Gospel Story Finder

While serving as a missionary in the Philippines, I met Maria Jocelyn Castillo, or “Jocey,” as she was called.
We taught Jocey and her cousin Nestor the first discussion. The Spirit was strong, and Jocey agreed to read the Book of Mormon.
On our next visit, we found an excited Jocey and Nestor and about five additional people who were interested. On another visit, we taught another first discussion to Jocey’s sister Julie and some neighboring cousins.
The discussions went great. Jocey read all her assignments and started reading the Book of Mormon on her own. She soon committed to baptism. But as we got closer to her baptism, I could feel some concerns. I knew why. Jocey had only one leg and used a crutch to get around. She also wore a handkerchief on her head. On our third visit, we learned that Jocey had cancer and three years earlier had had her leg amputated. That had only slowed the disease. She started painful chemotherapy, and when her hair fell out, she wore a handkerchief on her head.
We hesitantly invited Jocey to attend church. I say “hesitantly” because Jocey lived about two miles from the church at the bottom of the biggest hill in the area. She had only one leg and not a lot of money for transportation; I really didn’t expect to see Jocey at church.
Sunday came, the meeting started, and 20 minutes later I saw Jocey and her cousin walk through the gate. I could see a wince of pain on Jocey’s face with each step. When she saw me, she smiled. I turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. I thought of the times I had missed church because my head hurt or I was too tired. I thought of the sacrifice she was making to get to church.
Jocey never missed a Sunday. I knew the cancer was taking its toll as she coughed and tried to cover her pain. When her baptism day came, she told me she wasn’t ready. She wanted to be baptized, but she thought she would be embarrassed to remove her handkerchief with everyone watching. I said a quick prayer and was able to reassure her. She grabbed her change of clothes and a towel, smiled, and said thank you.
I’ve never felt the Spirit stronger than I did at her baptism. Jocey cried, and so did the others in attendance.
Jocey didn’t stop there. She helped the rest of her family, her next-door neighbors, and friends in their conversions. Finally, her mother joined the Church.
But Jocey’s cancer progressed quickly, and she moved on to the next life. It was hard for me to watch her die after becoming such close friends with her. Finally, I realized how blessed I had been to have been able to help this young woman become closer to the Savior.
On the day of the funeral, the members of her ward helped with the service, showing that great love King Benjamin talked about. As they lowered the casket into the grave, Jocey’s mother fainted and was unconscious for about 30 seconds. When she regained consciousness, she looked up and said softly, three times, “Alam ko kung nasaan na siya,” which in Tagalog means, “I know where she is now.” And she calmly walked away.
I learned from Jocey how important the Church is and how much light the gospel can bring to our lives and the lives of our families and friends. I will always remember Jocey.

Some time ago I received a letter from Brother Rafael Pérez Cisneros of Galicia, Spain, telling me about his conversion. Part of his letter said the following:
“I had no concept of the purpose of life or what the family really is. When I finally allowed the missionaries to come into my home, I told them, ‘Give me your message, but I warn you that nothing is going to make me change religions.’ On this first occasion my children and my wife were listening attentively. I felt separated from the group. I felt afraid, and without thinking I went to my bedroom. I closed the door and began to pray from the depths of my soul like I had never prayed before. ‘Father, if it is true that these young men are Your disciples and have come to help us, please make it known to me.’ It was in that very moment that I began to cry like a small child. My tears were abundant, and I felt happiness like I had never before experienced. I was absorbed in a sphere full of joy and happiness that penetrated my soul. I understood that God was answering my prayer.
“All of my family was baptized, and we had the blessing of being sealed in the Swiss Temple, making me the happiest man in the world.”
I think this story should motivate us to do “all we can do” to share the blessings of joy that come from living the gospel of happiness.

I had never thought much about my testimony. I liked to go to church, and the gospel wasn’t hard to live, so I basically took it for granted the Church was true.
When I was almost 21, I decided to go on a mission. But in my interview with the stake president the conversation took an unanticipated turn.
“Lara, do you support the leaders of the Church?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you know that Ezra Taft Benson is a true prophet of God?”
“I think so.”
“Do you know he is a prophet of God?” he asked again.
“I believe he is,” I responded, a little confused at the repetition of the question.
Then he said, “Belief is a beginning. But do you know that Ezra Taft Benson is a true prophet of God called to lead us in this day?”
This time I caught the wording. I could feel my face get hot. I felt helpless. Did this mean I couldn’t go on a mission? No. But he told me to be most effective on a mission, I needed a testimony of “I knows.”
I left the stake president’s office that day a little embarrassed, but determined to know that President Ezra Taft Benson is a true prophet of God, to know that the Book of Mormon is truly another testament of Jesus Christ, to know that Christ died for me. I would have to do the intense studying and praying that my stake president had done. And for the next three months I did.
By the time I entered the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, I felt good saying “I know.” But it was in the MTC that I got my strongest witness that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God and that he did restore Christ’s church to the earth. That’s when I truly “knew,” and I was thrilled to be an “I know” missionary.

