Gospel Story Finder

After completing my five-year engineering apprenticeship, I was made redundant. I prayed earnestly as to what I was to do. As I read my patriarchal blessing. It said that I would be called to teach within and outside of the Church. I then undertook a one-year teacher training course and commenced teaching. Whilst teaching I was approached by another teacher with a proposal for an arranged marriage. My older and younger brothers, and sisters, had already become married in this way.

A registry wedding was arranged. I had only once briefly met my wife before the registry wedding. A date was set for the Sikh wedding a year later. There was no contact with my wife until a few months after the registry wedding; we met secretly and I explained to her I was Christian and gave her a Book of Mormon. However, this did not go down well as she told her parents and then both families engaged in persuading me to leave the Church. I made promises to do this. It tore me apart and I cried bitterly, as though I had denied Jesus Christ.
The Sikh marriage took place, and I kept my promise to not to go to Church for six months. Every Sunday I would get the yearning to go to Church. I went secretly to a member’s home to take the sacrament and always paid my tithing, read the scriptures, and prayed daily. I desperately needed a solution to this problem.
One day, my best friend from the Church provided it. I was to leave my parent’s house and establish a home elsewhere. I managed to get employment in Burntwood (Staffordshire) and bought a home there. After some time, my wife, Rajinder, let me go to a one-hour meeting one Sunday and I was called as the Sunday School president. But Rajinder refused to let the children go with me and at one time ripped up the Book of Mormon in front of me. She had been brought up as a strict Sikh and did not want to dishonour her family.
In 1982, we moved to Hemel Hempstead (Hertfordshire). The meetings were now consolidated, and I stayed for the whole three hours. I was called as the elders quorum president. An elderly missionary couple were assigned to visit my home, and for the first time Rajinder said a prayer and felt the Spirit. I subsequently baptised her. We were later sealed in the London England Temple with our children.
In 1986, I was called to be the branch president. I served in that capacity for three and half years and was released when our branch was merged into the Watford Ward.
My testimony has grown from strength to strength. I love the Lord and His restored gospel. I am in His hands and will always give thanks to Him for saving me and sending those missionaries. The evidence that this is the true church, is too great; I cannot deny it. Regardless of what happens to me or my family I will bless the Lord my God. I believe in His goodness, and that He will uphold me if I do as He asks. I give daily thanks for all the blessings He has given me and the tender mercies He has shown me.
I have recently published a book called LDS Christians and Sikhs. This book was the result of an inspiration I received to invite Sikhs to come to Christ. I have included many testimonies from Sikhs who have converted to the Church. I hope that it will do some good in persuading and inviting Sikhs to examine their religion and to offer them further blessings through the gospel.

