Gospel Story Finder

I remember especially one occasion. My brother and I were returning from school during the aftermath of a severe tropical storm. The trail that we usually followed had been covered by a mud slide. Being the resourceful young boys that we were, we decided that nothing could keep us from going home. On a nearby steep hillside was a drainage pipe situated quite high above the rocky ground. If we were to get to our village, we would need to walk along that pipe. The pipe was suspended over a stream which, although normally small, had turned into a rushing torrent of mud and water. Carrying our school bags, we went up the hill and continued our expedition.
We both began cautiously treading along the narrow, slippery drainage pipe. As I approached the other side, I looked back to see how my brother was doing. I was startled to see that he had made his way only halfway and had come to a complete stop. He, being older and wiser, had realized what a precarious perch we were on and had instinctively frozen in his tracks, unable to continue. It was a terrifying moment for us as we realized the danger he was in, paralyzed by fear and perched there on a slippery, narrow drainage pipe suspended above a torrential river.
Then I got a big surprise. I heard the loudest scream for help I have ever heard in my life. His incredible bellow echoed through the hills and valleys. Luckily, Aunt Gu Ma was working in the fields below and heard us. She came quickly to his rescue. She lovingly guided him along and led us both home to safety.

Working against the Prophet in all of these attempts was John C. Bennett, Nauvoo’s first mayor, university chancellor, and major general of the Nauvoo Legion. In May 1842, Joseph Smith learned that Bennett had planned to have the Prophet killed during a parade ground maneuver of the Nauvoo Legion. Bodyguards foiled the plot, and ten days later Bennett resigned as mayor. During the following month Bennett confessed to immoral conduct and was excommunicated. He left Nauvoo and began publishing an exposé. He accused Mormon leaders of threatening his life, of swindling local residents in real estate sales, and of immorality and political intrigue. These scandalous accounts brought much unfavorable reaction. Church leaders published an extensive review of the affair and sent special missionaries into neighboring settlements to correct the misinformation.

It took a lot of time and sincere effort to break bad habits. Eventually I was judged by my priesthood leader as worthy to serve a mission. The best feeling in the world was to go to the temple and know I am clean. The Spirit I wanted to feel during all those teenage years came flooding into my heart and life. I am so thankful for the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
The adversary still works on me, trying to get me to backslide. But I have learned to put on the armor of God every day. I know Jesus Christ loves me, and I love Him.

You students might consider what should be your standard in regard to studying on the Sabbath. I speak from experience, having attended three universities, which included law school and earning an advanced master’s degree in corporation law. During part of that time I served as bishop and worked in New York City as an attorney. I had every temptation and opportunity to study on the Sabbath day but made it a simple matter of faith and principle that I would avoid studying on Sunday. I feel that the Lord honored my commitment. I was able to complete all that I attempted educationally and excelled where I needed to excel.

Some of the most enjoyable times to young Latter-day Saints in Panama are when a few of them get together, hop on a train, and go see some of the countryside. Since many of their parents work for the Canal company or for the government in Panama, even the ordinary roadsides with their profusion of tropical plants and flowers are interesting to them.
Nik Kovalenko and Marie Tueller from Balboa on the Pacific coast and Jeff and Karen Ward from Fort Davis on the Atlantic coast took trains and met at a small interior station called Frijoles. Here they picked up a boat that took them to Barro Colorado, an island in the middle of Gatun Lake. It was created when the lake was filled during the construction of the canal in 1914 and has been a biological research reserve ever since. It is a great place to see many of the native plants and animals in their natural environment. As they walked along the carefully marked trails, the young people enjoyed the exotic, tropical foliage and wildlife. By being extra quiet and careful they were able to stalk a band of wild howling monkeys. These animals have large necks and put them to good use as they roar and howl in ferocious-sounding, lionlike noises at their visitors.
On their way home, the young people stopped at Summit Gardens where they could see many more of Panama’s plants and animals.

“We would go down,” Elder Hockett said, “usually on a very cold Saturday morning, and work all day picking pecans in an elderly couple’s 12-acre orchard near Atlanta, Georgia. We’d pick all the pecans we could, sell them, then donate the money to the welfare program. And I remember as a priest, working in the regional welfare cannery, cooking chili for eight or nine hours. And I always remember the father-and-son campouts. My brother and I didn’t have a father, and some of the brethren would always say, ‘Can I be your father?’ or ‘I’ll be your father again this year if you want me to.’ We never felt left out in our ward.”

