Gospel Story Finder

Victor and Susana Mendoza of the Ramona (Spanish) Branch, Hemet California Stake, have found that rotating the opportunity to teach is an excellent way to come up with innovative lessons. “Our family home evenings are truly exciting,” writes Sister Mendoza. “Our children each take a turn and invent ways to make family home evening different and interesting. For example, Victor Daniel makes invitations and gives them to us in advance so we can be on time. When Jasmin finishes her lesson, she gives us a certificate of achievement for paying attention. Melissa tells us interesting stories she has learned in seminary.
“It wasn’t easy at first, but we put our faith in the Lord, and He has helped us. I testify that holding family home evenings has strengthened our marriage as well as our family. Our bonds of love grow stronger each week. We’re grateful to Jesus Christ for showing us the way and for giving us His Spirit in our home and in our hearts.”

Jennifer Hayman, 15, of the Lafayette (Indiana) Ward has been rewarded for her hard work and for keeping the Sabbath day holy.
Jennifer and her four-year-old quarter horse, “Something Savvy,” won the overall grand champion gelding prize at the Indiana State Fair. Interested in training, Jennifer has shown horses since she was seven. She was once told by a trainer that she needed to show on Sundays; otherwise she would never have enough experience to make it to the top. Jennifer and her family chose not to participate in Sunday horse shows. “I guess we showed them it can be done,” said Jennifer.

The Mia Maids had a problem.
“Two of the most popular girls (in Mia Maids) decided that ‘having fun’ was more important than living the gospel,” explains Sarah Tunnell of the Snohomish (Washington) Second Ward. “They stopped coming to church.”
Sarah, first counselor in the Mia Maid presidency, and Tresa Brown, the president, felt they needed to do something to help keep others from making the same mistake.
“I had just finished reading the Book of Mormon for the first time,” Sarah says. “And I said, ‘If everyone would just read the Book of Mormon, they’d have a testimony, and the possibility of their going inactive would be a lot smaller.’”
Sarah and Tresa looked through a clip art book, found a calendar, and worked out a schedule for reading the Book of Mormon. They also outlined a system for calling all the Mia Maids and reminding them of their reading goals.
“We had a presidency meeting that night,” Sarah continues. “The Laurel president happened to come by, and she said, ‘Hey, we want to do that!’ So we said, ‘Okay, but we can’t leave out the Beehives.’ So we called the Beehive president, and she said, ‘Us too!’ We started the next week.”
The idea was simple. “You can’t really bribe them. They can buy their own candy or ice cream. We decided the best thing was to provide a calendar and then just remind them and encourage them. Anyway, that was the limit of what we could do with our teenage income, which is nonexistent.”
Since then, the program has gone through some fine tuning, tailoring daily goals to individual abilities, incorporating “catch-up” days for those who get behind, coordinating with seminary reading schedules to avoid duplication, etc. And some have read more than others.
“I haven’t read as much as I’m supposed to,” one Beehive admitted. “But thanks to Sarah, I have read something.”
And the major goal, “Just to have them open the book, to have some kind of daily contact with it,” as Sarah says, has been met by just about everyone. In fact, last Sunday in ward council meeting, they were discussing a Book of Mormon reading program for the entire ward.

Fireworks and firecrackers, brightly colored nativity scenes, and feasts featuring stuffed tamales—that’s Christmas in Guatemala. As a full-time missionary I found the traditions very different from my own traditions in the United States. I was homesick and thought my Christmas would be miserable.
My companion, Sister Anaya, said we would find joy on Christmas by serving others. She suggested that we spend the morning singing at the hospital, and we invited other missionaries to join us.
As we approached the entrance, I watched the people waiting in line to see their loved ones. Their faces were sad, their sandal-clad feet dusty, their clothes faded. We waited with them. When we were finally allowed to enter the building, we walked down narrow halls with flaking green paint and cement floors. The smells of medicines and sickness overwhelmed me.
In the dim light I could see sick patients on beds in a large room with little ventilation or privacy. They lay there, some with bandages, some with IVs, some hooked up to machines to help them breathe. Some moaned quietly. Others slept. I wondered why we had come. Most in our small group of missionaries stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do.
But not Sister Anaya. She went to each bed, greeting those who were sick, asking them how they felt, and wishing them a merry Christmas. Her boldness reminded the rest of us why we had come, and we started to sing Christmas carols, softly at first but more confidently as we continued. Some of the patients smiled, some just lay there and didn’t seem to notice, and some hummed along.
Sister Anaya, singing with a hymnbook in her hand, approached a woman who was wrapped in bandages. The woman began to cry quietly, and my companion lovingly stroked her hair. Through her tears the woman spoke, “You are angels. You are angels.”
I will never forget Sister Anaya’s response. “No, you are not hearing angels,” she replied. “You are hearing Latter-day Saints.”
But I also think of Sister Anaya. I remember her encouraging us to sing at the hospital and how we found joy by spreading joy. I remember her stroking the hair of that sick woman. And I remember that I don’t need to be an angel to serve others. I can serve them as a Latter-day Saint.