The five-foot whitecaps smashed relentlessly against the sandy shores of Shoshone Lake. Sam Christiansen and Darrel Gibbons, both in their mid 30s, peered nervously from Moose Creek Campsite on the south beach to catch a glimpse of a little fleet of five brightly colored canoes. They had seen the small craft on the lake before the storm began. Now, although they were grateful to be planted firmly on the shore, their concern for those on the wind-ravaged waters grew with every passing moment.
Both men, teachers at South Fremont High School in St. Anthony, Idaho, and high priests in their respective wards, held a wary respect for Shoshone’s windy temper tantrums. They had learned that failure to clear the lake at first breeze was asking for trouble.
Shoshone Lake is an old volcanic crater measuring several hundred feet deep. Its seven-mile length and three-mile width nestle at the foot of pine-forested mountains in the south central portion of Yellowstone National Park. It is an area of primitive beauty that abounds in wildlife and spectacular mountain scenery. Warm, sandy beaches invite the adventurer to enjoy a true wilderness experience.
Motorized watercraft are not permitted on the lake, and access to it must be by backpacking or canoe. Being expert canoeists, Sam and Darrel looked forward each year to spending a few days in solitude and relaxation doing some real canoeing and fishing for the big wild trout that cruise the lake’s shores. Little did they realize that this trip would be different. Thursday, July 20, 1978, was to have an eternal impact on their lives and the lives of many others.
The day had been cloudy, with intermittent rain, too miserable to do any serious canoeing, or for that matter, even much fishing. Open campfire cooking, mixed generously with dozing and relaxing in the six-man tent, was the height of the day’s activity. Darrel’s father, Ray Gibbons, a Utah dairy farmer, and Sam’s two boys, Craig, 12, and David, 8, accompanied them. Ray Gibbons had commented that the upcoming night might be a long one due to the extra shut-eye.
Earlier that same day, eight explorers and two leaders from the Wilford Idaho Ward had set out for Shoshone Lake. The Wilford area was the first to be hit by the devastating Teton Flood on June 5, 1976. These young men who had lost their homes in that flood were once again to face a life-and-death crisis.
As the day began, their small craft, loaded to the gunnels with food and camping gear, had glided across Lewis Lake, then up the Lewis River four miles to Shoshone Lake. Each canoe was navigated by a team of two. The teams consisted of Kim Bischoff and Brant Kerbs; Van Hansen and Lane Potter; David Bischoff and Wade Singleton; Daren Dayton and Darris Williams; and their leaders, Lane Reynolds and John Bischoff, Kim’s father.
The previous year these boys had been students in Darrel’s seminary classes and Sam’s history and U.S. government classes at South Fremont, making them all more than mere acquaintances. But neither group knew the other was at the lake.
About 3:30 a giant black cloud appeared on the western horizon, soon covering the surrounding mountains like a shroud. When the front hit the lake, it was almost as if an atomic bomb had been detonated in its depths. In seconds the clear glassy surface was whipped into a frenzy. The fierceness of this explosive storm was like nothing Sam or Darrel had ever witnessed before. They knew the canoeists on the lake were in trouble and a lot of it. Even a cabin cruiser would find the going rough. Keeping a flimsy canoe afloat was next to impossible.
From the moment the devastating winds hit, the boys and their leaders fought gallantly to stay afloat, keeping their bows headed into the wind. However, within minutes Daren Dayton and Darris Williams swamped. Clothes provided little protection as the icy wetness rushed to their skin. Their life jackets were securely fastened, but the huge waves slapped and jostled them unceasingly. With only their sopping heads above water, they clung tenaciously to their overturned canoe. The shocking cold made breathing difficult. Already the icy water was beginning its deadly work.
Brant Kerbs and Kim Bischoff were closest to Daren and Darris as they capsized, but any rescue would be impossible in these rough waters. The two still afloat shouted encouragement and promised they would find help and return.
Being closest to the north shore, Brant and Kim decided their best bet was to continue toward it. Icy beads of near freezing water pelted their faces. Their destination seemed hopelessly remote, with progress painfully slow, but 30 minutes found them only a stone’s throw from shore. Just 30 yards away they saw a determined Van Hansen and Lane Potter also paddling toward shore.
At their Moose Creek campsite, Sam and Darrel watched intently.
“Can you see them?” Darrel shouted. Sam and the others a few feet away could barely hear above the rushing winds.
“They’re in that direction heading toward the north shore. I can only see one or maybe two.” Sam strained his eyes, but high waves had all but hidden them from view. “Why are they fighting it? They’d be ahead to turn around and come with the wind.” The campers’ frustration grew as the determined paddlers struggled to reach the north shore.
“Even with a life jacket there isn’t a soul who could last more than an hour or so in that water.” Darrel’s recent training in hypothermia had taught him that prolonged exposure to these 45-degree water temperatures would rob body warmth and eventually cause the vital organs to cease functioning. In the advanced stages of hypothermia, a victim’s limbs become stiff, he loses the ability to reason, and finally drifts into unconsciousness and death.
As hard as Kim and Brant paddled, they couldn’t reach land. A cross wind was driving them foot by foot back toward the middle of the lake. Their muscles ached from want of a moment’s relief, but every second was a fight to keep their frail craft from turning sideways into one of the large waves. It was evident that beaching on the north shore was impossible. Disheartened at being so close and yet so far, the boys decided that they must somehow turn their canoe back toward the south. It was a tricky maneuver, one that had to be done with precision or end in disaster. They noticed a rhythm in the swells that caused a brief lull after every fourth or fifth wave. With flawless timing they made the 180-degree turn. Their old bedraggled canoe, the only one without air ballasts and with a bottom you could step through, was still afloat. It plowed a watery furrow before a wind that pushed it like a giant hand.
Several hundred yards away, the food-and-equipment-laden canoe of the adult leaders, Lane Reynolds and John Bischoff, lost balance and spilled both men and supplies into the frothy coldness. Luckily, David Bischoff and Wade Singleton, the least experienced of the group, had stuck close to their leaders all day. When the leaders’ canoe flipped over, the boys maneuvered their craft so Lane Reynolds could, with counterbalancing by Wade and David, pull himself aboard.
Since the two adults weighed over 200 pounds each, taking them both aboard would swamp the canoe. So John picked up the end of a rope that had been used earlier as a tow line and trailed along behind as they also started for the south shore. The heaviness of the canoe and the drag of John’s weight slowed progress to a turtle’s pace.
On the south shore at Moose Creek Camp, the campers continued their vigil. They had lost sight of all the canoes among the mountainous waves but maintained hope that they had reached the safety of the north shore.
Then they spotted it—a bright yellow canoe a half mile out being propelled through the water like a battleship. It was heading straight for them. Sam and Darrel rushed to the water’s edge where in minutes the little canoe and its two occupants were literally thrown on Moose Creek Beach.
As the exhausted boys climbed out, Darrel and Sam stared in unbelief into the fatigue-lined faces of their former students. The boys, in shock from their ordeal, couldn’t believe their eyes as they stared into the friendly faces of their high school teachers. Sam and Darrel hurried the two boys to the warmth of the campfire where they listened intently to the painful news of Daren Dayton and Darris Williams. Already these two young men had been in the water over an hour. Undoubtedly hypothermia was taking its toll.
“There’s another canoe coming this way!” someone shouted. Sure enough, half a mile out a canoe with three occupants was making laborious progress, pitching and yawing amid the swells. They anxiously watched several minutes as it struggled to within a quarter mile of shore. Suddenly a huge wall of water caught the canoe broadside, spilling everyone and everything beneath the angry surface. One by one they popped up like toast in a toaster. David Bischoff, Wade Singleton, and Scout leader Lane Reynolds were all bobbing around the floundering canoe. But where was John Bischoff?
Amidst the shock and excitement, John had apparently lost his grip on the rope. An hour and a half in the water had made his whole body numb from the cold. As soon as he lost his grip on the rope, the lake’s undertow immediately began pulling him back toward the middle.
Sam and Darrel raced to the water’s edge for a better look. The urgency of the situation allowed little time to think. They must now consider a rescue attempt, knowing that such an attempt, especially in a canoe, would be extremely dangerous.
Sam was overwhelmed at the thought of it all—the unbelievably wild lake, the boys in a desperate situation fighting for their lives, his own wife and family so dependent on him. Was such a risk justified? Was it possible in a 16-foot canoe?
Darrel, who was bishop of his ward, had experienced the influence of the Lord through prayer many times. Now he felt an almost desperate need for guidance—a spiritual assurance that a rescue would be possible. Sam, whose past included many faith-promoting experiences, also needed this assurance more than anything he could remember. Humbled by the heaviness of the situation, they knelt together on the beach and prayed for those in the water, earnestly petitioning their Father in Heaven for guidance, strength, and protection. The warm, positive reassurance they were seeking came immediately. They knew unmistakably that the Lord was aware of their plight and would sustain them in their rescue efforts.
Somewhat startled by the quickness of the answer, Sam and Darrel looked at each other without speaking and ran toward their two beached canoes. Darrel’s father Ray then made what proved to be the most important suggestion of the day. “If you’re going out there, you’d better lash your canoes together for greater stability.”
Relieved at this welcome idea, the rescuers grabbed three oars, placed them across the two canoes, and tied them down securely with rope, making a more stable, double-hulled craft.
Within minutes, Sam and Darrel launched toward the nearest victims, praying that the others could hang on a little longer. The launch was rough. The rescue canoe lurched almost straight up at the first wave, throwing Sam backward into the water. Drenched from head to foot, he made a quick recovery and climbed into the canoe more determined than ever.
