Gospel Story Finder

Of course other prayers are also offered in such quiet places. In Hungary, in a grove of trees at the top of a mountain overlooking the city of Budapest, two sister missionaries are quietly seeking answers.
They open their scriptures and bring out a typewritten copy of the dedicatory prayer—newly translated into Hungarian—that Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve pronounced on Hungary in 1987. It was here on Mt. Gellért that Elder Nelson originally gave this prayer, asking the Lord to pour out his blessings upon the nation and its people. For a few moments as they read, the sisters are enveloped with a feeling of warmth and peace.
Sisters. They love the sound of that word. There’s no family relationship between Sister Nagy Erika and Sister Pálinkás Bernadett. (Hungarian surnames are used first, followed by the given names.) And they met for the first time after becoming missionaries. But no sisters could feel more united in purpose and spirit.
Sister Pálinkás is from Dunaújváros, where there were no churches at all until just recently. “My parents are not believers in God,” she says. “But somehow I felt close to him and felt that he loved me.”
When she was almost 20, two American missionaries came into the store where she sold office supplies. “My co-workers and I could tell from the very first that these young men were different from others,” she remembers.
Bernadett and a co-worker arranged to hear the first discussion. Although her friend soon lost interest, Bernadett attended sacrament meeting the following Sunday and, after being taught by the missionaries and converted by the Spirit, was baptized a month later, on August 22, 1992.
Sister Pálinkás is grateful for letters from branch members—especially the youth—back home. And she has a lot of support around her in the mission. Her first zone leader was the missionary who had baptized her in Dunaújváros a year and a half earlier! “I felt very fortunate to be able to work at the same time with him,” she says.
In April 1992, Nagy Erika was 20 years old and was living with her family in the city of Nyiregyháza when a friend encouraged them to listen to the missionaries. Erika’s father, who is a devout Christian, had taught his family about God. “But when the two elders came in the door and greeted us—my parents and all eight of us children—we felt a surprising feeling of happiness because of the spirit that came from them.”
After the second discussion, the family suddenly lost contact with the missionaries. First, one of the elders was transferred. Then, unexpectedly, Erika’s family had to move to Budapest.
Two months after moving to Budapest, Erika had one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong. First, she missed her bus. Then she had to walk a long way in the rain. When she finally reached a subway station, she was feeling pretty discouraged. “Then, while waiting for the subway, I suddenly noticed two elders—and one of them was the one who had taught us in Nyiregyháza! I couldn’t believe it—in a city of more than two million people!”
The discussions immediately resumed with the family, and Erika was baptized on September 13, 1992, just five months after her first meeting with the missionaries.
A year after her baptism, Erika received her mission call to Hungary. “I was happy to be called to serve my own people in my own language. But I worried whether I was worthy to be the first Hungarian citizen to serve in Hungary and if I would be able to give the people what they needed. I prayed about it and felt many special feelings that night. I knew that God loved me and my family. I felt very close to God.”
As the two sisters reminisce about experiences they are having as missionaries, it is obvious that they are being richly blessed by the Lord in their efforts. “When I went to my first city as a new missionary,” says Sister Pálinkás, “my companion and I looked in our planners and there was nothing scheduled. But we went out and worked hard. I learned that when there’s an empty day in our planners we can say, ‘No problem; we’re going to teach three or four discussions.’ I’ve learned that if we ask with real faith and real intent, the Lord will help us with it, as long as it’s according to his will.”
As these sisters see it, the preaching of the gospel in Hungary is both a beginning and an end. “The gospel gives us Hungarians a new start,” says Sister Pálinkás. “Maybe this means an end to the feeling some people have had that they needed to be apart from everyone else, that they couldn’t love each other.”
“Big walls are falling down and gates are opening up because of the gospel,” says Sister Nagy. “Over the years, we’ve built walls to protect us from things that were going to happen in our lives, and love and brotherliness were missing. But the gospel helps us open the gates to love and service.”
With that love and service comes lots of prayer—a principle that Sister Nagy and Sister Pálinkás have put to the test. First, they prayed to gain their own testimonies of the gospel; now they pray to help others develop theirs. These missionaries don’t always climb to a grove of trees on a mountaintop to say their prayers, but they know they can rise to great heights wherever they are by listening to the answers they receive.