One day, 15-year-old Lucy Morley was helping her neighbor, Abigail Daniels, weave cloth. As they worked, three missionaries knocked at the door. They said that Jesus Christ had sent them to share a message.
The men told Abigail and Lucy that Jesus had called Joseph Smith to be a prophet. They also told them about the Book of Mormon.
To Lucy’s surprise, Abigail became angry. She made the missionaries leave.
Lucy knew the missionaries were servants of God. She told them to visit her family down the road.
The missionaries went to the Morley home. Lucy’s parents invited the missionaries to teach them and their friends.
That night, 17 people were baptized. In the next few days, 50 more people heard the missionaries and were baptized. Even Lucy’s neighbor Abigail changed her mind. She and her husband, along with Lucy and members of her family, chose to follow Jesus Christ by being baptized.

I stood and watched my sleeping son. His sleep was heavy from the sedatives the doctor had given him. My heart felt just as heavy; indeed, my whole being felt heavy, as if a great burden had been laid on my chest.
What effects would the terrible events of this day have upon my son? I wondered. He was only 20 and had watched his oldest brother and one of our best friends fall down a snow-encrusted Icelandic mountain and die. Both were young men with their whole lives ahead of them. One was our branch president. He left behind a young wife and two children, the youngest only six weeks old.
The three friends had left my home that January morning to hike up a nearby mountain. I had begged them not to go; I knew there would be ice on the mountain, and the weather report forecast poor conditions. But they had not listened. I could still see their smiling faces as they waved and drove away. I would never see two of them alive again. The sorrow was so great that I closed my eyes. Pain pierced my heart like a sharp knife.
How could the Lord allow this to happen? These young men had been almost all we had of priesthood leadership in our very small branch. I could not understand. I felt the Lord had let us down.
I undressed and as usual knelt by my bed to thank my Heavenly Father for the day that had passed. But I could not utter a word. How could I thank Him for this terrible day? What was there to thank Him for? There must be something, I remember thinking. And then I remembered my sleeping son and felt shame flood my heart. How could I have forgotten him? He had been in the same danger as the other two, but he had come back alive. I thanked my Heavenly Father for protecting him and bringing him back to me. I asked Him to help my son get through this ordeal.
And then I thanked my Father in Heaven for those two young men who had died—my oldest son and our friend, our branch president. I thanked Him that I had known them and loved them and enjoyed their friendship. I thanked Him that they had both been converted, that both had believed in Him and in His Son, our Savior, and that both had changed their lives before they died. They had both died in the Lord—oh, how grateful I was for that!
And then I thanked my Heavenly Father for my four other children who were alive and healthy, for my good children-in-law, and for my grandchildren. And I kept on. There was so much to thank the Father for; there seemed to be no end to it.
With each word of thanks, the burden on my chest lightened, and a warm, life-giving feeling started flowing through my body. My mind was filled with peace, and my heart with joy.
How could that be? I thought. How could I feel joy after what had happened? But I did, and I knew it was right. The sorrow was there still, deep and painful, but there was also joy. I had learned that even in deepest sorrow our Father in Heaven can bless us with peace and joy. The key is faith in our Lord and Savior, complete trust in him, and gratitude—gratitude to our Heavenly Father for all that we have and all that we have had.
I finished my prayer and lay down in my bed. I still didn’t know why the deaths had to happen, but it didn’t matter. I had felt my Heavenly Father’s love. We were in His hands, and everything would be all right.