After 20 grueling minutes, their forward progress totaled no more than 20 yards. Incredibly frustrated at getting nowhere, they began shouting at each other to paddle harder. Then, noticing a short lull between every few waves, they started timing their strokes for greater results.
Twenty-five minutes more brought them within reach of Lane, David, and Wade. David and Wade thought they were seeing heaven as they recognized the high school teachers reaching out to them. The three, in a state of shock, could not have been more relieved had the rescue craft been an aircraft carrier. One of the most dangerous moments in a rescue of this kind comes with pulling a victim into the boat, especially when that boat resembles a bucking horse. Sam leaned over one side while Darrel grabbed Wade Singleton and lifted him over the other. David Bischoff followed; then came Lane Reynolds, a challenging 200 pounds. Lane, exposed to the water twice, was virtually helpless from advancing stages of hypothermia. Darrel pulled him partway out of the water, grabbed a leg, and lifted it over the side. Again Sam leaned out over the opposite side as a counterbalance. With all the might Darrel could muster, he pulled the leader aboard.
“Where is the other one?” Sam questioned.
“We don’t know. It’s John Bischoff,” came the reply. “We’re afraid he’s dead. He couldn’t hang on any longer.”
Lane Reynolds needed immediate attention, the kind that could only be properly administered by the warmth of a campfire. Determined to return and look for John, they headed for shore. A hundred yards away John Bischoff, barely conscious, saw the canoe leaving and felt all was lost.
A warm fire and muscle massage followed by hot chocolate and a dry sleeping bag soon brought Lane out of danger.
As Sam looked over the lake to catch a glimpse of John Bischoff or Daren and Darris, a faint cry for help came across the water from more than half a mile away. Almost as if a tunnel of vision had opened, his eyes fell on a tiny orange object bobbing among the swells. Could it be John? It was so far away from where they had just picked up the other victims. The two men rushed to their double canoe and were soon stroking rhythmically toward the distant speck of color.
Sure enough, it was John, incoherent and unable to recognize anyone, but alive. With muscles paralyzed from over two and a half hours in the water, he could offer no assistance. Although he also weighed over 200 pounds, he was pulled to safety like a water-soaked log.
With aching but still powerful strokes, the rescuers propelled the double-hulled canoe toward shore. As they fought their way back through the towering waves, they worried about the boys still on the lake. Over three hours had passed since Daren and Darris had tipped into the water. Lane Potter and Van Hansen were last seen approaching the north shore. The rescuers hoped these two were safe and enjoying the warmth of a crackling fire. But if Darris and Daren were to be found before dark, it had to be soon. Praying for those still to be rescued, Sam and Darrel paddled desperately for shore.
Arriving at last, they beached the canoe and helped John to the fire where they quickly administered treatment. Kim was elated to see his father alive. As John slowly began responding to treatment, the rescuers prepared to go out to find Darris and Daren.
As Darrel looked to the northwest across the lake, the waning rays of the sun reflected like a spotlight off two tiny objects one and a half miles out. Could it be Daren and Darris? Spotting someone so far out in twilight was miraculous, especially when earlier it had been difficult to see even 100 yards.
Again the little lifeboat was launched. This time Ray Gibbons and Kim Bischoff accompanied Sam and Darrel. The wind was beginning to subside, and with extra paddlers they soon pulled alongside Daren Dayton and Darris Williams, who, although unconscious, still held a death grip on their canoe. Their exposure covered an incredible four and a half hours. Suffering advanced hypothermia, the young men unconsciously fought to live. Daren was pulled to safety first, but Darris fought to hang onto the canoe as if it were life itself. Finally Darrel loosened Darris’s grip and lifted him into the boat. As the rescuers turned toward the beach, they began administering first aid immediately by rubbing the boys’ muscles.
Beside the warm fire the group worked over the two young men. Darris began to show signs of reviving while Daren, convulsing and foaming at the mouth, showed little. After 30 minutes, Darris regained consciousness, drank hot liquids, and was soon able to talk, but Daren fought their attempts to help. Two of them held him down while the others continued to administer warmth and massage. After several minutes Daren opened his eyes and said, “Brrr, it’s cold.” The whole group was elated.
“Those are the best words I have ever heard!” Sam exclaimed. They continued the process for another 15 minutes until Daren was fully conscious and somewhat limber.
The night was black except for the flickering fire on the beach as the group ate a tasty, soul-warming supper of hamburger, soup, fried potatoes, and hot chocolate. Each recounted his close brush with death.
Daren and Darris had miraculously escaped death’s grip. Even a few minutes longer in the water might have proved too many. They recounted that for the first hour or two they had talked of family and friends and encouraged each other to hang on. As the numbing cold spread throughout their bodies, they became more and more depressed, talking of death and expressing hope they would have a good funeral. Wise canoe instructors had ingrained in them the fact they should stay with their canoe no matter what. So they locked their arms under the end seats in a death grip, determined not to let go. After three hours they began passing in and out of consciousness, finally blacking out and remembering nothing until regaining their senses by the fire. After preparing for death, it was wonderful to be safely on the beach.
It was 11:30 P.M., and Sam lay in his sleeping bag. He couldn’t remember when anything had felt so good. He still wondered about Lane and Van but felt some reassurance since they had been seen close to shore. Then he remembered Ray Gibbons’s prediction that he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Sam smiled and drifted off to sleep.
The next morning Darrel and his father arose early and walked along the beach. The sky was still a little cloudy and the air chilly. Along the shoreline they discovered some of the supplies lost from the canoes in the storm. Then they saw it—the overturned green canoe of Van and Lane. They had never made it to the other side. The nightmare returned. Darrel stared at the canoe in utter disbelief, then pulled it ashore. Heartsick, they walked back to camp.
Sam was devastated by the news, but they refrained from telling the other boys just yet until they were sure. Maybe by some miracle the two had survived. The morning was solemn as they prepared breakfast, silently reflecting upon the unbelievable nightmare of yesterday.
As the sun began to peek above the distant mountain horizon, Sam and Darrel canoed to the east end of the lake to the temporary ranger station where they might find a radio, but the log cabin was locked up tight.
A backpacker passing through the area agreed to go for help by hiking to the ranger station at Grants Village several miles across the mountains to the east. By midmorning a helicopter appeared and circled the lake. It hovered for a moment at a spot near the outlet, then landed on the beach at Moose Creek Camp. The ranger stepped out and confirmed that a body had been found. It was later identified as Lane Potter. Van Hansen’s body was to be found the following day. Lane Reynolds, their leader, felt deeply responsible. He sat with his head in his hands, wondering how he could face their parents and what he could say.
The lake was still and smooth. It was hard to imagine that such a peaceful place could have been so ferocious. The group packed their gear in their canoes and headed for home. The serene quiet was interrupted only by an occasional trickle of water from a paddle as the canoes slid silently toward the outlet in single file.
Sam meditated upon the last 24 hours and with wonderment began to analyze the many unusual circumstances.
Could it be coincidence that Sam and Darrel, avid softball players, felt they should go on this camping trip rather than play in a stake championship game? Their two ward teams were playing each other the night they were camped on the Shoshone.
Was it coincidence that Darrel insisted his father come on this outing? It was Ray Gibbons who suggested that the canoes be lashed together. Any attempt to make a rescue in a single canoe would have been doomed to failure.
Was bringing an extra 100 feet of rope just coincidence when normally it would far exceed their needs? It was needed to lash the canoes together.
Was it only by chance that Kim and David managed to guide the only canoe without air balasts all the way to the north shore, then back across three miles of raging waves to land squarely on Moose Creek Beach, literally at the feet of the only two people who could help?
Could receiving a two-day permit to camp at the Moose Creek campsite rather than the normal one-day permit have been a coincidence? Moose Creek site is used as a staging area for incoming campers who move on to a more permanent camp the second day. A one-day permit would have forced a relocation to a spot around the lake where the canoes could have gone unnoticed.
Was it only chance that the two rescuers had been trained in the treatment of hypothermia, were in the best physical condition they had enjoyed for years, and were well rested for the almost superhuman effort?
Could it be coincidence that three of the victims were spotted nearly one and a half miles out when conditions made it difficult to see an object even 100 yards away?
A ranger shook his head in disbelief when told the young men survived four and a half hours in the frigid waters of Shoshone Lake. He said it was impossible.
For those involved in the rescue, the explanation is obvious. The Lord, in his divine wisdom, inspired two worthy priesthood holders to prepare for and perform a perilous rescue. Their sincere, humble prayer was heard and answered with divine assurance that they would be sustained in their efforts. Sam and Darrel had also exercised their priesthood and faith by administering to each hypothermia victim, all of whom recovered.
Everyone affected by this experience agrees it has built testimonies and added depth and meaning to many lives. Four years later, four of the young men who survived that day are serving missions. Another has been married in the temple, and one is serving in the armed forces.
As for the two young men who did not survive, it is a hurt that does not soon fade for family and friends. But the scriptures reveal that our Heavenly Father is aware of every sparrow that falls to the ground, and that every hair of our heads is numbered (Matt. 10:29–30). Surely he knows what is best for each of his children in his eternal plan.
Sam Christiansen and Darrel Gibbons continue enjoying dedicated Church service. They share a quiet gratitude to the Lord for their success and safety in the rescue, for had they failed, all would have perished.