The strong, stocky man with a beard stood looking across the valley where the river flowed. Behind him dusty, footsore men and women stood waiting.
He raised an arm toward the valley below and said simply, “This is the place.”
The place? The Salt River Valley in Arizona. The people—seniors in the Westwood High School Seminary of Mesa, Arizona. The bearded man—Keith Magnusson, senior representative. Their nine-mile trek was ended.
It began in the foothills of the Superstition Mountains where some 150 students gathered in calicoes and levis, shod in boots, Keds, clodhoppers, waffle stompers, and burlap bags; sporting sunbonnets, sombreros, stetsons, and Davy Crockett coonskins. They came armed with lassos, pistols, rifles, muskets, and even one slingshot.
It was time for the annual pioneer trek, high point of the year for Westwood seniors. They divided into twelve families, each with its father, mother, and children. Three of the fathers were also called to be captains over four families each. Waiting for them in the desert were two wagons and a handcart.
Two girls settle into the box of the handcart.
“I hope we don’t get pulled over.”
“If you start to fall, just grab hold of a wheel.”
One of the young men, waiting to pull the cart, glances back at the girls and then at the hills and washes ahead. “Why me?” he asks.
While the horses and mules are being hitched up, several girls plait some of the abundant wild yellow poppies into their hair. Some of the boys wear them in buttonholes and hatbands. There’s plenty of laughter, horseplay, and maybe even a little courting.
One girl is asked what she plans to get out of the trek.
“Sore feet,” she answers, and then more seriously, “and an appreciation for what our ancestors went through, only it was twice as hard for them, and this will only give us an idea of what it was like the first day out when they were still fresh.”
A young man says, “We’ve studied Church history all year long—about the different ways the Saints came out here—and what we’re trying to do is get the same feeling they had and do the same things they did.”
“I’m going for the steak,” says an elfish female voice from somewhere in the crowd.
Keith Magnusson, known to the trekkers as Brigham Young, calls the group to order, asks everyone to stay with the proper family, and instructs them to obey all orders from Mark Riggs, alias Wilford Woodruff, the seminary council president.
The pioneer men and women then kneel humbly around the wagons and handcart and pray for protection and inspiration. It isn’t hard to imagine that you’re really on the plains of ’47, just starting a day’s journey.
Brigham gives the signal, and the drivers start their teams off through the tall saguaros, followed by the handcart and the families on foot. The families break into song. “You Are My Sunshine.” “On the Road to California.”
Their voices are strong, and they sing parts.
“Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel.”
The handcart is heavy, hills are steep, and the sand is often soft. Soon the girls in the back are out and pushing.
Family problems are ironed out.
“Daddy isn’t walking with Mommy,” a child complains.
“Where’s my husband?” asks another.
“Keep up with your brothers,” a father tells his daughters. “Pretend you’re late for class.”
“I knew she’d eventually catch up with me,” says a husband whose wife has just managed to overtake him.
“Hurry, children!”
The going is rough now, up and down hills and through washes. It’s rocky, sandy, and often steep. The pioneers have to steady the wagons over uneven ground and hold them back to keep them from rolling downhill too swiftly and tipping over. One young man in an Ozark hat and striped suspenders hangs from the back of the handcart, digging his feet into the ground—a human brake.
But the desert is beautiful. Recent rains have carpeted it with grass and wildflowers. These, with saguaros, palo verdes, ocotillos, barrel cactus, chaparral, and other desert plants shroud the rugged stone of desert cliffs in green fire. To the east the Three Peaks rise like lost icebergs. Every turn of the trail works a new miracle of scenery.
It’s clear that these young people are proud of their desert home.
“And some people say the desert is barren!”
“That’s what I used to think before I moved here, but wow!”
The trail is level for a moment, and the group breaks out in song again. The whole caravan sings together, almost as if they had a conductor. And sure enough, they do. Brigham Young stands swaying in the bed of the open wagon, feet braced wide apart, beating time for the long line of marchers following him. “When pioneers first to the west. …”
At the side of the trail a young man kneels, tying a girl’s shoelaces.
After a while the song breaks off into fragments and eddies and dies away—rough road ahead! A steep narrow, rutted stone descent to a washbed below. The first wagon starts down. It’s going too fast!
“Give us a hand here!”
Men and women rush forward to brake the wagon, clinging to the back and trying to plant their feet. It begins to tip over sideways, and they prop it from that side. The way is steep, and feet are struggling for a place on the slippery rock. The rear wheel is slipping toward a deep rut that could flip the wagon.
“Keep it out of the dip! It’s liftable—push it!”
Backs bend; muscles strain; the rear of the wagon is lifted right off the ground and swung to safer going. Brigham goes before, leading the horses.
“I’d like to try this on a skateboard,” says one adventurous young man.
Soon all three vehicles are down, and the long trail of pioneers follows them onto the sandy wash bottom.
The deep sand clings to the wheels of the handcart, and the pullers have to keep it moving fast to overcome the friction. Fortunately, they’re all athletes.
With the up and down of the trek behind them, there’s time again to settle family problems.
“Now you mind your father,” says a mother’s voice from somewhere in the rear, “or the crickets will get you.”
The march settles down to the sound of feet pulling themselves out of the sand. On the roadside, hats off, two young men kneel sorrowfully before a wooden marker on which is scrawled: “Here Lies Lilly.”