Thank you so much for the article called “What Does It Mean to Be Perfect?” (Jan. 2006). Lately, I have been unhappy with who I am and what I am achieving. I didn’t realize this was due to my perfectionist personality. As I read this article I knew that the Lord was watching out for me and blessing me. I am now learning how to deal with this perfectionism. Whenever I lose heart, I read this article again. I now know that I don’t have to be perfect immediately, but it is a process. Thank you for printing this article.Name withheld

Natanael held Mom’s hand tightly as they walked into the Primary room. Today was Natanael’s second week in the Sunbeam class. His stomach felt fluttery, and with each step, he walked a little more slowly.
Last week, Primary had been kind of confusing. During singing time, Mia kept standing up and turning around in circles. Natanael was tired of sitting, so he stood up too. But then his teacher asked him to sit back down. During sharing time, some of the older children talked and laughed. Sometimes it was too noisy to hear what Sister Miranda, the Primary president, was saying. When his friend Cara started crying, it made Natanael feel like crying too.
As he got closer to the front row, Natanael didn’t want to let go of Mom’s hand. He was worried that Primary would be confusing this week too. Then he saw his teacher.
“Hi, Natanael,” Sister Tejada said. “I’m glad to see you.” Sister Tejada patted the seat next to her.
Natanael liked his teacher’s friendly smile. He let go of Mom’s hand and sat down by Sister Tejada.
“I’ll be back to pick you up after class,” Mom said. “Remember to be reverent.”
Natanael wasn’t sure he knew how.
After the opening prayer, Sister Miranda stood up. “Today we have a special visitor,” she said.
Suddenly, a puppet appeared from behind a table next to Sister Miranda. The puppet wiggled, waved his arms, and said, “Is it time to go yet? I need a drink!”
Some of the children giggled.
“This is Arlo’s first time in Primary,” Sister Miranda said, “and he doesn’t know how to be reverent. But before he can be reverent, he needs to learn good Primary manners.”
Natanael was surprised. At dinner Mom sometimes reminded him to put his napkin on his lap. That was good manners. And Dad always asked everyone to thank Mom for the nice meal before they started clearing off the table. That was good manners too. But what were Primary manners?
Arlo leaned backward over the front of the table. “Hey, everybody looks funny upside down!” he said.
“Good manners are rules that show we respect other people,” Sister Miranda explained. “Arlo doesn’t know the rules for good Primary manners. Do you think we could teach him?” she asked.
Sister Miranda went to the chalkboard and drew an arm. “What should Arlo do with his arms?” she asked.
“Fold them!” Mia called out.
“That’s right,” Sister Miranda said.
Arlo sat up. He folded his arms and raised them over his head. “Oh, you mean like this?” he asked.
Natanael knew that wasn’t right.
Sister Miranda asked if everyone in Primary could show Arlo how to fold his arms.
Natanael quickly folded his arms. Arlo folded his arms too.
On the chalkboard, next to the drawing of the arm, Sister Miranda wrote, “Fold our arms.”
As Sister Miranda drew more pictures, the children taught Arlo the rules for good Primary manners. Natanael was glad that he knew most of them already.
Now Arlo wasn’t wiggling or waving his arms or calling out. His legs were still, and his arms were folded. The children were listening quietly too. Primary didn’t seem noisy and confusing anymore. Natanael felt calm and happy. It wouldn’t be too hard to be reverent in Primary. He already knew how.

