. Once he caught me looking at him and gave me a big smile and winked at me. That made me feel good because he would wink at me when he was really happy. I winked back.

I’ve been on my mission for over a year now. Every P-day I’ve written two letters home. One to Mom and Dad and one to Gus. I’ve received a letter every week from Mom or Dad, but Gus has never written. Not one letter! I can’t believe it. We were so close. Mom tells me what he’s doing, but I want to hear from him. They say he hasn’t been to church since my farewell.
I tell them about my experiences, and I bear testimony of the gospel in each letter. Mom said Gus reads them.
That’s all there is to Gus’s story. I wish there were more to tell. I want it to have a happy ending.
I’m going to stop writing now. I feel a real need to pray. I’m a little discouraged. The Jones family won’t make a commitment, and Gus won’t write to me. They will both be in my prayers tonight.
I received a very special letter from Mom. She said she caught Gus crying as he read my letter about the Jones family.
I can’t believe Mom’s letter today!
She said she’s not sure, but she thinks Gus is actually reading the Book of Mormon (in secret of course).
I hope so. It would help him so much.
She also said she hasn’t found any cigarettes in his pockets when she washes his clothes.
If he could just stop smoking! He still doesn’t know we know.
A letter from Mom. No doubt about it—Gus has stopped smoking. But the secret’s still on.
Dad wrote. He invited Gus to go to church with Mom and him, like he always does, and Gus actually went! Only he insisted on following Dad’s car on his Harley-Davidson.
During Sunday School he didn’t know where to go for the Young Adult class, and the teacher for the 14- and 15-year-olds (about 4 boys and 3 girls) didn’t show up. Two of the boys had seen Gus drive up on the Harley D. and asked him to show it to them. Before long most of the class was out in the parking lot admiring the Harley D. He even flipped “wheelies” for them. He’s such a show-off.
The Sunday School president had a conniption when he caught them.
The kids all wanted to sluff sacrament meeting and go motorcycle riding, but Gus calmed them down and got them reverently into the chapel for the meeting. It’s great!
Dad wrote again. Last Sunday Gus was ready for church before he and Mom even woke up.
When they arrived at church (this time Dad made him leave the Harley D. at home), the panic-stricken Sunday School president confronted Dad and Gus and begged them to substitute teach the 14- and 15-year-olds because the teacher didn’t show up again. Dad accepted and was surprised to hear Gus accept.
When they got in the class, Dad couldn’t get the kids to pay attention, so Gus stood up and there was total silence.
Then Gus told of a certain friend of his (he gave no name) who had started smoking when he was 14 and who was completely addicted by the time he was 24. He told how his friend couldn’t stop smoking, no matter how hard he tried, until he went to the Lord in prayer. And then his friend was given the strength to quit. Then Gus bore testimony of the Word of Wisdom.
Dad said it was the best impromptu lesson he’d ever heard. The kids loved it. He said he’s proud of Gus.
Now I just wish Gus would write. What’s going through his mind?
My eyes are full of tears as I write this evening. I received a letter from Gus. It’s the very first since I’ve been out.
He began by apologizing for never writing. He confessed he used to smoke. He said he’s never told anyone but the bishop and me. He asked me to never tell Mom and Dad because they’d be so hurt. If he only knew.
He told me he has fallen in love with the ward and never misses church. He and the bishop have had many talks, and Gus feels he has found a new friend.
He announced he has read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover. He bore testimony of its truthfulness and expressed his appreciation for the gospel of Jesus Christ.
He says he’s trying to get his friend Rod to talk to the missionaries.
And the most special news is that my big brother Gus will be ordained an elder this coming Sunday by my Dad.
The Lord answers prayers.
Gus has shaved his beard and cut his hair! Mom sent me a snapshot of him. He looks so funny! I’d forgotten what a baby face he has without whiskers.
Another letter from Gus! He says even though he’s 25 years old, he thinks about serving a mission once in a while.
He said he would probably go anywhere in the world but Japan, because, though he loves the people and culture, he is still not sold on Japanese motorcycles.
I almost can’t believe I’m writing this! Gus talked to our stake president! The missionary papers have been submitted. He’s actually waiting for his call. He says he’s going crazy waiting. I can relate. I’ve been there.
He’s really going on a mission. Gus, a missionary!
A telegram from home! Gus is going to Japan. That’s about the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.
They’re not giving him much time. He enters the MTC December 3rd. I’ll barely miss seeing him. I don’t get released until December 20th. That’ll make four years before we see each other. Four years! I’ll go crazy. A guy could get married in four years! Kids, college, we’ll be strangers.
But you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A letter from Gus. He’ll sell his gas station and the great and irreplaceable Harley D. to pay for his mission. What a sacrifice! I’m so proud of Gus.
And get this! He says he’s going to try to save money so when he gets back he can buy a Kawasaki motorcycle. He calls it “cultural appreciation.”
Mom wrote. Gus’s farewell testimonial was great. She said at least 20 platinum blondes were in attendance.
His testimony brought tears to many eyes. What really humbles me is Mom says he told everybody he loved me and expressed thanks for my example.
Gus. His story is a miracle.