A few turns of the wash later, the wagons halt, and the good news comes back up the line. “Lunch time!”
Out come lunch sacks bulging with sandwiches, potato chips, soda pop, brownies, fried chicken, and other pioneer foods. The tired lunchers settle in the shade, wherever there is any, eating in family groups. The voice of one young man can be heard asking a blessing on the family’s food. “And we thank thee for the privilege of learning what the pioneers went through. …”
“Amen. Who has the brownies?” says a voice from a nearby family.
The modern pioneers soon prove themselves equal to the originals when it comes to hearty appetites.
“I don’t feel quite like a pioneer yet,” one young man admits. “I’m starting to get a pretty good blister though.”
“It’s a lot tougher than I thought it would be,” says another.
“Their feet must have been awfully sore,” says a third.
“I think it’s fun!” declares a fourth, and all four agree.
Brother Shelton goes among the families giving encouragement. “Let’s go! It’s all downhill from here on, and we’re already a third of the way there!”
And so they’re off again down the winding wash. No more hills to climb now, just slow sand, and that takes its toll. The horses and mules have to rest frequently. The water cans in the back of the handcart are empty, and the sun is hot. Those who brought canteens share with those who didn’t, and soon it’s a dry trek. Around one corner the group finds water trickling from the hill, and everyone goes down on his hands and knees to drink. It’s meager and muddy, but oh so good!
Flowers cover the sides of the wash, the hills are green, and spirits are still high. But feet are beginning to feel the weight of their responsibility.
“This is so beautiful!”
“My feet ache!”
A girl picks a sprig of mistletoe from a palo verde tree and puts it on her bonnet. But all the Romeos are too busy pulling their feet out of the sand to notice.
At the tail end of the group, two girls kneel, tying a young man’s shoelaces.
“These women know their place,” he says. They meekly finish tying and walk on. When their master tries to follow, he finds his laces have been tied together.
After a rest stop some girls take over the handcart. It’s tough pulling, but they keep at it.
“Bet the pioneers had blisters,” one of them says.
“At first,” her friend replies, “and then some callouses like you wouldn’t believe.”
By now most faces are sunburned, but there are worse horrors on the pioneer trail. Under a gravel ledge two boys lie with arrows in their backs. They are left unburied.
Spirits remain high in spite of it all, and the pace is still swift. Everyone senses that the end is near.
Brother Brigham takes up Brother Shelton’s watchcry and exhorts the Saints, “Onward! It’s all downhill!”
And it was. Before long the trekkers glimpsed blue water through green trees. The Salt River! The trek was over.
The company took time for a long pause by the river to bathe their feet and rest their legs. Some of the young men even felt inspired to jump in, but mostly they felt inspired to help other people jump in.
There was even time for a little quiet satisfaction at having made it. “It was easy.”
“It wouldn’t be fun every day, but it was fun today.”
“I didn’t expect it to be half as rough as it was.”
“I really liked it. I’m tired, but I feel this is very important. It has touched my life deeply.”
Then there was food, delicious and abundant. Beef, potatoes, gravy, and fluffy, dutch-oven rolls with plenty of butter and jelly, and then donuts for dessert.
The pioneers filled in the few quiet moments available by throwing their instructors into the river, which was running high and cold.
Then there were games. Egg tossing produced a lot of fun and yolk. “I didn’t deserve this!” one young man lamented, watching the gooey yellow stuff drip from his fingers.
Then came three-legged races, sack races, stick pulling, capture the flag, and square dancing.
The stick-pulling competition was one of the high points of the evening. Muscles strained and bulged as the students pulled each other from the ground. The winner was awarded the Joseph Smith prize, in honor of the stick-pulling prowess of the Prophet.
Soon it was dark, the bonfire was lit, and everyone was ready for some old-fashioned pioneer dancing. And what dancing! Arizona hasn’t had such a stomping since Cochise led his braves in the war dance. Virginia reel, polka, square dance—the caller tried to get them to rest between dances, but they weren’t listening to any of that. They just wanted to dance. And dance they did, by the wavering glow of the bonfire, on tired feet that suddenly weren’t tired any more, and on and on as if they would never stop.
And so the tradition of the pioneer trek, already strong, has grown a little stronger. It’s something the seminary students look forward to for four years. Maybe that’s partly because it’s really theirs. No one else plans it for them. They do it all for themselves. Seminary council president Mark Riggs was in complete charge of the operation this year, and he delegated responsibility to many others. They all came through splendidly. Everything happened right on schedule and just the way it was supposed to. Everyone took his responsibility seriously. For example, the young man in charge of the wagons and the teams to pull them was up at 5 A.M. the day of the trek, making sure everything was ready although the trek didn’t start until 10:30.
The day before the trek one of the students asked Brother Shelton what was going to happen, and he replied, “You know more about it than I do.” It was their show, and they knew it.
But the preparation went far beyond the physical details. The students’ spiritual and intellectual preparation has been going on all year long. They’ve been studying Church history, reading pioneer journals, learning pioneer songs, practicing their square dancing, and getting a feel for their heritage in every way they could. They started the trek knowing a lot about what it means to be a pioneer.
Now they know a lot more.