More than once that fateful morning, I was sure I was going to die. The combination of seeing all that blood—my blood—soaking into the trail and sensing the ferocity of the grizzly bear raging at me from every side with its teeth and claws left me feeling overwhelmed and hopeless.
What a dramatic contrast to a mere two hours earlier. I had blissfully set off on a backcountry trail run on one of the prettiest days I had seen that summer in the high country of western Wyoming, USA. The sky was a shade of neon cobalt blue, wildflowers covered the hillsides, and the morning air was crisp yet pleasant. It was a perfect day for a 15-mile (24 km) run in the mountains.
This was a classic training run. I was trying to build up my strength and endurance for a marathon just two months away. Runners increase strength by doing repeated short-distance runs. This builds endurance, which in turn toughens resilience.
Little did I know that I would soon need every drop of resilience and power I had because I would be in for the race of my life.
Looking back, I should have seen the signs. After all, the Lord tells us that He will “shew [us] things to come” through the power of the Holy Ghost (John 16:13). As Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has taught, “The Holy Ghost can help you by warning you in advance of physical and spiritual dangers.” And that He did.
Just a few minutes into my run, I glanced down and spotted something. My heart jumped when I saw the unmistakable outline of a bear track in the dirt in front of me. It was a clear warning. Foolishly, I rationalized that a bear had indeed passed this way but by now I would be safe. No need to worry, right? And so on I ran.
Less than an hour later, I crested a small rise and ran down a hill into a heavily wooded clearing. As I rounded a bend at the bottom of the hill, I heard a crashing sound so intense, so severe, that it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I stopped instantly and slowly glanced to my left. Then I froze in terror. The sound, which I quickly identified as breaking branches, was coming at a high speed. Then I saw a sight I will never forget—a full-grown grizzly bear charging directly toward me!
I heard a crashing sound so intense, so severe, that it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The horrific attack that followed should have taken my life. This was obviously a very agitated bear, which I had surprised as I dropped into that clearing at a dead run. Yet that moment when I thought death was certain was followed by the sincerest prayer of my life. The intervening mercies of heaven then descended.
Inexplicably, the bear stopped his relentless attack and ran off into the woods. That was good news! The bad news was that I had 16 severe wounds from the bear’s teeth and claws and was alone in a forest, covered in blood, and 11 miles (18 km) from the nearest park road, with no help in sight.
I suddenly found myself at a major decision point of my life. If you haven’t had such a moment, be assured you will. Adversity is part of Heavenly Father’s plan. Fortunately, getting attacked by a bear isn’t—at least for most of us! But at some point, you may feel overwhelmed by whatever adversity you are facing. It’s a hopeless feeling that the Lord once vividly described as “the very jaws of hell” that “gape open the mouth wide after thee” (Doctrine and Covenants 122:7).
At these crises crossroads in your life, you have a decision to make. You can give up, lie down, and die; or you can somehow rally all your courage and strength and bravely fight on, trusting that if you will do your part, the Lord will do His. The Lord explained the purpose of life’s travails to Joseph Smith while he was imprisoned at Liberty Jail: “All these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good” (Doctrine and Covenants 122:7).
And they do benefit you. They hone and refine you as you grow stronger and build resilience. This is why the Lord told Joseph—and tells you—to “hold on thy way” in the face of trials and adversity (Doctrine and Covenants 122:9). As you hold on in life—even if it is by your fingernails—you find even your meager strength is more than matched by the Lord’s. As promised, He is “mighty to save” (2 Nephi 31:19).
That is exactly what happened to me. Instead of giving up, I decided to get up. I was determined to live, which meant I needed to find help. Stumbling my way down the trail for more than a mile, I finally crossed paths with the only other people in the forest that day for miles. That miraculous meeting eventually led to a backcountry helicopter rescue, three life-saving surgeries, and a clearer understanding of the blessing of being determined to “hold on thy way.”
After crawling to a trail junction, Elder Dunn was rescued, had three life-saving surgeries, and recovered thanks to the faith and prayers of many, including his then–four-year-old daughter, Emi.
This experience has increased my power, determination, and faith. It also strengthened and prepared me to handle other challenges of life. I am certain that as you “[bear] all things, [believe] all things, [hope] all things, [endure] all things” (1 Corinthians 13:7), you will build the resilience and strength you need to face challenges. You will see the Lord’s hand making you equal to whatever comes your way—even if it is the very “jaws of hell.”

As I left California, bound for Salt Lake City to receive training and be set apart for a mission in Arizona, I experienced for a moment an alarming feeling. I had lost all of my keys. The keys to the cars, home, business, and Church calling had been left behind. I had the depressing feeling that I no longer had any keys; even my pockets seemed empty.
Then came the exhilarating thought that I still had the most important key of all, a key that I will hold eternally, if I remain worthy. That key, of course, is the patriarchal key with my family.

