Gospel Story Finder

In 1907 a wealthy Englishman named George Herbert, the fifth Earl of Carnarvon, moved to Egypt and took up an interest in archaeology. He approached a well-known Egyptologist, Howard Carter, and proposed a partnership. Carter would oversee their archaeological excavations, and Carnarvon would provide the funding.
Together they successfully explored a variety of locations. Then they received permission to excavate in the Valley of the Kings, located near modern-day Luxor, where the tombs of many pharaohs had been found. They decided to look for the tomb of King Tutankhamun. Tutankhamun had ascended to the throne of Egypt more than 3,000 years earlier and reigned for 10 years before his unexpected death. He was known to have been buried in the Valley of the Kings, but the location of his tomb was unknown.
Carter and Carnarvon spent five years unsuccessfully searching for Tutankhamun’s tomb. Eventually Carnarvon informed Carter that he was finished with the fruitless quest. Carter pleaded for just one more season of excavation, and Carnarvon relented and agreed to the funding.
Carter realized that the entire floor of the Valley of the Kings had been methodically excavated—except the area of their own base camp. Within a few days of digging there, they found the first steps leading down to the tomb.
When Carter eventually peered into the antechamber of Tutankhamun’s tomb, he saw gold everywhere. After three months of cataloging the contents of the antechamber, they opened the sealed burial chamber in February 1923—100 years ago. This was the most famous archaeological find of the 20th century.
During those years of ineffectual searching, Carter and Carnarvon had overlooked what was literally under their feet. Some five centuries before the Savior’s birth, the Book of Mormon prophet Jacob referred to taking for granted or undervaluing what is nearby as “looking beyond the mark.” Jacob foresaw that the people of Jerusalem would not recognize the promised Messiah when He came. Jacob prophesied that they would be a “people [who] despised the words of plainness … and [would seek] for things that they could not understand. Wherefore, because of their blindness, which blindness [would come] by looking beyond the mark, they must needs fall.” In other words, they would stumble.
Like those people in Jerusalem, and like Carter and Carnarvon, we too can be prone to look beyond the mark. We need to guard against this tendency lest we miss Jesus Christ in our lives and fail to recognize the many blessings He offers us. We need Him. We are counseled to rely “wholly upon the merits of him who is mighty to save.”
After Carter and Carnarvon excavated elsewhere in the Valley of the Kings looking for Tutankhamun’s tomb, they realized their oversight. We do not need to labor unsuccessfully, as they did for a time, to find our treasure. Nor need we seek counsel from exotic sources, prizing the novelty of the source and thinking such counsel will be more enlightened than that which we can receive from a humble prophet of God.

Joseph and Hyrum Smith’s martyrdom shocked every Latter-day Saint, including the youth of the Church.
One hundred and fifty years ago this month on June 27, 1844, Joseph and Hyrum Smith were murdered by a mob of angry men. The events of that tragic afternoon at Carthage, Illinois, have usually been seen through the eyes of adults. Yet there were many young men and women who knew the Prophet and the patriarch and who felt great grief at their passing. While we don’t have a great deal of information about young people who were affected by the deaths of their leaders, a few records do give us a view of the martyrdom through teenage eyes.
Fifteen-year-old Mary Ann Phelps told of being asked to help the Prophet. “When [Joseph] found he had to go to Carthage [to meet with Thomas Ford, governor of Illinois], he wanted a man by the name of Rosecrantz, who was well acquainted with the governor, to go with him.”
At the time, Mr. Rosecrantz’s wife was ill. The Prophet thought that if someone could be found to take care of her, Mr. Rosecrantz would be more likely to make the trip. He asked Mary to stay with Mrs. Rosecrantz.
“I went to stay with Mrs. Rosecrantz,” Mary recalled. “As [the Prophet and Hyrum] were going, they called at the gate with their company of about twenty men, and Joseph Smith asked me if I would bring them out a drink of water.” Mary took them a glass and a pitcher. Joseph leaned over and said to her, “Lord bless you.”1
Another young person, William Hamilton, met Joseph and Hyrum when, on their first night in Carthage, they stayed at his father’s inn. They arrived at the Hamilton House hotel five minutes before midnight on June 24. Early the next morning, the Smith brothers voluntarily surrendered to a constable. After a court hearing during the day, they met with Governor Ford. During the interview a justice of the peace appeared with a paper from a judge authorizing the jailing of Joseph and Hyrum Smith until they could be tried for treason—which was a change from the original charge of rioting.
Despite protests from their attorneys, Joseph and Hyrum were hurried off to Carthage jail, only a few blocks away. Several friends and associates were allowed to stay with the Prophet and the patriarch that evening. On the next day, June 26, the treason hearing was held. No witnesses appeared, so Joseph and Hyrum were required to stay in jail until another hearing could be held, this one scheduled for June 29. But the conspiracy to murder the Prophet and his brother was already in motion.
On June 27, 1844, William stood as lookout on the roof of the county courthouse. It was hot and humid. Sometime near five o’clock, William noticed a group of about 100 men with blackened faces going toward the jail. He hurried to report the movement, but it was already too late. The soldiers assigned to protect the prisoners were outnumbered by the mob. They stormed the jail, rushed up the stairs, and fired shot after shot after shot. Then a yell that the Mormons were coming caught everyone’s attention, and the mob fled.
William went into the jail, where he saw the body of Hyrum Smith. Outside the jail, the Prophet Joseph also lay dead in a pool of blood. John Taylor was severely wounded. Willard Richards was only grazed on his ear by a bullet.2
Fourteen-year-old Eliza Clayton also entered the jail. The doors were still open. She said it looked “as though the people had left in great haste.” When she went upstairs, she saw “some Church books on the table and the portraits of Joseph’s and Hyrum’s families on the fireplace mantel.” But when she saw the “blood in pools on the floor and spattered on the walls,” Eliza started to cry.3
Fifteen-year-old Henry Sanderson was one of the first in Nauvoo to hear the tragic news, “when a runner went past our house shouting that the Prophet was killed.” Henry recalled how “sad a blow” it was to him and his family.4
The news spread quickly. At Hyrum’s home on Water Street, not far from Joseph and Emma’s home, George D. Grant knocked at the door and delivered the sad tale to the family.
“The news flew like wild-fire through the house, and the anguish and sorrow … can be easier felt than described. But that will never be forgotten by those who were called to go through it,” recalled Mary Ann Smith, one of Hyrum’s children.5
On the morning of June 28, the bodies of Joseph and Hyrum were gently placed on two different wagons, covered with branches to shade them from the hot summer sun. William Hamilton and his father Artois accompanied Samuel Smith and Willard Richards to Nauvoo with the bodies of the slain Church leaders.
They left Carthage about 8:00 A.M. and arrived in Nauvoo about 3:00 P.M., where they were met by a great assemblage. When the bodies were returned to Nauvoo, they were washed and dressed. Then family and friends were ushered in to see them.
When young Joseph Smith III entered the room, he dropped upon his knees, laid his cheek against his father’s, and kissed him. He was heard saying, “Oh, my father, my father!” Other children of the Prophet and the patriarch crowded around to see their slain fathers. It was an almost unbearable scene.6
On the following day, June 29, the bodies lay in state in the Mansion House while thousands of Saints silently filed past the coffins, grateful but sobered to see their beloved leaders one last time. Mary Ann Phelps’s father took her to the Mansion House early in the morning, before the bodies were prepared for the public viewing.
“I went down, saw them, and laid my hand on Joseph’s forehead,” she said. “The sheet that was around him was stained with blood. Still he looked very natural.”7
Slowly, life in Nauvoo got back to normal. Missionaries left to serve missions; new converts arrived. Work continued on homes, shops, and most importantly, the temple. Young people fell in love and were married. Parties and sporting contests were held.
Yet the memory of Joseph and Hyrum did not fade. For example, one young woman made a sampler, a common activity at the time. She embroidered:
“Sacred to the Memory of Joseph and Hyrum Smith, Who fell as Martyrs for the Gospel of Jesus Christ, June 27th, 1844. Aged 38, and 44, years.
“Zion’s noblest sons are weeping,
See her daughters bathed in tears,
Where the prophets now are sleeping,
Nature’s sleep—sleep of years.
When the earth shall be restored,
They will come with Christ the Lord.”
She signed it: “Mary Ann Broomhead’s work, 1844, Age 13 years.”8
Following a short period of peace, dark clouds cast their long shadow on Nauvoo again. Eventually the Saints were driven out, leaving their beautiful temple and the graves of their Prophet and his brother behind. Yet these young people who lived in the days of Joseph and Hyrum remembered them throughout their lives. They passed on their personal stories and experiences to a new generation. By doing so they kept alive their own faith and the testimony of two great witnesses of the Restoration.