Subhash and Roselyn Dass and their sons, Amit and Anand, wanted to travel to the temple to be sealed, but they couldn’t seem to save enough money. When Brother Dass was called as a bishop, he felt strongly that he needed to receive the endowment. The family had enough money for one plane ticket to Tonga, so Sister Dass encouraged her husband to go alone. “No,” he said. “We must all go together. The Lord will provide a way.”
The family fasted for the next two Sundays. At the end of the second week, Bishop Dass’ employer offered to lend him the money for all four plane tickets. “Going to the temple was the most beautiful experience we’ve had,” says Bishop Dass. “We know now that if we seek the kingdom of God first, the Lord will do the rest.”

Now I share an experience that taught me a way to gain spiritual guidance. One Sunday I attended the priesthood meeting of a Spanish branch in Mexico City. I vividly recall how a humble Mexican priesthood leader struggled to communicate the truths of the gospel in his lesson material. I noted the intense desire he had to share those principles he strongly valued with his quorum members. He recognized that they were of great worth to the brethren present. In his manner there was an evidence of a pure love of the Savior and love of those he taught.

His sincerity, purity of intent, and love permitted a spiritual strength to envelop the room. I was deeply touched. Then I began to receive personal impressions as an extension of the principles taught by that humble instructor. They were personal and related to my assignments in the area. They came in answer to my prolonged, prayerful efforts to learn.

As each impression came, I carefully wrote it down. In the process, I was given precious truths that I greatly needed in order to be a more effective servant of the Lord. The details of the communication are sacred and, like a patriarchal blessing, were for my individual benefit. I was given specific directions, instructions, and conditioned promises that have beneficially altered the course of my life.

Subsequently, I visited the Sunday School class in our ward, where a very well-educated teacher presented his lesson. That experience was in striking contrast to the one enjoyed in the priesthood meeting. It seemed to me that the instructor had purposely chosen obscure references and unusual examples to illustrate the principles of the lesson. I had the distinct impression that this instructor was using the teaching opportunity to impress the class with his vast store of knowledge. At any rate, he certainly did not seem as intent on communicating principles as had the humble priesthood leader.

In that environment, strong impressions began to flow to me again. I wrote them down. The message included specific counsel on how to become more effective as an instrument in the hands of the Lord. I received such an outpouring of impressions that were so personal that I felt it was not appropriate to record them in the midst of a Sunday School class. I sought a more private location, where I continued to write the feelings that flooded into my mind and heart as faithfully as possible. After each powerful impression was recorded, I pondered the feelings I had received to determine if I had accurately expressed them in writing. As a result, I made a few minor changes to what had been written. Then I studied their meaning and application in my own life.