“This will be the 10th load of hay,” David’s father called to him. “Drive over to the higher ground.” Young David O. McKay looked across the field to where his father was pointing. The first nine loads they had gathered were full of lesser-quality hay. David knew his father meant for this 10th load of the best hay to go to the bishops’ storehouse as their tithing. But he didn’t understand why they couldn’t give the Lord the same hay they were collecting.
David called back to his father, “No, let us take the hay as it comes.”
David’s father didn’t answer. David was about to repeat himself when he saw his father turn and begin walking straight toward him. Suddenly, the breeze in the hay field was gone, and the sun became feverishly hot. David wiped the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck. He knew his father was not crossing the field to give him a pat on the back for his snippy answer. He was coming all this way to be sure that David understood something.
“No, David.” His father spoke sternly, yet the calm in his voice made David pay extra close attention. “This is the 10th load, and the best is none too good for God.” David’s father looked closely at his son’s face to make sure he had been listening. Then he turned and walked away.
David swallowed the lump in his throat and then guided his team to the higher ground. As he loaded the cut hay onto the wagon, he began to think of what his father was trying to teach him. While he knew that tithing is a law, just as much as obedience and sacrifice are, David wanted to put their own needs first. But God had said to take the firstlings of the flocks—the very best—and give them to Him (see Deuteronomy 12:6).
“My father gives the best to God, and we get the next best,” David thought. “Perhaps this is how we make the Lord the center of our thoughts and our lives.”
David turned the hay wagon down the dusty road toward the bishops’ storehouse. He drove into the yard and unloaded the hay. It was a sacrifice for his father to give his best hay to the Lord, but David knew his father would have it no other way. He wanted to give his best for the Lord, just as Heavenly Father gave His perfect Son for the world.
As David turned his team back toward home, a good feeling came over him. He was glad his father had taught him the law of tithing. It was a lesson he would remember all his life.

President George Albert Smith, left, the eighth President of the Church, was born on 4 April 1870, just across the street from Temple Square. When he was 13, he attended Brigham Young Academy. He said, “I cannot remember much of what was said during the year that I was there, but there is one thing that I will probably never forget. Dr. [Karl] Maeser one day stood up and said:
“‘Not only will you be held accountable for the things that you do, but you will be held responsible for the very thoughts you think.’
“Being a boy, not in the habit of controlling my thoughts very much, it was quite a puzzle to me what I was to do, and it worried me.” A few days after this, President Smith came to a realization: “Why, of course, you will be held accountable for your thoughts because when your life is complete in mortality, it will be the sum of your thoughts. That one suggestion has been a great blessing to me all my life, and it has enabled me upon many occasions to avoid thinking improperly because I realize that I will be, when my life’s labor is complete, the product of my thoughts” (Church News, Feb. 16, 1946, 1).

As you look in the first file you’ll see Adam’s plan. It’s simple: “For every five dollars I get, I give two to my mission fund,” he says. He also always makes sure to pay his tithing before he sets aside the 40 percent for his mission.
Adam started saving while trying to fulfill his goals in the Duty to God program. One of the goals is to start saving money for a mission. “I just opened a bag, stuck some money in, and started,” he says. He plans on opening a bank account right away.
Starting at 12 might seem early, but Adam’s really excited that he has seven years to save for his mission. He’s not old enough to have a part-time job, but he does jobs for people in his neighborhood, such as emptying recycling bins, shoveling walks, and putting newspapers on the front doorsteps of a few elderly widows. He’s up early in the morning to get his jobs done, and he counts his jobs as small blessings that will one day help his mission fund add up.
“A mission is one of the most important parts of your life. Save up now, and go for two years to help people come to the gospel, and you will be blessed,” Adam says.
Along with his financial preparation, Adam has also set a goal to finish reading the Book of Mormon by the time he’s 13. He reads every day. He’s also trying to magnify his calling as a deacon, so he will be prepared to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood when the time comes. His dad went on a mission, as did his grandpa and great-grandpa Sessions. He’s looking forward to following in their footsteps.

Note how carefully we have been instructed on how to confer priesthood authority. When I turned 12 years old, my father, Charles Oaks, and my bishop, George Collard, laid their hands on my head and conferred upon me the Aaronic Priesthood and ordained me a deacon.