At last she could rest! It had been a long afternoon, mused the weary pioneer, leaning against the tree trunk. Easing off her muddy boots, she rubbed her feet until the aching subsided. Then, picking up her journal, she wrote:
“Our company traveled six miles today, pushing and pulling over hot and dusty trails. Someone accidently stirred up a nest of bees from a dead log, and one girl was stung 12 times! We had a number of repair stops, and three carts had to be abandoned along the way because of broken axles and wheels. But ours seems to be really sturdy and reliable. I believe we’ll make it all the way to the valley! Several of us learned firsthand today about patience and helping others as we loaded bundles from the broken carts onto our own already heavy, creaking carts.”
The journal entry of the young Latter-day Saint has now joined snapshots, worn shoes, and handcarts as a reminder of the three-day trek that was a major part of the Olympia Washington Stake girls campout last July. More than 100 girls shared dried corn, fruit leather, campfires, and 23 handcarts in an effort to gain a better understanding of the sacrifices and dedication of their pioneer ancestors. The enthusiastic organizer behind the event was Sister Fayetta Johnson, stake camp specialist.
The three months preceding camp were busy ones of preparation on both the stake and ward levels. Because Oakville Branch President Daren Johnson had access to a plane, he volunteered to fly over the areas the girls would cover and map out the trails for them. Leaders and girls experimented with all kinds of pioneer-type food available to find the lightest, most nutritious, and non-perishable food available, since they would need a three-day supply and were limited to 17 pounds for all supplies. Busy ward camp directors agreed to complete camp certification before camp arrived, and members of the priesthood built all 23 carts.
During the trek itself, the girls were required to wear long dresses, and a swim in the lake had to take the place of a hot shower. To make the experience as real as possible, a trading post and shaded bowery were set up along the trail, and on the second day out, the carts were ferried, one by one, across the lake on a raft. The evenings were devoted to campfires, singing, telling stories, and sharing testimonies. When at last the journey was complete, the whole party agreed that they had had an unforgettable experience and that they had gained a new awareness and appreciation of the Mormon pioneers who had braved so much in coming west.

Finally, honesty is the best policy. I learned this truth in a dramatic manner during boot camp when I served in the navy 55 years ago. After those first three weeks of isolated training, the good news came that we would have our first liberty and could visit the city of San Diego. All of the men were most eager for this change of pace. As we prepared to board the buses to town, the petty officer commanded, “Now all of you men who know how to swim, you stand over here. You will go into San Diego for liberty. Those of you who don’t know how to swim, you line up over there. You will go to the swimming pool and have a lesson on how to swim. Only when you learn to swim will you be permitted liberty.”