Lincoln lived with his family in Santiago, Chile, until his mother died when he was 10. Afterward, he lived with his aunt and uncle. When Lincoln was 18, Elder Barton and Elder Bentley came to his aunt and uncle’s home. Lincoln’s aunt and grandmother immediately accepted the gospel, but Lincoln avoided the missionaries. One Sunday morning, his normally gentle grandmother came to his room, ripped the quilt off his bed, and told him he was going to church with them. Shocked by his grandmother’s unusual behavior and out of respect for her, he got up and went to church. That day he felt something new and powerful within his soul that changed his life. He soon became one of the Church’s first converts in Chile.

Nineteen-year-old Emily Rowland takes a deep breath. The task ahead of her seems nearly impossible. A trickle of sweat slowly makes its way down her face to drip off her chin, and her face becomes flushed, but she won’t give up.
Emily knows she must persevere, not only for herself, but for others who will follow. Her heart pounds and her muscles beg her to stop, but she knows it will be worth it.
This is Relief Society Homemaking meeting.
Of course, it’s not always this much of an ordeal—but this particular Homemaking night finds Emily and some of the other women in her ward—the University Ward near the University of Nevada at Las Vegas—working to improve their health and fitness, and that means working up a sweat doing aerobics. Other times Homemaking might mean learning about how to manage finances (not a bad skill for a college freshman like Emily), or how to look for a job, or maybe even how to change a flat tire.
What, no recipes, no baby quilts?
“Sure, cooking and sewing are important too,” says Emily. “It always amazes me how well Relief Society can adjust to individual needs. It’s a lot of fun.”
Emily and two of her friends, Aubrey VanDrimmelen and Charlotte Ballard, say that leaving Young Women behind was hard, and maybe even a little frightening. But it’s also something they all agree it was time to do.
“I really loved Young Women,” says Charlotte. “And Relief Society is different from Young Women. For one thing, there are a lot of people who are older than you. But after you’ve gone a few times, you realize how nice everyone is, how much they want to be your friend.”
Emily points out that going from Young Women to Relief Society happens at a time when most girls are headed off to college, entering the work force, preparing for missions, or getting married.
“Those are big changes,” she says. “Relief Society is a big change, too, but it helps you cope with all the other new things in life.”
Part of making the change into Relief Society means learning new skills. Probably one of the most important things all three girls learned right away was how to be a good visiting teacher—something none of them had done before.
“The first time I went visiting teaching, I had no clue what I was doing,” says Aubrey. “It was sort of hard to think of things to say, but now I really like it. It’s great to get to know people and help them out.”
Unlike some student wards, the University Ward in Las Vegas has a mix of single and married people. A few couples even have children, so the younger women in the ward have to step out of their comfort zone to help the others.
Emily and her partner (who is also 19) go visiting teaching to the married, has-a-master’s-degree, has-a-baby Relief Society president (gulp). But, as with most other things, Emily takes it in stride and has even learned to enjoy it.
“Getting the call to be her visiting teacher was a little intimidating, I have to admit,” she says. “Since I didn’t know what it was like to be married or have a baby, I just had to ask her. Since I was forced to ask a lot of questions, I’ve come to know more about her. I really admire her, and I have learned so much from being her visiting teacher. And I hope maybe she’s learned a little something from me.”
“Last week, our lesson on Sunday was titled ‘Aging Is Part of God’s Plan,’” says Aubrey. “I looked at that and thought, How on earth is that going to apply to someone like me? I mean, no one in my ward is exactly getting old.”
Even though there is only one lesson in the Relief Society curriculum about aging, there are lots of lessons on family and social relationships. Does that mean that someone who is young and single can’t get anything from them?
“No way!” says Emily, who serves as a Spiritual Living teacher in her ward. “I work on my lesson all week, reading it so many times I practically know it by heart. Every lesson has something that is valuable, whether you’re 19, 29, or 79.”
Charlotte says that the age differences in Relief Society actually add to her experience.
“You can always learn things from people who are older than you,” she says. “You may not need to know those things right at the moment you learn them, but lots of them come in handy later on. There’s always a great spirit in Relief Society because people share their own experiences.”
Of course, one thing that doesn’t change whether you’re in Young Women or Relief Society is the chance to learn about the Savior and how to become more like him.
“I know with a surety that my Savior lives,” says Emily. “Sometimes you start to doubt things, but if you listen to the lessons in Relief Society you learn and grow so much because you’re doing the right thing. Relief Society helps you stay close to the gospel.”
And along with that closeness to the Savior and the gospel come a closeness and friendship with each other that the girls say is hard to duplicate anywhere else.
“There’s a lot of love in our Relief Society,” says Charlotte. “You can tell when you’re there that people are willing to help each other. There are opportunities to serve and teach everywhere.”
This year, young women all over the Church will be taking the plunge into Relief Society. With a little less than a year of Relief Society under their belts, Emily, Aubrey, and Charlotte know what that initial plunge feels like: exciting, scary, and possibly (for the newcomer) a little intimidating. They also know what it feels like to keep coming: rewarding, uplifting, and a smooth transition to a lot of fun, where age differences don’t matter much.
“Everyone in Relief Society wants you to know you are accepted and to make you feel good about being there. What could be better?” says Emily.
Aubrey agrees.
“It’s a little like reading the scriptures,” she says. “Every time you go, you learn something different. And the longer you do it, the more you learn.”
Friendship, love, skill training, and spiritual growth—it’s a good deal no matter what age you are and no matter what your needs are. And who knows? The first time you go, they might even serve a delicious, fancy dessert—with the recipe, of course. After all, this is Relief Society.
Feeling left out because there’s not a student or singles’ ward in your area? Well, whether you live hundreds of miles away from the nearest Church member your age, or just a few minutes from Church headquarters, your home ward is still a great place for you to be—including Relief Society!
Christy Pimper, another 19-year-old college student from Las Vegas, has chosen to attend her home ward. Here are some of her tips on finding a way to fit in:
Mentally prepare to make the move. “I really liked Young Women, but when I turned 18, I felt ready to leave. I was older than everyone and my needs were different. When it’s time to move on, don’t hesitate!”
Take the opportunity to develop your testimony. “The lessons in Relief Society are great. You learn things you never knew before, and you understand things you’ve known all your life much better than before.”
Make friends. “Even though everyone in my ward is older than me, I don’t feel left out. All the women go out of their way to make me feel welcome.”
Keep an open mind. “Relief Society is different from Young Women, but unless you give it a try, you’ll never really know for yourself what it’s like.”

While Benjamin’s mother was busy unpacking moving boxes, he went out to ride his tricycle. He peddled back and forth in front of his new house. Then he peddled from corner to corner and back again. Soon Benjamin wiped his brow. He was tired. He got off his tricycle, climbed up the steps to the porch, and tried to open the door. It was locked. Benjamin knocked and yelled, “Mom, I’m thirsty.”
No one answered.
“Mom,” he yelled again. “I need a drink.”
Still no answer.
Benjamin looked at the tall door. “This looks like my door,” he said. “But maybe I’m at the wrong house.” He climbed back on his tricycle and looked at the doors of all the houses. They were all tall. Just like his door.
“I know,” he said. “My house has a brick chimney.” He rode past every house again. All the chimneys were brick, just like his.
Benjamin scratched his head. He looked up and down the street. He wondered how he would ever find his house.
Then Benjamin remembered his garage. It was big enough for two cars. Benjamin peddled fast to find that garage. But all the houses had garages big enough for two cars, just like his. Tears filled Benjamin’s eyes. “I’m thirsty,” he cried. “And I want my mom.”
“Is something wrong?” a voice behind him asked.
Benjamin turned around and saw a letter carrier.
“I can’t find my house,” he said, wiping away his tears. “All the houses look the same. They all have tall doors. They all have brick chimneys. And they all have garages big enough for two cars.”
“You do have a problem,” the letter carrier said. “Maybe I can help.”
“How?” Benjamin asked.
“Come walk with me while I deliver the mail on this block, and we’ll look for your house together.”
A hint of a smile crept across Benjamin’s face. He followed the letter carrier up a front walk.
“Ring the bell,” the mailman said.
A girl answered the door, and Benjamin’s shoulders drooped. “I don’t have a sister,” he said.
At the next house, Benjamin turned away when an old man took his letters.
The tears came back to Benjamin’s eyes. His body trembled. “We’ll never find my house,” he cried.
The letter carrier put his arm around Benjamin. “Come on, let’s try the next house.”
Benjamin looked at the house. It had a tall front door. It had a brick chimney. And it had a garage big enough to hold two cars. Benjamin knocked. “Maybe this is my house,” he said.
“Coming,” called a voice.
Benjamin jumped up and down. “It’s my mom! It’s my mom!”
When she opened the door, Benjamin leaped into her arms. “I was lost,” he said. “I couldn’t tell which house was ours. They all look alike.” Then he saw some numbers next to the door. “What are those?”
“That’s our address,” his mother said.
“One three five,” Benjamin read as he slid down from her arms. “Do all the houses have the same numbers?”
His mother shook her head. “We are the only house on this street with the numbers one three five.”
“Oh,” Benjamin said. “Now I know what to do next time I can’t find my house.”
“What?” asked his mother.
“What?” asked the letter carrier.
“I don’t need to look at the doors or the chimneys or the garages,” he said. “All I need to do is find the numbers one three five. I’ll never be lost again.”
And with a big smile, Benjamin ran inside for a drink.