Several years later, then Elder Gordon B. Hinckley used this same heavenly directed procedure to ordain me a Seventy. Each ordination reflects additional divine trust and a new opportunity to serve on the Lord’s side.

I was 16 when a cousin of mine set me up with her friend. At that time I didn’t consider a kiss to be a very meaningful thing. I thought that kissing a date good-night was just a way of saying thank you for the date if both of us had enjoyed being together.
As I picked up my date and spent time with her, I was impressed by both her looks and her personality. We seemed to be having a great time together. Sometime during the date, I started debating whether or not I should kiss her good-night.
Before the date was over, I decided that she was having a good time, she seemed to like me, and kissing her good-night would be okay. After I walked her to her door and we talked for a while, I attempted to kiss her. As I did, she moved just enough so that I “missed.” She turned the attempted kiss into a hug, as if that was what I had meant it to be. She thanked me for the date and went inside.
She had subtly made it look like the hug was all I had intended, but it did not feel very subtle at the time. I thought the people waiting in the car had probably noticed, and I was embarrassed. But mostly I felt like I had blown it. She was a fun girl, and I thought she would never want to go out with me again because I had tried to kiss her when she did not want to be kissed.
The next day I went to see my cousin, and she excitedly asked how the date had gone. I told her about the great time I had, but also said that her friend would probably never want to go out with me again. I explained what had happened and said I was very anxious to know how her friend felt. I asked my cousin if she would call her friend to inquire about the date. The response of my date surprised me. She told my cousin that she had fun, but she was sure I wouldn’t want to go out with her again. It had not even occurred to me that she might think I’d be upset at her for turning her head. She went on to explain to my cousin that she just didn’t believe in kissing on the first date. That was a moment of change in my life.
I decided if an impressive girl like her chose not to kiss on the first date, I would never kiss on the first date either. But something more important occurred to me later as I thought about those events. I realized that I had been asking her to choose between her standards and what I wanted. That bothered me a lot. I did not think of myself as that kind of person. I promised myself I would never again put a young woman in that situation.

Most of us have been asked musically if we know the way to San Jose, and except in a general sense, most of us don’t. A lot of good Latter-day Saints call it home, however, and this article is about some of them.
Except that it isn’t about San Jose. It’s about San Francisco. There are a lot of fun things within easy reach of the young people in San Jose—everything from beach parties, to ski trips, to camping, to sailing, to sports and cultural events, to San Francisco, which is why this story happened.
San Francisco is about an hour from San Jose, just far enough to make it adventurous and close enough to make it convenient, and that’s how the priests and Laurels of the San Jose Seventh Ward came to make the trip one bright morning.
Their first stop was the Golden Gate Park, a giant green finger pointing out of the Pacific toward San Francisco Bay. They strolled in the shade of the gigantic trees and spent an hour in the lush beauty of the Oriental Tea Garden. They could easily have spent a day seeing the Park’s other attractions, but there was a city of 42 hills and 42,000 adventures waiting for them.
They visited the Golden Gate Bridge, standing on a windswept observation point and watching the vast red span stretch away from them. The intense blue of the bay was dotted with sails, and wave-swept Alcatraz Island looked foreboding in the middle of them.
Next they visited the quaint brick buildings of Ghiradelli Square and ate their lunches on the steps of a fountain there. Then, refreshed by the rest, they ambled along to Fisherman’s Wharf, passing on the street artists who sold their handiworks and street musicians who played in the open air, glancing hopefully now and then into guitar cases and hats where people would occasionally throw money.
One man sat in the back of a pickup truck parked by the curb and played an upright piano. Another innovative fellow climbed inside a painted box and billed himself as a human juke box. People put money in through a slot, and he played a wandering trumpet for them.
They walked along Fisherman’s Wharf, talking to the fish vendors and looking at the stacks of fresh crabs, lobsters, shrimp, and other seafood. Some of it looked back at them and snapped angry claws.
After spending some time observing the long rows of docked fishing boats, they boarded a cable car and rode up the steep hills to Chinatown. They walked up and down the steep streets lined with exotic buildings with upturned roofs, neon signs in Cantonese and English, and shops filled with the pungent aroma of unfamiliar foods.
By then the sun was getting low, and knowing the way to San Jose very well, they returned home.
Although San Francisco and San Jose are very nice places to know the way to when that’s where you want to go, these fine young Latter-day Saints also know the way to somewhere more important. They know the way home to their Father in Heaven, and they all bear testimony of their dedication to him and of the truthfulness of the gospel. When it was suggested, tongue in cheek, that it isn’t really possible to live the gospel fully outside of Salt Lake City, Utah, the whole group rose up in righteous indignation and explained almost simultaneously that there is no better place in the whole world for being a true Latter-day Saint than in San Jose, California.
They know the way in San Jose.