“You need glasses! You wouldn’t know a foul if it knocked you over!” Melvin sputtered at the referee.
“That’s it! You’re out,” the referee yelled back.
Melvin stomped off the court. He dropped onto the bench and glared at the floor.
The coach sat down beside him. “Do you know what this means?”
Melvin nodded without looking up. “I set a new record.”
“More than that,” the coach said. “It worked again.”
Melvin knew what was coming. He’d heard it before—how the other team knew that if they could get him angry enough, he’d lose his temper and get thrown out of the game. But he couldn’t help himself. He got so mad that if he didn’t do something, he’d explode.
“You’re the best player I have,” the coach said. “You just have to keep your cool!”
The final buzzer sounded. The coach yelled something about next Friday’s championship game as Melvin stalked off the court. “Fourteen times!” he muttered, pounding his fist into his hand. He had just broken the school basketball record for technical fouls on one player. It wasn’t an achievement he was proud of.
Who needs refs anyway! Melvin thought, suddenly glad he had invited his buddies over for a friendly game of baseball.
They were already gathering in his backyard by the time he arrived. Soon they were laughing and playing ball together in the small park down the street.
In the first inning, an opposing batter hit a towering shot to deep left field. As he rounded third base and headed for home, Melvin screamed, “Throw me the ball!”
There was a satisfying thump as ball connected with glove, and Melvin tagged the runner. “You’re out!” he proclaimed triumphantly.
“Safe!” the runner yelled back.
“Uh-uh, I tagged you.”
Everyone started yelling at once.
“He slid under your mitt!”
“He’s safe—I was standing right there!”
“He touched the base before you touched him!”
Finally Melvin jumped atop a bench and yelled, “I got him out! You guys are as blind as bats. If you can’t play baseball right, then maybe …” His voice trailed off. The boys were picking up their gloves and leaving.
Melvin dragged home and slumped onto the stump of a tree cut down several years before. He picked at the dirt that filled the holes in the dry wood.
Suddenly his older brother, Mike, sat down beside him. “Short game, huh?”
“Yeah,” Melvin said quietly. “Every time I open my mouth, something bad happens.”
“How about just every time you open your mouth in anger?”
Melvin shrugged.
“I bet you don’t know how all those holes got in that stump,” his brother challenged.
Melvin shook his head.
“I put them there.” Getting up, Mike went to the garage and returned with a bucket of rusty nails and a hammer. “Who do you think set the previous record for technical fouls at your school?”
Melvin’s eyes widened. “You?”
His brother chuckled. “It would’ve been a lot higher if Dad hadn’t shown me how he learned to control his temper.” He pulled a nail out of the bucket. “These have been pounded in and pulled out of this old stump at least a hundred times each.”
“Will it keep me from getting angry?” Melvin asked.
“No. I wish it were that easy. You’ll probably still feel angry—at least for a while. But what you do with that anger … Well, after a little practice, you can begin to control that.”
Melvin took the hammer. With an easy swing, he drove the nail deep into the old stump. Then he pounded another, and another.
By dinnertime Melvin had pounded more than fifty nails, and the anger had melted away.
Over the next week, Melvin visited the stump almost every day. Sometimes he went before he lost his temper and started yelling or throwing things. Other times he went afterward and worked out the rest of the anger.
The day of the championship game arrived. The school gym was filled with students. Melvin checked his shoelaces one final time. The buzzer sounded, starting the game.
Feet pounded up and down the court. Back and forth the ball changed hands. Melvin snatched the ball from an opponent and raced toward the basket.
Wham!
Melvin tumbled to the floor. He rolled over in time to see the grinning face of the boy who had just knocked him down.
Melvin jumped to his feet, his heart racing. Jaw clenched and blood vessels bulging, he stalked over to his opponent. Part of him wanted to shove the boy back and yell at the referee, “Are you blind? Aren’t you going to call a foul?” Part of him wished he was home at the backyard stump so that he could pound out his anger before he lost his temper.
Suddenly Melvin had an idea. He balled up the fist of his right hand and opened flat his left hand. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Over and over he pounded as if his fist were the hammer and his palm the stump, until he felt himself gain control. Then he turned and walked away from his bewildered opponent.
Early in the second half, Melvin faked his man out of position and drove to the basket. At the last second, the other team’s tall center stepped into his path. Wham! They both went spinning to the floor as the ref’s whistle blew. “Charging!” the ref shouted, pointing at Melvin.
Melvin jumped to his feet. Charging? he was screaming inside his head. He didn’t have position, you idiot! But outwardly he merely pounded his palm as hard as he could. The ref looked him over, fingered his whistle, then turned and gave the ball to the center to throw inbounds.
The game continued. Late in the second half, with the score tied, Melvin sprinted downcourt, leading a fast break. He caught a full-court pass on the run, dribbled once, and gathered himself for an easy lay-up.
Whack! Melvin was pushed hard from behind and went sprawling into a row of spectators behind the basket, barely missing the basket support. A whistle sounded. Without even looking to see who had pushed him, Melvin began pounding his fist. But this time it sounded louder. Melvin opened his eyes to see the other students smacking their fists in rhythm with each other. With each supporting thwack of the students’ hands, Melvin became more determined to finish the game without losing control.
When the final buzzer sounded, Melvin jumped about and high-fived the rest of the team—and not only because they were the champions. He had won a much more important victory: He had kept his cool. He had finished a whole game without a technical foul! It was a new record—one that he was not ashamed of. He looked into the crowd and found Mike giving him the thumbs-up sign.