Cicero said, “Control thyself.” I had the opportunity in World War II to bat against the immortal Bob Feller in a servicemen’s game. If you ever want a lesson in humility, bat against Feller. Bob Feller had a unique distinction as a sixteen-year-old boy. He could take a 9 1/2-inch, 5-ounce baseball and throw it from 60 feet 6 inches, 105 miles an hour.

Now that may not impress you, but you go to bat and you’re very impressed. To those of you who may not understand that velocity, a 9-inch baseball is the size of an aspirin tablet at 60 feet 6 inches, at 100 miles per hour. I submit to you, it makes a difference which side of the plate he throws it.

Bob Feller at age sixteen had a problem. He lacked control. He was a great athlete. He had tremendous capacity. He was born to succeed. He knew himself, but he hadn’t disciplined his great talent of speed, so that it was questionable as to whether he would stick in the majors.

But Bob Feller became the great athlete he was because he listened to wise counsel. He had great coaches, and one of them took him aside one day and said, “Bob, it really doesn’t matter whether you throw 105 miles an hour or 95. If you will take a little speed off your pitch and put the ball where it belongs, you will succeed!”

We call that control in baseball, and you little leaguers know how important control is to a pitcher. Bob listened and became the strike-out artist of his era.

Some friends of mine were starting clubs at school. One girl in my class came up to my desk during class and whispered, “Lacey, if you want to be in my club, come and meet me at recess.” When the bell rang for recess, I ran out to find her. I was excited to be in her club.
After waiting for some more girls to get there, she said, “OK, now, to be in my club, you have to write on your hands and arms with these markers.” Then she passed out markers to everyone. I got a feeling inside that this was wrong. In Primary I had learned that our bodies are temples of our spirits and that we should respect them. Drawing on them didn’t seem very respectful. I looked at my friend and said, “I’m sorry, but if I have to draw on myself, I don’t want to be in your club.”
I’m glad that the Holy Ghost helped me to make the right choice for me.

“A very long time ago,” Mom began, “long before even Grandma and Grandpa were born, there was a young family. They lived on a farm. It wasn’t an easy life. They had to work very hard. One year their daddy had to go away and find work so they’d have money to buy food. He left his wife and three daughters all by themselves.”
“My great-grandma was one of the daughters, wasn’t she?” asked Robbin.
Mom nodded. “That’s right.”
Mom went on with the story. “Well, Thanksgiving came and there was hardly anything to eat. Your great-great-grandmother felt sorry for her sweet little girls. But she had an idea. She took—”
“Flour,” said Dad.
“And salt,” said Robbin.
“And shortening,” said Mom with a nod. “She made pie crust. Then she cut it into long strips. And then she took some cream from their cows and whipped it up. On Thanksgiving morning she and the girls used the pie crust and cream to make small log cabins.”
Dad came over and leaned on the counter. “And we make our log cabins every year to remind us of the many blessings Heavenly Father has given us.”
“And because it’s fun!” said Robbin.
Mom and Dad laughed. “Yes, it is.”
Dad checked the pie crust. The white strips he’d put in the oven had turned a beautiful golden color. “Done!” He slid the piecrust “logs” onto a rack to cool.
Robbin sniffed the freshly baked pie-crust logs. They smelled warm and delicious.
Later that day Robbin’s cousins came over. Mom brought out a large plate piled high with logs ready to use. She put the plate next to a bowl of whipped cream. All the children hurried to the table.
Know what’s fun? Starting a new family tradition! Like starting Thanksgiving in October with our friends in Canada!
“Wait!” said Mom. “Before you begin, who can remember the story of the log cabins?”
Robbin felt happy inside as one of her cousins started telling the story. They had a house and plenty of food. She was glad they had a special way to celebrate all the blessings Heavenly Father had given them.