Subsequently I prayed, reviewing with the Lord what I thought I had been taught by the Spirit. When a feeling of peace came, I thanked Him for the guidance given. I was then impressed to ask, “Is there yet more to be given?” I received further impressions, and the process of writing down the impressions, pondering, and praying for confirmation was repeated. Again I was prompted to ask, “Is there more I should know?” And there was. When that last, most sacred experience was concluded, I had received some of the most precious, specific, personal direction one could hope to obtain in this life. Had I not responded to the first impressions and recorded them, I would not have received the last, most precious guidance.

As a young 12-year-old Scout, I received a gift of a much-desired addition to my Scouting equipment. It was a hatchet with a heavy leather cover! On the next overnight hike, we arrived in camp after dark, wet and cold from the heavy snow on the trail. All I could think about was building a big roaring fire. I immediately went to work chopping a fallen tree with my new hatchet. As I chopped, I was frustrated because it didn’t seem to be cutting very well. In my frustration, I worked harder. Disappointed, I returned to camp with only a few pieces of wood. By the light of someone else’s fire, I discovered the problem. I hadn’t taken the cover off the hatchet. I can report, however, the cover was chopped to shreds. The lesson: I became distracted with other things.
Brothers and sisters, it’s time to take the cover off our hatchets and go to work. We must not sacrifice our exaltation or that of our families for less important interests.

—During nine months of pre-encampment training, the troop from the Greensboro North Carolina Stake always encouraged sportsmanship during patrol competition. One patrol consistently came in last but was awarded a fourth-place trophy just the same. “We told the other patrols they had just beat the best patrol in the camp,” explained Scott Oakley, 16, of Caswell Ward. “And when we got to the encampment, that patrol placed first in two events over the entire encampment!”

There came an anxious knock at the crude wooden door of the dwelling of two elders. When the door was opened, they saw a small girl crying. She had been running and was gasping for air. The elders struggled to piece together her message, delivered amid sobs: Her father had suffered a severe head injury and would die unless the elders saved his life. Men of the village were at that moment carrying him to the missionaries. She pleaded for her father’s life, then ran to be with him.
The elders were in an area with no doctors or medical facilities. There were no telephones. The only means of communication was a rough road up a riverbed, and they had no vehicle. The elders were not trained in medicine. Besides preaching the gospel, they labored diligently to improve the sanitation in their assigned, remote village. But the people of the valley trusted them, and although they did not know how to care for a serious head wound, they knew Someone who did. They knelt in prayer and explained their problem to an understanding Heavenly Father.
They felt impressed to clean the wound, close and bandage it, and give the man a blessing. One companion asked, “How will he stand the pain? How can we cleanse the wound and bless him while he is in such suffering?”
They knelt again. “We have no medicine. We have no anesthetic. Please help us to know what to do. Please bless him, Father.”
As they arose, friends arrived with the injured man. Even in the dim candlelight, they could see that he had been severely hurt and that he was suffering greatly. As they began to cleanse the man’s wound, an unusual thing happened: he fell asleep. Carefully, anxiously, they finished the cleansing, closed the wound, and provided a makeshift bandage. As they gently laid their hands on his head to bless him, he awoke peacefully. Their prayer had been answered, and his life saved. The trust of the people increased, and a branch of the Church flourished.

One of the most important lessons I have learned in voyaging is that we cannot change the winds, but we can always change our sails. And when we change our sails, we often arrive not necessarily where we think we need to be but exactly where we are supposed to be. I initially thought the job of the apprentice navigator was to get to a specific destination within the parameters of the plan. On the voyage around the Samoan Islands, we planned to visit a number of locations, but we weren’t able to because of the winds. Since we came back early to Pago Pago, we were able to interact with about 20 schools in American Samoa. While at Matatula Elementary, I had an experience that I will never forget. Following our presentation, a young child stood up and said in the matai (chiefly) language which was translated for me, “Thank you for teaching us what is not written in our textbooks.” I was deeply and profoundly moved, and finally able to respond, “Fa’afetai tele lava to your ancestors who bravely sailed from the Navigator Islands of Samoa to Hawaii. It is because of you we are here today, and it is because of you we are able to sail around the world.” Together, we are one nation, one oceanic people, and one beautiful ‘ohana living together on island earth. By being adaptable and willing to follow the Lord’s invitations, we are able find our compasses that enable us to collectively build the kingdom of God and lift where we stand. To add onto the words of Isaac Newton, yes, we stand on the shoulders of giants—and we are and will be the shoulders for generations to come.