I had been a swimmer most of my life, so I prepared to get on the bus to town; but then that petty officer said to our group, “One more thing before we board the buses. Follow me. Forward, march!” He marched us right to the swimming pool and had us take our clothing off and stand at the edge of the deep end of the pool. Then he directed, “Jump in and swim the length of the pool.” In that group, all of whom could supposedly swim (at least they had so declared), were about 10 who had thought they could fool somebody. They did not really know how to swim. In the water they went, voluntarily or otherwise. Catastrophe was at the door. The petty officers let them go under once or twice before they extended the bamboo pole to pull them to safety. With a few choice words, which I shall not repeat, they then said, “That will teach you to tell the truth!”

How grateful I was that I had told the truth, that I knew how to swim and made it easily to the other end of the pool. Such lessons teach us to be true—true to the faith, true to the Lord, true to our companions, true to all that is sacred and dear to us. That lesson has never left me.

Sister Elesha Angie Joseph McCaurley had reached the end of her pregnancy. Her daughter had already found a name for her little sister, and her husband was anxious to have a baby girl. Everyone took it very hard when the baby was stillborn.
“My husband is not a member and I have not been active for very long,” Sister Joseph said; so, trying to explain to her husband about attending the temple after such a recent loss was an interesting conversation in which her husband showed full support.
Hoping to baptize his baby, she had to explain that it was not necessary, because “all children who die before they arrive at the years of accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom of heaven.”1
However, an opportunity had arisen. “I’d like to be sealed,” Sister Joseph said. “When you get back, we’ll talk about it,” the husband replied. Sister Joseph visited the Santo Domingo Temple for the first time and returned home visibly excited.
Under the influence of the Holy Ghost and with tears of joy, she performed temple ordinances for herself and her two grandmothers, whom she loved deeply. This was not only her experience, but of two other sisters from St. Lucia, whose testimony was influenced by a desire to be an example to their sisters and children.
The Relief Society has always shown great interest in the progress of its members and in allowing the women of the Church to reach their greatest potential. As the Prophet Joseph Smith declared: “I now turn the key to you in the name of God and this Society shall rejoice and knowledge and intelligence shall flow down from this time—this is the beginning of better days to this Society.”2
“Being a single mother is difficult,” shares Sister Caren Wendy Constance Kennedy, a mother of two children, one fifteen years old and one thirty years old. “You have to become a force of nature to them.”
“I love the Lord. He is paramount in my life, and I will take the necessary steps to do the right thing. We all struggle to follow the right path, but it is a choice,” says Sister Constance, convinced that we must be committed to walk the covenant path. After attending the temple, she shared that she is stronger than ever. “As I watched the baptism on behalf of my deceased brother being performed, I felt chills of joy, I was happy,” she said.
The temple was no less impactful in the life of Sister Juliana E. St. Louis, first counselor of the Relief Society in St. Lucia, and a single mother of a twenty-two-year-old son. She never thought that her life would be changed forever when she wondered who those young men carrying boxes of food to people were.
“I fell in love with the Book of Mormon. I’ve read it over and over and over again,” says Sister St. Louis. Worship meetings provided her with another great impression of the Church. “People don’t know you and they embrace you. Now, coming to the temple has changed my life, my attitude. It has given me peace and, I can’t explain the feeling, the calmness one feels,” she says.

Throughout the years, I have known countless individuals who have been particularly faithful and obedient. I have been blessed and inspired by them. May I share with you an account of two such individuals.
Walter Krause was a steadfast member of the Church who, with his family, lived in what became known as East Germany following the Second World War. Despite the hardships he faced because of the lack of freedom in that area of the world at the time, Brother Krause was a man who loved and served the Lord. He faithfully and conscientiously fulfilled each assignment given to him.
The other man, Johann Denndorfer, a native of Hungary, was converted to the Church in Germany and was baptized there in 1911 at the age of 17. Not too long afterward he returned to Hungary. Following the Second World War, he found himself virtually a prisoner in his native land, in the city of Debrecen. Freedom had also been taken from the people of Hungary.
Brother Walter Krause, who did not know Brother Denndorfer, received the assignment to be his home teacher and to visit him on a regular basis. Brother Krause called his home teaching companion and said to him, “We have received an assignment to visit Brother Johann Denndorfer. Would you be available to go with me this week to see him and give him a gospel message?” And then he added, “Brother Denndorfer lives in Hungary.”
His startled companion asked, “When will we leave?”
“Tomorrow,” came the reply from Brother Krause.
“When will we return home?” asked the companion.
Brother Krause responded, “Oh, in about a week—if we get back.”
Away the two home teaching companions went to visit Brother Denndorfer, traveling by train and bus from the northeastern area of Germany to Debrecen, Hungary—a substantial journey. Brother Denndorfer had not had home teachers since before the war. Now, when he saw these servants of the Lord, he was overwhelmed with gratitude that they had come. At first he declined to shake hands with them. Rather, he went to his bedroom and took from a small cabinet a box containing his tithing that he had saved for years. He presented the tithing to his home teachers and said, “Now I am current with the Lord. Now I feel worthy to shake the hands of servants of the Lord!” Brother Krause told me later that he had been touched beyond words to think that this faithful brother, who had no contact with the Church for many years, had obediently and consistently taken from his meager earnings 10 percent with which to pay his tithing. He had saved it not knowing when or if he might have the privilege of paying it.
Brother Walter Krause passed away nine years ago at the age of 94. He served faithfully and obediently throughout his life and was an inspiration to me and to all who knew him. When asked to fulfill assignments, he never questioned, he never murmured, and he never made excuses.

One case, in particular, touched me. It was about a boy from Mexico who was dying. When my dad went to see the patient, he found the mother by the boy’s bedside, weeping.
“Hola, Señora Garcia,*“ said my father, who had served a Spanish-speaking mission. Startled to hear Spanish, the woman told my dad she had brought her son from Mexico to receive care. They continued to talk, and the woman told my father she was LDS. As the only LDS emergency room doctor at the hospital—and the only one who spoke Spanish—my dad was able to give the boy a blessing of comfort before he died and help the mother with funeral arrangements.