As I stare into the bathroom mirror each morning at the beginning of a new day, I resolve to follow an example that was set for me long ago. In fact, glancing into any mirror takes me back years to one childish incident that has helped shape my entire life.
It was a Monday morning—but one that was a little more hectic than usual. I had slept in half an hour late. I couldn’t find the clothes I wanted to wear, and the hairdo I had tried to copy from Seventeen magazine for the month of November was (to say the least) not too attractive on me. My mother informed me in the midst of my frustrations that if I missed the bus I would be walking to school. But the real clincher was the announcement that I would not be allowed to leave until I made my bed and vacuumed my room.
As a 13-year-old, I had a difficult time coping with all of this responsibility. I flatly told my mother I was sorry, but I had more important things to do. Unfortunately, my mother does not accept refusals, and so I began a tirade of excuses, listing every unappreciated task I had ever carried out since age five. As the tears of anger and frustration slid down my cheeks, my temper mounted. Knowing I couldn’t win this argument, I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and pouted.
Sitting on the edge of the counter, knowing I had missed the bus, and knowing I would be walking to school, my anger boiled over. I grabbed a bright red tube of lipstick that was lying in the open drawer and viciously scrawled the words “I hate you” across the mirror. Feeling I had avenged my hurt, I snuck out of the bathroom, grabbed my books, and trudged on to school through the autumn leaves.
All day long, the guilt and shame I felt at writing those words ate at me like acid. How could I have possibly told my mother that I hated her? I knew I loved her and hadn’t meant those words written in such haste. But what about my mother? Did she know that? Could she love me at all after what I had done?
Dragging my feet on the way home from the bus stop at the end of the street, I dreaded facing my mother. Quietly creeping through the back door, I snuck into the bathroom so I could wipe the lipstick off the glass. There I saw a neatly printed sentence right below mine. It too was done in bright red. As I stared at it, the words flooded my mind with new insight and understanding. “I love you” stared at me from the mirror, and in that one reflective moment I realized that no matter what I did my mother would always love me.
It is this knowledge that has helped me to feel accepted and important in life. And it is my mother’s love and charity that has taught me what love really is. For I truly believe mothers come closer to having a perfect love, as the Savior taught, than any other beings on earth.

“Here are all the sego lily bulbs I could find today,” Shaquana said, carefully untying a pouch to reveal seventeen of the small roots. “They’re getting mighty scarce.”
“You did fine, dear,” her mother replied. “I’ll take them inside and get supper started. You go on out and help your pa with the watering.”
As Shaquana turned to go, her mother stopped her. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Quana.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Shaquana said, walking toward the field. When she saw that her mother had gone inside, her steps slowed and her shoulders drooped in weariness. She was hungry. Her bare feet were cracked and bleeding. Her dress was so threadbare that it wouldn’t take another washing.
Haven’t we suffered enough, Heavenly Father? she prayed silently. We’ve been mobbed. We crossed the country in a wagon. Ma lost two babies. We’ve done all that was asked of us, and yet now we’re facing a drought and everyone is so hungry. Please help us!
Seeing her father, Shaquana straightened her shoulder and tried to look strong.
“There you are,” her father said. “What kept you?”
“I had to go much farther for segos today, Pa.” She took a dipperful of water from the barrel and gently poured it on one of the plants. Each one had to be watered by hand so that not a single drop of precious water would be wasted. No one knew how bad the drought would be this spring of 1848.
“If this keeps up, are we going to make it?” she asked.
“God will provide, Shaquana,” Pa said. “We must have faith.”
“You, Ma, and the Elders all keep saying that, but things just get worse.”
Shaquana’s father patted her shoulder. “Yes, it is hard right now. Everyone is hungry, and clothes are wearing thin. We all need to muster as much faith as we can. Heavenly Father loves each of us. We’ve obeyed His commandments, and He will take care of us.”
Shaquana had always loved these talks with her father. He had such solid faith, no matter what trials came their way. Lately Shaquana’s faith had clashed head-on with her hunger and exhaustion.
As she was watering the last plant, she looked toward the foothills. The darkest cloud she’d ever seen was coming their way. “Look, Pa, rain’s on its way!”
Her father’s face paled as he looked at the dark mass moving quickly toward them. “That’s not rain! Go get your mother and some gunnysacks. Hurry!”
As Shaquana began to run, crickets descended from the sky in droves. She felt them squish under her feet.
“Ma, come quick!” she yelled when she was near enough to be heard over the deafening sound of the crickets. Grabbing some gunnysacks and sticks, she followed her mother back to the field, where they tried to beat the crickets off the crops.
Hour after hour they flailed at the insects, praying all the while for deliverance from them.
“How can we win?” Shaquana cried. “We kill some, and more take their place! It’s hopeless.”
“You go get something to eat and some rest, Quana,” Pa said. “You’ve worked long into the night. We can fight them again in the morning.”
Shaquana nodded and obeyed. “Oh, Heavenly Father,” she prayed before falling into exhausted slumber, “why aren’t we getting any help?”
Each day was the same. They beat back the crickets and prayed. Shaquana was so tired that at night she’d sob herself to sleep. I wish we’d never left our nice home back east and come here, she thought constantly.
They heard from the Elders that the crickets were infesting the entire Salt Lake Valley.
Sunday morning Shaquana slowly got out of bed. She dressed and picked up her gunnysack.
“Not today,” said Pa, “It’s the Sabbath. We’re going to church and hear Brother Charles C. Rich speak.”
“Church? Oh, Pa, I just can’t go sit in church as if all is well. I’m sorry—I just can’t.” Shaquana ran to her bed, flung herself across it, and sobbed.
Pa sat on the edge of her bed and patted her back. “That’s it, Quana, let it out. Maybe you should stay home today and sleep. I like the family in church together, but this once you stay and rest.”
After her parents left, she lay on her bed and prayed aloud, “Heavenly Father, why hast Thou forsaken us? I don’t understand anymore. I’m so hungry and tired, I just don’t …” Before she could finish, she was sound asleep.
She awoke with a start. A strange new cry had joined the whir of the crickets. She ran to the door. Everywhere she looked, there were seagulls!
“Now what?” she cried. Grabbing a gunnysack, she went out to meet this new menace, then stopped in mid-stride and stared. The seagulls were eating the crickets! They weren’t hurting the crops at all.
She quickly dropped to her knees. “Thank you, Heavenly Father!” she said over and over.
When her parents came home, she yelled, “Pa, Ma, look what happened! Heavenly Father sent the seagulls to eat the crickets. They gorge themselves, fly away, then come back for more!”
With tears of gratitude, she confessed, “Oh, Pa, I was so close to losing my faith! I was angry. I thought God had forsaken us. Now I feel ashamed.”
“A lot of folks felt the same as you,” Pa said. “The same things were being said by some at church. And now this miracle! You should write down what you’ve been through. It will help you in other times of trial. Everyone gets discouraged now and again. Sometimes our faith isn’t as strong as we’d like. Remembering the crickets and seagulls may help you get through other rough times that will surely come.”
Shaquana threw herself into her father’s arms. “I’m so glad you understand, Pa!”
He hugged her tight. “And I’m glad you found your faith again. If you water and nurture it as carefully as you have these crops, it will grow strong.”
“I will, Pa. I will.”

