Gospel Story Finder

I went off to school that fall. I was on the track team, and though I was not a star that year, I ran straight and hard. When I came home that summer, I had an interview with my bishop to begin the work of serving a mission. It didn’t take place in a bishop’s office, but in a blue, two-story home in south San Francisco. I sat on the edge of a bed, and the bishop pulled close his favorite old chair. He seemed a little hesitant. His eyes were wet.
“Tom, you are a Rosa,” he began. “And you are a Latter-day Saint.”
“Yes.”
“If you honor your family, you will honor your church. If you honor your church, you will honor your family.”
“I understand that.”
After asking me the normal missionary interview questions, he concluded, “You will do good. You will be a fine missionary.”
Then he told me to go help Mom in the kitchen. I looked back at him as I left. His hair was mostly gray now, and his arms were not as thickly muscled as before. He sat in his chair and stared out the window at ten thousand sparkling lights on the hillside across the bay from our home. I wondered if he knew how proud I was to be his son and how much it meant to me to share his good name. I walked downstairs realizing that all those years I had been running, my father had been growing, and I would never lack for someone to look up to.

In the front window of the little grocery section of the Murdock service station in Beaver, Utah, was a poster advertising a big candy bar broken open with chocolate and nuts and filling, sending out a message the advertiser had intended. The candy bar was called Chicken Dinner. Every day I passed this window four times—twice going to school and twice coming home.
We had no money to purchase such luxuries in our home, but the gnawing desire to eat one of those candy bars kept building up in me.
Late one afternoon, my mother sent me to the store to purchase a loaf of bread for supper (one of the rare times in my young life to get store-bought bread). I had a quarter and purchased the bread for a dime.
As Mrs. Murdock gave me the 15 cents change I was staring at the back side of that candy bar poster—knowing every detail that was on the front, as I had studied it so many times.
The candy rack was to the side of the counter and open. I looked around the little store; no one else was in there at the time. I was very nervous, for I was going to be dishonest. I had made my plan, and I executed it by shoving the dime back across the counter and blurting out in a strained voice, “I’d like two Chicken Dinner bars,” and pointed to them as I put the nickel in my pocket. I don’t know why I bought two. I guess I was so nervous I didn’t really know what I was doing, and the two nickel candy bars added up to the dime I had in my hand at the time.
“Help yourself,” she said with a look and sound of questioning in her voice, like it wasn’t right for a Hutchings kid to blow a whole dime on two candy bars.
I was shaking as I reached over and took two bars and slid them in my pocket. She thanked me and I left.
I walked very fast to get around the corner before anyone saw me and I could get to where I could eat one of those candy bars. I don’t know why I didn’t want anyone to see me.
I slipped around behind Harry Deal’s electric shop, where I would be alone, and started eating one of the bars. It tasted all right, but it didn’t go down very well. Maybe I was eating it too fast since I was so hungry for candy.
Having finished the first one behind the shed, I must have felt a little braver and walked out from behind the electric shop and down the sidewalk eating the other. I walked slowly so I could finish it well before I covered the three blocks to home. Besides, I needed time to plan how to account for one missing dime.
I dropped the bread on the kitchen table and headed out of the room trying not to have eye-to-eye contact with my mother, thinking maybe she would have too much on her mind to think about wanting 15 cents change.
“Don, thanks for getting the bread. Where is the change?”
I fumbled in my pocket, pulled the nickel out, and put it on the table, pretending to search the rest of my pockets with such suggestions as, “I wonder if I lost it” or “Did Mrs. Murdock put the dime in the wrapper when she wrapped the bread?” (That last suggestion must have given my mother a clue that something was wrong.)
“Did she give you the right change?” my mother asked.
“Yes, I remember her giving me the 15 cents,” I said as my mother was reaching for the telephone to call the store.
“Then you lost it?” my mother asked with a tone in her voice of doubting. “Let’s go look for the dime,” she said as she picked up her sweater and headed out the door.
We backtracked the route and looked on both sides of the sidewalk. All the time, I was trying to call off this excursion, but my mother was locked in on getting to the bottom of the missing dime and would have no part of giving up until she found out just where that dime was.
I said a silent prayer, asking the Lord to produce me one little thin dime to get the pressure off. I had found a quarter once along that same sidewalk, and I knew that the Lord could produce a little dime now. I reinforced my petition by telling him I would never do anything like that again if he would come to my aid.
The voice inside of me seemed pretty loud, “No, Don!” I was getting desperate as we had worked our way now past Harry Deal’s electric shop and close to the store. I knew what the conversation would bring once my mother and Mrs. Murdock got together.
Oh, how thankful I am for a mother that would follow up and help a boy learn a lesson he needed so badly. I’m sure as anything that my mother knew just about what had happened before we left the house to look for the lost dime, but in her wisdom she knew a teaching moment when she saw one. I don’t think she knew, though, the torment that was exploding inside a little boy who realized he was about to get caught in a big lie.
As we stood outside the Murdock store, I told my mother, with tears running down my face, what I had done, right in front of that big poster of a Chicken Dinner bar.
My mother stood there, I’m sure with her heart aching, as she confessed to part of the blame by being so limited with money that she could not give her children some of the things she would like to, especially when it would bring one of her children to lying and stealing.
“Don, I brought the other nickel, and I would like you to go in and buy another of those bars, just to have to eat when you want it and to know that you do not have to steal anymore. Next time you come and ask, and we will find some way to buy it, the right way.”