It was a beautiful day in the hills of Tennessee, and I was on a two-hour training ride for cycling with my uncle. For the first half of the ride the wind was at our back, and we flew right along without any difficulty. When we changed direction, however, we found out why our ride had been so easy. Now the wind, which was blowing hard at about 20–30 miles an hour, was in our faces.
In cycling there is a technique, called drafting, where one person rides in the front and uses the most energy to break the wind for the person who rides right behind.
My uncle is a big guy—about 6 foot 3 inches tall and 240 pounds—so he was having a horrible time trying to keep up with a little 17-year-old on a road bike. About halfway home the wind was at its worst, so I accelerated ahead and slid in front of my uncle.
The next day at church he talked about how much of a difference it made. “You’re little, but the amount of wind you blocked made such a significant difference.” He then made a comparison that has changed my life. He said, “It’s almost like when you are having trouble in life, you let the Savior slip in front of you and you get behind Him. You still have to work to stay behind Him, but the wind He blocks makes a world of difference.”
After that ride I was worn, hurting, and beat, but after hearing my uncle, I realized that all I have to do is let the Savior lead and then do the work to stay behind Him, and He will take the wind for me.

Meanwhile, World War I broke out. To help connect women with each other during that challenging time, the Church published its Relief Society Magazine, which became an important resource for the sisters in Melbourne. They discussed its articles, poetry and stories as they gathered to knit socks and prepare parcels for soldiers in Europe and the Middle East.

Elizabeth’s two grandsons had enlisted to serve in the war. Her son Horace also enlisted and was sent to the Middle East as part of Australia’s Light Horse regiments.

Church attendance dwindled as more brethren were called to military duty. Soon, it was up to the women—Elizabeth and her friends—to keep their small branch together. The sisters looked forward to their weekly meetings for spiritual renewal and social and personal upliftment.

By the end of the war, almost every family in their area had lost a brother, a husband, a son or grandson. For Elizabeth, it was her grandson William Wallace Cameron Butler who died in the Battle of Fromelles. The bond amongst the sisters in the branch grew even stronger as they supported each other through the heartbreak. Then they began rebuilding their lives.

Help with temporal tasks is also a form of ministering. At the October 1856 general conference, President Brigham Young announced that handcart pioneers were stranded in deep snow 270–370 miles (435–595 km) away. He called for the Latter-day Saints in Salt Lake City to rescue them and to “attend strictly to those things which we call temporal.”4
Lucy Meserve Smith recorded that the women took off their warm underskirts and stockings right there in the tabernacle and piled them into wagons to send to the freezing pioneers. Then they gathered bedding and clothing for those who would eventually come with few belongings. When the handcart companies arrived, a building in the town was “loaded with provisions for them.”5

Nearly a hundred young women and men in the Toa Baja Puerto Rico District sang as they pulled their handcarts up and over the steep hills of Monagas Park in the morning sunshine one day in March. Reenacting the trek of the Latter-day Saint handcart pioneers, the youth sang first in Spanish—“Como os he amado, amad a otros”—and then in English—“As I have loved you, love one another” (Hymns, number 308).
Stopping along the way in small groups at predetermined spots, the youth read of the experiences of Latter-day Saint pioneers. Several were weeping by the time they finished. The group moved on, singing, “¡Grande eres tú!”—“How great thou art!” (Hymns, number 86).
“We want our seminary students to realize that our sacrifices, no matter how great, are little compared to those of the pioneers,” says Alberto Zayas, associate CES director for the Caribbean. “Seminary helps our youth develop testimonies, so every branch on this island has a class, and two universities each have a Latter-day Saint Student Association.”