Let’s start with the assignment to be a ministering sister. Whether you have that assignment as a 10-year-old daughter in a family where the father has died, or as a Relief Society president whose town was recently affected by fire, or when you are in a hospital recovering from surgery—you have a chance to fulfill your call from the Lord to be His ministering daughter.
Those appear to be very different ministering assignments. Yet they all require the preparation of a powerful, loving heart, a fearless faith that the Lord gives no command save He prepares a way, and a desire to go and do for Him.
Because she was prepared, the 10-year-old daughter put her arms around her widowed mother and prayed to know how to help her family. And she keeps at it.
The Relief Society president had prepared to minister before the unexpected fire in her area. She had come to know and love the people. Her faith in Jesus Christ had grown over the years from having received answers to her prayers for the Lord to help her in small services for Him. Because of her long preparation, she was ready and eager to organize her sisters to minister to people and families in distress.
A sister recovering in a hospital from surgery was prepared to minister to her fellow patients. She had spent a lifetime ministering for the Lord to every stranger as if he or she was a neighbor and a friend. When she felt in her heart the call to minister in the hospital, she served others so bravely and with such love that the other patients began to hope she wouldn’t recover too soon.
In the same way that you prepare to minister, you can and must prepare for your call to be a leader for the Lord when it comes. It will require faith in Jesus Christ, rooted in your deep love of the scriptures, to lead people and to teach His word without fear. Then you will be prepared to have the Holy Ghost as your constant companion. You will be eager to say, “I will,” when your counselor in the Young Women presidency says, with panic in her voice, “Sister Alvarez is sick today. Who will teach her class?”
It takes much the same preparation for the wonderful day when the Lord calls you to an assignment as a mother. But it will also take an even more loving heart than you needed earlier. It will take faith in Jesus Christ beyond what has ever before been in your heart. And it will take a capacity to pray for the influence, direction, and comfort of the Holy Ghost beyond what you may have felt was even possible.
You might reasonably ask how a man of any age can know what mothers need. It’s a valid question. Men can’t know everything, but we can learn some lessons by revelation from God. And we can also learn much by observation, when we take the opportunity to seek the Spirit to help us understand what we observe.
I have been observing Kathleen Johnson Eyring for the 57 years we have been married. She is the mother of four boys and two girls. To date, she has accepted the call to be a mothering influence on more than a hundred direct family members and hundreds more whom she has adopted into her mother heart.
You remember President Nelson’s perfect description of a woman’s divine mission—including her mission of mothering: “As mother, teacher, or nurturing Saint, she molds living clay to the shape of her hopes. In partnership with God, her divine mission is to help spirits live and souls be lifted. This is the measure of her creation.”
As nearly as I can discern, my wife, Kathleen, has followed that charge, given to our Father’s daughters. The key appears to me to be the words “she molds living clay to the shape of her hopes … in partnership with God.” She did not force. She molded. And she had a template for her hopes, and to which she tried to mold those she loved and mothered. Her template was the gospel of Jesus Christ—as I could see through prayerful observation over the years.
Becoming a covenant woman in partnership with God is how great and good daughters of God have always mothered, led, and ministered, serving in whatever way and place He has prepared for them. I promise that you will find joy in your journey to your heavenly home as you return to Him as a covenant-keeping daughter of God.
I testify that God the Father lives and He loves you. He will answer your prayers. His Beloved Son leads, in every detail, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. President Russell M. Nelson is His living prophet. And Joseph Smith saw and spoke with God the Father and Jesus Christ in a grove of trees in Palmyra, New York. I know that is true. I also testify that Jesus Christ is your Savior; He loves you. And through His Atonement, you can be purified and lifted to the high and holy callings which will come to you. I so testify in the sacred name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I really appreciate the New Era recognizing how some of the stakes try to help the youth find a greater understanding of the Book of Mormon. I attended youth conference in Medicine Hat, and it will be a lifetime of memories. We almost left our shoes in the mud, and we also had other challenges such as a six-kilometer trek the first day while pulling our luggage on travois. But I guarantee that I will never forget those four days we spent reenacting the Book of Mormon in the “wilderness.” And I’m sure that anyone else who has experienced something similar to it will never forget it as well.
Krista LivingstoneMedicine Hat, Alberta, Canada (via e-mail)

When our daughter Margie was in the second grade, she invited her best friend to go with her to Primary. Both were assigned parts for the sacrament meeting presentation. Her friend’s father had rejected the missionaries in the past, but when Margie showed up in his house with a handful of Church pamphlets, he listened carefully to her simple explanations and testimony of Joseph Smith and the First Vision. He not only allowed his daughter to continue going to Primary but also gave her permission to receive the lessons from the missionaries and be baptized. He and his wife attended the baptismal service.

I think of a story about President David O. McKay, ninth president of the Church, when he was a young lad. He was taught by his father to pray when confronted with a problem. When he was eight years of age, he received a new pocketknife on his birthday, and he recounts the experience of that day by telling how he got on his horse and rode out into the valley, made a fire, ate his lunch, and then got ready to return home.
As he began riding home, he remembered he had forgotten his new pocketknife, and so he quickly turned around and raced back to the same spot and searched in vain for his knife. He then remembered his father’s teaching, and because of the counsel of his father and his faith in him, he got on his knees and began to talk simply and earnestly to the Lord. In the midst of his prayer, he saw a vision come into his mind—a picture as clear as any TV picture—and there, as a picture in his mind, he saw his knife under a clump of weeds. He got up on his feet, looked around, walked directly to the scene he had just witnessed in his mind, and found his knife exactly as it had been revealed.
What a powerful lesson on faith in one’s father and faith in the Lord this young president-to-be learned that day. This kind of faith leads to spiritual and other accomplishments.

Over 120 seminary students in Blanding, Utah, accepted the challenge and reached the goal of reading their scriptures every single day for one full year. The group was issued the challenge by their stake presidents. Then the seminary council arranged to call the students every day for the first three weeks to encourage them individually and remind them of their commitment to scripture reading. With only three or four “repentance” days allowed, the readers reached their goal and could proudly say that they had read for at least 15 minutes a day each day.
LeeAnn Lovell, in her first year of seminary, said, “My parents had a lot to do with my starting to read the scriptures every day, but after awhile I didn’t really do it for them. I did it for myself.”
Erik Grover gained a good habit. “It was interesting after I got used to reading every night. It became a lot of fun to read the gospel that the Lord gave to modern prophets.”
Mickey Holliday enjoyed class discussion more because he kept up with his reading. “There were times when someone would talk about a scripture or a story in the Doctrine and Covenants, and I understood what they were saying because I had read it the night before or even two weeks before.”
Cheyenne Johnson found that holidays were a challenge. “Christmas was probably the hardest time to read because you’re all excited and you think you have a vacation from everything. It was really hard, but I did it!”
The daily readers were honored at a special banquet, but most agreed that the rewards of daily scripture reading were greater than any honor presented at the awards ceremony.

I met the missionaries when I was 17. At that time my older brother and I lived together. Our mother had passed away the year before, and life was difficult. When the missionaries taught me, I could see that this Church was the church I had always sought. But the influence of my friends prevented me from going to church on Sundays.
One time I went to a Church activity during the week. Seeing all the young people laughing and playing brought me great joy. The missionaries, with the youth, took that opportunity to teach me a gospel lesson, and I felt so good I resolved to be baptized.
But even after I joined the Church, I faced challenges. I was the only member of the Church in that part of town and lived far away from the meetinghouse. My nonmember friends no longer wanted anything to do with me. When I felt alone, I prayed and felt the love of the Lord.
Each month, I received a small allotment of money from a fund my mother left. It was difficult to sustain myself with so little money. But I determined to be obedient. I paid tithing and also had to pay for transportation to seminary and Sunday meetings. I didn’t understand how, but at the end of the month, I found that there had been enough money to do it all.
I know that I have been blessed by paying tithing. Obeying this commandment helped me gain a stronger testimony, serve a mission, and recognize blessings so I can strengthen new members who are facing challenges.

I too, feel honored and blessed with many opportunities to serve. Among all of my service experiences, my favorites have been missionary visits and home teaching appointments. These visits help me feel of God's love for His children. In one occasion I was at a home teaching appointment with a brother who was preparing for his mission. I will call him Brother A. Brother A has expressed his concern of going on a mission. His family members were against such decision because they are not of our faith and he felt like he had lost the fire within him to do so. I shall never forget the clear message I felt from the Holy Ghost that God loved Brother A and I was there to help him regain determination to submit his mission paper. With God's help, I delivered the message to him. Both of us wept and he had agreed to fulfill his duties as a nineteen year old priesthood holder. Upon that upcoming Sunday, he turned in his paper and went on a mission shortly after. Unfortunately, neither home teaching nor any services we give to our brothers and sisters were designed to be convenient. It requires sacrifice of our time, talent, energy, money, entertainments and sometimes even our comfort to rescue souls.