I grew up in Mexico with my siblings, my mother, and my grandmother. Every day after doing homework and chores, I played soccer. I loved soccer! I would pretend that my right leg was one team and my left leg was the other team.
One day when I was playing soccer, I suddenly couldn’t breathe very well. I rested for a few minutes, but I still had trouble breathing. I became so sick that I had to go to the hospital.
The hospital room had many other children in it, but I missed my family and felt very alone. Although I was not a member of the Church yet, I believed in God. Every day I prayed to be healed, but instead I got worse and worse. The doctors thought I might not live.
The doctors finally sent me home from the hospital, but I had to spend the next year in bed. I took many pills and had two shots every day. And I still had a prayer in my mind and heart. I told Heavenly Father that if I got well, I would serve Him all the rest of my life.
Then one day when I was reading in bed, I accidentally dropped my book on the floor. When I leaned down to pick it up, I realized that I was breathing normally. I dropped the book again. Again I could pick it up without any problem!
I got out of bed. At first I was dizzy because I had not walked by myself in such a long time. I looked in the mirror and saw that I was smiling. I knew that I had received an answer from Heavenly Father.
Every day since then, I have tried to do something to express my gratitude to Heavenly Father. When I grew up, I became a doctor to help answer the prayers of other children. And now I am trying to serve Heavenly Father with my calling in the Church.

When Ryan Wilkinson moved from Horsefly, British Columbia, Canada, to Bountiful, Utah, during his junior year of high school, he left Horsefly with $255 in his savings account.
That’s $255, Canadian. Or somewhere in the vicinity of 190 U.S. dollars.
Ryan’s goal was to leave for a mission soon after he turned 19 in February 2000. Since Ryan knew he needed approximately $9,000 for the two years he planned to be in the mission field, he could do the math. “What I had in the bank wouldn’t even last me a month as a missionary,” he explains.
So Ryan did what anybody in need of eight or nine grand would do.
“I went looking for a job.”
In Canada, Ryan had worked wrapping potatoes in aluminum foil at a nearby restaurant. “I got $5 for each box,” he says. Lots of potatoes but not much money.
So with less than two years before he turned 19, Ryan put a plan in place once he got to Utah. “I figured if I could earn $2,000 before I graduated from high school, I could earn the rest by getting a full-time job once I was out of school,” he says. The plan was feasible since Ryan decided he wasn’t going to go to college until after his mission.
When Ryan put on the cap and gown for Bountiful High School’s class of ’99 commencement exercises, he had about $1,800 in his account, just short of his goal but in the neighborhood. All that money came from his work as a bagger and then as a cashier at a local grocery store. “I even got a 15-cent raise when I was promoted,” he says with a smile.
Not long after graduation, a neighbor who was building a house down the street from the Wilkinsons approached Ryan and his brother Mark about working construction for the summer. “We didn’t know what we were doing, but we learned as we went,” Ryan says. “That was a pretty good job. We put on the roof, and I put on all the shingles. I helped put in the windows and doors, and I helped pour the cement for the basement floor.”
Ka-ching. Ka-ching. The money began adding up.
But two jobs, apparently, weren’t enough.
“I heard about this other job—a graveyard shift—from midnight to six in the morning where I’d be unloading boxes from a truck,” he says. “And it paid a lot more than being a cashier. But since it would be a harder job, I decided to quit my [grocery store] job.”
But being a conscientious employee, Ryan gave two weeks’ notice at the grocery store. And this is where his schedule became a little tricky.
“I did the three jobs for two weeks. I’d start in the morning and go build the house from eight until about five. Then I’d go to the store from seven o’clock to eleven,” he says. “After I cashed out the money, I’d head to the loading dock. I worked from midnight to six.”
What about sleep?
“I didn’t get a lot,” he admits.
Fortunately, that torturous schedule ended, and he could settle back in to the relaxation of working only two jobs.
“Yeah, everybody says that going on a mission will be the hardest thing I’ll ever do in my life,” Ryan adds. “But it seems that going on a mission will be a break for me.”
Guess he’s finding out.
On March 1, Elder Wilkinson entered the Missionary Training Center. Two months later he left for the Italy Rome Mission. He earned a little extra for the purchase of suits, shirts, shoes, and all the other things he needed to be a missionary. But he had the $9,000 in his account for the 24 months he’d be gone.
“I always knew I was going to earn the money for my mission,” Ryan adds. “I just didn’t know how.”
He does now.