Night was falling as we drove toward the flat-topped mountain where the old sheepherder lived. In the evening light, six ragged figures were silhouetted against the orange sky. They looked like scarecrows with hideous painted faces. Their shredded black robes blew in the wind. Tin cans hung from them, clanging dully. They were eerie and strange in the gathering dusk.
A little frightened by the mysterious figures, I said to my companion, “I’m not sure I want to go any further. Whoever made those weird things probably wouldn’t be receptive to anything we had to say.” Turning the truck around, I drove back across the wide open space that was the Navajo Indian Reservation. As missionaries in the Arizona Holbrook Mission, we wanted to share the gospel with everyone, but maybe that didn’t include the person who had made these strange, manlike figures.
During the next week, however, we felt prompted to visit the sheepherder. When we drove back, in daylight this time, we found him standing by an old tree, as motionless as one of the scarecrow men he had created. A wooden staff was in his hand, and he wore a long black coat. Silently, he watched us get out of our truck and approach. His hair was white. His eyes were calm. There was no expression on his wrinkled brown face.
My companion was a new missionary and couldn’t speak the Navajo language. I didn’t speak it very well. But I introduced us in Navajo with a phrase that means essentially, “Hi, who are you? We’re the missionaries.”
He looked at me. I think he was impressed that I knew enough Navajo to greet him. He answered me in English. “I’m Baptist. No hear you. I’m Baptist.”
His words were harsh, but we felt something else behind them—a kindness, a welcome that was louder than his words. We didn’t argue, but we went on talking with him and before long we had an appointment to come back and see him.
During the months that followed we visited the old shepherd often. He wandered far with his sheep and sometimes we had to drive to the top of a hill and scan the distant countryside to find him. Every visit was precious to us.
We had no place to sit and talk with him because his hut was too small. At first we would just sit on the back of our truck. When the weather was too cold, we would crowd together inside the cab. Our visits took a long time because I knew just a little Navajo, and he knew about the same amount of English. We learned together. I would point to a tree and identify it in English. He would point to the same tree and say the word in Navajo. We would both repeat the new word. Little by little I learned enough Navajo, and he learned enough English for us to communicate.
We gradually got to know him. We found out that his name was Peter Wolley. The name had been given to him when he served in the U.S. Army during World War II. After a number of visits, we began to teach him the gospel. I felt the influence of the Spirit very strongly as we talked. My Navajo was not fluent, yet at times I felt inspired to use certain Navajo words that I didn’t think I knew. Even though I couldn’t communicate clearly, he seemed to know the truth of the things I was telling him. He was a very traditional Navajo, and he taught us many of the Navajo ways. I learned not to be so inquisitive, because this is considered bad manners in the Navajo culture. When I stopped asking questions, and when he wanted to, he would tell us about his life.
He took us out to the river and his other favorite places. He showed us foxholes and where the coyotes had been. He taught us to herd sheep. He showed us how he built the tall, black-robed figures that had ended our first visit. They were not designed to terrify sister missionaries but to frighten away coyotes that might harm his flock.
He loved his sheep and would lead them for many kilometers each day in search of the best grass. He took the lambs inside the hut with him when the nights were cold. He was a very caring man.
He knew his sheep. He knew their names and he knew each of their ways. One day when we were searching for him and his flock, we saw one of his sheep separated from the rest. When we found the flock, I said, “Peter, one of your sheep is lost. We saw it over on the other side of the hill.”
He seemed remarkably calm about the news and said, “Oh I know. That’s Box. He’s the old one. He doesn’t have any teeth. He’s all right.” I was amazed. He knew all about that one particular sheep even though it was out of sight. Peter saw my surprise and smiled. He didn’t have any more teeth than Box.
I knew that I had really earned his trust when he began calling me his “tall white friend.” For a Navajo to address you as “my friend,” instead of by your name, is a big compliment. The “tall white” part referred to my height and my light blonde hair.
One time we made him a placemat. It was a piece of paper with the four steps of prayer on it. We had it covered in clear plastic, and he kept it on his little table. He loved that little placemat, and I think it was because he loved prayer. He had plenty of time to pray while he watched his sheep.
We taught Peter for seven months before I was transferred to another district. Some Navajo elders then taught him in his own language. He was receptive to their teaching and joined the Church. I am proud to have helped open the door for my good friend to receive the gospel.
Peter couldn’t go to church very often because there was no one to stay with the sheep. He lived ninety kilometers away from a church and had no truck. He couldn’t walk that far, and few could drive the 180 kilometers round trip over rough country to pick him up and to take him home. But I didn’t worry too much about him because Peter was a good man who lived a good life. I knew that his Heavenly Father knew where he was just as surely as Peter knew where to find old Box. Even alone on top of his distant mountain, he was within the fold.
I think of Peter as my teacher. He taught me most of the Navajo I know. He taught me about sheep and coyotes and patience and silence and pasture in barren places. Better still, he taught me about good shepherds who love and know each sheep, even the old one with no teeth who is seemingly lost and far from the rest of the flock.