ARE YOU WEAK AND PUNY?
DO BULLIES PUSH YOU AROUND? BE THE STRONGEST BOY IN TOWN!
ORDER MR. HERCULES’ BODYBUILDING COURSE TODAY!!
SEND NO MONEY! ABSOLUTELY NO OBLIGATION!
Tracy sat in her bedroom, tugging at the end of a pigtail as she studied the advertisement in the comic book. In the ad were two photographs. The photo labeled “Before” showed a skinny boy with arms and legs like sticks. The other, labeled “After,” showed the same boy with enormous muscles popping out all over his body.
“Wow!” Tracy said. “I bet no one pushes him around anymore!” She thought of Buster Bailey, who liked to bully her as she walked home from school.
“I wish I could take Mr. Hercules’ free bodybuilding course. Then I’d really get Buster Bailey. But it’s only for boys.”
Tracy sprang up. “I know!” She tore out the ad and printed her name as only “T. Allison.” She addressed and stamped on envelope and put the ad inside it.
“Where are you going?” her mother called from the kitchen as Tracy opened the front door.
“For a walk,” Tracy said. She felt funny about not telling her mother what she was doing, but she didn’t want her to know about Buster Bailey. Her mother had enough to worry about. Tracy’s father had had an operation and was recovering very slowly. He had to stay in bed most of the time.
Tracy walked to the mailbox at the corner. I’m eleven years old, she thought. I can handle my own problems.
The next afternoon Buster was waiting for her as usual with his bike at the opposite end of the bridge. Tracy took a firm grip on her books and walked as fast as she could, pretending not to see him. But when she reached the center of the bridge, he got on his bike and headed straight for her, pedaling as fast as he could. She stopped and gritted her teeth. Within inches of running into her, Buster skidded sideways.
“I’m king of the bridge!” he shouted. “On your knees, peasant, and beg for safe passage, or I’ll throw your books into the river.”
Even though Buster was bigger than anyone else in their class, Tracy stood her ground and tried not to show that she was scared. She thought of the bodybuilding course. “You just wait, Buster Bailey,” she said. “One of these days I’m going to get you!”
“Bookworm,” he jeered. “Teacher’s pet.” After a few minutes of popping wheelies, he let her pass.
Every afternoon when Tracy got home, she stayed close to the front door and watched for the letter carrier. Luckily for her, the mail was delivered late in the day. A week after she sent in the ad, a bulky brown envelope addressed to Mr. T. Allison arrived. Tracy ran up the stairs to her room, shut the door, and opened the envelope.
Inside she found a letter, also a series of booklets titled Mr. Hercules’ Bodybuilding Course, filled with instructions and pictures of Mr. Hercules doing exercises, each more advanced than in the preceding booklet. Tracy didn’t understand all the words in the letter, but she understood the last line: “Please remit $45.00 within thirty days.”
Forty-five dollars! How could she possibly get forty-five dollars? She emptied her piggy bank on the bed and counted the money. Six dollars and thirty-eight cents. She couldn’t ask her parents for the money because they had lots of doctor’s bills. When she didn’t pay, would the police arrest her? Maybe Mr. Hercules himself would come looking for her!
That night she prayed for a miracle, and the next morning she woke up with an idea. She asked the neighbors if she could work for them. She weeded their gardens, swept their sidewalks, and washed their screens. She did errands and baby-sat. She saved every penny.
I’m working so hard, Tracy thought, I have a right to use the exercises. So every morning before breakfast and every night before bedtime, she took a booklet from the closet shelf where she kept them hidden and did the exercises. At first her muscles ached and she got tired after just a few minutes. She couldn’t do even one push-up. But she kept at it, and each day she could exercise a little longer. Soon she felt herself growing stronger.
The trouble is, Tracy thought as she walked home from school one afternoon, the exercises haven’t solved my problem with Buster Bailey. He’s always riding his bike, so I can’t get near enough to use my new muscles on him. She stepped onto the bridge and saw him waiting at the other end. When she reached the middle, he started toward her, coming faster and faster. This time he really would run into her! She jumped to one side. Buster twisted his wheel to stay in front of her, but the bike spun out of control and he was flung onto the pavement.
“Serves you right!” Tracy shouted.
Buster tried to get up and fell back, moaning. “My leg, my leg!”
Was he pretending? Maybe it was some sort of trick. But when she saw that he was crying, Tracy knew that he really was hurt. Buster would never cry, especially in front of a girl, if he could help it. “I’ll go get help,” she said.
“No! Don’t leave me, please!”
Tracy stared. “Why not?”
Gulping back his sobs, Buster blurted, “There’s this guy in sixth grade who’s out to get me. If he catches me off my bike …”
Tracy bit her tongue. Forgive your enemies, she reminded herself. She put down her books and helped Buster to his feet. “Lean on my shoulder, and try hopping on your good foot,” she told him. “My house is just down the street.”
They progressed very slowly toward Tracy’s house. She kept hoping that a car would stop and help them, but the street was deserted. “You’re heavy,” she said.
“And you’re strong,” he said, “for a girl.”
When they finally reached Tracy’s house, her mother took one look at Buster and phoned his home. While they were waiting for his father to arrive, Tracy’s mother asked what had happened. One thing led to another, and soon Tracy was pouring out the whole story about Buster, the body-building course, and the work she’d been doing to earn money.
“Wow!” Buster said. He was lying on the couch, his injured leg resting on pillows.
When Tracy showed her mother the book-lets, the letter, and the bill from Mr. Hercules, her mother frowned worriedly. “This is a big bill, Tracy. How much have you saved?”
Tracy tugged at a pigtail. “I only have twenty-seven dollars and thirty cents so far.”
“That was a very unwise thing to do, Tracy. Let’s write to Mr. Hercules and send him what you have,” her mother said. “When he learns the whole story”—she looked at Buster—“he might let you pay the rest when you can.”
To Tracy’s great relief, that’s exactly what Mr. Hercules agreed to.
Finally Tracy was able to pay her bill, but she learned a good lesson. Mr. Bailey asked Tracy to help Buster with summer school so that he could be promoted into fourth grade with the rest of their class, and Buster genuinely appreciated her help. Tracy was glad to help him—but this certainly wasn’t the way that she had planned to get Buster Bailey!