Harriet stared at the picture of Papa on the wall. It had been eight months since he died. She wondered if she would ever see him again. She missed him so much.
Knock, knock, knock.
Harriet opened the door of their little apartment. Two young men stood outside.
“Guten Tag! Hello! We’re missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We’d love to talk to your family about Jesus Christ.”
Harriet smiled. Something about what they said made her feel good inside. “I’ll ask Mutti (Mom).”
Harriet found Mutti. “Missionaries are at the door,” she said. “They want to talk to us about Jesus.”
Mutti frowned. “Tell them we don’t have time.”
“But they seem so nice,” Harriet said. “It won’t take long.”
Mutti glanced at the clock. “All right. For a few minutes.”
The missionaries came in and talked to Mutti, Harriet, and Harriet‘s sister, Carmen. They told them about Jesus and a book called das Buch Mormon, the Book of Mormon. Then they gave Harriet’s family a copy to read.
“I guess we can read a few pages,” Mutti said, opening the book. Over the next few days, Mutti kept reading and reading. She read parts out loud to Harriet and Carmen.
I wish Papa could read this. He would love it, Harriet thought.
When the missionaries came back, they taught about God’s plan. “We lived with God before we were born. We came to earth to learn and become like Him. When we die, we can be with Him again.”
What about Papa? Harriet wondered.
The missionary looked at Harriet. “Because Jesus died and lived again, we can be with our families forever. Even with loved ones who have died.”
Harriet felt a rush of hope. She could be with Papa again! Mutti had a big smile too—the first in a long time.
Harriet, Mutti, and Carmen kept learning from the missionaries. They went to church. Harriet became friends with a nice boy named Dieter.
Now Harriet’s apartment felt like there was sunshine in every room. Soon Harriet and her family decided to be baptized.
The night before their baptism, Harriet knelt with Mutti and Carmen to pray. “Heavenly Father,” Harriet said, “we are so grateful for the missionaries, the gospel, and our family. We can’t wait to be baptized.”
When Harriet opened her eyes, she looked at the picture of Papa and smiled. She couldn’t wait to see him again someday.
When Harriet grew up, she married the nice boy named Dieter.
Dieter is now one of the Apostles—Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf!
Elder Uchtdorf says Harriet is “the sunshine of [his] life.”

One day when my companion and I went to visit a recent convert in Colombo, Brazil, the house was full of family members. It was crowded, but they still invited us to share a message. We were about to start when the convert’s brother came in. He was not a member of our Church and was not happy about our visit. He seemed to find any way he could to contradict us.
He had a notebook of all the members of his congregation and their sicknesses. He asked us if we believed in the gift of healing. “Of course we do,” we replied. “Well then,” he continued, “I’ve healed all the people in this notebook. How many people have you healed?”
We tried to explain the priesthood, faith, and how things happen according to God’s will, but after a few moments, we felt like we had been cornered and attacked.
Then “in the very moment” (D&C 100:6) we needed it, the Spirit whispered what to say. I explained that while we do believe in healing, our work as missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was to bring spiritual healing to those we taught, which healing is available only through accepting the Atonement of Jesus Christ through faith, repentance, baptism by immersion, receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost, and enduring to the end.
So while we believe in physical healing, we explained, the most important healing is spiritual healing. And that kind of healing was the kind we saw every day. It really didn’t matter if people were healed physically if they didn’t repent and change their lives to follow Christ.
As the Spirit guided us to respond in a calm manner, the tension in the room dispersed, the brother stopped trying to fight, and we were able to share our message.

Lisa and Joanne Church are new Nauvoo residents. Their father is the temple engineer. They have a strong connection to both this temple and the one built last century. “My great-great grandpa Hayden Wells Church left his home in Tennessee and came to Nauvoo,” says Lisa, 17. “He heard the missionaries sing and was so impressed.”
“He came here and was baptized by the Prophet Joseph,” adds Joanne, 14. “It was hard for him to leave his home behind and come to Nauvoo. He’s such an example to me. His testimony made me want to come here and see the things he saw and share the feelings he felt.”

Now, fast forward 28 1/2 years after my father’s death. I was serving as a bishop and our stake presidency was going to be released. All bishops and members of the high council were going to be interviewed by Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve and Elder José A. Teixeira of the Seventy. As I walked into the stake president's office that Saturday morning for the interview, I went to shake Elder Scott's hand and got a big hug instead. He then started to go over the information sheet we provided and noticed that I worked at BYU-Idaho. He asked me how long I had worked there. After I responded, he then said, “Thank you for your many years of service and sacrifice.” He then asked me one question: "Why do you hold your temple recommend sacred and dear?” I told them about the experience my father had the first time he went to the temple and how he had returned to the temple just before his death. I explained that I was not sure if he had gone back for the right reasons. So, I wanted to show him how important the temple was to me and that through my actions, he might understand its importance.

We then finished the interview, and he thanked me for my service as a bishop and told me the Lord would bless me as I served those of my ward. As we stood to leave, I again went to shake his hand, but Elder Scott was a hugger. So after a second hug, I turned and proceeded to leave the room. About halfway out the door, I heard Elder Scott say, "Bishop Clements.” I paused and looked back as he said, “I just want you to know that your father is accepting those covenants he made in the temple." I thanked him and hurried home to relate the experience to my wife. I knew that I had to tell my mom, so we invited her up for dinner after stake conference the next day. As I related the happenings of the previous day, she began to cry and told me that she had been wondering the same thing for years.

Painting by Tesla S.; illustration by Tracy Bishop
Every Sunday night my dad and I sit down together and work on my goals in my Faith in God booklet. One of the goals I wanted to complete for developing talents was to paint a picture of Christ.
After I made the goal, a friend of mine from school invited me to her first communion. The first communion is a very special occasion in the Catholic Church. It is the first time someone can partake of the sacrament. My friend had done a lot to prepare for her first communion, and I knew it was very important to her.
I decided to paint the picture of Christ to give to her as a present. I worked very hard on my painting. After I finished it, I bought a nice frame to put it in and gave it to my friend. She was very grateful for it. It made me feel good inside to give it to her and to be part of her special day.

