Gospel Story Finder

A cry from his mother rolled Black Beaver out of his warm bed furs. She stood outside the tepee, facing the mountains and pointing. There on the highest slopes of the tallest mountain, the one that his people considered sacred, was the sign they had waited to see—the wind and sun had shaped the snow into the form of a giant dove in flight. It meant that today he would climb up to search for White Horse, his grandfather, who had been trapped by a late spring blizzard. But how could the old one have survived up there alone for almost two weeks? the boy wondered. There seemed little hope of finding him alive now.
Black Beaver appeared calm as he prepared for the dangerous mission, but his heart hammered and his hands were moist and slippery. Was it the fear of failing, a dread of the unknown, or a combination of both? His younger brothers and sisters watched big-eyed and solemn as their mother handed him a backpack containing food, furs, and a coil of rope. “I—I wish you did not have to go alone,” his mother murmured, touching his dusky cheek.
Black Beaver wished, too, that it were not so. He had told no one, not even his family, about his fear of heights. He felt sure that White Horse had never understood why his eldest grandson refused to climb to the summit to fast and meditate as his ancestors had always done when they were troubled. “It is a place of incredible beauty and peace. It soothes the turmoil in a man’s spirit. Don’t you have faith in the ways of your people? Why do you turn away from the old ways?” his grandfather had asked.
The miserable youth had not replied. There were no words. How could he explain that he was both drawn and repelled by the mountain? He had seen his father and other relatives return from the summit renewed in spirit, a look of awe and serenity on their faces. How he envied them! The experience was one he yearned to share, but he always failed to reach even the timberline. He was not cowardly about other things, but he could not fight the choking panic that tightened his throat and shut off his breath. But could he now, to rescue his beloved grandfather? He wished that he had that much courage!
The youth had hunted on the lower slopes all his life, so he was familiar with the trails and made good time. He had not looked back to wave to his family, wanting to appear braver than he felt. The rising sun was warm on his back, but he dreaded the numbing cold and fierce winds that raked the mountain above the trees. He had heard about the trials necessary to reach the top, including the thin air that made the lungs ache. He pushed back the fear with thoughts of White Horse and climbed faster.
It was noticeably colder as Black Beaver stopped to rest his aching leg and shoulder muscles. He stared up at the snow and remembered his grandfather’s warning, “Never climb the mountain until the melting snow forms an outline of a soaring white dove, or you may be caught in a slide or some bottomless crevasse where the ice never melts. Always skirt the snow and follow the handholds and footholds around the bird’s left wing and you will be safe.”
Safe, the youth thought yearningly, trying not to look down. But it hadn’t been safe for White Horse even though the dove had flown when the old man climbed up for what he expected might be the last time. The raging blizzard had swept across the heights and trapped him. The dove was not visible on the morning they had waited for his return, and it had remained hidden until today. Suppose the bird vanished again in the night!
Black Beaver was hours above the timberline when he made his camp between boulders that blocked winds that tore at him. He looked down at the floor of the valley, hoping to see his family’s cooking fire, but it was too far away. He knew how anxiously they must have watched the mountain all day and it made him feel less lonely. This was the highest he had ever been and he was too numb and too exhausted to be frightened. He fell asleep in the heavy furs that had been too hot during the first part of his climb. Above him the giant white dove seemed to stir its wings as the snow glistened in the light of a full moon.
It was almost noon the next day when Black Beaver saw fresh moccasin tracks edging the snow. Grandfather has survived the blizzard! White Horse lives! thought the boy. Then he shuddered, remembering how many times he had dangled like a spider twirling on its web, out over the sheer drop to the bottom. Despite ancient notches carved in the stone face of the mountain, Black Beaver knew that without the rope he would not have made it to the top. The thin air made him drowsy and confused so that he often lost sight of the footholds his grandfather could follow in the dark. But he had done it and survived, and, somehow, White Horse had survived too.
The dove was disappointing up close. It was nothing more than a huge expanse of deep snow trapped in a vast fissure.
Black Beaver decided to rest for a moment. He was startled a short time later by his grandfather’s voice gently chiding, “Are you going to sit there and doze within just a few feet of the most soul-stirring sight you will ever see?” As the boy moved, White Horse cautioned, “Careful! Don’t leap up or you will go tumbling down into the valley.”
“You look well, Grandfather—for one who has been trapped up here for so long,” Black Beaver said boldly, as the thought occurred to him that he might have been tricked into the climb. He sniffed the air. “I smell food cooking!” he added incredulously. “Or have the heights made me delirious?”
White Horse arose stiffly and motioned his grandson to follow. The old one lumbered along like a bear in heavy fur garments Black Beaver had never seen before. Were they kept here for the final part of the climb? he wondered.
Black Beaver stopped and stared. “A cave! And it is stocked with many supplies. You were never in any real danger!” the boy accused grimly, thinking of his hazardous and needless climb. “You could have survived here for many more weeks or even climbed down, once the blizzards had passed!”
“Yes, but then you might never have seen the world from this mountain height as you longed to do,” White Horse said softly. “This one fear might have remained throughout your life and would probably have led to others. I had to trick you and force you to conquer the fear as my father tricked me so many years ago. I understood your fight more than you realized. I experienced all the same agonies and self-doubts as a youth. Now you have won. Come and eat with me.”
“No. First I must stand on the summit and feel the same beauty and awe as my ancestors,” Black Beaver said decisively. “Now that fear is no longer knotted around my throat like a rope, I am free. I will climb this and many other mountains throughout my life—thanks to the wisdom of White Horse.”