Finally, here is one last special experience. For the last few months I have struggled with my 15-year-old son, Andy, to keep him practicing the piano. He made the choice to play some years ago, and I feel within my heart that he should continue. My stock remarks have included, “Someday you’ll be grateful I kept you at it. Someday you’ll have to play while on your mission or elsewhere.” How excited I was this evening when my husband picked up the June 1983 New Era and, after scanning it briefly, called our son to him and began reading aloud. All six of our children listened intently as he, with a cracking voice, read Alma J. Yates’s “A Hymn for Guaymas.” In it, Elder Richards’s curse—his mother’s insistence that he practice the piano daily—became a blessing when he was pressed into playing in that little branch.
Our son Andy is saving diligently for his stereo—and his mission. Tonight as his dad walked in to go to bed, Andy quickly found the first hymn Elder Richards had played, “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning,” and tried it himself. Thanks for the lesson I’ve been trying so hard to teach. It was perfect. Keep up your great work. The New Era is fantastic!
Jan YorkWarsaw, Indiana

We were on our way to Mammoth Mountain, California, where we planned to enjoy a wonderful week of ski racing and fun in the snow. Just as we were entering Tonapah, Nevada, the driver of the car asked me to take the wheel for a minute. Three of us were in the car. The third member in the back seat grabbed the wheel in a joking manner, turning it almost completely around. The car spun from side to side on the road, finally going off a 10- or 15-foot ledge. I was thrown from the car after it left the road; seconds later the big Travelall rolled over me.
As I hit the ground I turned my head. I don’t know why I did, but I just did. This saved my face from being crushed into the ground. Then I blacked out, but not for long. I remember getting to my feet and standing a few seconds until my friends laid me back on the ground. The only thing I was really worried about was having a broken back because it hurt. It was hard to breathe. I remember thinking that when people die they usually say, “Well, this is it.” I didn’t think “this is it,” but I was sure that dirt and gravel were in my lungs because it was so hard for me to breathe.
I was taken to the tiny Nye Valley hospital where the only patient they had that day was me. Luckily there was a doctor on call. He and the staff cleaned me off, sewed up my cuts, and told me I had a broken back. I was glad it was nothing more serious but felt terrible about not going on to Mammoth Mountain.
Shortly after, two elders who were passing the hospital came in and gave me a blessing. No one had told them to come. They were just going by the hospital and decided to come in and see if they were needed. The two just came up to me and asked me if I wanted a blessing. They didn’t know then, and neither did I, but I had a ruptured spleen that immediately repaired itself or I would have bled to death. The internist who cared for me later said, “This is a very unusual occurrence—a spleen healing itself. In fact, it is almost unheard of.”
The next morning a doctor from my hometown, Provo, Utah, flew in to see me. As soon as he looked at me, he started to give orders, and I was out of that hospital and into a plane in a hurry.
I don’t remember much about the plane ride, but the doctor told me it was a nightmare. He said I blacked out completely two times. The pilot wanted to fly above the storm, but the doctor told him to stay at a lower altitude to keep me alive—the plane did not have a supply of oxygen. An ambulance, oxygen, and my dad were waiting at the Provo airport.
After three weeks of pain, discomfort, discouragement, no food—it wouldn’t stay down—continuous intravenous feeding, being rushed to intensive care and onto an ice bed several times to reduce an extremely high fever, several blood transfusions, and having my back and side punctured to remove the fluid from my lungs, the doctors decided that the only thing left to do was to operate and remove one of my kidneys to try to stop the infection and bleeding.
Members of our ward and many of our friends and relatives fasted and prayed for my recovery. I had many wonderful blessings from my father and the bishop. We all had faith that everything would be all right. I made it through the operation, but my heart was weakened. We also wondered if the remaining kidney, which was also diseased, would take over.
The next week was spent in the intensive care unit with a heart monitor registering every beat. At one time the monitor stopped. I told the nurses to call my mother and tell her that the machine said I had just died and ask if she wanted to come and see me.
I can’t tell you how often and how sincerely I prayed for little things—that the nurse would find a vein that wouldn’t collapse, that I could swallow something that would stay in my stomach, or that my fever would go down without my having to be packed in ice again. These prayers and many others were always answered.
The doctors, three specialists, told me later what was wrong. Besides a broken back, I had three broken ribs that had punctured my lungs. The pressure, the fluid in my lungs, and infection, as well as drugs they had to give me, had injured my heart. I also had had a ruptured spleen, which was healed after my blessing from the elders. One badly diseased kidney was removed, and the other one had infection in it. When my folks asked the operating physician if I would make it, he just shook his head and said, “We can hope. His insides were a mess.” He and the other specialists told us later that by all medical standards I should have died soon after the accident and many times since.
I stayed in the hospital about two months. I lost 50 pounds and was so dizzy that I couldn’t walk without help. I was to have stayed at home and been taught by a tutor. However, I was determined to go to school. With the help of a good friend I was able to do it.
Within a few months the doctors said I was completely well. In fact, after a final examination by the internist, he brought out a large assortment of charts and papers, held them up in the air, and said, “What can I say? You are okay. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Be careful about contact sports—you have only one kidney—but many, many people live to a very old age with only one kidney. In fact, some people are born with only one. Come back and see me in a year.”
I am grateful to be alive and well. I can do anything I ever did before—ski, play tennis, play basketball, exercise. I am so thankful for dedicated doctors (I hope to be one some day), wonderful, patient nurses, and for well-equipped hospitals; but most of all I thank my Father in heaven for his many blessings to us. I’m especially grateful to be serving the Lord in the Canada Calgary Mission. I know our Father loves and guides us and that he has a mission for each of his children. He does preserve lives for a purpose greater than we realize.

In her sophomore year, Julie was allowed to attend a missionary zone conference. The Spirit inspired her to accept the challenge from President Ezra Taft Benson to read the Book of Mormon a half hour a day.
“I set a certain time to study and wouldn’t let anything get in the way. I asked Heavenly Father to help me understand and apply the Book of Mormon in my everyday life.” Julie decided to accept another challenge and “flood the earth” with the Book of Mormon. She set a goal to give one away each week.
A few days later as she rode the bus to a track meet, she talked to a few of the team members. One of them asked, “Well, Julie, what do you believe?” Others turned and started listening.
“The Holy Ghost whispered scriptures I’d learned in seminary. I think they were surprised at how well Mormons are taught the scriptures. From that conversation the Lord helped me to give away four books,” she said.