Mom looked at her phone. “Oh no! Aunt Alyssa is in the hospital.”
Millie felt like her stomach dropped. She knew the hospital was a place where people went when they were very sick. But this was the first time one of her family members had to stay there.
“What can we do to help her?” Millie asked.
“Let’s find out.” Mom called Aunt Alyssa. Millie got to say hello, which made her happy. Aunt Alyssa told them that she had been sick for a week. She hoped she would be able to come home from the hospital in a few days.
“I think I know how we can help her,” Mom said after the phone call. “We need some supplies.”
A few hours later, Millie and Mom walked up the stairs to Aunt Alyssa’s apartment. They carried a bucket full of rags, soap, and scrub brushes. They were on a cleaning mission!
First Millie helped Mom wash the dishes. Then she helped fold some laundry. She wiped off the kitchen table and swept the floor too.
While she worked, Millie thought about how much she loved Aunt Alyssa. Whenever Mom and Dad had to work at the same time, Aunt Alyssa came to stay with her. Sometimes they went to the park together. They liked to watch people walk their dogs by the river.
After lots of hard work, Mom said they were almost done. Millie helped her put clean sheets on Aunt Alyssa’s bed.
“I have an idea,” Mom said. “Let’s not tell Aunt Alyssa what we did yet. That way, it will be a surprise when she gets home from the hospital!”
Millie giggled as she thought of what her aunt’s face would look like when she opened the door.
“Let’s leave her a note too!” Millie said.
Mom folded a piece of paper and wrote a note inside. Millie wrote, “Get better soon!” on the front and drew lots of hearts on it. They left it on Aunt Alyssa’s pillow.
“Thanks for going on a cleaning mission with me today,” Mom said on the way home. “Aunt Alyssa will be so happy and surprised.”
Millie grinned. She was still sad that Aunt Alyssa was sick. But helping had made Millie feel a little bit better. She hoped her aunt would feel better soon too!
This story took place in the USA.

The second lost horizon may be in physical soundness. More than a strengthening of muscles, there comes a strengthening of resolve, self-discipline, and carriage when one participates in athletic endeavors. My brother Gus and I occasionally would have to walk the eight kilometers from our high school to the area where we lived after having participated in a football scrimmage or training for a track meet. To many this seemed foolish, but there was a certain satisfaction in having persevered in an overwhelming physical challenge.

I was in my first year of employment with a cosmetics company. At the time I was divorced and lived alone with my two children. In December the company sent each salesperson large boxes containing the Christmas merchandise we were to sell during the holiday season. That meant, however, that a large amount had been withdrawn from my salary. When I calculated all my monthly expenses and tithing, I had enough for three people to live on—but only for one week. And this money had to cover groceries for the entire month and gas for the car, which I needed for my work.
When our home teacher came, I told him about our situation. I told him I would not be able to pay my tithing because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to feed my family. My faithful home teacher counseled me to pay tithing. He recommended that I do it faithfully, and the Lord would surely bless me. My home teacher had always been distinguished by faithfulness and reliability. I jokingly told him, “If I cannot buy groceries, I will come to you.” But I trusted him and did not want to disappoint him by not following his advice. So I paid a full tithing.
When I presented the Christmas merchandise early in the month, I was able to sell many of my goods. By the end of the month I had sold all of the Christmas items and all of the goods I had had in stock for several months. Had I had more products on hand, I would likely have been able to sell them too.
My home teacher’s promise was completely fulfilled. The Lord really did open the windows of heaven. We had more money than we needed that month. Later I inquired of my colleagues how their Christmas business had gone. They were not satisfied. At that time, a recession had caused a strong decline in sales in the cosmetics industry.
How grateful I am to that home teacher for giving me this good counsel. I have had a strong testimony of tithing ever since. When I visit teach sisters who feel they have too little money to pay tithing, I share my testimony about how much we will be blessed if we do so.

My family took a special boat ride on the river in December 1993. With other members of the Church, we made the long journey south to the temple in São Paulo. Mom and Dad were going for their own temple work and to be sealed together in marriage for time and eternity. Then we were to be sealed together as an eternal family—Mom, Dad, my younger sister Joyce, and me.
My family made plans for the trip many months ahead. It costs a lot of money to get to the temple. We saved by not buying many of the things we liked, even our favorite soda pop.
As the time came closer to leave, we became very excited.
And then I had to make a big decision.
At the time, I was in grade school and would soon graduate. But first, I had to take the final exams of the school year—and the exams were scheduled for the same time we were planning to go to the temple.
Mom went to the school and told my teacher I would be absent for 10 days because our family was going to São Paulo. The teacher said I couldn’t leave school then. If I did, she warned, I wouldn’t be able to take the exams and graduate.
I didn’t like the thoughts of that.
I began praying in my mind for Heavenly Father to help me do what was right so that everything would work out well for all of us.
That night before dinner we had a family council. Mom explained what had happened and then said, “Chris, you need to make a decision. Either you take the exams and graduate, or we all go to the temple.”
I felt tears running down my cheeks as I said, “Let’s go to the temple.”
At that moment I felt the warmth of the Spirit, and I knew things would work out.
And they did!
For some reason, the final exams were held earlier than expected, and I was able to take them and graduate before we left for the temple.
We were on the boat for three days, then had to travel by bus for another three days. We had meals on the boat and at special bus stops along the way. In São Paulo, we stayed at the Missionary Training Center, where we cooked our own meals. We spent a few days in São Paulo, in the temple and visiting the city, and then made the long journey back home.
This wonderful experience helped me understand that Heavenly Father answers prayers when we try to do what is right. I’m grateful I was able to graduate. But I’m even more grateful that we can be a family together forever.