It started out like any other day at school. Our teacher, Miss Blackstock, was writing on the chalkboard while I sat daydreaming at my desk. Then our principal walked in with a boy I had never seen before. The principal whispered something in Miss Blackstock’s ear, and everyone got quiet trying to listen.
The boy stood at the front of the classroom while the other kids stared at him. His faded plaid shirt hung loosely. There was a hole in the knee of his pants. With slumped shoulders, he dug his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the floor.
After the principal left, Miss Blackstock said, “Class, I would like you to meet Caleb Sanders. He recently moved here from Montana. That is quite a distance from here! Caleb, you may take the seat next to Luke.”
She pointed to the seat next to mine, and the class watched as Caleb nervously made his way down the aisle. As Miss Blackstock turned back to the chalkboard, whispers filled the room. Some of the kids were saying mean things about the way Caleb was dressed.
“Look at those weird boots,” someone said.
“He could hike up the Himalayas in those!” another boy chimed in.
I glanced over at Caleb, but he just sat there staring at his blank notebook page and clutching his pencil. I knew that he must have heard them because I saw him shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Then a couple of boys snickered so loudly that Miss Blackstock stopped writing.
“I see that everyone is eager to talk to Caleb, so let’s have him come up here and tell us a little bit about himself,” she said.
The class got quiet and stared at Caleb. I felt sorry for him. The boy who sat behind him kicked the back of Caleb’s chair and jeered, “Go ahead, mountain boy.”
Caleb slowly made his way to the front of the class. His hair partly covered his eyes, and his boots scuffed the floor when he walked. The kids around me snickered again. I knew that Miss Blackstock was trying to help, but I was afraid this would only make things worse.
One boy raised his hand and asked, “Where did you live in Montana, under a rock?”
The class burst into laughter.
The girl on the front row asked, “Does everyone in Montana dress like you?”
I felt my face getting hot as anger welled up inside me. If someone didn’t stop this, I knew Caleb would remain an outcast for the rest of the school year. But if I stuck up for him, the kids might laugh at me too.
Then I remembered what my stepmom told me when I tried out for the soccer team. She told me about David in the Old Testament. David was the youngest of all his brothers, but the Lord chose him to be king. It didn’t matter what he looked like. Sometimes people judge others by their appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.
I knew Caleb needed help, so I raised my hand. Miss Blackstock called on me. Caleb didn’t look up. He probably expected me to make fun of him too.
“I’ve heard that there are some cool parks in Montana with great hiking trails. What are they like?” I asked.
The class got quiet. I felt my face turning red again, but Caleb smiled. I could see that he was relieved to answer a kind question. In a quiet voice he started to speak.
He told us that his family had lived on a large ranch in Montana, and he had even owned a horse. He told about his favorite trail in Glacier National Park and how he had encountered a real live bear. As he told more and more about his home, the other kids began asking questions about the bear, the hiking, and the rock climbing.
After school I wasn’t sure if anyone would sit by me on the bus. I held my backpack close and stared out the bus window. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Caleb.
“Can I sit here?” he asked shyly.
“Sure!” I said, moving over to make room.
I never would have guessed how that day would turn out. I am glad I had the courage to be nice to Caleb. Now he has many friends—and I’m proud to be one of them.

However, I recently felt my trust in God’s peace falter when a horrible war broke out in the country where my best friend lives. I felt helpless. Hot anger like I had never experienced before bubbled up inside me. I didn’t know what I could do to help my friend or the other people being affected by this violence and hatred. The whole world felt dark, and I became fixated on the evil that was spreading chaos in so many places.
How could I feel peace knowing that so many people, including my closest friend, were suffering?
I recognized that the anger I felt was starting to consume me. I needed to find peace again. So I went to Heavenly Father as I always had before. I poured out my heart in prayer and told Him that I felt helpless because there was so much violence going on in the world. I asked Him if there was anything I could do to find peace again.
I received a simple prompting from the Spirit:
Read the Book of Mormon.
I was already reading my scriptures often, so I wasn’t sure why Heavenly Father would tell me to do something I was already doing. But I decided to trust the prompting. I began to pay closer attention to what I was reading in the Book of Mormon. I noticed how many times followers of Jesus Christ faced violence, wars, and evil and felt helpless against their challenges. But I also noticed that when they centered their lives on Jesus Christ during those turbulent moments, they seemed to feel peace—no matter what. (See 2 Nephi 4:16–35; Mosiah 24:8–25.) This scenario happens repeatedly in the Book of Mormon. The promises of finding peace in Christ are everywhere.
As I read truths like this during my study, I began to feel the peace of Christ again. And I understood that His peace is always available to all those who seek it, even those living through wars and conflicts.