The staff in the Missionary Department recently received a letter from President Thomas R. Murray of the Missouri Independence Mission concerning the missionary service of Elder and Sister Ronald Smith. He wrote:
"The Smiths left a legacy in Nebraska City, Nebraska. They baptized eighteen people, reactivated a large number in two wards, traveled many miles per month, contributed to the local newspaper, gave meaningful community service, motivated the Scouting program, strengthened the ward leadership, fellowshipped and friendshipped, and provided great public relations for the Church in the community."
Where could the Smiths have spent a more productive, profitable time or experienced more fulfilling service?

Now I can hear the young deacons saying, “Well, now, that may be fine for you, but surely you don’t think that’s going to help me in my assignment down here in this deacons quorum.” Oh yes, I do. Between being a high councilor and a member of the General Board of the Sunday School, I was a deacons quorum adviser. A boy, the president, presided in the meetings, and I taught the lessons out of the scriptures and out of the manual. I stayed very close to the lessons as they were outlined.
I remember one boy in the quorum had to miss a few meetings, and so he sent his brother to the class with a tape recorder. His brother recorded our meeting and took it home. It happened more than once. When the deacon came back, I asked him why. I don’t remember his words, but I remember that it was clear he knew what I knew. God was trying to speak to that deacons quorum. The boy wasn’t anxious to have a tape recording to hear me; he was trying to hear God. He knew where to listen and how to hear.
He’d read the scriptures for us in class, and I knew he knew them and loved them. And so, even when I wasn’t teaching very well, by the power of the Holy Ghost and from knowing the Master’s voice in the scriptures, he could hear what he needed to hear. The memory of that black recorder with its tape turning will always remind me of the scripture which says, “He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.” (Matt. 11:15.)
I spoke at his funeral just a few years later. He lived about as many years as the Prophet Joseph had lived when he saw God the Father and Jesus Christ in the grove. My deacon hadn’t seen a vision, but he had heard the voice of God through his servants in a deacons quorum. He wanted to hear, he knew how, and he had the faith he could. Like the boy prophet Joseph, he knew the heavens were open.