By August 1830, Parley P. Pratt had moved to Ohio, married, and worked hard to turn his land into a beautiful farm. But in studying the scriptures, Parley began to feel that the Lord wanted him to become a preacher. He and his wife sold their farm and headed by boat for Albany, New York, where they had friends. While on board, Parley felt a need to leave the boat and travel by foot.
At Newark, New York, he set off, leaving his wife to continue to Albany alone. He soon met a Mr. Hamblin, who told him of a book said to have been discovered and translated by a young man named Joseph Smith. The next morning Parley went to the Hamblin home to see the book. He wrote, “I read all day; eating was a burden, … I preferred reading to sleep.
“As I read, the spirit of the Lord was upon me, and I knew and comprehended that the book was true. … I soon determined to see the young man who had been the instrument of its discovery and translation.”
Immediately Parley went to Palmyra, New York, to find Joseph Smith. When he got there, he learned that Joseph had moved to Pennsylvania. Parley met the prophet’s brother Hyrum, however, and talked with him throughout the night about the Book of Mormon and the restoration of the gospel. A few days later Parley P. Pratt was baptized in Seneca Lake.

I feel impressed by something that has been said to repeat an experience. There are a number who are listening in tonight, and one particularly who will remember this very vividly—an incident that took place a number of years ago in Japan. I want you to pay particular attention to a part of this, to show how a mistake in your early life can blight the possibilities of your future opportunities for service in the kingdom of God.
It was just after the war; things were tense. We were at one of the upper camps where the planes could take off, and within half an hour they could be over on the Russian side. We were holding a noon meeting with our servicemen. They called on a young man to speak first. He announced his text from the prayer of the Master when he prayed for his disciples: “I pray not that thou shouldest take them [my disciples] out of the world, but that thou shouldest keep them from the evil.” (John 17:15.) Then this lad delivered one of the finest talks on chastity that I have ever heard. He closed by saying, “Rather than lose my virtue, I would die and have my body sent home in a pine box and my dog tags follow after.”
There was a hush over that audience of servicemen, and then he bore his testimony; and as he started to leave the pulpit, he stumbled and fell, draped over the pulpit. We lifted him off the pulpit and worked with him until he was revived, and then took him down in the audience.
As they carried him down, the mission president said to me, “I wonder if he has a bad heart.” And I said, “You know, I have had a feeling that there is something quarreling inside of him against what he has been saying to us.”
When it came my time to speak, I said to him, “Now, my boy, you have made a profound impression upon all of us. You have said you would rather die than lose your virtue. But remember, the devil heard you, as we heard you, and if I don’t miss my guess, he is going to make you prove that you would give your life before you would lose your virtue. You had better be on guard.”
The group leader took me aside when the meeting was over, and he said, “You were hitting close to the mark, because up at the Chitose Airbase there has grown up one of the most filthy, rotten cities filled with prostitutes to try to entrap our men, and we have tried to keep them out of their clutches. But this boy had made a date with one of these hussies, as they called them, patriotic hussies; and we found out before he kept the date and said, ‘Now look, we are not going to let you keep that date. Think of your mother; think of your sweetheart; think of your sisters. Now we will go down with you and help you break that date honorably.’”
This they did, and kept him under their surveillance for two weeks. They assigned him to do ward teaching, or home teaching, as they call it now; that meant, visit all the inactive boys in the camp. And two weeks later they assigned him to talk on the subject of chastity.
So the years passed. We were with President McKay at the dedication of the Los Angeles Temple. Between sessions I walked out to get some fresh air. As I walked up the west side of the building, I saw on the upper elevation a young man who seemed familiar to me, and I got closer to this young man that I had seen in Hokkaido, Japan. As he recognized me, he came running down the steps and threw his arms around my neck, and said, “Guess what! They have called me to be a worker in the Los Angeles Temple.”
There was a lump in my throat because I was there at the crossroads when he almost made a fatal step that probably would have forfeited him the right to be a worker in the Los Angeles Temple.
More years passed, and then I was out at a conference where he lived; and I saw a young couple walking down the aisle, the man holding in his arms a beautiful child, and a beautiful girl holding on to his arm, whom he introduced as his wife. As they uncovered the face of their new baby, I thought there was pride in the face of that young man because he knew as a young father that in the blood of his own child there was clean, pure blood. That is the reward that comes to one who passes the test.

In a meeting, I once told of a dentist in my ward who each year visited the Philippine Islands to work his skills without compensation to provide corrective dentistry for children. Smiles were restored, spirits lifted, and futures enhanced. I did not know the daughter of this dentist was in the congregation to which I was speaking. At the conclusion of my remarks, she came forward and, with a broad smile of proper pride, said, “You have been speaking of my father. How I love him and what he is doing for children!”

For over twenty years we lived next door to Jan, a sister who is filled with the love of God and others. She not only blessed her doctor husband and nine children, but went about blessing everyone around her. One day when I backed out of our driveway and started driving down the street, I hit and killed our family dog right in front of her house. I don't know how she knew I needed an angel of mercy right then, but there she was to comfort and console me. She told me to go on my way and continue to take our two daughters to their piano lessons. When I returned home she had cleaned up the mess and had prepared our dog for burial. She always seemed to know when I or someone in our family needed her help. Most recently, in May of this year, she attended the funeral of President Peterson's father, which we were unable to attend. While there, she comforted his mother and siblings and our children and took many pictures to send to us so that we could feel like we had been a part of the celebration of his father's life. Over the years, our family has been on the receiving end of one charitable act after another from this remarkable friend.