Just twenty-three years ago this fall, I entered Chapman College in Southern California as a student. I came under the wonderful influence of Dr. Guy M. Davis, philosopher, educator, and teacher. Twenty-three years later, just three weeks ago last Friday evening, I saw this magnificent man, with so brilliant a mind, become as a little child, as he entered the waters of baptism and became a member of the Church.
I thought of another scripture as I witnessed that baptism experience of my friend. The Lord, admonishing his chief apostle Peter, as Luke records it, gave this simple counsel and direction: “… when thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren.” (Luke 22:32.) I pray the good bishop, the home teacher, the congregation of the ward to which Guy and his family have now been assigned will strengthen my brother.
Permit a personal experience for just a moment. Strengthening one’s brother, I think, comes closer to home when we think of fellowshiping and friendshiping our family. Some time ago when my youngest daughter was faced with the reality of attending a different school, she looked forward to the new experience with great anticipation and excitement but with the usual anxieties and concerns. Her mom and dad tried to make her experience meaningful, and one that would be positive, and we spent several hours attempting to prepare her mind for the new experience. We even planned a time when we could shop for new clothes and other special school supplies.
Finally, the long-awaited day arrived. A special evening was planned to help give spiritual comfort and guidance. Later she put her clothes out in anticipation of the next day. As she retired to her bed, seemingly all was well, but about an hour later she appeared at my study door where I was making some preparations.
“Dad,” she said, rubbing her tummy, “I don’t feel very well.”
You know the sign; and I thought I understood it, so I invited her in and sat her on my lap. We put on a little music that we liked to listen to together. I rubbed her tummy, and she soon fell asleep. I took her back upstairs, placed her in her bed, tiptoed toward the door; and she broke the silence with the announcement, “I am not asleep yet.”
I went back and lay down on the bed with her, stroked her head, gave what fatherly counsel one could under the circumstances, and reassured her. Finally she fell asleep. The next morning she appeared at breakfast in her petticoat. She said, “Dad, I don’t think I had better go to school today.”
I said, “Why not?”
She said, “I think I am going to get sick.”
You know what she was trying to tell us, don’t you? I don’t know how to handle a new situation, Dad. Will I make friends? Will my teacher like me? Will I fit into the social group? Will I be accepted? These are the concerns that all of us experience, as we find ourselves in new and different social situations.
She knew what my answer would be and agreed to have me drive her to school. As we got in front of the school building, the warning bell sounded. The tears started to come to her eyes. I got out of the car and assisted her. We walked about ten feet, and she grabbed hold of my leg. It was as though she were a tackle on some football team. And then, as only a child can do to a father, she looked up at me and said philosophically, “Dad, if you really love me—if you really love me—don’t send me in there.”
I said, “Honey, this may be beyond your comprehension, but it’s because I do love you that I am taking you in there.” And I did. When we got inside the door, she grabbed hold of the other leg and held on. Numerous students came and went, and finally the little miracle happened that changed everything.
From I don’t know where came a delightful, wonderful friendshiper, a fellowshiper who knew how to lose herself in serving others; one who would now take the admonishment of the Savior to strengthen her friends. With the exuberance of youth this little girl said, “Kellie, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“What is your home room?” And she told her. “Tremendous. I had that home room last year. Come on, and I will take you to it.”
And before Kellie knew it, she had let go of my leg and got about ten paces away, then realized what she had done. I will never forget her expression and the sermon she taught as she looked back. “Oh,” she said, “Dad, you can go now; I don’t need you anymore.”
Thank God for the little people as well as the big people who know how to friendship and fellowship.
Thousands of people are coming into this church every month. I pray that we have the genius to follow the counsel of the Lord to strengthen our brethren. I pray that a great bishop and a wonderful home teacher and other members are taking care of my friend, Guy Davis.

The night before our oldest son left for his mission, we put together “the family slide show”—the best and funniest pictures of our family for 20 years. At the end of the show, we knelt in prayer together. There were plenty of tears and hugs that night. No more curtain climbers or rug rats—just imperfect young men and young women, and their imperfect parents, who felt an honest love for each other. And those feelings have kept growing.

On Friday, 19 August 1988, I was at my job as a police officer in the Río Ceballos district office, near Córdoba, Argentina. At about 9:30 that morning, I received a telephone call from the nurse at the community health center, asking for assistance. We often got such calls, since we operated one of the few ambulances in the area.
The nurse told me that in the health center there was a five-month-old baby with a case of extreme dehydration. She required an urgent transfer to the children’s hospital in Córdoba, where the equipment necessary to treat her would be available. The ambulance driver and I were quickly on our way, and we soon had the baby and her mother in the ambulance. The baby was scared and crying; she had a fever and was hyperventilating. Her eyes were wide open, and her little face showed that she was in great pain.
From Río Ceballos to the hospital in Córdoba is a distance of forty kilometers. We had gone about fifteen when steam and boiling water began to shoot out from under the hood. A red light came on inside the cab, and the temperature gauge showed overheating. This couldn’t be happening! We had just had the ambulance checked over. But we had no choice other than to stop at the side of the road and carefully open the hood.
The hose that connected the radiator to the motor was leaking in several places and was about to burst. “We can’t go any farther,” said Oscar, my companion. “If we had gone just a few more meters, the ambulance would have broken down completely.” Feeling helpless, he hit the roof of the ambulance.
My mind raced as I tried to think of a solution. We didn’t have a radio, and there were no other cars on the road that we could signal for help. All around us, there were only abandoned fields. Meanwhile, the baby was getting worse.
Finally, I told Oscar that we had to continue as far as we could and see if we could get to a place where we could get help. “We should trust in God and have faith that we will arrive,” I said.
Oscar hesitated. If we went any farther, the hose might explode, and we would never get there. If we waited a little longer, the engine might have time to cool down. But the baby was getting steadily worse. Again, I told him, “Oscar, we should trust in God. He will help us get to the hospital.”
I also encouraged the mother and her baby. As I spoke, I felt someone telling me that if we didn’t lose hope, we would arrive in time to save the baby. With determination and confidence, I said, “We will make it.”
We started the motor and moved on. The gauge didn’t show such a high temperature now, and we continued our journey. Steam was no longer coming out from under the hood. Cautiously we drove on. After what seemed like an eternity, we made it to the hospital.
The doctor who attended the baby told us, “If you had taken any longer, she may not have arrived here alive. She was in worse shape than we thought.”
How grateful I was that our Father in Heaven had helped us arrive in time! I knew that He had been with us the whole way there.
As we returned to Río Ceballos, we discussed what had happened. Oscar said, “That was incredible. I didn’t think we would make it.”
I told him we had witnessed a miracle. He looked me in the eyes, smiled, and nodded his head in agreement. “I was praying the whole way there that God would help us,” I told him.
“So was I,” he confessed. “It was the first time I had ever prayed so much. God helped us to arrive. Only He could have done it.”
Later, as I was meditating about what had happened and reading the scriptures, I found this passage in the Bible:
“The apostles said unto the Lord, Increase our faith.
“And the Lord said, If ye had faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye might say unto this sycamine tree, Be thou plucked up by the root, and be thou planted in the sea; and it should obey you” (Luke 17:5–6).