The court case was troubling for Portuguese labor judge Artur Manuel Ventura de Carvalho. An employer was being prosecuted because he did not pay the legal adult wage to a young man working for him.
But the young man, though in his late twenties, was mentally handicapped and he could not do as much work as the other employees. The employer would have to let the young man go if he had to pay him more, although he was sympathetic to the young man’s responsibility in supporting his mother.
The decision required by federal laws seemed plain. “My difficulty was that I felt something was not right in this case,” says soft-spoken Brother Carvalho. “I prayed, and suddenly the answer came.” He declared that although the young man was legally of age to receive the required minimum wage, his mental age and work capacity did not justify the adult pay level. Therefore, the employer did not have to meet the demands of the law. The young man kept his job, and the grateful employer even raised his wage a bit to help the man better support his mother.

“I had the desire to one day become a missionary like them,” Bishop says. “Unfortunately, I was already too old to serve a full-time mission. So, I decided to use my gift as a communicator to spread the knowledge I acquired following my conversion.”
Bishop says he invited all his friends and acquaintances to meet with missionaries and come to church with him.
“Bishop is completely friendly and engaging,” Sister London Litchfield, former mission leader in the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission, shared. “He doesn’t see any boundaries between friendships, which I think is part of what makes him such a great missionary. Quite frankly, he is an inspiration to us.”
Bishop hasn’t kept count of how many friends and acquaintances he has introduced to the gospel. But several years ago, he set a goal: to help bring three people into the Church every year. And he has done just that—every year, without fail.
Last year, he helped teach five people in January alone, so he increased his yearly goal to 10. But it appears he could have aimed higher. By June, he had helped 13 people join the Church.
He has spoken to many of his family and friends about the gospel already, but Abidjan is a densely populated city, and his friendly, outgoing nature allows him to strike up a conversation with anyone and everyone: banana vendors, families walking along the streets, or other drivers stuck in traffic with him.
“I first build a friendship with people I meet in my neighborhood, then as our relationship grows, I introduce them to the gospel,” he explains.
“We often think that they’re very difficult conversations to have,” said Wade Litchfield, former president of the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission. “But they’re not at all scary to him. They’re natural to him.”
And Bishop’s advice to young missionaries or anyone for sharing the gospel? “Don’t be afraid. Show a good example. Be patient and let your love for God and your fellow men be above everything else.”
Bishop’s conversations about religion with friends and with strangers—the “friends he may someday meet”—stem from a place of caring. That genuine care for others is just part of his nature. And he may have perfected the most powerful, loving approach to missionary work in putting love, compassion, and a “mark of attention” above all else.