Last July I visited the Church’s Polynesian Cultural Center in Hawaii. Before the evening show of dancing and music from various island cultures, I went backstage to thank the performers. I arrived during those frantic moments before the show began. Scores of performers were hurrying through the last-minute tasks required to coordinate their efforts in a fast-moving performance. I wondered how the director would bring this turmoil to order in preparation for my brief remarks.

It happened as if by miracle. On signal, one strong voice began, and the strains of “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” quickly swelled into a beautiful chorus as the uniquely talented young people brought their thoughts into harmony with the Lord.

We had a similar experience in our family. Last spring some of our children and fourteen of our grandchildren had a family outing in the mountains. One of our activities was a meeting to share experiences and testimonies. We gathered at the appointed time, but the little people were only gathered in body. The large spirits in those little bodies were clamoring for more of the exciting outdoor activities they had been enjoying. The cabin where we met was too small to contain them, and it seemed as if a dozen restless children and their outcries were ricocheting off the walls in every direction. Grandparents will appreciate the apprehension I felt at trying to sponsor something serious in that setting.

Suddenly the instinctive wisdom of young mothers rescued our efforts. Two mothers began to sing a song familiar to the children. Others joined in, and within a few minutes the mood had changed and all spirits were subdued and receptive to spiritual things. I offered a silent prayer of thanks for hymns and for mothers who know how to use them!

The sun was shining brightly, but the day might as well have been gloomy. I sat on the porch steps with my chin in my hand, watching leaves scurry across the grass. No one would help me! Not Jeff, who hurried off to a part-time job after school. Not Mom and Dad, who were busy in the house. Not anyone! Then I saw Grandma riding her bike up the lane. “Hi, Grandma!” I jumped up and ran to meet her.
She grinned and waved. “Hi, Sheri!” she called. “What are you doing, honey?”
“Nothing!” I replied bitterly.
She got off her bike and kissed me. “What would you like to do?”
“Learn how to catch a ball, Grandma. The kids at school can all catch a ball, and all I do is drop it!”
“You’re an expert cookie maker,” she said, taking my hand and walking toward the house.
I shook my head, frowning. “You make the cookies—I just put the icing on.”
“We’re partners. I do one part, and you do the other. Right?”
I nodded. “Right! But, Grandma, cookies don’t have anything to do with catching a ball.”
She stopped and looked hard at me. “You’re absolutely right! OK, partner, let’s do something about it.”
When Grandma makes up her mind to do something, it’s almost done!
“Ellen?” Grandma called. “Yoo-hoo!”
“In here, Mother,” Mom answered from the kitchen.
They kissed each other; then Grandma took two pieces of cucumber from the salad bowl and handed one to me. “Is there a ball and mitt around here?” she asked.
“Probably in the cellar,” Mom replied. “Why?”
“Sheri is going to learn how to catch,” Grandma said.
Mom grinned as Grandma and I, armed with the ball and baseball glove, headed for the fields.
“OK,” Grandma said, “concentrate on where I’m throwing the ball. Catch it in your glove, and cover it with your other hand so that it doesn’t fall out.”
She swung her arm back and brought it forward slowly. The ball swooped through the air toward me. I stuck out my arm with the mitt on my hand and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the ball was lying on the ground, the same as it always did at recess. “I’ll never learn!” I moaned.
Grandma laughed. “Everyone closes his eyes in the beginning. Now you have to learn to keep them open and watch the ball. It can’t hit you if you’re watching it and catch it.”
I tried again. When I saw the ball coming, I started to close my eyes, then remembered what Grandma had said. I grimaced (in case it did hit me), but I watched it through my squinted eyes. Suddenly it landed right in the pocket of my glove! I jumped up and down and shouted, “I did it! I did it!”
“Of course you did! All you need is practice.”
“Will you practice with me, Grandma?”
“As long as the weather’s good, we’ll practice every day, partner,” she promised.
“Where’d you learn to catch?” I asked later, when we started home.
“My brothers and I were so close in age, that I had to learn!” Grandma chuckled. “Before long I could throw straighter and farther than any of my brothers. And I could catch any ball that they threw—without a mitt!”
“You didn’t have a mitt?”
“I always wanted one, but I never did get one,” she replied a bit wistfully.
We kept on practicing, and I got to be pretty good. Then one morning when I woke up, there was snow on the ground. Soon I saw Grandma coming along the lane, pulling a sled! I giggled and tapped on the window. She waved, motioning for me to come outside.
“Mom, Grandma wants me to go out and play. Is it OK?”
“Of course, Sheri, but bundle up. If I know your grandmother, she’s off to the big hill to go sledding.” Mom waved out the window to Grandma.
Grandma and I snuggled on her long sled as it sailed down toward the pines. We zoomed around them, jetted through the opening in the fence, and sped on toward the meadow. We bumped over a rut, dodged a stump, and finally slowed to a stop not too far from the stream. The icy water gurgled past snowcapped stones, and Grandma pointed silently upstream. A deer stood beside the water, staring at us quietly. Then it turned and bounded into a thicket. Our long walk back up the hill began. As we walked, we talked.
“Are you excited about Christmas?” Grandma asked.
I nodded.
“So am I, partner,” she said happily. “I’m counting on you to help me bake cookies again, you know,” she added quickly.
I grinned. It was fun being partners with Grandma.
Mom let me go Christmas shopping alone that year. I bought Jeff a book, Mom a scarf, and Dad gloves. They were easy to shop for. But Grandma … Well, it seemed like Grandma had everything! I walked around the mall, looking at everything, but nothing seemed to be right. I wanted something special for Grandma.
Then I found it! When I got home and showed everyone my gift for Grandma, Jeff laughed, Mom shook her head and smiled, and Dad just nodded. As I wrapped it, I began to worry. Would Grandma really like it?
I sat at the window and looked toward Grandma’s house. I could imagine her sitting by her fire, rocking and peeling apples for a pie. She would be singing, and her cat would be purring. Yes, I thought as I finished wrapping her gift, Grandma will like it.
On Christmas Eve we all sat around Grandma’s cozy fire. Christmas lights sparkled on the tree and in the windows, and her house smelled like cinnamon and pinecones. As I handed Grandma her gift, my heart pounded wildly. Please like it, I pleaded silently.
Grandma slid a finger under the tape and removed the wrapping without saying a word. When she opened the lid, her mouth fell open. Then she hugged me fiercely, and I knew that it was fine.
Later, when the others were in the kitchen, Grandma and I sat quietly watching the fire together. She slid an arm around me and pulled me closer and said, “Your gift was the best of all, honey.” Then she lifted her other arm and gazed at the mitt still on her hand. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. Thank you.”