I remember one year when our Young Women camp had been almost perfect. Our camp, named Mirror of the Moon, took place at the foot of a mountain in central Chile. A special atmosphere prevailed, and our happiness and love highlighted the natural beauty of the place. Looking at the mountains, listening to the cascading waterfalls and the songs of birds, seeing the sun in the morning and the stars and moon at night all caused us to acknowledge the existence of our divine Creator. We appreciated more than ever Heavenly Father’s great love for us.
During the week, our testimonies had been strengthened as had our bonds of friendship. We had learned to do so many things—to build, to cook, to believe in our own abilities. Plus, we had been happy.
Now it was our fourth and final day, the one we had looked forward to. We were going to have a testimony meeting at sunrise. We had to get up very early, but we were eager for this experience. Before the testimony meeting, we received letters that our parents had written. Many of us cried as we read them, and we felt a spirit of gratitude for those moments.
Later as we shared our testimonies, the stars disappeared and the sun rose above the mountains. What a beautiful morning! The meeting ended, and we were preparing to go on with the day when the sky became clouded. A light drizzle began.
As the rain began to fall, we gathered together to pray and ask Heavenly Father to stop the bad weather so we could complete our camping experience. Of course, we prayed that His will would be done. If He felt the rain should continue, we would accept it cheerfully.
The rain began to fall harder, and it became much colder. We started to pack up the tents and put everything away.
Then the camp leader and I went down beside a waterfall, and there in the rain, we knelt and asked Heavenly Father to help us be all right. Rising from our knees, we felt a peace and confidence that everything would be fine.
A few minutes after we returned to camp, a man who lived a few miles away drove up. He had seen us as we traveled to our camp four days before. Now he had come to help us. He asked for a telephone number so he could call into the city to have our bus come and get us earlier than planned.
After getting the information he needed, he left, made the phone call, and returned to take us to his house and give us shelter. He had to make a lot of trips, but he didn’t seem to be bothered. Although not a member of the Church, he was truly an angel to us.
We realized that God really was watching over us and was concerned about us. He met our needs through this kind man. “God did hear our cries and did answer our prayers” (Mosiah 9:18).
For us, this was a great way to finish camp.

Every day we make choices. Some aren’t a big deal—what color backpack we carry, for example. Other choices are a big deal—for instance, how we treat other people or whether we obey a commandment. Read the story below and pretend that you are the main character. What choices would you make?
Your mom says that you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few miles away. She is in your Primary class as well as in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.
Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her that Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “Yuk! Then I don’t want to come, after all.”
If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up with my mom and that I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.
A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.” After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.
E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be the favorite treats of both Tasha and Julie. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly with Julie. Tasha says, “Hey, Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.
I. You suggest that you all play on the tire swing. Tasha has the first turn swinging. As Julie climbs on the tire for her turn, a car full of teenagers zips by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, ‘cause it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.
H. You put the cigarette to your mouth. You don’t breathe it in deeply, but even so, it tastes yucky. You are still holding it when Tasha’s mom drives by. She stops the car, hollers at Tasha to get in, and says to you, “Don’t expect Tasha to be coming over anymore.”
You feel awful. When your eyes meet Julie’s, you see that she is very disappointed in you. You promise that you’ll never do anything like that again. Julie gives you a weak smile and says, “I believe you, but I don’t think that Tasha’s mom ever will.”
This is your last chance in this story to get on the “right-choice” track. Hurry to D!