Elder Alma Sonne lifted his nose and inhaled the smell of the Liverpool dock—a mixture of wet rope, steam from ships, and bustling crowds. He’d spent hours here as the mission secretary, arranging travel from England to America for both Saints and missionaries. Now it was his turn to travel home to his family and his sweetheart.
“The Mauretania,” he announced to the four missionaries who would be traveling with him, gesturing to the ship before them. “She’s over 750 feet long and weighs 30,000 tons—”
“I’m sure she’s a nice ship, but she’s no Titanic.” Elder Chambers sighed.
“The Titanic! The Ship of Dreams! The Wonder Ship! The Millionaire’s Special!” Elder Sayer said, quoting the nicknames for the new luxury liner that had set sail just three days before. The Titanic was 11 stories high and almost three football fields long!
Alma had originally booked tickets for all of the missionaries to sail home on the Titanic. But those plans had changed when Alma had received a telegram from Elder Fred Dahle, one of the missionaries who was supposed to travel with them. The telegram said that he had been delayed and wouldn’t arrive on time to sail on the Titanic. So Alma had canceled everyone’s tickets.
“I know you’re disappointed, but we couldn’t just leave Fred,” Alma told the other elders again. They weren’t too happy to miss the Titanic’s first voyage across the Atlantic.
“Where is Fred, anyway?” Elder Sayer asked.
“Here!” Fred called, coming toward them. He wore a big smile, and Alma grinned back. His friend had changed a lot over the past couple of years. Two years ago Fred hadn’t gone to church much. When he and Alma received mission calls to Great Britain at the same time, Alma had convinced Fred to accept the call to serve. Fred had turned out to be an excellent missionary, and Alma looked forward to spending time with him on the journey home.
The six missionaries all boarded the Mauretania and waved goodbye to the Liverpool Saints as the ship pulled away from the dock.
The journey was uneventful until four days later, when a member of the crew pulled Alma aside.
“Did you hear about the Titanic?”
“No, what about it?” Alma asked.
“She sunk two days ago, on April 15,” the man said quietly. “Hit an iceberg on a cold, moonless night.”
Alma felt like all of the air was sucked out of his lungs.
“And the passengers?”
“Only 705 survivors, according to the latest reports. The ship didn’t have enough lifeboats. More than 1,500 of the passengers and crew were lost.”
More than 1,500 people lost. Alma felt like his head was spinning as he walked to the cabin to share the news with the other elders. They sat in stunned silence.
“That could have been us,” one of the elders finally said.
The other missionaries nodded.
“I’m going to the deck to get some fresh air,” Alma said. Fred came with him. The two friends stared silently into the dark, icy waters of the Atlantic.
What Happened to Alma?
Alma Sonne returned home safely and married his sweetheart, Geneva Ballantyne. He later served as an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He never forgot about the lessons he learned from the Titanic.
“You saved my life,” Alma said, thinking of Fred’s telegram. If it hadn’t been for Fred, they all would’ve been on that ship.
“No,” Fred said. “By getting me on this mission, you saved my life.”
Alma put his arm around Fred. Heavenly Father had preserved their lives in more ways than one.

For a while now I’ve feared being called on a mission. Maybe it’s because I knew it was the right thing for me to do, and I was denying it. A few weeks ago I received my patriarchal blessing saying I would serve a mission. This upset me, and I knew it shouldn’t, so I prayed that my feelings would change. The following Sunday my Young Women president gave a great lesson on serving the Lord. Things were looking up. During the week the March 1988 New Era came. I’m so thankful for the article “Called to Serve Him.” My views have changed, and I can’t wait to serve a mission for the Lord! Thanks!
Cheri JohnsonSterling Heights, Michigan

As the usual family festivities of Christmas Eve were drawing to an end, I felt that can’t-wait-until-morning feeling of excitement!
I was eight years of age and the oldest grandchild in my large extended family. Every few minutes, a parent, aunt, or uncle would open the door and exclaim about hearing the faint sound of bells. I could hardly wait for Santa to arrive! Yet Grandpa still insisted on going caroling first—a family tradition. “Santa will never come!” I thought.
As we hopped into our frost-covered cars, we realized it was a lot later than we normally left. The small town where we lived in Idaho was very quiet and cold. Some family members worried that we shouldn’t go caroling so late, but my grandpa insisted that we should visit a couple houses.
As we drove down the small, tree-covered lane, we could see no hint of light in the tiny log cabin belonging to “Old Jim.” Jim was a good friend, and he had a big heart. He had been a widower since I could remember.
“Surely Jim wouldn’t care if we didn’t stop!” I moaned. Santa Claus would miss us for sure!
But my good grandfather persisted: “Just quietly gather by the bedroom window and start with ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’”
Our voices were unsteady at first, but strength lies in numbers, and it wasn’t long until the music swelled into a beautiful, harmonious melody.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.
There was still no light on in Jim’s home, but we continued to sing.
O morning stars, together
Proclaim the holy birth,
And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth 1
The cabin door opened.
In the moonlight, we could see tears run down Jim’s face. As he embraced us all, he cried—really cried. After a time, he wiped the tears of joy from his face and said to us, “I have waited all year for you to come. You are my Christmas. And when the clock turned 9:30, I thought I had been forgotten. I was so disappointed. I had gone to bed, for there was no reason to stay up anymore.”
Our hearts were filled. As Jim motioned us into his home and turned on the light, we could see that he indeed had been expecting us. His kitchen table was beautifully set, and there was everything from Christmas cake and cookies to cold meats cut and laid out waiting for us to eat. The cups had been carefully counted and lovingly filled with sweet apple cider, so as “not to miss a one of you,” Jim added.
Jim said we had been his Christmas? Not so. Jim had been ours.
The gift of love we received that cold Christmas Eve was more wonderful than anything Santa could ever have left under our Christmas tree. And it was a reminder that the Lord wants us to minister to His children as He does—one by one, bringing His love with us (see 3 Nephi 11:15–17; 17:21).