“Come on,” Tracy insisted as she pulled on Kent’s arm. “It’s not that big of a deal. All we have to do is go in and read them a few stories; you’ll love it.”
Kent looked up at the tall white building towering above him. “Yeah, about as much as I’d love a broken arm. I hate hospitals.”
Tracy smiled and shook her head. “That’s why I like you Kent, because you’re so brave.”
“Real funny, Trace. Why don’t we catch a movie and get a hamburger like most people do on a date?”
“You’re the one who wanted to do something different,” she said, pinching his cheek.
“I said different, not crazy!”
“Okay,” Tracy grinned. “We’ll go in for one hour; then we can see the late movie.”
Before Kent could answer he had been dragged through the glass doors and onto the elevator. Soon they were on the second floor. The whole room was yellow: yellow walls, yellow carpet, little yellow tables and chairs. What had he gotten himself into? When he called Tracy last week he had said he wanted to do something different, but he never imagined he would be at a hospital reading to children, especially on Friday evening.
They walked over to the nurse’s station and rang the bell. A nurse appeared in the doorway and stepped up to the desk.
“Can I help you?”
Tracy spoke up. “Yes, we’re volunteers.”
“Oh good, the children like visitors so much.” She handed them each a stack of books.
Kent looked shocked. “Do we have to read them all?”
“Oh no, it’s completely up to you, but I’m sure that after you meet our patients you won’t mind. I’ll be right back,” the nurse said as she disappeared down the hall.
Kent looked at his watch. “Only 47 minutes and 35 seconds to go.”
Just then the nurse reappeared pushing a wheelchair whose occupant was a small, blonde-haired girl. She had a huge bright smile and sky blue eyes that sparkled like diamonds.
“Hi, I’m Mickey,” she said with so much enthusiasm it nearly knocked them to the floor.
“Hello, I’m Tracy and this is Kent.”
Kent smiled and shook her small hand.
Mickey winked at Tracy. “He’s cute.”
“Yes,” Tracy replied. “But we don’t want to talk about it or he’ll get a big head.” Kent could feel his face getting hot and turned away.
“He’s not as cute as me,” said a gruff voice from behind the nurse. She stepped aside to reveal a small boy with chubby, freckled cheeks and brown hair.
“No,” the nurse replied. “No one is as cute as our little Cliff.” He smiled and ducked his head.
“Come on over here, Cliff,” Tracy said. “I’m going to read to you.”
Cliff hobbled over on his metal crutches. “Way to go, nurse; it’s about time we got some good volunteers.”
Mickey spoke up. “Can’t Jacson come hear today?” she asked the nurse.
“No, Mickey. Jacson doesn’t feel very well today.” Mickey smiled and looked at Kent.
“I’ll betcha he’d go to Jacson’s room and read to him.”
The nurse looked at Kent. “If you don’t mind, he would enjoy it.”
Tracy squeezed his hand. “You can handle it, big guy.”
Kent smiled stiffly and stood up. “Okay, where is he?” Kent glanced at Tracy and pointed to his watch. She ignored him, opened a book, and began reading.
The nurse led Kent down the hall to a bright yellow door.
“Why is everything so yellow?” Kent asked her.
“Because yellow is a cheerful color and it makes people feel happy. Don’t you feel happy just being here?” Kent smiled his stiff smile again and stepped into the dark room. The smell of sanitizers and deodorizers reached his nose. He looked across the room at the small bed, and the even smaller boy lying in it.
“Hi, Jacson, I’m Kent. I’m here to read to you.”
“Just go tell them you did and get your money.”
“My money?”
“Yeah, the money they give you guys for reading to us sick kids.”
“We don’t get paid. I’m a volunteer. That means I’m here because I want to be.” Kent suddenly felt guilty.
“Well I don’t care. I still don’t want no story.”
“Okay.” Kent walked toward the door.
“Hey, Kent, do you play football?”
“Sure do. I’m the quarterback on my high school team.”
“Oh, that’s nothin’. When I get better I’m gonna be the best quarterback in the whole world.
“Is that so?” Kent said as he slowly made his way back to the bed.
“Yep, and you know what else?”
“What?”
“I can beat you in checkers.”
“Oh yeah? We’ll have to see about that.” Kent walked over to the small desk. He picked up the box of checkers and soon they were involved in a full-fledged checker battle.
After being beaten badly, Kent decided it was going to be a difficult task to win. “Okay, Jacson, one more game.”
The game was over more quickly than the one before it.
“I think you better give up, Kent.”
“Just one more game.” Kent suddenly realized he was enjoying himself.
After about seven more games there was a knock at the door and Tracy’s head poked in. “Come in, Tracy,” Kent called.
Jacson looked at Kent. “She’s pretty. What’s she doing with you?”
“I felt sorry for him,” Tracy grinned.
“Tracy, this is Jacson Williams. Jacson, this is Tracy Lewis.”
“Hi, Jacs.”
“Hi. Is Kent really a quarterback?”
“Yes, and a very good one.”
Kent smiled. “Jacson here is going to be a pro.”
Tracy took Jacson’s hand. “I’m sure you’ll be a great quarterback.”
“Well, Jacson,” Kent said. “We have to go now, but we’ll be back next week, and I want you out of this bed and in a wheelchair, okay?”
“Okay,” Jacson said as he slugged Kent’s arm. “Next week I might let you win a couple of games too.”
“Well I’m going right home to practice.” They stepped out into the bright hall, and Kent looked down at his watch. He had been in Jacson’s room for an hour and a half.
“Sorry, Tracy, but I think we missed the movie.”
Tracy smiled and took his hand. “I don’t think anyone in this whole hospital minds one bit.”
The next week passed quickly for Kent as he found himself looking forward to his Friday night hospital visit. On his way to the hospital he picked up a sports magazine for Jacson. He couldn’t believe he had become so attached to a little kid, and in such a short time.
“I don’t even mind the yellow,” he thought as the elevator doors opened. He stepped over to the desk and rang the bell. The nurse from the week before was there again.
“Hello, it’s Kent, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, how’s Jacson?” The nurse led him over to the tables.
“I’m afraid he’s not doing very well at all. Jacson has leukemia.” The words hit Kent like a ton of bricks.
“Well sure,” he said. “But he’s a strong kid. He can tackle it.”
“I’m afraid not. Jacson is dying.”
Kent couldn’t believe it, a scrawny, freckle-faced kid had him feeling as though his heart had been ripped through his chest.
The nurse smiled. “After your visit last week he really improved. He even got out of his bed and into a wheelchair. He wanted you to know that.”
Kent tried to hold back his tears. What was he doing becoming attached to a little kid he barely knew? A feeling of joy passed through his body. It felt good to care about someone besides himself for a change.
“Can I see him?”
“Of course,” she replied. “He’s been counting the days since last Friday.”
Kent followed the nurse down the endless hallway. A million thoughts passed through his mind. What was he going to say to him?
“Only a few minutes,” the nurse cautioned. Kent stepped into the dark room. He walked over and opened the drapes. A shower of moonlight fell through. He looked down at Jacson’s frail body in the oxygen tent.
“Jacson?” he whispered.
Jacson’s eyes fluttered open and a huge smile covered his face. “Kent,” he tried to sit up but couldn’t. “I got in a wheelchair, Kent. I rode all around …”
“Don’t talk, Jacson. You need to rest.”
“I’m tired of resting. I want to play football.”
“Well, you can’t for a while. I brought you a magazine. You better get better so they can interview you.”
“Kent, I’m gonna die.” Kent turned away so Jacson couldn’t see his tears. “But it’s okay ’cause Mom says they have quarterbacks in heaven.”
Thunder shook the small window and the nurse poked her head through the door. “Kent, you’ll have to go now.”
“Okay, just a minute. Well, Jacson, I gotta go but I’ll be back real soon.”
He squeezed the small hand that reached out for his. “Thanks, Kent.”
“Anytime, Jacson.” He stood by the bed a moment, then slipped silently out the door.
“Nurse, I want to know when … when …”
“I understand, I’ll call you.”
Kent quietly left the hospital and drove home. Then next Wednesday Kent got the phone call he had been expecting all week. Jacson had passed away. Even though Kent thought he had prepared himself, the news sent chills down his spine. “He left something here for you if you’d like to come pick it up,” the nurse told him.
“Yes, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He silently hung up the phone and made his way to the car. The ride was the longest he could remember. The nurse gave him a small box. Inside was the checkerboard and the little red and black checkers stacked in two neat piles. A small piece of paper was taped to the board. He carefully unfolded it, and read:
“Dear Kent, My Mom’s writing this letter because I can’t hold a pencil too good. I just want to thank you for being my friend and helping me to get better a little. I’m giving you the checkers so you can practice. I really wish I could see you play football. Maybe we’ll be on the same team in heaven. We’d win every game too. Well, I’m kinda tired so I’m going to sleep now.” Tears filled Kent’s eyes as he read the signature scribbled in Jacson’s own handwriting. “I love you, Jacson.”
Kent was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He wanted to scream. He wanted to be alone.
“Hey, mister, do you play football?”
Kent turned to see a young face staring into his. “Yeah, do you?”
“I used to a lot, but now I have to settle for checkers.”
“Well,” Kent replied. “I just happen to have some with me.” He laid out the board, and they were soon playing. “What’s your name?”
“Bill.”
“Well, Bill, how do you feel about quarterbacks?”