When I was about six or seven years old, our family went to Kanab, Utah, to visit my aunt, who was married to a forest ranger. My uncle was in charge of the Kaibab Forest, one of the largest national forests in the United States. We arrived there late at night and went right to bed at their home.
The next morning I was awakened by my cousins, who were younger than I. They said, “There’re some deer out there. Come and look.” I jumped out of bed and got dressed and ran to the back door. Sure enough, within twenty yards of the house was a doe with her two little fawns. After we watched for a few minutes, I wanted to get closer and try to touch them.
My three cousins and I started walking toward them, but just as we got close to them, they moved away. They kept doing that, and we kept following them. All of a sudden, the mother deer decided that she’d had enough and bounded away, her little ones behind her.
My cousins and I turned around to go back to the house and realized that we were lost. In our minds it seemed easy to just turn around and go back, but we had gone much farther than we thought we had.
I had never been in a forest before. My cousins kept saying, “Let’s go this way.” “No, let’s go this way.” So we just wandered around, and pretty soon we started hearing sounds that we imagined were bears and cougars.
We called and whistled for our families to answer, but we didn’t hear a thing. We wandered around in the tall trees for maybe an hour and a half. Then the thought came to me that we should pray to Heavenly Father. We knelt in a circle, and I said a simple prayer. As we got up, I had the distinct impression that we should walk in a certain direction, which we did. We walked that way for another thirty minutes or so. The little ones were tired, and I had to carry the smallest one on my back.
When we heard a motor in the distance, we knew enough to walk toward the sound. All of a sudden, we broke into a clearing. We could see a road, and the motor we’d heard was in a road grader. We were really tired and upset, but we knew that we had to get over to the road grader before it went by the clearing, so we ran as fast as we could. When we got close enough, we waved, and the road-grader operator saw us and stopped. He put us in the cab and took us down to the forest rangers’ headquarters. By that time, my parents and aunt and uncle had all the forest rangers out looking for us, so they were glad to see us. That experience was a testimony to me that Heavenly Father does hear and answer our prayers.

Zack, a young man age nineteen, who is now in the Missionary Training Center, accompanied a truckload of food, clothing, etc., sent by our members in central Georgia to help the victims of the hurricane. As Zack was leaving, his mother gave him some Cabbage Patch and other treasured dolls from her prized collection. Zack took particular pleasure in distributing those dolls to solemn-eyed little girls whose other toys were all destroyed.

As I finished washing the dishes, I glanced out the window and saw my eight-year-old brother dangling a long pole in the swimming pool. His tangled brown hair hung in his eyes, and his clothes were splashed with water. He always managed to avoid helping with the chores, and today was no different. I watched as he carefully steadied the pole in the water, lifted it, and tapped it on the concrete deck.
“What’s he doing?” I wondered. I decided to go outside and see what time-wasting activity had kept him from helping me.
“What are you doing, Ben?” I asked as I walked over to where he stood.
“Saving bees,” he replied. I could now see that each time he steadied the pole, it was beneath a bee. He then lifted the bee out of the water and placed it on the warm concrete to let the bee dry its wings and fly away.
“But some of them won’t hold on,” he continued. “I try to save them, but they just keep trying to swim and won’t grab the pole.”
“Great,” I thought. “One less bee to sting me.” I began walking back toward the house, determined to waste no more of my time.
Then Ben spoke again. “It’s like Jesus,” he said.
I stopped and walked back to my little brother. “What do you mean?” I asked, confused by that comparison.
“I try to save the bees from drowning, but they have to choose to grab the pole. I can’t force them,” he explained. “And that’s like Jesus and us. He wants to save us, but we have to choose to follow Him and accept the Atonement. He can’t force us.” And with that simple analogy, Ben went back to saving the bees.
As I thought about what he said, I realized how much I was like one of the drowning bees. When I faced a struggle in my life, I was prone to battle it out alone, convinced I was strong enough to make it. Trusting the Savior enough to stop “treading water” was difficult. But as I watched Ben patiently pull each bee out of the water, I began to understand how willing the Savior is to help me.
I gave Ben a hug and returned to the house, letting him continue his work. And I promised myself the next time I saw a pole coming toward me, I would have the faith to grab on tight and let the Savior lift me up.

Mzwakhe Sitole faces a challenge. As ward Sunday School president, he has a God-given responsibility to help improve gospel learning and teaching in the ward.1
But the members of his ward in Johannesburg, South Africa, have, in some cases, vastly different backgrounds and expectations. Some are well-educated; others are not. Many have been taught that a student’s place is to listen, not to talk. Others face an uphill cultural battle in understanding that both men and women should be involved in teaching at church and at home.
“We also have people who speak different languages,” Brother Sitole says. “But the Spirit wants to prompt each one.”
When teacher council meetings and Teaching in the Savior’s Way were introduced last year, wards and branches throughout the Church began holding teacher council meetings to discuss, learn about, and practice what it means to teach in the Savior’s way.
That’s when Brother Sitole began to see how teacher council meetings could bless his ward. Cultural challenges could be addressed, class participation could be increased, and different perspectives of members could become blessings.
Like many others around the world, Brother Sitole realized that the Lord isn’t using teacher council meetings just to change how we teach; He’s using them to also change how we learn.
One of the most interesting discoveries for Brother Sitole was that as teachers empower students to participate in their own learning, everyone benefits from the expanded view that different perspectives provide.
That understanding came to Brother Sitole during a teacher council meeting, when a ward member shared the parable of the blind men and the elephant, only with a twist. The parable tells how six blind men each describe an elephant differently (a leg is like a pillar, the tail is like a rope, the trunk is like a water spout, and so forth) because each is touching a different part.2
“But suppose the elephant represents gospel teaching,” Brother Sitole says. “Then we need to enable each class member to share their perspective, so that together we come to a common understanding of how the gospel blesses us all.”
That’s why teachers in Brother Sitole’s ward always sit around a table during teacher council meeting—to facilitate discussion. “It reminds us that everyone has an equal voice,” he says.