One day while on a mission in Scotland, David O. McKay was walking around Stirling Castle with his companion, Peter G. Johnson. He said it was at the beginning of his mission, and on that day he had been snubbed while tracting. He was discouraged and homesick. He noticed a building that was half-finished. There was an inscription above the front door, carved in stone, that became a motto for his life: “What E’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part” (see CR, October 1954, p. 83).
And so let us find godliness and contentment in what we have and who and where we are at this time in our eternity. Let us add our part the best we can.

It was a routine she had down. She’d get up a little before 6:00 A.M. to catch the 6:30 bus, which would take her to school where she would spend the next nine hours. When the bell rang, dismissing classes for the day, it seemed like school was just beginning. She’d leave class and head to the library for three additional hours studying the day’s lessons. That’s 12 hours in school, just in case you’re keeping track. At 8:00 P.M., she’d hop on the bus and ride the 40 minutes to her home where she’d shower, eat, catch up on the world’s latest happenings from the newspaper, read from the scriptures, and then go to sleep. The next day, Liu Kwan Ling, who also uses the English name Angel, would do it all over again.
Want to schedule some time with her? Better do it in advance. Free time wasn’t one of the luxuries in Angel’s life then, and it certainly isn’t now.
Even Angel admits it was a grueling schedule. She’ll also admit it was worth it. Last year Angel graduated from the Taipei First Girls’ High School and is now in her first year at National Taiwan University, rated the top college in this island country near mainland China.
Having survived the rigors of high school, Angel is probably busier now that she’s graduated. Her college schedule compared to her daily high school routine really isn’t that much different. In fact, it’s about identical. It’s just that the college courses she’s taking are a little more demanding. Yet Angel knows how she’s been able to juggle all the things in her busy schedule. “I can increase my spirituality by reading the scriptures and praying,” she says. “I think without doing that and by not going to my Sunday meetings I would become easily discouraged and depressed about school and life. But if I go to sacrament meeting and listen to the talks, it seems that my life is always more positive and happy. I think the most important thing in my life is my spirituality.”
It was a tough two years on Angel as she both prepared for college and tried to remain active in the Peitou Ward of the Taipei East Stake, where she is her ward’s sacrament meeting pianist.
The bulk of her time was spent studying English, math, Chinese, physics, chemistry, biology, physical education, music, and housekeeping (cooking and sewing).
Scripture study was a welcome break for Angel, even if her friends didn’t understand why she’d take time away from her school classes to bother with religion. “A lot of them think it’s strange that I spend time with my church. Most of my classmates don’t have any religious beliefs,” says Angel, who was the only Church member in the Taipei First Girls’ School student body of 4,000-plus. “Some students will discuss religion with me, but most of the time they just think being LDS is strange because it takes me away from my schoolwork.”
One of those classmates is a friend Angel invited to church one Sunday. Angel says her friend had a generally positive experience at church, and even told Angel afterward that she felt religion was good, and that she might think about becoming religious herself—after she graduates from the university. “She just didn’t think she had the time for church,” Angel adds.
Even Angel’s father, Liu Chen Mei Yu, isn’t completely convinced the time his daughter spends learning the gospel is all that productive. He often questions if Angel’s time wouldn’t be better spent studying or going to the library. When Angel’s mother, Catherine, joined the Church in 1984, Angel was only seven. Although Liu Chen Mei Yu didn’t object to his wife’s baptism, he had no interest in joining the Church with her. However he did allow Angel to be baptized when she turned eight. “My father is interesting,” Angel adds. “Sometimes he will say, ‘Since you have an exam coming up, maybe you shouldn’t go to church.’ But there are other times when he’ll tell me to hurry up because he doesn’t want me to be late for church.
“My parents have high expectations of me. My father thinks I can have a great impact on our family by continuing my education and doing well,” Angel adds. Angel is also quick to point out she can have a great impact on her family by staying active in the Church too.
“In Taiwan, parents who are members of the Church set examples for their children,” says Kent Liang, a former regional representative and stake president. “They go to church and perform their callings, and the children are able to see this. But some kids whose parents aren’t members are often tempted to rest and not go to church on Sundays. And the school competition is so high that school is sometimes all they see. They think, Should I go to church or go to the library? Sometimes they don’t worry that much about church things because they don’t see that far into the future. Right now, many of the kids in Taiwan are only worried about school.”
And that’s what’s so amazing about Angel. School is important. But it’s not the only thing in her life. She graduated near the top of her high school class, yet she doubts she could have done it had she not had the gospel’s guiding influence in her life.
“The Church was especially helpful to me during my senior year of high school. I noticed a lot of my schoolmates were easily depressed because of school,” she says. “But I knew if I did my best, Heavenly Father would help me. Usually, my grades were better than I expected.”
Today, college life keeps Angel incredibly busy as she studies to become a doctor. As Angel returns home from a full day, she still takes time to read from the scriptures. When she closes her triple combination, it’s 10:30 P.M. Angel’s day is over—finally. She can close her eyes knowing she’s doing well in school, and, more importantly, she’s finding time to include the gospel in her busy life. In less than eight hours, her day will begin all over again. Angel will undoubtedly enjoy a very sound sleep.