Martin’s Cove holds special meaning for Jashley Simpson of Afton, Wyoming. To her, this spot is marked by sorrow for the trials of the people who died here. But it is also a place of joy, for it was here in the Sweetwater River that Jashley was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Not very many people are baptized in rivers anymore, and Jashley probably wouldn’t have been, either, if the baptismal font in her stake center had not been under repair. As her eighth birthday neared, she and her parents, Evan and Beverly Simpson, realized that they had to find an alternative place for her baptism.
About a month before Jashley’s birthday, on May 12, 1997, her mother was reading an article in the Church News about the new visitors’ center at Martin’s Cove. Suddenly, the idea came to her that Jashley should be baptized there. At first, it seemed like an impossible thought, but as her mother lay awake at night, pondering the idea, it felt more and more like it was what Heavenly Father wanted them to do. She shared the idea with Jashley’s father, bishop of the Afton Third Ward, Afton Wyoming Stake, and he thought it was a great idea.
They made many phone calls but were unable to reach Brother Carvel Jackson, director of the center, to make arrangements in time for Jashley’s birthday. So the Simpsons just decided to take the eight-hour drive and visit the center on that day, hoping that things would work out when they got there. If nothing else, they would go on the short handcart trek organized by the visitors’ center.
Jashley’s five sisters—Bethany (16), Amory (14), Emily (11), Kelsey (5), and Courtney (3)—as well as both sets of grandparents came to spend this special day with the birthday girl. Jashley was particularly excited that her mother’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa Gibson, were able to come. They were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and Jashley looked forward to sharing part of its history with them.
Upon the family’s arrival at the center, they were finally able to speak with Brother Jackson, who gladly helped them find an ideal spot for the baptism. But first they took the handcart trek! Grandma Simpson and Grandma Gibson waited at the visitors’ center as the rest of the family loaded up handcarts and set out on the two-mile hike to the actual Cove.
As they climbed the trail, the wind blew fiercely around them. It was a hard trek but fun, even when Jashley fell on a cactus! Everyone enjoyed reading the plaques that described the journey of the handcart companies. They pushed the handcarts up one mile to the opening of the cove area. There they had to abandon their carts and hike up one more mile to the cove itself. Then they hiked the mile back to their handcarts, and completed the remaining two and a half miles of the loop trail back to the visitors’ center.
After the trek, the family prepared for the baptism. The place Brother Jackson had suggested was a beautiful spot on the Sweetwater River with Devil’s Gate in the background. However, everyone worried that the strong wind would affect the baptismal service. When no one was watching, Jashley bowed her head and closed her eyes and whispered a prayer to Heavenly Father that the wind would stop blowing just long enough for her to be baptized. Heavenly Father answered her prayer. The wind was completely still.
Jashley and her father were also surprised at how warm the water was. She had been concerned that the water would be icy cold from the melting snow in the mountains. In every prayer she had made for the last month, she had asked Heavenly Father to make the water “sort of warm.” Her prayers were answered once again, and the water temperature was just right.
The baptismal service was beautiful. Jashley’s father baptized her while her Grandpa Simpson and Elder Erickson, a missionary from Star Valley, acted as the witnesses. Afterward she saved some of the water from the river in a special old-fashioned glass jar with a clamp and rubber seal. She said that being baptized was wonderful; it made her feel “really clean.” She wrote in her journal all the way home about the exciting events of the day.
This day was definitely one to remember for Jashley and her family. Martin’s Cove had a special spirit that touched them all. Even Grandma and Grandpa Gibson were very impressed.
Whenever Jashley thinks of her baptism day, she remembers the faith and courage of those men and women. She will honor them and try to be like them, for she has truly experienced their story “in her bones.”