During my senior year in high school, a classmate named Brian began asking me questions about the Church and the Prophet Joseph Smith. I quickly realized, however, that Brian wasn’t sincere. He just wanted to make fun of my beliefs.

Brian would usually ask a snide question about the Church or the Prophet, watch my reaction, and then walk away. Some of his questions caught me off guard, but had he given me the chance, I could have answered most of them.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate Brian’s questions. But after graduating, I realized that he had done me a favor. College studies and mission service were just around the corner. Thanks to Brian, I was better prepared for the questions I would soon face and the questions I would soon ask.

I learned that the older I got, the more difficult the questions became. Fortunately, I had learned where to find answers—even for the hard questions.

At the end of my senior year, I finally mustered the courage to turn the tables and ask Brian a question.

“If Joseph Smith was a false prophet, if he didn’t see the things he claimed he saw, and if he didn’t believe the things he taught,” I asked, “why did he seal his testimony of those things with his blood?”

Brian had no answer. He looked surprised and responded simply, “I didn’t know that.” He never asked me another insincere question about the Church, though I would have answered any sincere ones he may have had. When he signed my yearbook just before we graduated, he apologized.

If anyone asked Belinda where she was going to live when she grew up, she’d tell them on the moon. She’d explain how she was going to build her house in a big crater and watch the stars all night long. But nobody ever asked her, so she never told anyone.
And if anyone ever asked Belinda what her favorite food in the whole world was, she would tell them raspberries. But no one ever asked her that, either. Instead, they asked her where she got her red hair, or if she was a good girl—simple questions that they already knew the answers to.
No one ever asked her the kind of questions they asked her father, like which team would win the world series. And they didn’t ask her questions like they asked her mother. No, no one ever asked Belinda how to spell encyclopedia.
Belinda was tired of answering simple questions. She wanted people to know that she could guess which team would win the world series as well as anyone else. And maybe she couldn’t spell encyclopedia, but there were lots of other words she could spell.
When Saturday arrived, her mother told her that they were going to Aunt Martha’s for supper. Grandfather and Grandmother would be there, along with Mr. Nibb, a special guest. Mr. Nibb was her aunt’s neighbor. He was an older man who lived by himself. Belinda had never met him before.
When they arrived, Aunt Martha was in the kitchen, rolling out dough for the pie she was making. “What a big girl you’re getting to be,” she said to Belinda. “Are you eating your vegetables?”
“Yes, Aunt Martha,” Belinda answered politely.
Grandfather was standing by the sink. “Are you remembering to brush your teeth after each meal?” Grandfather used to be a dentist.
Just then Grandma came into the kitchen. After everyone said hello, she walked over to Belinda and pinched her cheek. “Are you being a good girl, Belinda?”
Before Belinda had a chance to answer, Mr. Nibb came into the kitchen. He was older than her grandparents, and he had white hair and wore glasses. He walked a little more slowly than Belinda’s grandparents did.
“Are you warm enough?” Grandmother asked as he took off his coat.
“Yes, thank you,” Mr. Nibb answered.
“Did you remember to take your medicine?” Grandfather asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Nibb answered.
Then Aunt Martha took Mr. Nibb into the living room. “Do you like the view?” she asked, once he was seated on the couch in front of the large bay window.
“Yes,” he answered.
Belinda went in and sat beside Mr. Nibb. “What does a young girl like you plan to be when you get older?” Mr. Nibb asked her.
“I want to be an astronaut,” Belinda told him. Mr. Nibb was the first person who had asked her that in a long time.
“Well, that is a fine profession,” Mr. Nibb told her. “I bet you like the stars then.”
Belinda nodded. “Do you?”
“Do I?” Mr. Nibb repeated. “Why, every clear night I sit on my back porch and look at the stars through my telescope!”
Belinda couldn’t believe her ears. “You have a telescope?”
“I sure do. If you want, I’ll let you look through it tonight.”
“Great! Why do you like the stars so much, Mr. Nibb?”
Mr. Nibb smiled. “When I was your age, I looked at the stars every night. I wondered what it was that made them so bright and shiny.”
Belinda was smiling now. Mr. Nibb asked her questions that were special, questions that most grown-ups thought that she was too young to answer. “Do people ask you silly questions just because you’re old?”
“Sometimes,” Mr. Nibb answered slowly. “But they mean well. They think that because I’m old, I can only answer simple questions. And I suspect they do the same thing to you because you’re young. But we both know that that isn’t true, don’t we?” he said, winking at Belinda.
Belinda smiled. “You ask great questions, Mr. Nibb.”
Mr. Nibb smiled back. “So do you, Belinda.”
That night Belinda went over to look at the stars through Mr. Nibb’s telescope. She asked Mr. Nibb all kinds of questions, and Mr. Nibb knew the answers to almost all of them. Then Mr. Nibb asked Belinda where she’d like to live when she grew up, and they looked through books that had pictures of the moon in them, to find a crater that would be perfect for Belinda’s house.