Joseph Smith’s life was an example of unselfish sacrifice for the gospel of Jesus Christ. Though the Prophet Joseph suffered greatly, he remained optimistic and overcame many persecutions. Parley P. Pratt tells of a heartrending experience of being with the Prophet in jail in Missouri in the winter of 1838–39. Those six months of suffering and confinement tutored this foreordained, preeminent Prophet.
In the jail the Prophet and his brethren had listened to the boasting and the despicable abuses the guards had committed among the “Mormons.” Finally the Prophet could abide their sordid cursing no longer. Suddenly, he stood and in “a voice of thunder” said: “ ‘SILENCE, ye fiends of the infernal pit. In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still. …’
“He stood erect in terrible majesty. Chained, and without a weapon; calm, unruffled and dignified as an angel. … [The quaking guards shrank] into a corner,” dropped their weapons, “begged his pardon, and remained quiet till a change of guards.”
Brother Pratt writes further: “I have seen the ministers of justice, clothed in magisterial robes … ; I have witnessed a Congress in solemn session … ; I have tried to conceive of kings, of royal courts, of thrones and crowns … ; but dignity and majesty have I seen but once, as it stood in chains, at midnight, in a dungeon in an obscure village of Missouri.”

One of the greatest examples in my life happened when I was a brand-new General Authority on my first assignment. One of the General Authorities had a wife who had passed away just a few days before. I walked onto the airplane and there he was, sitting on the front row of the airplane. What a great message! I was moved by it because at the time I said to myself, “How can one who is suffering go out to help others?” He talked to me about how difficult it was for him to go on assignment, but he went to give succor and helped others when he was hurting.

Suffering is universal; how we react to suffering is individual. Suffering can take us one of two ways. It can be a strengthening and purifying experience combined with faith, or it can be a destructive force in our lives if we do not have the faith in the Lord’s atoning sacrifice. The purpose of suffering, however, is to build and strengthen us. We learn obedience by the things we suffer. We should be humbled and drawn to the Lord, as in the case of the prodigal son who appreciated his home only after going into the world and experiencing sorrow when he shut out his loved ones. (See Luke 15:11–32.) So suffering in his case was a vital part of his repentance.

When suffering comes as a consequence of sin, it should lead to repentance. Alma testified to his son Helaman:
“And it came to pass that as I was thus racked with torment, while I was harrowed up by the memory of my many sins, behold, I remembered also to have heard my father prophesy unto the people concerning the coming of one Jesus Christ, a Son of God, to atone for the sins of the world.
“Now, as my mind caught hold upon this thought, I cried within my heart: O Jesus, thou Son of God, have mercy on me, who am in the gall of bitterness, and am encircled about by the everlasting chains of death.
“And now, behold, when I thought this, I could remember my pains no more; yea, I was harrowed up by the memory of my sins no more.
“And oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold; yea, my soul was filled with joy as exceeding as was my pain!” (Alma 36:17–20.)

“I don’t know, but I know that He does. I remember reading a story several months ago in the Ensign. It was a true story about a little sparrow that flew into the Tabernacle while the doors were open.”*
“You mean that big building on Temple Square where they hold general conference?”
Dad nodded. “The workers at the Tabernacle opened all the doors, hoping that the bird would fly out.”
“Did it?”
“No. They tried calling animal control, who brought some nets with real long handles so that they could try to catch the bird.”
Beth remembered how tall the ceiling in the Tabernacle was. Her mother and father had taken her there for a Christmas program last December. The handles on those nets must have been very, very, very long!
Dad continued. “The people ran from one end of the Tabernacle to the other, trying to catch the bird, but that just frightened the poor thing. Terrified, it flew back and forth from the pipe organ to the balcony. The people who worked in the Tabernacle were getting worried because there was an important concert scheduled for that evening and they were running out of time. They had to get the bird out.”
“What did they do?” Beth whispered.
“The animal control people couldn’t think of anything else, so they suggested that they use a pellet gun to shoot the bird.”
“Oh, no!”
“Or they thought they could put out some poisoned food that the bird would eat.”
“Oh, Daddy, they didn’t, did they?”
“Well,” Dad continued, “Brother John, the manager, wouldn’t let them hurt the bird. He thought about how important this little bird was to Heavenly Father and knew that Heavenly Father would know how to take care of the bird. So he turned around and said a quiet, simple prayer. Right away the Holy Ghost helped Brother John know what to do. He quickly gave instructions to the other workers to turn off all the lights; close the blinds, and close all but one of the doors. Soon light poured through that one single door, and the bird was finally able to find its freedom. Out it flew, safe at last.”

William W. Phelps, who was close to the Prophet Joseph, betrayed him in 1838, which led to Joseph’s incarceration in Missouri. Recognizing the great evil of the thing he had done, Brother Phelps wrote to the Prophet, asking forgiveness. The Prophet replied in part as follows:
“It is true, that we have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough for mortals to drink, was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us. …
“However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive, for which we thank the Lord. …
“Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal.
“Your letter was read to the Saints last Sunday, and an expression of their feeling was taken, when it was unanimously Resolved, That W. W. Phelps should be received into fellowship.
“‘Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
“‘For friends at first, are friends again at last’” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, sel. Joseph Fielding Smith [1976], 165–66).