To get better acquainted with incoming young women, one stake Relief Society presidency cooks and serves a meal at Young Women camp each year. “We would go early enough to visit each ward site,” says Relief Society president Carolyn Rasmus of the Orem Utah North Stake. “We served something that required us to place the food item on their plates so we could interact with each young woman. I remember the girls commenting—positively—that we wore jeans, weren’t afraid to get dirty, and took the time to come to camp. We hope it provided an opportunity for them to see us as sisters who are approachable.”

I would like to tell you about some of the miracles that occurred in Andre’s quorum in Mochudi. As I share this example, watch for principles that strengthen every priesthood quorum that applies them.
After Andre was baptized, he accompanied the missionaries as they taught four other young men, who were also baptized. Now there were five young men. They began strengthening each other and the branch.
A sixth young man, Thuso, was baptized. Thuso shared the gospel with three of his friends, and soon there were nine.
In Mochudi, a 10th young man soon joined the Church. The missionaries found the 11th. And the 12th young man was baptized after seeing the gospel’s effect on his friends.
Members of the Mochudi Branch were thrilled. These young men “were converted unto the Lord, and … united unto the church.”12
The Book of Mormon played a significant role in their conversion.13 Thuso remembers, “I began reading the Book of Mormon … every time I was free, at home, at school, everywhere.”14
Oratile was drawn to the gospel because of the example of his friends. He explains: “[They] seemed to change in the snap of a finger. … I thought it had … to do with the little … book they started carrying around … school. I could see what good men they had become. … [I] wanted to change too.”15
All 12 young men were gathered and baptized within two years of each other. Each was the only member of the Church in his family. But they were supported by their Church family, including President Rakwela,16 their branch president; Elder and Sister Taylor,17 a senior missionary couple; and other branch members.
Brother Junior,18 a quorum leader, invited the young men to his home on Sunday afternoons and mentored them. The young men studied the scriptures together and held regular home evenings.
Brother Junior took them to visit members, people being taught by the missionaries, and anyone else who needed a visit. All 12 young men piled into the back of Brother Junior’s truck. He dropped them off at homes in companionships of two or three and picked them up later.
Even though the young men were just learning about the gospel and didn’t feel they knew much, Brother Junior told them to share one or two things they did know with the people they visited. These young priesthood holders taught, prayed, and helped watch over the Church.19 They fulfilled their priesthood responsibilities and experienced the joy of serving.
Andre said, “We played together, laughed together, cried together, and became a brotherhood.”20 In fact, they call themselves “the Band of Brothers.”
Together they set a goal that they would all serve missions. Since they were the only Church members in their families, they had many obstacles to overcome, but they helped each other through them.
One by one, the young men received mission calls. Those who left first wrote letters home to those still preparing, sharing experiences and encouraging them to serve. Eleven of the young men served missions.
These young men shared the gospel with their families. Mothers, sisters, brothers, friends, as well as people they taught on their missions, were converted and baptized. Miracles occurred and countless lives were blessed.
It has been almost 10 years since the Mochudi Band of Brothers started their journey together, and they are still a band of brothers.
Katlego said, “We may be separated by distance but we are still there for each other.”22

How long does it take to collect 10,000 pounds of food? The youth of the Marysville Washington Stake did it in about three hours! There were approximately 170 of them. And to be fair, they did get a little help from their adult leaders.
Dressed in yellow vests bearing the words “Mormon Helping Hands,” these young men and women went door-to-door in pairs gathering donations. Along the way, they had some very heartwarming experiences, most notably meeting a family who receives help from their local food bank and an obviously poor elderly woman who didn’t have much to spare. But in both cases, these people were deeply touched by the actions of the youth and still sacrificed by donating food. Talk about the widow’s mite!
The Marysville, Arlington, and Stanwood food banks were the recipients of the generous donations from individuals in each community. The directors of these three food banks were overwhelmed with gratitude for the amount of food donated by the community and collected by the youth and adults of the Marysville stake.

Insight Number Two
In 1982 Brother Crabtree had a heart attack. Open-heart surgery followed—five bypasses! A week after he was out of the hospital he insisted that his wife drive him out to the project. When she wasn’t looking, he climbed aboard a D-8 Caterpillar tractor and took off through the trees. He was gone for forty-five frantic minutes. He returned smiling and said everything seemed to be in place.