At the same time I lost my faith in science, I began to lose my faith in mankind. I took a class in which beliefs, truths, ethics, and morals were discussed. Many students in the class believed that there was no such thing as absolute truth, a God, or morality. They did not believe in personal responsibility and accountability for their actions. These people symbolized the world to me, so I began to lose my faith in mankind when I lost my faith in them.
I realized that much of what I had been taught as fact was not. This changed my perspective on everything in my life. I no longer saw teachers as sources of truth. I began to question all that I had been taught and had believed in. I wanted everything to be proven to me.
I began to question whether an absolute truth could exist. Yet I knew that certain things must exist. My lack of ability to comprehend God caused me to question his existence. I would say to myself, “God exists and his laws are absolute.” Then I would quickly think of something else to avoid questioning God’s existence.
Yet as I learned more, I tried to understand and explain God. Although I disliked my thinking, I could not deny what I felt. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to believe in that which I had always believed. My life was becoming depressing and insecure.
As the desire for stability and truth grew in my life, this great desire caused me to turn to the scriptures. It was then that I found a new meaning in Moroni 10:4 [Moro. 10:4]:
“And when ye shall receive these things, I would ask God, the eternal Father in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
These were words of hope and comfort to me. I began to read the Book of Mormon with a new purpose. The writings of the prophets found a new place in my heart. I read with the desire to learn and know.
I longed for the comfort, purpose, and perspective that the gospel had always given to my life. Each night before I read, I would pray with a great desire to know the truth. I felt that the scriptures were true, but I wanted to know. When I read, I often found scriptures that gave me inspiration on how to live my life better. Many tears were shed as I felt the power and truth of the Book of Mormon.
I began to regard prayer more seriously. My relationship with my Father in Heaven became much closer. I prayed to him with a new enthusiasm. I desired to know if he was there. I prayed for a remission of my sins. I prayed for forgiveness because of my lack of faith.
After reading the Book of Mormon, I knelt in prayer. I had a great desire to know of its truth. I hoped it was true, knowing what joy this would bring me. That night I prayed for hours desiring to know. The following nights I continued in my prayers and began to wonder if I would receive a witness.
My determination in waiting for a witness was a trial of my faith. After many days I came to the realization that I knew the Book of Mormon was true. It came not as a sign or a voice. I knew because in the center of my being I could not deny that it was true. I also knew that God existed and that he is my Heavenly Father, that Jesus Christ is the only begotten son of God.
This came to me, not as new knowledge, but as a peaceful remembrance of that which I already knew. I did not need a further witness. I had always known the truth. My pride in my own knowledge had caused me to forget my testimony.
With this new understanding my life received meaning and peace. Although I still question some of what I hear, I do it for my own good and a desire to learn the truth.

My grandfather was a farmer. When I was quite young, I used to go to work with him at planting time. I loved to see him get the animals ready, put on their yokes, and hitch them to the harrow and plow. “Where are we going to plant today?” I would ask. “Down yonder,” he would reply. He knew well where the fruitful ground was.
I loved the moist, rich smell that rose from the ground when the tip of the plow broke the earth. As my grandfather prepared the furrows, I would bury the seed. “This ground is fruitful,” he would say. Later we would go back to the field to see the first green sprouts coming up. Soon the shoots became stalks, and then the grain would appear. The plants continued to grow until they were mature.
At harvesttime, the workers would cut the sheaves and take them to the threshing area, which consisted of poles wired together into a large circle. The sheaves were placed on the ground around the outside of this circle. Then the horses came and ran around the circle, trampling the sheaves, which loosened the grain from the stalks and crushed the kernels. Next, workers came with their tools to fan the chaff, separating it from the grain. After their labor was done, the workers sang and danced and enjoyed a traditional meal of roast lamb. It was a beautiful rustic celebration. The grain was stored in sacks and later processed into a variety of useful products.
And yet, despite all that we did to plant and harvest, the success of the whole process was primarily based upon the richness of the ground, the weather, and other conditions beyond our control. Without these conditions, the seeds would not have germinated, and there would have been no harvest.

The Prophet’s parents, Joseph Smith Sr. and Lucy Mack Smith, married in Tunbridge, Vermont, USA, in 1796. After six years of fairly successful farming, the Smiths moved to nearby Randolph to try their hand at storekeeping.3

The line of goods Joseph Sr. acquired with the help of Boston-based creditors moved quickly to eager new customers—not for cash but for promises of payment once harvests came in at the end of the growing season. As he waited for promised payments to pay off his creditors, he jumped into a new investment opportunity.

In those days Chinese markets were clamoring for crystallized ginseng root. Though Joseph Sr. had a hard-cash offer from a middleman for $3,000 for the ginseng root he had collected and prepared for shipment, he decided on the riskier but potentially more lucrative strategy of taking the product to New York himself and contracting with a ship’s captain to sell his goods in China on consignment. By eliminating the middleman, he stood to make as much as $4,500—an immense sum in those days.4

As bad luck or sinister planning would have it, Joseph Sr.’s shipment ended up on the same boat carrying the son of the middleman with whom he had declined to do business. Taking advantage of the situation, this son sold the Smith ginseng in China “at a high price” and kept the proceeds while spinning tales that the venture had been a bust, producing only a chest full of tea as reward.5

Meanwhile, just as this swindle was unfolding, the payments for a large inventory of merchandise had fallen due at the Smith store. In the face of demanding creditors, the Smiths hit a desperation point. To pay their debts, Lucy gave up a wedding gift of $1,000 that she had saved for years, and Joseph accepted $800 for the family farm in Tunbridge.6 The farm was the one thing that would have at least guaranteed a modicum of economic stability and long-term physical security in the often harsh world of the early American frontier. Now, penniless and landless, the Smiths would be forced to move eight times in 14 years, constantly looking for a way to provide for their family.