Elder Devere Harris’s great-grandfather was once a prizefighter in England. One night his great-grandfather went to a meeting to chase Wilford Woodruff out of town because Elder Woodruff had converted the prizefighter’s wife to the Church. However, instead of chasing Wilford Woodruff out of town, Great-Grandfather Harris liked what he heard, and he, too, joined the Church. Elder Harris’s great-grandparents came to America, crossed the plains with the Saints, and were among the early settlers of the town of Portage in northern Utah. According to Elder Harris, “Great-Grandfather taught his family the gospel, and his son, my grandfather, became a bishop. My grandfather taught the gospel to his family, and my father served in a bishopric and as a ward clerk for many years. Religion was always a natural and important part of our lives as we were growing up.
“My dad stressed the importance of honesty to all his children. He was one of the most honest and fair men I have ever known. When I was a young boy, a neighbor widow’s chickens used to come over to the back of our lot and lay eggs in the high grass and bushes. Even though I used to take eggs to the store to trade (we didn’t have much money in those days), I never took any of those eggs to the store, because they weren’t mine. I took them to the widow, their rightful owner.
“My father ran a grain elevator, and as a young boy, I used to have to shovel wheat. Dad taught us to work for our own money. He paid us three cents a sack to stack and load wheat, and I thought that that was pretty generous of him. We could load a thousand bushels into a boxcar in about three or four hours. My two brothers and I could make as high as nine dollars a day loading wheat. And that was back in the days when earning two dollars a day was good wages. My father encouraged us to be frugal and to put the money away for our education.
“Mother was a great lady. I remember sitting by her and having her read to me from a little white Bible. She loved the scriptures. She also loved poetry and prose and history; she was a deep reader and a deep thinker. She helped instill in her children an appreciation for good books.
“When I was about thirteen years old, my mother had prepared a delicious Thanksgiving dinner. Before she could get the table set, an emergency call came, and my mother and father had to go to be with my brother, who was very ill. After my parents left, I went to a friend who didn’t have a mother and whose father wasn’t well. I knew that he wouldn’t have a Thanksgiving dinner, so I invited him to our home for dinner. I got out Mother’s best linen, crystal, and silverware, and I set a table that was fit for a king. After our dinner together, I sent some food home for my friend’s father. I was trying to follow my parents’ example to serve others.
“I have a great respect for nature, and I have always loved animals and birds and have tried to protect them. Once when we were youngsters, a friend of mine and I were riding double on a horse along the railroad track. Suddenly I spied an owl that had a broken wing and couldn’t do anything but run along the ground. I slid off the horse, caught the owl, and got back on the horse behind my friend. I remember that it was a beautiful white horse with a long mane. We started galloping along the railroad track, and the owl started to wiggle. It stuck its claws into that horse, causing it to jump straight into the air and make a big kick. I rolled off backward, but somehow I kept my hold on the owl, and it never got away. We took the owl home, put splints on its broken wing, and turned it loose.
“My wife and I have had a wonderful experience in the Pacific Islands. One day we went to a little Tahitian island on a boat, and as the boat pulled up to the dock, twenty-seven children were standing on it, singing, ‘I Am A Child of God.’ I thought, What a beautiful, beautiful thing to know that children all over the world are singing the hymns of the Church and beautiful Primary songs.
“Heavenly Father loves all children. Jesus loves them, too—children of all countries, colors, and creeds.
“Live the principles of the gospel so that you can live again with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Listen to the counsel of the prophets. Stay pure and clean after your baptism. Your parents and Primary teachers will teach you the things that you should do. Listen to them and do what they tell you.”

Eugène used to think all churches were the same. Then the missionaries came to his door and started teaching his family. Gradually he came to understand that the gospel has been restored, and that there’s a great role in it for young men. He was baptized and, when he came of age, ordained a deacon.