Years ago I read in a Church magazine the story of a girl who was living away from home and going to college. She was behind in her classes, her social life was not what she had hoped for, and she was generally unhappy. Finally one day she fell to her knees and cried out, “What can I do to improve my life?” The Holy Ghost whispered, “Get up and clean your room.” This prompting came as a complete surprise, but it was just the start she needed. After taking time to organize and put things in order, she felt the Spirit fill her room and lift her heart.

I guess I had my first run-in with a bee on a hot summer day when I was about five years old. I was minding my own business when suddenly an angry bee flew into my shirt and stung me on the stomach. At least that’s what I told my mom. Actually, I was pulling the petals off of her yellow roses. You know, “She loves me not.” Pluck. “She loves me—ooh, yuck.”
I was just getting ready to prove once and for all that no yucky girl loved me when apparently I found a rose that was already in use. A bee came buzzing out and crawled through a tiny hole in my shirt. I tried holding still, something I’d always been told to do by my brave and more experienced brothers. But I panicked and frantically tried to brush the bee out from under my shirt. Unfortunately, the bee panicked too and stung me.
Inside, as Mom pulled out the stinger and dried my tears, she said, “I know you feel bad. But you should feel sorry for the bee. Once a bee has stung somebody it dies.” As I sniffled and thought about her words, I decided that maybe the score was about even. But nearly ten years later I wasn’t so sure.
When I was 14, I began working for a neighbor who raised bees as a hobby. My job was to take care of his horses, paint fences, mow the lawn, and weed the garden.
The beehives were located in the field behind the garden, and it seemed like every time I was there I’d end up getting stung or chased by some angry bee. I was beginning to wonder if the bees were trying to avenge the death of their long-lost ancestor.
I told my neighbor I was going to need combat pay if he wanted his garden weeded. He told me what I really needed was the right equipment. We went into his basement and he got out his bee suit: thick gloves with sleeves that went all the way up my arms, white pants and shirt because white tends to pacify bees, boots, a hat, and a screen mask that covered my face and head.
Feeling protected, I journeyed outside. Unfortunately it didn’t take long before I felt something crawling around on my head. There was a hole on the top of the mask. I’m not sure who panicked first, the bee or me. I took off running for the house, but before I got very far it was too late.
I guess you could say I got the point that day. But I really got it later when I was reading in Doctrine and Covenants 27:15 [D&C 27:15] where it says, “Wherefore, lift up your hearts and rejoice, and gird up your loins, and take upon you my whole armor, that ye may be able to withstand the evil day, having done all, that ye may be able to stand.”
In my spiritual life, I have learned the whole armor of God is essential to our salvation. We need to check our armor daily to see that it’s in place and in good repair—and that it doesn’t have holes in it. Prayer, daily scripture study, and repentance are just a few of the things that will help us win the spiritual battles we face.
It’s been a while since I’ve been stung by a bee, but I suppose if it happens again it will serve as a pointed reminder of the importance of putting on the whole armor of God.

It sometimes seemed to Adam that not learning the piano was harder than learning it would be. But any struggle, no matter how difficult, would be worth the effort if it proved to his parents that piano lessons were a waste of time.
Now, martial arts lessons—those would be worthwhile. What if he was waylaid on the way home from school by bullies? What if he woke up one day to find himself trapped in some foul dungeon? How would he escape if he hadn’t learned tae kwon do*?
Or, if he had to learn an instrument, drums might possibly be cool enough. Instead he was subjected to Mrs. Turner’s endless urging to “make your fingers like tiny hammers.” Ugh!
So he purposely stumbled over the keys and acted as if he didn’t hear the jangling chords. He had to say one thing for Mrs. Turner—she was patient. She would pat her big white hair and attempt to smile. “That was a good try, dear.”
As for Mom and Dad, they were more determined than he had expected. He’d been taking unwanted lessons for two years. Weren’t they tired of hearing him pound away for half an hour every day but Sunday?
Tick-tick-tick sounded the clock. Three more minutes and practice time would be over.
His little sister, Sarah Kate, clumped her skates down on the bench next to him. “Will you roller-blade with me? Mom says I can’t go down the street by myself.”
“Nope,” Adam said. “I gotta finish practicing.” He brought his hands down with a crash.
“That sounds horrible!” Sarah Kate yelped.
Adam grinned. “Yeah.”
With a sigh, Sarah Kate left him.
Adam’s hands were in midair when the timer buzzed. He slammed down the lid of the piano and raced to the computer to play a game.
When he heard the missionaries’ voices, Adam deserted his game. He liked the elders. Sometimes they threw his football to him, or they played games with him and Sarah Kate. They were fun to tease too. Today, they were sitting at the table with Mom, helping her work on a Primary Sharing Time activity.
“Want to play ball?” Adam asked.
“Not now,” Elder Gilmore said. “Your mom needs us to cut out these circles.”
Adam tried to snatch Elder Presley’s name tag, but Elder Presley wasn’t in a teasing mood. He covered the tag with his hand, so Adam messed up his hair, instead. When that didn’t work, Adam plopped down into a chair. “I could cut some out too.”
Mom smiled. “Good! If you all do that, I can plan the music.” Mom was the Primary president, which in their tiny branch meant she was also the chorister, the secretary, and any teacher who didn’t show up.
Adam wrinkled his nose. “Primary music’s boring ’cause we always have to sing what’s on those tapes.”
Mom shook her head. “We’re lucky to have the tapes. Every day I pray that the elders will baptize someone who can play the piano.”
“We’ll work on it,” Elder Presley said. “You be on the lookout too.”
“I am,” Mom said. “I gave Adam’s piano teacher a Book of Mormon. She’s a wonderful woman, besides being musical. I invited her to church last week, but she didn’t come.”
Adam was unusually quiet as he cut out circles. When he finished, he agreed to skate with Sarah Kate. They skated a long way, but he hardly spoke a word. The rhythmic glide was good for thinking.
At his piano lesson the next week, he pulled out the Children’s Songbook. “Could you help me learn some of these?” he asked Mrs. Turner.
She flipped through the pages. “This is a wonderful book. Where did you get it?”
“It’s our church’s children’s songbook.”
“I don’t know about your learning these songs, though. I’m afraid they’re harder than the ones you’re already having trouble with.”
“I’ll learn them,” Adam said confidently. “I want to work on this one first.” He pointed to “Called to Serve.” It was one of his favorites.
Mrs. Turner shrugged. “All right. But you’ll really have to practice hard.”
“I will,” Adam said. “And can I do it here? Right after school? I kind of want to surprise my mom on Sunday.”
Mrs. Turner agreed, and all that week Adam practiced at her house. He worked on “Called to Serve” for an hour every day. Each night he prayed for help, and by Saturday the notes came fairly readily to his fingers.
On Sunday morning in Primary, Mom started to turn on the tape recorder. Adam stopped her. “I can play ‘Called to Serve’ on page 174.”
He sat down at the piano. There was a shivery feeling in his stomach. How had he thought he could play in front of everybody?
His eyes wandered over the children’s and teachers’ faces—and saw Mrs. Turner! She sat on the last row, a smile on her face!
He gave her a flickery grin and sent up a swift, silent prayer. He felt calmer as his fingers began to play the familiar notes.