When I was almost 17, I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and felt a desire to serve the Lord on a mission. When my mission call arrived a few years later, I was called to leave Peru and preach the restored gospel in Salt Lake City.
Even as I thought about the great blessing of serving a mission, many things that I was going to need weighed on my mind: documents, passport, visa, clothing, and, of course, money. I was working but wasn’t making enough. I felt desperate! With a month and a half before I was to leave, I found I had only a small part of the necessary funds. All I could do was go to the Lord in prayer.
Because I didn’t make very much money, the tithes I paid each month were meager. But I soon realized that the Lord doesn’t care about the small amount: He cares that we pay the 10 percent He has asked. I felt a conviction and assurance that if I continued to pay tithing, the Lord would provide what I needed.
Everything began to come together. I got two additional jobs and obtained my documents. Many members of my ward, especially the Relief Society sisters, helped with other necessities. And the members of my stake offered their help as well. I left on my mission with what was required.
As a full-time missionary, I taught the law of tithing and its promises (see Malachi 3:10) with gratitude and testimony.

After college my sister Grace and I worked for a company with several other Latter-day Saints. Our employers were not members of the Church. When my sister became engaged, our employer planned a surprise bridal shower for her. I hoped she would respect our standards, but instead she ordered liquor, a male dancer, and a scandalous video.
Before the bridal shower, I felt the whispering of the Holy Ghost within me encouraging me to remind my boss of our standards. I grasped my Young Women medallion and thought of all the effort and sacrifices I had made when I was in Young Women to complete my personal progress. I prayed that I would be guided to stand a little taller at this time. I texted my employer my concerns, thinking that she might become offended. Nevertheless, my greatest desire was to please Heavenly Father.
When the party began, my boss didn’t talk to me or even smile at me. However, she did cancel the dancer and the video.
In the days following the party, my boss didn’t talk and laugh with me like she had before the party. However, I felt comfortable because I knew God was pleased with what I had done. About a week later, my relationship with my boss went back to normal. I know God softened her heart and helped her realize that I lived what I believed.
Lemy Labitag, Cagayan Valley, Philippines

Five-year-old Wesley Larsen of Layton, Utah, lies in a hospital bed recovering from multiple injuries to his leg. He is surrounded by balloons, get well greeting cards, and large toy animals. But the thing he keeps closest to him is a small, homemade, brown teddy bear. The bear was given to him by the paramedics. What Wesley does not know is the bear is a gift from the young women of the West Point Utah Stake.
Wesley tells about the paramedics who took him by ambulance to the hospital and gave him the small bear because he was “brave.” During the weeks he spent in traction to repair his leg, the bear was never far from his side.
The comforting bear was the result of a project organized by Micki Adams, West Point Stake Young Women president, and Annice Nixon, her second counselor. After reading in a newspaper of a similar project in another community, they talked with Captain K. D. Simpson of their local sheriff’s department with the idea of placing teddy bears with the sheriff’s paramedic and patrol units.
The bears would be helpful, Captain Simpson told them, because children are involved in approximately 45 percent of all the calls for services by his department.
Knowing how anxious children are when confronting a policeman or a paramedic, the young women of the stake decided, “to give the children something to focus on beside their pain,” Sister Adams said. “We wanted to give them something to hold on to and to love.”
Consequently, at a stake Young Women meeting, work began on cutting out, sewing, stuffing, and hand finishing more than 200 bears.
Lori Ellsworth, a Beehive said, “The first bear I did was hard to make until I got used to doing it. But it was worth it because it might help someone forget their pain.”
Ninety bears were actually completed that evening. The girls took home the unfinished bears to complete in their own time.
The bears are twenty centimeters tall and made from scraps of fabric donated by some stake members. Other members donated the stuffing for the bears.
The sheriff’s department received 100 of the teddy bears. Another 100 were donated to the local hospital where they were hung on a Christmas tree so young patients could choose one for themselves.
When the paramedics or sheriffs respond to a call involving anyone under the age of ten years, they give the child a teddy bear. That’s become department policy.
Captain Simpson said, “It took two or three times for the paramedics to hand out the bears before they realized how effective they were in calming the children. Now the paramedics and sheriffs rely on the bears whenever they work with children.”
However, young children have not been the only recipients. The paramedics gave a bear to an 80-year-old woman who suffered a stroke. “It was the only thing that calmed her down,” said Captain Simpson. “She wouldn’t let go of the bear.”
Captain Simpson, who is also a flight paramedic, knows from his own experience how effective the bears can be with children. Twelve-year-old Nicole Wallace had to be flown by helicopter from one hospital to another. She was bleeding internally from a lacerated kidney and liver suffered in an automobile accident. She refused to let go of her bear at any time during the transfer from hospital to helicopter to hospital. She finally gave up the bear just before undergoing surgery.
Speaking about the accident, Nicole says, “The car was badly smashed, and the paramedics had to take out the back seat before they could lift me out of the rear window. When they put me in the ambulance, they gave me this cute little bear,” Nicole said. “It kept me from getting scared. I would hold on to it, so I wouldn’t hurt so bad. In the hospital it stayed right by me in my bed.”
Jennifer Techmeyer, a Beehive, said, “I thought it was a really a good thing to do to make something to put in the ambulance for the children. But what was really special was being able to donate our love to them.”