The girls have seen a number of friends come into the Church, and many others have come to appreciate and respect their standards. On one occasion Sheila was surprised when a young man she knew from school approached her about the gospel.
“I’m going to tell you some things I’ve heard about your church,” he said, “and I want you to tell me if they’re true.”
“He asked me a lot of questions,” Sheila recalled, “many of them based on misinformation. I explained the best I could and then asked him if he was interested in learning more. He said, ‘Yes, but not from the missionaries. I want to hear it from you.’ That really motivated me to study and find out more for myself.”
Still, they have been exposed to much opposition. Each family member has had soul-searching experiences that have forged individual testimony.
As Stacy said, “Once you know what the truth is, it doesn’t matter anymore how many people tell you you’re wrong.”
Hollywood is a challenging place to grow up in—the cultural standards are very high; the life-styles and philosophies are incredibly varied. But to the Phelps Family Musicians, the gospel is the harmonizing element. It is what helps them to keep a balanced perspective in meeting the everyday challenges of life in Hollywood.
Editor’s note: Since the time this story was written, Brother Phelps has passed away.

The following Wednesday I had a meet in Holbrook. My top challenger in the state was Dennis LaDuke, a kid from Holbrook. I led LaDuke over the entire course. Maybe that was my mistake. With the finish line less than 200 yards ahead of me, LaDuke made his move and beat me by three seconds.
“You’re barely at midseason, Joseph,” Dad said, trying to console me that evening. “All you have to do is shave three and a half seconds off your time.”
“You know how hard that can be, Dad?” I grumbled.
“You need a Rex Manning to push you,” Dad remarked.
“What do you mean I need a Rex Manning?”
Dad smiled and explained how he and Rex had worked out together on the same team, both shooting for the gold medal at state. Rex was a year older and had been running since he was a boy. He shared every running secret he had with Dad. He wanted Dad to be good too. Days before state, Dad spoke bluntly to Rex. “I appreciate your helping me, Rex, but aren’t you afraid you’ve made me too fast?”
Rex had laughed. “Sam, I want you fast—faster than anybody. The faster you are, the harder I run. When we race, you’ll push me and make me a champion.”
“You might figure wrong,” Dad pointed out.
“Sam, I know how fast you run.” He grinned. “I’ll run a little faster.”
Dad looked at me. “When I ran that last race, I broke the old state record. But Rex was two strides ahead of me.”
A couple of days later I was warming up when I spotted Rex leaning against the elm tree. All during my workout I had thought of LaDuke and those three-and-a-half seconds. I’m not sure I was actually serious when I first panted over to Rex.
“Hey, man, you still pounding the pavement?” he greeted me in his jovial way.
“Dad said you were the best runner he ever knew,” I said.
Rex’s smile faded. “That was a long time ago, kid. I’ve had a whole lot of booze since then.” There was genuine sadness and regret in his simple confession.
“Dad said you helped him run faster than everybody.”
“Sam was fast. He beat everybody—but me.”
“Help me run.” I didn’t smile. “Only one guy, Dennis LaDuke, is faster than me.”
A gray shadow dimmed Rex’s features. “I’m a loser, kid. I don’t run no more. I drink too much. Sometimes I can’t even walk.”
“Just help me cut a few seconds off my time.”
Rex didn’t answer. He just stood there solemnly, ignoring me as though I had never spoken. After a moment I jogged away from him, leaving him to his memories and his hurt.
The following Monday I trotted out to the track to warm up. Rex Manning was sitting in the bleachers. He stood and waved as I ambled over to him. The first thing I noticed was that he was sober. “You going to help me shave those three-and-a-half seconds from my time?”
Rex snorted. “We’re taking off ten seconds so you can beat everybody—including this LaDuke.”
At first Coach Spaulding was a bit hesitant having Rex around. But one day at the track changed that impression. Rex ceased being an old, out-of-shape drunk. He became an expert.