In early 2022, I was assigned to New Zealand’s Huntly, Waikato area. I’d been out on my mission for about a year by then, and was asked to train my companion, Elder Kafalava, who was brand new to the field.
One day, a recent convert named Brother Tengu wanted to do missionary work with us. I didn’t know much about Brother Tengu then, except that he’d only joined the Church four months earlier and he loved the Book of Mormon. We didn’t have any appointments that day, so we decided to knock on doors.
We found our way to the home of a certain man, a M?ori fella. He opened the door, and I thought he looked a bit — different. But we started talking to him, and at least he was talking to us.
He told us he didn’t believe in God. “I believe in soundwaves and frequencies,” he said and then showed us a range of musical instruments he’d carved and strung together into a necklace of sorts.
After a while I was discouraged, thinking, “Man, this isn’t going anywhere.” But Elder Kafalava continued talking to the man at the door as Brother Tengu stood nearby, holding a copy of the Book of Mormon.
All of a sudden, I received a powerful prompting to perform the haka for this man. “Give him the haka?” I laughed to myself. “There is no way I’m doing that!” But I couldn’t fight the impression, so I asked the man, “Hey. Do you mind if I give you the haka?”
After some hesitation, the man was amused. “Okay then. Go for it, Bro. Sure!”
“Just before I give you this haka,” I said, “let me tell you what it means.” I explained that it is our mission haka, that it reminds us why we preach the gospel. It describes missionaries as warriors of light, protected by the power of God as we share the sacred message of eternal life.
After I recited its English translation, I launched into it, and then there I was, all by myself on that porch—this white guy from Salt Lake City, Utah—fervently grabbing the sky and pulling it down to my chest as I performed our mission haka for a M?ori stranger.
I’m sure the neighbours were wondering what was going on. Elder Kafalava was too new to know this haka, so he provided moral support, but as I continued to pound my thighs and chant, I saw that Brother Tengu was now holding his Book of Mormon out—arm awkwardly extended, straight ahead—towards the man at the door.
I looked at our recent convert, thinking, “What are you doing? You’re ruining my haka.” Then I noticed how mesmerised the man at the door was, not by me, but by the Book of Mormon.
Sure enough, when I finished the haka, the man gestured and said, “So, what’s this book?” Brother Tengu proceeded to bear his powerful testimony. He talked about the oppressive darkness that once enfolded him so fully that he even considered taking his own life. He talked about the pivotal moment when a friend at school asked him if he’d like to meet the missionaries.
Brother Tengu expressed gratitude for those missionaries, but said it was the Book of Mormon—which he was still holding out in front of him—that truly led him to light. He testified that the Book of Mormon answered every one of his questions, that it brought him peace. “It saved my life!” he said.
In awe, the man at the door extended his own arm forward and asked, “Can I touch it?” And then, with his hand on its cover, the man began to pray over the Book of Mormon.
We left that copy with him, and as we drove away, I marvelled at how strange this day had been. If nothing else came of this encounter, it would at least make a great journal entry!
When we visited him again a week later, the man called out to us, “Hey, I got a question for you brothers: How do I get baptised?”
I was in shock. It turns out, the man had read the entire book of Alma, and Alma talked a lot about baptism. And now, “I want to get baptised,” he said, “and I want you to baptise me.”
I think back in amazement at that experience. We were only instruments in God’s hands, following the promptings of the Holy Ghost to go knock on a door, to open our mouths and to give a man the haka.
In turn, he was inspired to read the Book of Mormon and was converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ. The Book of Mormon is the true converter. It is what makes faith.
The man at the door was baptised two months later. He recently received the Aaronic Priesthood. This has been a testimony to me that conversion is a miracle.