John’s soggy shoes slid in the rutted ice alongside the handcart. A toe snagged on a half-buried rock, and he pitched forward into the snow.
Mama helped him up. “My feet hurt bad, Mama. Could I ride a little way in the handcart?”
“Papa’s too sick to pull extra weight, John. See the willows ahead? We’ll camp there tonight by the river.”
John peered through the falling snow. The willows were so far away! He counted steps: “One … two … three … ,” trying to forget the pain in his half-frozen feet. An ache started in his hands. It worsened until he could no longer concentrate.
His gaze fixed on Mama’s skirt, blowing stiffly in the rising wind. “Your skirt’s frozen, Mama.”
“Only the edges where it drags through the snow,” Mama said, hugging him. Then her light, sweet voice sang out, “Come, come, ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear …”
Instantly, every voice in the handcart company took up the words. It was a camp rule that when one began singing that special hymn, all must join in.
As Papa’s thin frame pulled against the weight of the handcart, his lips moved soundlessly to the words. A fit of coughing doubled him over. He staggered and fell.
John leaped to Papa’s side and cradled his head in his lap. Men dropped their own handcarts and hurried to help. Papa whispered, “I just need a moment to catch my breath.” Heavy coughing shook him.
The men lifted Papa into the handcart. Tears trembled on Mama’s eyelashes as she tucked a warm buffalo robe around him.
Papa had said that the robes they had bought in Fort Laramie were a mixed blessing. Those who chose to keep warm with them might die of hauling the extra weight. John was glad now that they had discarded other things in order to keep them.
As the men went back to their own handcarts, Mama said, “It’s up to us now, John.” She took Papa’s place in front of the handcart. John stood beside her. His body strained. The handcart bumped slowly forward.
John’s feet, clumsy with cold, trudged inch by weary inch toward the willows. After a while, he felt neither hands nor feet, numbed as they were by wind-whipped snow and sleet.
Finally they reached the willows. “Get what rest you can,” the captain told the company. “Tomorrow we cross the river.”
Cross the river? John could see no ferry. The river was dark with slush ice. He shuddered.
Papa crawled from the handcart and steadied himself against the wheel, coughing weakly.
“I can make camp, Papal” cried John. Papa reached into the handcart for the tent. “Some are working who are sicker than I am,” he said.
Digging in the snow, John found a few sticks of firewood. Soon a pot of mush bubbled over a fire.
Mama scraped the mush into three bowls. “It’s such a little bit,” John sighed, gulping the steaming gruel.
“I know,” said Mama. “The company captain said we must cut the rations in half again.”
Papa spooned a bit of mush into his mouth. “Nobody dreamed that winter would come so early,” he murmured. “Nor be so savage.”
That night John huddled with Mama and Papa under the buffalo robes. Slowly, feeling returned to his hands and feet. Exhausted, he slept.
The next morning John awakened to a camp half buried in snow. In the fierce wind, he helped Mama and Papa pack the handcart. With other Saints, they struggled through the still-falling snow to the riverbank.
“Oh, Papa!” John stared at the rushing slush-thickened water.
“If I stumble, grab the handcart,” was all Papa said. Grimly he pulled the cart into the icy water.
John splashed in behind him. He gasped as the freezing water crept to his chest. Mama hiked up her long skirts and waded after him.
Chunks of jagged ice floated by. One slammed into Papa. He staggered and fell. Trying to reach him, John stepped on a sharp rock and slipped. In an instant, the freezing water closed over him.
Hands grabbed him and steadied him in the fast-moving current. He looked for Papa. There he was! Men were helping him across the river. He saw Mama pulling their handcart onto the far bank.
By the time John reached the handcart, the bitter wind had frozen his clothes to his body. Mama tore them off and helped him into dry things. She replaced her ice-crusted skirt with another one.
Reeling with cold, Papa found dry clothing. Mama shielded him from the storm with a buffalo robe while he changed.
Nobody in the group had strength enough to pitch a tent, but Mama spread their buffalo robes in the scant shelter of the handcart. They burrowed under them, hugging each other for warmth.
John heard snorting and stamping. Horses? That creaking—was it wagons? He poked his head from the covers.
“Papa! Mama!” he called. “It’s covered wagons pulling into camp!” Papa coughed, unable to answer. Mama’s blue lips moved, but no sound came. John scrambled from the covers to get help.
“Brigham Young sent us with provisions as soon as he heard about your company,” a rescuer told John.
“Your mama and papa are suffering from fatigue and exposure,” another said. “We’ll get them into a wagon right away.”
Soon fires blazed in the camp. John stood warming himself, breathing in the smell of sizzling buffalo meat and pan bread.
Given a plate of hot food, John could eat only a mouthful. He was so tired!
The rescuers lifted him into the wagon with Mama and Papa. Bundled under heavy quilts, he listened to Papa’s racking cough and labored breathing.
“Are you all right, Papa?”
Papa couldn’t speak for coughing. The wagon began to move through swirling snow toward Salt Lake. Weak voices of the handcart company joined joyfully with the strong voices of the rescuers. “But if our lives are spared again To see the Saints their rest obtain, Oh, how we’ll make this chorus swell—All is well! All is well!”