It is interesting to read some of the accounts of Christmas from our pioneer forebears. Elizabeth Huffaker wrote of the very first Christmas in the Salt Lake Valley in December 1847:
I remember our first Christmas in the valley. We all worked as usual. The men gathered sage-brush, and some even ploughed, for, though it had snowed, the ground was still soft, and the ploughs were used nearly the entire day. Christmas came on Saturday.
We celebrated the day on the Sabbath, when all gathered around the flagpole in the centre of the fort, and there we held meeting. And what a meeting it was. We sang praise to God; we all joined in the opening prayer, and the speaking that day has always been remembered. There were words of thanksgiving and cheer. The people were hopeful and buoyant, because of their faith in the great work they were undertaking. After the meeting, there was handshaking all around. Some wept for joy, the children played in the enclosure, and around a sage-brush fire that night we gathered and sang:
“Come, come, ye Saints, No toil nor labor fear, But with joy wend your way!”
That day we had boiled rabbit and a little bread for our dinner. Father had shot some rabbits, and it was a feast we had. All had enough to eat. In the sense of perfect peace and good-will, I never had a happier Christmas in all my life.
It is difficult for most of us to appreciate what a blessing it was for them simply to have peace—to have very little of the necessities of life but, at last, to have peace.

Because of the social injustices and conditions in which my parents grew up in the 1940s in New Zealand, education for M?ori was not an easy path, particularly in higher education. In fact, my father, Benjamin Turi Hippolite, only went to school until his freshman year of high school. Unfortunately, at the end of that year, the principal of the school forced him to leave because the principal refused to approve of the financial funds for one more M?ori. My dad reflected on this experience decades later saying, "I really did want to go to school. I would have stayed only if there was half a chance."

After this sad ordeal, dad worked so hard and helped his other siblings afford schooling. You could say my dad received a PhD- a PhD in the “School of Hard Knocks.”

I will add that although both my parents had very little formal education, they could read people and had emotional intelligence. They were hard workers! Despite the hardships and challenges, dad became the first M?ori City Councilman in Nelson city. He went on to be a regional manager at one of the largest insurance companies in the country. He was a manager at the Department of Conservation. How did he do this? He learned invaluable skills as a labor missionary, and he was actively engaged in the gospel and served in several callings in the Church such as a gospel doctrine teacher, teacher development leader, district president, stake president, and so on. Although his formal education was limited, dad continued to embrace the gospel and learn from the inspired programs of the Church. My mother, Emma Hippolite was continually learning. She read Church publications from cover to cover. She became a renowned seamstress, developed her creative talents in multiple areas. She took night classes to eventually qualify and become a residential social worker. My generation is the first to accomplish higher education at all levels (bachelors, master's, and PhD).

After the Prophet Joseph translated the first 116 pages of the Book of Mormon, Martin Harris insisted that he be loaned the manuscript. He wanted to show people what he was doing—his family and others. The Prophet responded by seeking the counsel of the Lord, who told him very clearly not to share the manuscript. But Brother Harris was undeterred, and the Prophet continued to ask the Lord. Finally, the Lord said, in effect, “All right, Joseph, have it your way.” The Lord does not control or interfere with the exercise of our agency. The song in the hymnbook says He “will force no man to heav’n.”
So the Prophet loaned the manuscript to Brother Harris. He listened to the people’s voice, as Saul learned. And then the manuscript disappeared. As a result, Joseph lost his ability to translate, and he had to come back and repent to the Lord. In this way the Prophet painted himself into a corner, and his options were reduced. Blessings were taken away from him. It was an agonizing experience until he was able to repent, to turn around, and to receive his power to translate once again so that he could fulfill the mission the Father had for him here on earth.

Illustrations by Stuart Hill
High school. A necessary evil, I guess. Well, it’s not really evil, but the homework is. Especially in history. In my U.S. history class we’d learned about the Pilgrims and Puritans, the Founding Fathers, and the expansion from the original colonies. It all sounded familiar.
But when we got to the part about Manifest Destiny and the role Mormons played in the settlement of the West, I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I knew that there were some controversial events and even controversial figures in Church history, but it seemed like the authors of my textbook were presenting the most negative interpretation possible rather than a factual overview.
“Mom, is this really true?” I asked.
I pointed to the page I was on, and my mom read the first paragraph and then stopped. “Wow,” she said. “Where did they come up with that information?”
The book had no footnotes, so we started checking some of the statements. It took hours, but we checked in the Doctrine and Covenants, cross-checked manuals online at LDS.org, and found original documents at JosephSmithPapers.org. It was so cool to see the handwritten petition for redress, which Joseph Smith personally delivered to President Martin Van Buren (President of the United States) and to learn more about what really forced the Saints to leave Missouri and settle in Nauvoo. We also searched for a few of the quotes and found more original documents online at the Illinois and Missouri State Historical Societies. They showed what the textbook had taken out of context.
My high school has over 1,600 students, and I’m one of only two Mormons. I didn’t want what we were reading to be the only thing the kids in my class ever learned about the Church. (I also checked and found out that this U.S. history book was first published in 1981, which means thousands of high school students had been taught false information.)
I’m not the type to draw attention to myself, but because I’d found out that so much of what was in our textbook was wrong, I decided to ask my teacher if he would let me make a presentation to my class. My mom helped me type up the corrections, but when I showed my teacher the pages of information, he just glanced at them and said, “When authors have to cover 80 years of history in a couple of paragraphs, they aren’t going to be able to include all the details.”
I was really disappointed. I knew I could talk with my friends and point out specific errors, but there was no way for me to help the 25 other kids in my class—not to mention the kids in my teacher’s other classes—understand the truth about Mormons. I didn’t know what to do.
A week later my teacher changed his mind. He’d actually read the information I’d given him and realized that the authors hadn’t just skipped parts of Church history or shown one side of it; they’d actually made up things that weren’t even based on the truth. He wanted our class to know what was real, and he even wanted to publish what I’d given him so all the teachers in our school district could use it as a resource!
Like the scriptures say, even a little candle, when set on a hill, can give a lot of light (see Matthew 5:14–16).