Five-year-old Dee woke to whispers and gentle nudging from Grandpa Leonard, who was dressed in his blue Sunbeam Bakery uniform. Dee sat straight up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. The clock on the nightstand next to him read 3:00 a.m.
An inviting aroma of bacon and toast came from the kitchen. “Grandma is finishing breakfast for us,” Grandpa whispered. “Hurry and dress, but don’t wake your brother. Duke can come to work with me tomorrow. Today it’s your turn.”
Excitement swelled as Dee quickly dressed. He looked across the room at Duke, his twin brother, who was sound asleep and snoring. All year long Dee and Duke looked forward to the day school would end and they could visit Grandma and Grandpa in the country. They fed the chickens, worked in the garden, and went fishing. But Dee’s favorite activity was riding in the big bread truck, helping Grandpa deliver bread to the small country grocery stores serving the Iowa townships nearby.
Dee made his way to the kitchen, his stomach growling. After prayer, he gobbled his breakfast in record time and ran out the door to the car with Grandpa. Grandma stood on the porch in her robe and waved good-bye.
When they arrived at Sunbeam Bakery, Dee was surprised to see Grandpa’s bread truck already loaded with freshly baked bread and delicious pastries. He savored the aroma. A man emerged from the idling truck’s cab and waved. “Everything’s ready for you this morning.”
Grandpa smiled. “Thank you, Charlie. I’ll just get my inventory sheet and double-check our load. Then we’ll be on our way.”
Grandpa quickly and carefully checked off each item and made a few notes on the inventory list. He lifted Dee onto the passenger seat and handed him a day-old Danish. “Here you go, Dee—dessert to top off Grandma’s fine breakfast.” Grandpa was allowed to buy the day-old breads and pastries at a reduced price after he had returned them to the bakery. Sometimes Grandpa’s boss treated them, but they never took anything unless it was offered first.
Soon they were on the road. Dee watched the sun peer over the rolling hills of corn and grain carpeting the Iowa landscape. The ride with Grandpa was fun. They sang songs together that Dee had learned in church, and Grandpa taught him to whistle a new tune. He told Dee stories about life on the farm as they passed cow pastures, sheds that held pigs, and chicken coops.
Before Dee knew it, they had arrived at the tiny town of Fairview, and Grandpa pulled the truck to the back door of the local grocery store. Grandpa hopped out of the truck and helped Dee out. Dee was happy with his small hand in Grandpa’s great big one as they approached the store. With his free hand, Grandpa reached for the ring of keys that he kept attached to his belt loop and unlocked the back door.
Grandpa spoke slowly. “These keys are a sacred trust. Do you understand what that means?” Dee wasn’t sure. He slowly shook his head.
As they walked through the door, Dee saw the many items the grocer had for sale. There were aisles and aisles of food, an aisle for cleaning supplies, and even a special aisle filled with toys and sporting goods, like fishing gear. “How nice it would be to own this store,” Dee thought, “to have all these things and never just wish for them.”
Grandpa interrupted Dee’s thoughts. “The owner of this store has given me his key to the back door because he knows that I will never harm my good name by stealing,” Grandpa said. “My father was known for his honest dealings in this town, and I am blessed to carry his name.”
Nothing more was said. Dee helped Grandpa remove the bread that would go back to the bakery to be sold as day-old goods. He helped him stack the fresh bread that was still warm. He thought about what Grandpa had said and smiled. He was happy to be a member of Grandpa’s family. He made a promise to himself that he too would someday be known for his good name.
Dee watched with pride as Grandpa reached again for the ring of keys and securely locked the door. They got into the truck again and headed for the Eddyville store, whistling as loud as they could.

Some years ago Elder Marion D. Hanks told about a group of Boy Scouts who went cave exploring. The narrow trail was marked with white stones and lighted in sections as they went. After about an hour they came to a huge, high dome. Below it lay an area called the Bottomless Pit, so called because the floor of the cave had collapsed into a deep, gaping hole. It was hard not to jostle each other on that narrow path. Pretty soon, one of the bigger boys accidentally pushed a smaller boy into a muddy area away from the light. Terrified as he lost his footing, he screamed in the darkness. The ranger heard his cry of terror and came quickly. The boy let out another cry as the beam of the ranger’s light showed that he was right on the very edge of the pit.
In this story, the boy was rescued. But this does not always happen. So many times young people are enticed to go to the very edge or even beyond it. With only a precarious toehold, it is easy to be seriously injured or even die. Life is too precious to throw away in the name of excitement or, as Jacob said in the Book of Mormon, “looking beyond the mark.”

For many weeks I felt clean and happy. I loved talking about my baptism and how my heart seemed to be growing. My family and Primary teacher reminded me often that the Holy Ghost would help me know what was right and wrong.
A few days ago I had to take a test in school, and I was really nervous. I kept thinking how easy it would be to copy from the girl sitting next to me. I knew that cheating was wrong, but I was desperate to get a good score. Then I remembered that the Holy Ghost would help me. I said a prayer in my heart asking for strength to make the right choice.
The rest of the day, I felt as happy as I had at my baptism. After school, I ran to our car and gave Mom a hug. “I got 100 percent on my test!” I exclaimed.
“That’s great!” Mom said.
“And I didn’t even cheat.”
Mom frowned. “You wanted to cheat?”
“Well, I thought about it,” I admitted. “But I had a feeling inside that it was wrong. So I prayed for help and just tried my best.”
Mom smiled. “I’m glad you listened to that feeling.”
I’m glad too. Really glad. I always want to be worthy of my companion—the Holy Ghost.