I had been on my mission for 13 months when I received a phone call from my mission president informing me of the death of my dear sister Solange. This news broke my heart, and I shed tears of sadness as I remembered the beautiful moments we had spent together throughout her life of nearly 20 years. My pain over losing her was very deep.
As we approached the weekend, I realized that we were coming up on general conference. And in spite of my sorrow and pain, my companion and I went to watch the conference broadcast at the chapel.
Who would have known, but in his talk entitled “Confide in God Unwaveringly,” Elder Ulisses Soares recounted an experience that exactly described my situation. He said, “Years ago while serving as a mission president, I received a phone call from the parents of one of our beloved missionaries informing me of the death of his sister. I remember, in the tenderness of that moment, that missionary and I discussed God’s marvelous plan of salvation for His children and how this knowledge would comfort him.
“Although he was stunned and saddened by that adversity, this missionary—through his tears and with faith in God—rejoiced in his sister’s life. He expressed unwavering confidence in the tender mercies of the Lord. Resolutely, he told me that he would continue to serve his mission with all faith and diligence in order to be worthy of the promises that God had for him and his family. In this time of need, that faithful missionary turned his heart to God, placed all of his trust in Him, and renewed his commitment to serve the Lord with faith and with all diligence” (Liahona, May 2017, 35).
Dear brothers and sisters, I felt that every word, every sentence of this talk was addressed directly to me—and what a source of comfort! I testify that God speaks to us every six months through the mouths of His servants in general conference.

Football is my favorite sport. I have been playing Little League football for six years. The position I play is running back. For the past five seasons we have not had many games on Sunday. This year was different. Almost half the games were on Sunday.
At the beginning of the season, my family had a family home evening on Sabbath day observance. We read in the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet that Sunday is not a holiday or a day for recreation or athletic events. I know it is important to keep the Sabbath day holy. My dad and I went to the coach and told him that I would not play football on Sunday. The coach was frustrated by our decision. He did not understand because he is not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Throughout the season I tried to be a good example. It was hard for me at times because I love to play football and hated to miss so many games. When I did play with the team at Saturday games, I played my best.
I have been blessed. Many of my teammates and coaches have asked questions about the Church because of my decision. This was a great missionary experience, and I know that I made the right choice.