One day I was playing on the playground, and there was a girl who had a different- looking face. My mom told me that she couldn’t help that she was born that way. A boy was being mean to the girl, and I didn’t want her to have her feelings hurt, so I played with her. She was fun to play with and was really nice. I am glad that I got to play with her. I chose to do the right thing by not making fun of someone who looked different.
Caroline S., age 7, North Carolina, USA

It is good to be with you this morning. While in a moment I will draw on the academic disciplines of Egyptology and biblical studies, in which I have been so steeped over the last few decades, I want to start out by trying to draw an analogy from one of my favorite things to do: waterskiing. The way I read the accounts of the Savior and Peter on the Sea of Galilee, it seems to me that waterskiing is the closest thing we have to a celestial sport. I can’t get enough of it. In fact, one year my brothers, a cousin, and I made the goal of skiing on Utah Lake every month of the year. During January and February we questioned the wisdom of this goal, but we did it. I skied every time I got the chance.
During all these years of waterskiing I have had the chance to teach a lot of people how to ski. I believe I taught around 100 people. As I did so, I realized that there are really only three things people have to do to learn how to ski. The first is to keep their skis together. Often the pressure of the water will cause a person to do the splits, and it is very hard to ski that way. But there are ways to tie skis together, so this isn’t the biggest problem.
The most difficult problem comes because you have an instinctive tendency to try to stand on top of the water as the boat pulls you. As a result, just as the boat pulls people up, most of them pull on the rope and push with their legs. Instead of being helpful, both of these actions tend to pull people’s legs out from under them, and they immediately fall. Most of the time the action of pulling on the rope was so instinctive that people didn’t even realize they had done it. I can’t tell you how many times I repeated the mantra “arms straight, knees bent, skis together.” I would explain again and again that the boat was strong enough to pull a person up—they just had to be patient enough to let it.
Here is the lesson: When those I taught learned to forget about using their own strength to get up and relied on the power of the boat, they would ski. When you master your impulse to pull yourself up, you get on top of the water; then the ability to accelerate, cut through the water, float on a sea of glass, and sail with an amazing feeling of freedom and exhilaration is waiting for you.

During my second Christmas as a full-time missionary, my companion and I were visiting a recently baptized member and her family. After a great Christmas dinner, we shared with them a Christmas message.
We asked the family to draw pictures of things that reminded them of the season, such as stars, presents, nativities, and Christmas trees. We then read some scriptures, including 2 Nephi 19:6: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder; and his name shall be called, Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.” We sang “Once in Royal David’s City” (Hymns, no. 205), watched a movie about the Nativity, and bore testimony of Jesus Christ.
It was a Christmas in simple circumstances, away from our families and the usual Christmas celebrations, but as we bore testimony of the Savior, I felt a deeper love and appreciation for Him and His birth than I had known before. I realized it would be my last Christmas in full-time missionary service to my Heavenly Father, but I understood that His Spirit could testify to me of His Son wherever I was.

For New Beginnings, I was asked to talk about virtue as a Young Women value. I was supposed to wear something gold to coordinate with its value color, but my wardrobe didn’t seem to include that color. After searching through my closet, I located a gold shirt that I hadn’t worn in a long time. I tried it on only to realize I’d outgrown it. Looking in the mirror, I thought, “This is probably not a good night to wear something a little too short—I’m representing virtue.”
Then it hit me: I’m always standing for virtue. Every day I represent virtue and modesty in my attitude, actions, words, and clothing. On Sundays and at youth activities, I can be a model of modesty for the younger girls. As one of the few Latter-day Saint students at my school, I try to dress appropriately, because to others, I represent my religion. Most important, my clothes can show others and myself that I know my body is a temple and that I respect it as such. By dressing modestly, I “stand for truth and righteousness,” just as the Young Women motto proclaims.
As I talked about virtue that night, I spoke with confidence. Perhaps my outfit was more yellow than gold, but I felt at peace before my friends, my leaders, and my Heavenly Father. “No matter what I’m doing,” I thought, “I always want to dress modestly. I represent virtue every single day.”