It is Friday, at the end of the semester. All of the work for family relations and my other classes is done. Mom and Carianne were a brilliant team. Their presentation was terrific.
Pete LaFete and I were less than genius. “I’ve found in my experience,” Peter lectured during our presentation, “that a proper way of saying good night on a fourth or fifth date is to kiss a girl lightly on her forehead. Girls remember it.”
I bet they do, Pete.
Anyway, I’m just getting home and pushing my way through the back door. Something smells great in the kitchen. Mom is at the stove.
“Hello, dear.”
“Hi, Mom. Where’s Jan?”
“In the dining room with your dad. She registered at the community college today. Maybe she’s finally turning the corner. By the way, I invited some company over for dinner tonight. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No big deal, Mom,” I answered, since we often throw an extra plate on the table for guests. I peek into the dining room, and there, with her back toward me, chatting away with my dad and sister, is Carianne Meacham.
My mom smiles serenely.
“I got an A in family relations, remember? And I saw her name in your notebook the other night when we were studying. Now try to say something besides, ‘How ya’ doin’?’ Carianne is an intelligent girl, and I don’t think that will impress her at all.”
And that’s the way I got to know Carianne Meacham.

The Warwoods always planned to go on a senior mission, and Sister Warwood was certain she knew where the Lord needed her to serve. As a neonatal nurse practitioner, she felt drawn to humanitarian work in developing countries.
“I always thought I would serve a humanitarian mission in a third-world country, something with mothers and babies,” she explains. But when they visited Africa a year before their mission call, something unexpected happened. “When I thought to myself, ‘We’ll be here in a year,’ I just had this dreaded feeling,” Sister Warwood recalls.
Back home, during a senior mission meeting, coordinators asked about their preferences. She answered, “Third world, something medical, saving lives.” The dread returned. “I thought, ‘I guess I don’t really want to serve a mission. This is a horrible feeling.’”
Everything shifted when coordinators learnt the couple’s backgrounds—he an accountant, she in healthcare. They explained that “the Mission Health Adviser (MHA) is the most coveted job in the mission because you get to know, love, and serve all of the missionaries.” Sister Warwood realised the MHA “did many of the things I did in the NICU—just with much bigger babies!”
“By the time we left the meeting, instead of feeling dread, I was very excited.” She realised: “The Lord’s been trying to tell you third-world humanitarian is not where you’re supposed to be. He couldn’t have made it more obvious.”
The Warwoods accepted a call to the Auckland New Zealand Mission, where that guidance proved itself many times.

I think of my wife’s grandmother who, as a young married woman, went to Manti with her husband, who was called to work on the temple when it was being constructed there. While so working, he suffered an injury which took his life. She lived a widow for more than sixty years, working and struggling, most of the time alone, to rear and educate her children. Her lot was hard, but her satisfaction was great and her accomplishment heroic.