Rex worked at one of the mills outside of town and was usually off by 3:30. In the past it had been his practice to stop at the bar on the edge of town after work. But once he started coming to workouts, he postponed his stop at the bar and headed directly to the track. A week later, Rex took me to a wash that cut along the west side of town. Sinking into the soft sandy wash bottom up to my ankles, I waited for Rex to tell me what to do. He sat in the shade of a cedar and ordered me to do wind sprints in the sand. It didn’t take long before my tongue was hanging out and sweat was pouring down my face.
But seeing my exhaustion only increased Rex’s intensity. Soon he had me racing through the cedars toward a steep knoll a mile away. He gave me instructions: On the west side of the knoll I would find a narrow path that zig-zagged to the top of the knoll. I was to take that path and race up and down the knoll five times. From a distance it didn’t look very steep, but once I reached it and started challenging that knoll, I discovered that my efforts in the sandy wash bottom had been a mere warm-up for the rest of the afternoon.
By the end of that first day, exhaustion took on a whole new meaning. That night at dinner I whined to Dad about what had happened.
Dad looked across the table at me. “Sounds like Rex still has his old drive.” He smiled.
“I’ll bet he never worked like he made me work today.”
Dad set his fork down. “Who do you think made those trails you jogged on this afternoon, Joseph? Nobody worked out like Rex. I know. I tried to keep up with him.”
The next afternoon Rex was at the track. He became my personal coach. He was as regular as the three-thirty bell. He still stopped occasionally at the bars after practice, but he was always cold sober at three-thirty. I worked out with Rex every day right up to the state meet.
Several days before the meet, Dad knocked on my door and I invited him in. He studied me for a moment. “Joseph, I want you to know something before the race Friday.”
“I’ve always wanted you to win this race.” He took a deep breath. “But, Joseph, during these past few weeks I’ve come to see something that means more to me than your winning Friday.” He paused. There was a mist in his eyes. “I appreciate what you’ve done for Rex. I used to see him stumbling down the street. I tried to ignore him. I wanted to remember him another way. But yesterday I ran into Rex at the store. We talked.” Dad smiled. “He’s proud of you, Joseph. I could see some of the old Rex. I saw hope instead of despair. If you win Friday, that will be wonderful. But the real victory, the one that means the very most, is the one you’ve already won with Rex. I want you to know that.”
Rex showed up late for the next day’s practice, but when he arrived he came with his blond hair cut short, his face clean shaven, and wearing a fresh pair of jeans and white T-shirt. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” I joked when he strolled up.
“Well, kid, I figured you deserved to have somebody with a little class coach you.”
At the end of practice as I told Rex good-bye he shook my hand. “Good luck, kid.” There was excitement in his eyes. “The boss gave me the day off to see the race.”
“You’re going to Payson tomorrow to watch me run?” I asked, grinning.
He looked away. “If I can get there. My truck broke down this afternoon.”
“Davidson,” Coach Spaulding interrupted, “remember the van’s pulling out at six o’clock in the morning. We want to get to Payson early.”
An idea struck me. “Coach,” I spoke, stepping away from Rex, “hey do you think we could take Rex with us? There will be plenty of room in the van.”
Coach Spaulding looked at me, hesitating. “I don’t know, Davidson. I don’t know if I can count on Rex to be sober.”
“Coach, Rex has been cold sober for over a week. He was planning to go, but his truck broke down. I’d like to have him there, Coach. I promise he’ll be sober. I need him there.”
Coach Spaulding glanced in Rex’s direction. “All right,” he finally conceded. “He’s been helping you out. I suppose I can take him as a volunteer coach. But,” he added, “if I smell just the faintest trace of …”
“You won’t smell anything,” I cut him off. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Rex, you’re going with us in the van,” I announced excitedly. “You’ll be an assistant coach.”
For a moment my announcement didn’t register, and then suddenly his face crinkled into a grateful grin. “Thanks, kid. I’ll be here before six,” he committed. “And tomorrow LaDuke can have that silver medal all to himself,” he added with confidence. “Tomorrow nobody beats Sam Davidson’s kid. Not while I’m around.”
As I stood there witnessing Rex’s excitement and confidence, I knew that regardless of the outcome of the race the next day, Rex and I had already secured a gold medal victory.