It was my senior year at Greenwich (Connecticut) High School when I had the chance to take college recruiting trips. Deep in my heart I wanted to play for BYU, but when I made my official visit, Coach Edwards called me in and said, “Steve, we hear you’re a pretty good athlete, but we’re sorry, we don’t have a scholarship for you right now. If one opens up, we’ll let you know.”
Obviously, I was very disappointed when I went home.
But somehow a scholarship did open up. All summer I worked like a crazy man trying to get in shape for football. I ran miles and miles. My dad had an old ’65 Oldsmobile. It was a huge car—the kind that holds five people in one seat. And I used to push that around the neighborhood because I once saw Dick Butkus do it to get in shape. All it did was mess up my back, but I worked as hard as I could to be ready.
As I worked, I tried to figure out which quarterbacks would be in front of me. I thought there were about four ahead of me, and that wasn’t too bad for a freshman. But you never knew. Maybe the coach would really be impressed and make me third team. And then maybe he’d want me to get some playing experience and make me second string. And then, maybe he would think I was great and make me first team as a freshman. That was my frame of mind when I got to BYU that fall.
I remember the day I arrived at school. I went to the fieldhouse and looked at the depth chart, which everyone’s name by position and order. I saw all the names I figured I’d see in front of mine, but there were more. Not until I got to the end of the list did the name Young appear. Eighth-string quarterback—in parentheses. That’s like letting you be in the school choir but putting you off in another room to sing by yourself.
And the parentheses. What did that mean? Maybe waterboy? What?
I soon found out. In practices, I was to play the opposing team’s quarterback. Unfortunately, the defensive players never figured out that I wasn’t really the opposing team’s quarterback. They creamed me all week long.
I remember so many times when the opposing team, with me at quarterback, would run the dumbest plays. They’d have ten guys go one way so the quarterback would be left alone. Then their defense would smash me. I’d be at the bottom of the pile; my helmet would be turned sideways, and I’d be peering out through the ear hole, trying to see where I was.
After about five weeks of that, I became very discouraged. The coach didn’t even know my name. It seemed that nobody cared.
I called my dad and said, “I’ve had it with this whole thing. I’m not having fun; I’m not enjoying myself. I think I’m going to quit and come home.”
Luckily, because he truly cared for me, my dad said, “Son, you can quit, but you can’t come home. I don’t live with quitters.” So there it was. I kept on playing, no matter how discouraging it got.
One of my toughest tests came at the first home game. It was a crisp fall afternoon, the band was playing, the balloons were up, and there were people everywhere. There was excitement in the air, but not in my heart as I walked over to the stadium with that huge crowd. Eighth-string quarterbacks don’t suit up, so I was going to sit in the stands with the rest of the spectators. I was deeply disappointed and discouraged that I wasn’t playing. I wondered how in the world I would ever make it onto that field. It seemed almost impossible.
That very day, right there in the stadium, I decided I would do two things. First, I was going to be the first player on the field every day and the last one off. Second, I was going to give 100 percent to every play I ran, no matter how stupid it was. I was going to execute every play like it was the last one of my life.
Now I was asked to run a lot of dumb plays that season, and I got a lot of mud in my face. There were a lot of days when the varsity players thought I was crazy because I didn’t leave the field until after they did. It was embarrassing, but I hoped it would make a difference.
And it did make a difference. I don’t know exactly what happened. Maybe Coach Edwards glanced over during one of those dumb plays when I was working extra hard, and he said to the coach next to him, “Hey, who’s that scrub quarterback over there? Let’s check him out.” What matters is that I didn’t quit, things got better as the season went on, and I finally got the opportunities I had always hoped and worked for.
The key was learning to develop good habits and self-discipline so when the coach just happened to look, I was doing my best. When I was the eighth-string quarterback in parentheses, becoming the starting quarterback at BYU often seemed impossible. It was the little things I did every day, the habits I developed, that eventually put me on that field in front of 65,000 people. It’s the same way with the gospel and life. Our ultimate goal of returning to live with Heavenly Father may seem an unreachable goal at times, but the daily habits we develop in life are the ones that will help us get there. We need to develop habits of hard work, self-discipline, honesty, consideration, and finding ways to serve those around us. We need to develop the habits of scripture reading, meditation, and starting and ending each day with prayer—good, sincere communication between us and our Heavenly Father.