In 2013, I was successively called to serve as ward employment specialist, government relations specialist in the stake public affairs office, and then director of public affairs for the Brazzaville Stake. It was a breathtaking year—and spiritually mind-boggling—as I began to wonder about my callings in the Church, especially since this experience was not taking into account that I had no one at all in my family to join me in my spiritual journey.
Indeed, I remained very single with five children to take care of; and up to then, none of them were interested in the new religion of their father. In fact, my beloved children were suspecting that their father—who they knew as Christian—at the twilight of his life had suddenly embraced a new religion, one which may have some malicious intentions.
But this scripture reproved me: “For if a man know not how to rule his own house, how shall he take care of the church of God?” (1 Timothy 3:5).
I realized that I needed to help my own family come to an understanding of my commitment to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. While constantly praying—in secret and publicly—to ask the Lord’s help on this matter, the Church extended to me a new calling as national public affairs director for the Republic of Congo. Our first French-speaking, Central Africa regional public affairs directors conference of the Church took place in February 2014 in Kinshasa DRC. I was sensitive about my marital status, but I was comforted when I saw that only one of the five directors gathered had a wedding ring on his finger—the others were single.
But this was a temporary consolation, as the General Authority Seventy presiding over the conference—as well as the area public affairs director—pointed out this issue of being single that prevailed among the gathered public affairs directors. We were exhorted to remain worthy and were encouraged to become married and receive temple ordinances with our spouses. The public affairs director had these concluding words, “The restored Church of Jesus Christ will continue to grow, with or without you; but if it is with you, it is for your good.” These were inspired and unforgettable words and boosted my desire to enter the holy temple and to experience the eternal reality of its sacred ordinances.
So over time, the Lord blessed me—and my desire to once again be joined in marriage was fulfilled. In December 2014, Parfaite Nkounkou and I were legally married at the city hall in Brazzaville. Six months later, we entered the Johannesburg Temple for the very first time, where we were sealed for time and for all eternity.

“Another recollection I have from childhood is memorable to me because it became a powerful lesson in my life. Pioneer Day is a time of great celebration in Salt Lake City. It is climaxed with a long parade on the morning of July 24th. When I was a preschooler, I was asked to be on the Primary Children’s Hospital float. Of course, this was very exciting to me. Mother bought me a new nightgown and fixed my hair with a ribbon. Father walked me down to where the parade was forming—and there was the float! The woman in charge of this float turned and looked at me. She said, ‘Look at her! We chose her because she looked sick and was skinny.’ She took hold of my hair ribbon and pulled it out of my hair. Then she took one of those big powder puffs and put white powder all over my face. I was crushed. I’d had visions of riding as a queen on the float.
“Before the parade began, my father took me into the hospital, which was then right across the street from the north gate of Temple Square, to talk to the children—wisely, I know now, because I was heart-broken. I was introduced to all the children as the one who was going to represent them in the hospital bed on the float. They banged their crutches and shook their metal cribs as their way of saying, ‘Hurray!’ I went back outside and quickly got up onto the float. The cover on the bed hid my new nightgown, and the hair ribbon was gone. All you could see was my little white face. But I was happy now. I was representing all the children in the hospital. I was just pretending to be sick—for them. It was a wonderful lesson to me, one that I shall never forget.

As the time to leave Nauvoo drew near, the Brethren redoubled their efforts to endow as many Saints as possible in the temple. Brigham Young wrote, “Such has been the anxiety manifested by the saints to receive the ordinances (of the Temple), and such the anxiety on our part to administer to them, that I have given myself up entirely to the work of the Lord in the Temple night and day, not taking more than four hours sleep, upon an average, per day, and going home but once a week.”
But it was not just the Apostles who were working hard. Many faithful Saints gave freely of their time by washing the temple clothing each night so that the temple work could continue the next morning.
The Brethren planned to stop the ordinance work on February 3, 1846, before leaving for the west the next day. President Young left the temple to make final preparations to leave Nauvoo, but upon seeing a large crowd gathered to receive their endowments, he returned. This delayed his departure for another two weeks, but it meant that 5,615 Saints were endowed before they left Nauvoo.

Merrell: I was 15 when I received my patriarchal blessing, and it said that music would enable me to unlock doors that would otherwise remain closed, and that I would have a great influence on the world through music. Within a few years things began to happen to me that made its meaning more clear. I was called on a full-time mission to Norway and played in a musical group for eight months while there. I’ve been back from Norway 11 years now, and members from there still tell me of youth who are going on missions because they were influenced by our group and of members who went out and did missionary work after listening to us. While I was in the group, I missed the opportunity to do direct proselyting and had to remind myself that you can do missionary work in other ways. Now I can see more clearly the fruits of those labors.