My name is Modibo Diarra. In 1981 I had the honor of being the first person to be baptized a member of the Church in my native land of Mali. It is hard to believe how much my life has changed since then, and that it all happened because my dog was sick!
Mali is in northwestern Africa. The climate is hot, dry, and dusty. Although the official language is French, many people speak Bambara, a local language. Most are Moslems. Our capital, Bamako, is a medium-sized city on the Niger River. Here our family lives in typical Malian style.
Our home consists of four square walls surrounding a large open courtyard. Small rooms open onto the yard, where the shade of a tall tree is used for family gatherings. Against one wall are pens for chickens and rabbits, and a goat wanders freely, seeking food.
One day, my dog got sick, and I thought it might be a case of rabies. At that time I was a school teacher, and one of my students told me about an American veterinarian, Dr. Jerry Zaugg, who was working in Mali. I arranged for Dr. Zaugg to come to our house and asked my wife to prepare tea for him, as is the custom here. But our guest declined to drink the tea. He said it was contrary to the teachings of his church. That interested me, and I asked him many questions.
Several good things came from that visit. First, I learned that my dog did not have rabies. But, more importantly, Dr. Zaugg asked me to tutor him in French. I agreed to do so, and after each of our French lessons, Dr. Zaugg would tell me about his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
He invited me to attend Church services with two American families who were meeting in a house. The meetings were in English, which I did not speak well then, but the Church members gave me books in French: the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and A Marvelous Work and a Wonder. The Spirit was beautiful and strong, and eventually I was converted and baptized.
After my conversion, I became a better husband and father. My wife and children could not believe how much I changed. My two oldest boys, Amadou and Gausou, began to ask about the Church and read the Book of Mormon. They were baptized in 1984. Soon they were inviting other young people to see Church films and to meet the American members who lived in Mali. We had no official branch, but I kept a history of our sacrament meetings in a green book with the word Record on the cover.
As a Church member, I received many blessings. Then came a period that greatly tried my faith. In February 1988, I lost my job as a teacher and my position as a leader in the teachers’ union. I was thwarted on all sides in my efforts to find work. My life had been dedicated to teaching. How would I now support my wife and six children? And how would I feed the eleven other relatives who, for economic reasons, were living in our home?
Everybody worked hard to bring in money. My wife took in sewing, while Amadou and Gausou used a lathe to make tools to sell. Their younger brother cleaned shoes. Even my mother opened a small business selling spices. Eventually I had to sell the family car, for which we had saved for years. I pleaded with the Lord to help me provide for my family.
During this difficult time, a package arrived from Church officials in Salt Lake City containing a simplified version of Gospel Principles, which had been translated into Bambara. They asked if I would check the translation and then translate twelve hymns. As soon as I began this work, I realized its importance and tried to do it as correctly as possible. I struggled many times to find the right word or expression. Then, at other times, my mind would open in a remarkable way—as though someone were dictating to me. (When I finished the translations, I asked them to keep most of the money they were to pay me. I considered it my tithing.) I continued to pray constantly because of our desperate situation.
Little did I guess what would happen next. In May, I received a letter from an old friend, an American doctor named James Ferwarda. I had met Dr. Ferwarda during his visit to Mali in 1985. At his request, I had accompanied him on a tour of my country. Now, to my great surprise, he was sending me a round-trip airplane ticket and inviting me to visit him at his home in the United States!
I was astonished, overwhelmed at his offer. But it seemed impossible for me to leave my family at this critical time. The Church members urged me to accept the invitation, however. Perhaps, they said, the Lord would open the way for me to go to the temple while I was in the United States. Like many members, I cherished the dream of attending the temple “someday.”
Still dumbfounded, I did go, “not knowing beforehand the things which I should do.” (See 1 Ne. 4:6.) It was incredible that someone who was barely surviving financially could make such an expensive trip. After I arrived in the United States, Dr. Ferwarda learned of my deep desire to attend the temple, which was more than 2,000 kilometers away. Although he was not a member of the Church, he told me, “I respect your opinion, and I will pay for your ticket to Salt Lake City, too.”
I visited the Church offices as soon as I arrived in Salt Lake City. I will never, ever forget that day. Elder Alexander Morrison of the Seventy ordained me an elder. Then I went to the temple and received the endowment. Everyone in the temple was so kind. The beauty and serenity there moved me deeply. I was also impressed by the young missionaries, whom I saw for the first time. Now I knew that I wanted my sons to serve missions.
The next day, I visited the offices of a humanitarian organization that sponsors a number of agricultural and educational projects in Mali. Hoping that they might need my services, I met with several administrators but returned to Mali without a job offer.
Our family’s trial of faith lasted five more months. During that time I was grateful for the temple ordinances, which strengthened me. Nevertheless, I often felt like a man who was drowning in a deep river. Daily I entreated the Lord to deliver us from our economic crisis. Then, in November, the miracle came. The humanitarian organization that I had met with in Salt Lake City sent me a telegram, notifying me that I had been hired as their new field director. I knew without a doubt that only the Lord’s hand had plucked me from the river.
My job is a challenging one, requiring negotiations with government officials, local trainers, and village chiefs. Whenever I begin something that seems impossible, someone is sure to say, “You will never accomplish that!” But I know the Lord has the power to help me. I pray, and things work out somehow. I am still not rich, but I can feed my family and the others who depend on me. And now I am able to travel to Utah on business once a year. During these visits, I go to the temple, and I am sometimes able to attend general conference.
Other things have happened, wonderful things. In 1992 my son Amadou completed his mission to French-speaking Canada. There he helped to teach and baptize many people, including African immigrants and Moslems. Now both he and Gausou are studying in the United States. Gausou, too, wants to serve a mission some day. I pray that he will, and that all the rest of my family will join the Church. I pray that all of my children will be good students and honest citizens.
I look forward to the day when the Church will be organized in Mali. As of this writing, I am the only resident member of the Church here. I sustain myself spiritually by praying in all circumstances and by reading the Book of Mormon. And I still have in my care a worn green book with the word Record on the cover. But in my heart I carry another record. I will remember forever how the Lord has poured out his blessings upon me.