Some time ago I found a large white envelope in my mailbox. Inside was a story written by a boy I had taught years before when he was in sixth grade. I remembered the student and the assignment his class had worked on for months. I also remembered that he loved to write and would sit and think and think. Sometimes only a word or two found their way to the page. At times he worked during recess, but when the due date arrived, his story still had a chapter to go. I told him just to turn it in as it was, but Jimmy had a different vision and wanted to turn in a finished story. The last day of class he asked if he could finish during the summer break. Again I told him just to turn it in. He pleaded for more time, and finally I sent him on his way with a stack of wrinkled and smudged papers, complimenting him on his determination and assuring him of my confidence in his ability to complete a great story.
I thought about him that summer, but the assignment left my mind until years later when I found his completed project in the mailbox. I was amazed and wondered what made Jimmy finish his story. What kind of vision, determination, and effort had been required in this task? Why do any of us finish a hard task, especially if no one demands its completion?
My husband’s great-grandfather Henry Clegg Jr. was a finisher. He joined the Church with his family when the first LDS missionaries went to Preston, England. Henry had a view of his destination in his mind as he and his wife, Hannah, and their two young boys immigrated to Utah. Henry left his older parents, who were too feeble to make such a long and arduous journey, knowing he would never see them again.
While crossing the plains, Hannah contracted cholera and died. She was laid to rest in an unmarked grave. The company then moved on, and at six in the evening, Henry’s youngest son also died. Henry retraced his steps to Hannah’s grave, placed his young son in his wife’s arms, and reburied the two of them together. Henry then had to return to the wagon train, now five miles away. Suffering from cholera himself, Henry described his condition as being at death’s door while realizing he still had a thousand miles to walk. Amazingly he continued forward, putting one foot in front of the other. He stopped writing in his journal for several weeks after losing his dear Hannah and little son. I was struck with the words he used when he did start writing again: “Still moving.”
When he finally reached the gathering place of the Saints, he began a new family. He kept the faith. He continued his story. Most remarkably, his heartache over the burial of his sweetheart and son gave birth to our family’s legacy of moving forward, of finishing.
I have often wondered as I have heard pioneer stories like the one of Henry Clegg, “Could I ever do that?” Sometimes I fear this question, knowing our pioneer legacy lives on today. I recently visited West Africa and witnessed everyday pioneers walking forward, joining a new church, leaving behind centuries of traditions, even leaving behind family and friends, as did Henry. My admiration and love for them is as great as for my own forebears.
Do the challenges of others appear more difficult than our own? We often look at someone with tremendous responsibilities and think, “I could never do that.” Yet others might look at us and feel exactly the same way. It is not the magnitude of the responsibility but rather how it feels to be the one in the middle of the unfinished task. For a young mother with many children at home, caring for them through the day and then through the night could feel like a thousand miles yet to walk. Giving a lesson in Relief Society to women who are older or younger, more experienced or more educated could feel difficult, especially when the topic is one you are struggling to understand and live yourself. Teaching a class of 10 active six-year-olds can be daunting, especially when your own six-year-old is in the class and you haven’t quite figured out how to teach him one-on-one.
What do we learn from young Jimmy, from early pioneers, and from modern pioneers around the world that will help us in our specific challenges? Jimmy spent years writing on his own for no deadline, Henry Clegg marched on alone and without heart even to write in a journal, and African Saints lived worthy of a temple they could not have imagined would one day rise in their own nation. To keep going, to stay faithful, and to finish had to be its own reward.
Years ago one of our daughters asked me to come outside and play tetherball with her. She told me to sit down and watch as she hit over and over again a ball on a rope that wound itself around a pole. After watching several windings I asked what my part was in the game, and she said, “Oh, Mom, you say, ‘Good job, good job,’ every time the ball goes around the pole.”
“Good job!” helps the journey seem possible. It might sound like a phone call from a mother of one of the six-year-olds in that Primary class, calling to let the teacher know that her son carefully helped his little sister into the car seat without being asked, acknowledging the Primary teacher’s lesson as the impetus for this new behavior. It might look like a husband getting the children off to nursery and Primary as his wife sets up her lesson for Young Women. It might be as simple as a smile, a hug, or a long walk to sort things out with a friend, a husband, or a child.
We each must find and finish our own story, but how much sweeter the telling when encouragement is called out, when arriving at our destination is valued and celebrated, however long ago the journey commenced.
The greatest mentor and advocate we have said: “I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up” (D&C 84:88). Can any of us afford to leave this piece out of our individual journey?
Henry Clegg was still moving forward to live among the faithful Saints, to take his place, to raise a righteous family, to serve his neighbor. He had that picture in his mind even when his heart was breaking. I heard a Primary child from Ghana answer the question “What does it mean to choose the right every day?” with, “It means to follow the Lord and Savior every day and do your best even when it is hard.” This modern pioneer boy knew President Hinckley’s admonition. He knew about keeping commandments every day. He understood that his own story would unfold simply by putting one foot in front of the other, one day at a time.

“I will NEVER forget when I first saw this. I am autistic and have struggled with chronic depression and suicide ideation. The last few weeks before that concert were pure torture for me, and I was completely lost in what to do anymore. A few days before this song was performed, I asked a few friends of mine in the Choir for some support which they gave and when I first heard this song, I was drowning in tears. Truly the light will always come at the end of the tunnel. Thank you, Tabernacle Choir, my dear friends, for being such heroes in my life and such wonderful friends! I love you all forever!”