Elder Palmer stepped out of his hotel room and into the dimly lit hallway.
“Out of the way, young man.”
Elder Palmer turned toward the voice. “Pardon me.”
The man barely glanced at him from under the brim of his top hat as he bristled by.
Elder Palmer wanted to say, “I’m a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I have an important message for you.” But he didn’t. Instead, he shoved his hands in his overcoat pockets and trudged on toward the stairway. That man wouldn’t have believed his words anyway. Why should he? Why would anyone believe a teacher who had never even read the scriptures?
At the top of the stairs, Elder Palmer pulled a small reading primer from one pocket and his Bible from the other. “Just as soon as I learn how to read,” he whispered, “nothing is going to stop me from preaching the gospel.”
“It’s a disgrace for the Mormon Church to send an ignorant man to try to convert the good people of Michigan!”
Elder Palmer froze. He recognized the voice that boomed from the parlor below. It was the preacher he’d visited with last night.
“I know he’s rough-looking,” said a female voice, “but that doesn’t mean he’s ignorant.”
“I’ll prove to you I’m right. When he comes down this morning, I’ll ask him some questions about the Bible.”
Elder Palmer backed away from the stairs. The preacher was right. He was ignorant. Somehow, he had to get away! He raced down the opposite hall, looking for another stairway, but there wasn’t one. He was trapped.
With nowhere else to turn, he rushed back to his room and closed the door. If only he’d been able to go to school when he was a boy! He had spent most of his childhood blind. And even though he had eventually—miraculously—received his sight, he had only received enough to get around, not enough to read. It wasn’t until he was a grown man that he had been blessed with enough sight to read, but by then it was too late to go to school.
“I need help, Heavenly Father,” he whispered.
Suddenly he remembered a cold winter evening not long after he’d received his sight. He and his father had been trapped in a mountain snowstorm. They could not see the road. Their oxen were frightened and did not know the way home.
“Son,” his father had said, “we have done all we can to find our way. Now we must ask the Lord for help.”
They then knelt in the snow and prayed. Afterward, they steered the oxen in the direction they thought was right, and the animals, without hesitation, led them home.
This memory reminded him of the power of prayer. He dropped to his knees. “Heavenly Father, Thou hast called me to do Thy work. I have done all that I can, but I need Thy help.” When he finished, he went directly to the parlor.
The preacher waved to Elder Palmer. “Ah, Mr. Palmer, come in. These people—” the preacher motioned to several men and women—“have been discussing the Bible with me. Would you, as a minister, be so kind as to explain this passage?” He then read from his Bible.
Elder Palmer listened closely to the verses. When he was a boy, his mother had helped him memorize many scriptures, but he didn’t recognize these.
“Well?”
Elder Palmer looked hard at the preacher, and as he did so, the familiar voice of the Holy Ghost filled his mind. “It is interesting that you should ask me this,” he said, “as I have a scripture I would like you to explain to me.”
The preacher laughed. “Go ahead.”
“‘And I saw another angel fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach unto them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people.’”
“Oh, Mr. Palmer, that is not in our Bible. It must be in your Mormon Bible.”
“You will find it in Revelation 14:6.”
The preacher flipped to the book of Revelation. His face turned bright red. “Well, well. I have never seen that before. I will have to look it up in my Bible commentary.”
“That is the position I am in with your passage. Perhaps when we meet again we can explain to each other.”
The preacher nodded curtly, then turned back to the women who were seated on the circular sofa. One of them stood. “Mr. Palmer?”
“Yes?”
“You seem to have a good understanding of the scriptures. Can you please explain this verse to me?”
“I have a question, too.” It was the man he had bumped into earlier.
Elder Palmer smiled. He still felt a bit nervous, but he now realized that in many ways he was prepared to serve the Lord, and much of that preparation had come when he was a boy.
“I’d be happy to help each of you,” he said, “but I have one request. As you read from your Bible, please read slowly, and I will follow along in mine. That way, the Lord will help us both to understand.”

Sometimes we feel that we don’t have any particularly important gifts. One day, a discouraged sister pleaded, “Lord, what is my personal ministry?” He answered, “Notice others.” It was a spiritual gift! Since then, she has found joy in noticing those who are regularly forgotten, and God has worked through her to bless many. While some spiritual gifts may not be prominent by the world’s standards, they are essential to God and His work.7

Jane hurried out of the classroom to the front of the school building. Her big brother, Ronnie, was waiting for her. “Mum said we have to go straight home today because we mustn’t be late for my baptism,” Jane said excitedly. “After tonight I’ll be a real Church member. It’s the most important day of my life, so far!”
Ronnie smiled at his sister and teasingly messed up her hair. “Well, we can’t be late, then. Let’s go.”
When they got home, dinner was nearly ready and Dad was home from work early. When he saw Jane, he smiled and said, “I haven’t forgotten that today’s the big day.”
After dinner, Jane, Ronnie, Mum, and Dad all got in the car and set off for the chapel, twenty miles away.
As they arrived at the chapel, Mum looked at her watch. “We’re just in time—the service should start in ten minutes.”
Brother Jones, the custodian, hurried up to them. He looked worried. “I just arrived about half an hour ago. I had planned to come earlier to fill up the font, but we had an emergency at the station. I’m ever so sorry. The water is running now, but at this rate, it will take a couple more hours to fill the font. There are huge kettles of water heating in the kitchen, and I’ve a plan I’m working on. …”
Jane didn’t listen to what her dad and Brother Jones said next. She went outside and sat on the wall next to the car park. She knew she’d have to wait a long time before her baptismal service could start.
She looked down the road that led up to the chapel. The chapel was on a hill, so she had a good view. At the bottom of the hill was a big red fire engine coming up the road. I can’t see any smoke—I wonder where the fire is. She looked around her. As the fire engine came closer to the chapel, Jane ran inside to get Ronnie so that they could both watch it pass by. By the time they got back outside, the fire engine had stopped in front of the chapel and the firemen were unwinding the big hose on the side of the engine!
When Brother Jones came out of the chapel, Jane remembered that he worked at that station. He showed the firefighters where the font was, and Ronnie and Jane watched while they filled it. Soon the font was full and the fire engine was gone.
While the ward members poured the heated water into the font, Jane dressed in her white clothes and sat down next to her dad. After the opening hymn, Ronnie offered the opening prayer. Mum and the branch president gave talks; then Jane and Dad went to the font. Dad got in first. “Oh! It’s a bit cold,” he said.
“I don’t mind,” Jane said as she went into the water. She felt so wonderful that the cold water didn’t even bother her. After she changed her clothes, she was confirmed a member of the Church by her dad. The branch president, her dad and mum, Brother Jones, and Ronnie shook her hand and congratulated her.
“Now I’m a member of the true Church,” Jane said proudly. “I feel really good. Thank you, Brother Jones, for getting a fire engine to fill up the font, just for me!”