“Now, I’m the only Aaronic Priesthood holder in the entire city,” he says. “There are Melchizedek Priesthood holders, and they help me. But when we have sacrament meeting, I pass the sacrament.”

A few weeks later, as I was walking through the school library, my friend Brian asked me if I wanted to come to his baptism. Brian and I didn’t have any classes together that year, so it had been quite a while since I had seen or spoken with him. The previous year we had sat next to each other in a history class and had partnered up for a class project. Our project topic, randomly assigned by our teacher, was “Joseph Smith and the Mormons.” I remembered Brian had been quite interested in the topic as we did our research. However, he also liked to joke around, saying things like, “Remind me which wife number your mom is” and “There is going to be this fun party this weekend, but oh, wait—you’re Mormon, so you would be no fun to go with.” Thus, I initially dismissed his baptism invitation as another joke at the expense of my religion. He did not seem like the type ready to join a church with such “restrictive standards.”
But the next words out of his mouth stunned me as he described the whirlwind of the past few weeks of his life. He explained overhearing a fellow classmate and member of my ward invite someone to a question-and-answer activity at the Mormon church. When the person receiving the invitation declined, Brian asked our classmate if he could come along instead. Following the activity, he immediately began taking the missionary lessons. He read the Book of Mormon. He prayed about it. He knew it was true. He really was getting baptized, and if I wanted to, I was welcome to come. After all, he said, I was the one who introduced him to Joseph Smith and the Mormons.

Wisdom, courage, and faith are exemplified in the life of another young woman from another country. She had achieved outstanding success in her profession. She was slightly older than what is usually considered the marriageable age. She had made the decision at a young age that if she were to marry, she would marry only in the temple. In her area single young men who were members of the Church were almost non-existent. I suppose she despaired of ever being married. However, one day she met a young man. Although he was not a member of the Church, she dated him. They fell in love. He proposed. She told him she would marry him but would do it only in the temple. He agreed to take the missionary lessons and was converted and baptized. They waited a year and kept themselves worthy for temple marriage. I met her on her wedding day. I think I have never seen a more lovely, happy bride. She had determined years before the eternal blessings she was willing to live for and on this day realized the wonderful feeling of having achieved this most important, eternal goal, in spite of almost impossible obstacles.

The second experience also involved the loss of an ox and the ill treatment of Mary Fielding Smith by a wagon master who had had personal differences with her. Whenever people are thrown together in such a manner as they were in pioneer companies, tempers in some are prone to flare, and frictions may develop. Almost every boy who has attended a scout camp or national guard camp, or girl a girl’s camp, is aware of this problem.
So, it was almost inevitable that friction would arise among pioneer companies.
The difference of opinion in this case had arisen from the fact that the supervisor had felt Widow Smith was not prepared with sufficient supplies and equipment to reach the valley and that she would be a burden upon any company she joined. Finally, he concluded, “I will have to carry you along or leave you on the way.” To which Mary Fielding Smith replied, “I will beat you to the valley and will ask no help from you either.” And thus the verbal battle lines were drawn and the company set off. All proceeded about as well as possible until about midway between the Platte and the Sweetwater Rivers, at which time one of Sister Smith’s oxen laid down in the yoke as if poisoned. To all outward appearances the ox was in the throes of death. It stiffened out spasmodically, and all supposed it would die momentarily. The wagons behind were also brought to a stop as the captain of the company came running forward, “blustering about, as if the world were about at an end.”
“There,” said he, “I told you you would have to be helped and that you would be a burden on the company.” But in this he was mistaken. Producing a bottle of consecrated oil, Widow Smith asked her brother and James Lawson if they would please administer to the ox just as they would do to a sick person, for it was vital to her interest that the ox be restored. Her earnest plea was complied with. These brethren poured oil on the head of the ox and then laid their hands upon it and rebuked the power of the destroyer. Immediately the ox got up and within a very few moments again pulled in the yoke as if nothing had ever happened. This was a great astonishment to the company. Before the company had proceeded very far, another of her oxen fell down as the first, but with the same treatment he also got up, and this was repeated the third time.
Through all of these proceedings young Joseph F. was an observer, sensing the power of the priesthood being exhibited by his uncle, but also noting the deep faith of his widowed mother, a woman who was to leave a deep impression upon his life. Four years after entering the valley—at the age of fourteen—he was to lose his mother to death, and then was without father or mother.