Elder Woodhouse and I were called to serve in the Dominican Republic as humanitarian missionaries from April 2019–2021. It was a dream come true for me and a complete surprise. There are no coincidences, and as Elder Gavarret reminded us during an interview, God is in the details.
My mother was born of Puerto Rican parents working in the sugar industry in La Romana, Dominican Republic in 1913. Both of her parents died in 1916 within months of one another when she was almost three years old. Puerto Rican neighbors raised her until she married and moved to Puerto Rico with her little family in 1930. My mother never found any paperwork on the birth or death of her parents or where they were buried. I felt this was my chance to do some digging and find what my mother could not find.
One Sunday we decided to visit a ward in La Romana. It happened to be Mother’s Day. I shared my story with the sisters in Relief Society with hopes that someone could help. A kind sister who happened to work in the civil registry of the town said she would research the archives for me. A few weeks later she said she could not find anything. An official registry was not kept, by law, until the 1930s. Some records were destroyed by floods or fire or just stored under poor conditions causing them to deteriorate. I gave her my sisters’ names and birth dates and the towns in which they were born. No records found. I was devastated. What do I do now?
With nowhere to turn I immersed myself in FamilySearch. I had found documentation on my grandmother in Puerto Rico before she left to La Romana in a census. I found a ship manifest that listed my grandmother traveling with a newborn (my mother) to Puerto Rico twice. The last time was within the year she had passed. I now knew the town she was from, my mother’s real birthday and who they visited. This was a real treasure. My mother was an orphan with no real information, and now I had a place to start.
Although I had not found what I was looking for, we took the time to visit all the places my mother talked about. I was able to get a feel for what life must have been like in the early days of the twentieth century living in a sugar cane industry town. This gave me renewed faith in continuing my search for more information.
As I continued to search further back through my grandparents’ lines, I found many wonderful treasures. I found that my family line in Puerto Rico dates to early explorers in the Caribbean. Some had served as governors in the Dominican Republic. Some were sea captains, farmers, and businessmen. Some were maids, seamstresses, and some of nobility. I was able to do the temple work for many there in the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple where we volunteered as ordinance workers once a week. I was beginning to feel a closeness to my ancestors that I thought I would never experience. My excitement and joy in the work I was doing carried me through times of disappointments. I knew that if I kept looking, I would be able to find many more, and I did.
My time in the Dominican Republic was cut short because of the pandemic, but not before finding my family and learning more about my rich Caribbean roots. The tapestry of my family lines is rich with stories of courage and faith. At one time, I thought I would not be able to complete my four generations with temple work, at least not in this life. But now I have gone well beyond four generations. Elder and Sister Soares said in the last RootsTech that one purpose of temple work was to unite the past with the present and the future. I have felt this each time as my grandchildren enter the temple to do the work for these sweet people I never knew existed. I can honestly say I now know them and love them. They are my family.

Youth in the Manly Ward, Sydney Australia Greenwich Stake (above), celebrated by researching the Prophet’s life and teachings and then compiling a book about their findings. They used Mutual time to do the project.
The book has 13 chapters, each based on an article of faith, and is titled Praise to the Man (see Hymns, no. 27). The youth and their families plan on using their copies of the completed work to share the gospel with friends. They will also send copies of the book to missionaries serving from the Manly Ward.
The youth learned more than facts from writing their book. “I learned that when we have trials we need to trust in God like Joseph Smith did,” says Losi Motuliki, a teacher.
“Joseph Smith was a really great man,” says Antoinette Hilario, a Mia Maid. “He was able to translate the Book of Mormon, which is another testament of Jesus Christ. We are so blessed to have this scripture in our lives today.”

Seminary students from four wards slip quietly from their homes in the dark stillness of the hour before dawn. The chill of fall in the air encourages them to run quickly to the warmth of a waiting car, already half-filled with other sleepy teens and leaders. The city will not wake for another two hours, and only a few delivery trucks and early commuters compete with the caravan of trucks and cars carrying the Latter-day Saint youth out of the city and up the serpentine road to Cerro de la Gloria.

By the time the group arrives at the top of the mountain, a faint, orange-pink glow is visible above the horizon in the east; but the “Hill of Glory” is still guarding its treasure. In the gray light of predawn, a hymn is sung, a prayer is offered, and the students begin this day’s study of the gospel. Only then does the darkness give up its secret—streaks of red and orange fill the sky as the sun reveals the glory of the panorama surrounding today’s mountaintop classroom. The majestic peaks of the Andes Mountains on the west and the sweeping plains surrounding the city on the east display the glorious work of the Creator.

In this idyllic setting—much different from their ordinary classroom—these young men and young women in Mendoza, Argentina, are spiritually fed and fortified to face the challenges of another day. As the sun rises higher, the spirit of the morning begins to transform to the concerns of the day, but the students linger a moment and talk about the blessings of having the gospel in their lives.