This was well illustrated in my father’s patriarchal blessing. He was told in his blessing that he would be blessed with “many beautiful daughters.” He and my mother became the parents of five sons. No daughters were born to them, but they treated the wives of their sons as daughters. Some years ago when we had a family gathering, I saw my father’s daughters-in-law, granddaughters, and great-granddaughters moving about, tending to the food and ministering to the young children and the elderly, and the realization came to me that Father’s blessing literally had been fulfilled. He has indeed many beautiful daughters. The patriarch who gave my father his blessing had spiritual vision to see beyond this life. The dividing line between time and eternity disappeared.

You must be their counselor, their comforter, their anchor and strength in times of sorrow and distress. You must be strong with that strength which comes from the Lord. You must be wise with that wisdom which comes from the Lord. Your door must be open to hear their cries and your back strong to carry their burdens, your heart sensitive to judge their needs, your godly love broad enough and strong enough to encompass even the wrongdoer and the critic. You must be a man of patience, willing to listen though it takes hours to do so. You are the only one to whom some can turn. You must be there when every other source has failed. Permit me to read you a few lines from a letter sent to a bishop.
“Dear Bishop:
“It has been almost two years since I desperately called you asking for help. At that time I was ready to kill myself. I had no one else to turn to—no money, no job, no friends. My house had been taken, and I had no place to live. The Church was my last hope.
“As you know, I had left the Church at the age of seventeen and had broken just about every rule and commandment that there was in my search for happiness and fulfillment. Instead of happiness, my life was filled with misery, anguish, and despair. There was no hope or future for me. I even pleaded with God to let me die, to take me out of my misery. Not even he wanted me. I felt that he had rejected me, too.
“That’s when I turned to you and the Church. …
“You listened with understanding, you counseled, you guided, you helped.
“I began to grow and develop in understanding and knowledge of the gospel. I found that I had to make certain basic changes in my life that were terribly difficult, but that within me I had the worth and strength to do so.
“I learned that as I lived the gospel and repented, I had no more fear. I was filled with an inner peace. The clouds of anguish and despair were gone. Because of the Atonement, my weaknesses and sins were forgiven through Jesus Christ and His love for me.
“He has blessed and strengthened me. He has opened pathways for me, given me direction, and kept me from harm. I have found that as I overcame each obstacle, my business began to grow, enabling my family to benefit and making me feel as though I had accomplished something.
“Bishop, you have given me understanding and support through these past two years. I never would have reached this point if not for your love and patience. Thank you for being what you are as the servant of the Lord to help me, his wandering child.”

Dear Buddy,
Today was a Thanksgiving Day that I’ll never forget! We spent the morning tracting without much success. It was cold, and everyone was busy and didn’t want to talk. Then we spent the afternoon with some members who had invited us for Thanksgiving dinner. And did they ever put on a feast! The food was so good that I kept eating and eating until my belt yelled for mercy. Sister Marshall seemed to enjoy watching us eat, and she kept passing the food around. Then when we left, she gave us each a big package of leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil. It’s great to have members like the Marshalls who help the missionaries.
But it was what happened as we were riding our bikes home that made this an unforgettable Thanksgiving Day. Even though it was cold and windy and almost dark, we took the long way home to help work off some of our dinner. On a lonely road on the outskirts of town, we came upon a girl with long black hair who looked about your age. She was gathering sticks at the side of the road, and she was wearing a long-sleeve blouse, a shawl around her shoulders, a skirt, and sandals.
Elder Butler and I stopped, concerned about her being out in the bitter cold. Her name is Rosita. She didn’t know much English, but she took us to her mother, who was also gathering wood not far away. We helped them gather broken branches and old sticks until everyone’s arms were full. Then they took us to their home.
They live in a small shack with a woodburning stove in the middle. The only one who speaks much English is the father, and he was on a mattress in the corner, sick with a fever.
Their name is Morales. They recently came from Central America. Mr. Morales said that he brought his family to the United States to have a better life. He had a job here, but he lost it when he got sick.
There was hardly any furniture, and the room was smoky and drafty. They need so much—even simple things, like clothes for winter. All they had was what they’d brought in three suitcases. And each other. As I looked into their faces, I felt that I was in the presence of modern Pilgrims. Suddenly Thanksgiving became much more real to me. It is more than parades and football games on TV and tight belts from eating too much turkey and yams and pumpkin pie. Thanksgiving means hope and freedom.
Elder Butler and I gave Mr. Morales a blessing, and we gave our leftovers from dinner at the Marshalls to the Morales. They thanked us again and again and asked us to come back to visit them. We will.
Riding home, I no longer felt the cold wind blowing in my face and up the sleeves of my coat. All I could feel was the warmth of gratitude for all the blessings that we enjoy.
Love,Reed

Many of the LDS kids in Alice attend St. Philip’s, a private school run by another church. St. Philip’s has a strict dress code. There are even rules about jewelry—only one pair of earrings, no bracelets, no rings.
That was a problem for the Mormon kids—no rings. Like many Latter-day Saints worldwide, they like to wear CTR rings. But they were told to remove them, even though exceptions had been made before for jewelry with “religious significance.”
“I had explained why it was important to me,” says Lavinia Archibald, 16. “But one of my teachers kept saying to take the ring off or she’d confiscate it.”
The LDS students and their parents talked to the principal, who knew the LDS youth were some of his best students. He talked to the faculty, explained that CTR stands for “choose the right,” and gave his approval for Latter-day Saints to wear the rings.

Derek Fagan, age 17, has excelled in both school and seminary, and he credits an experience he had just before he received his patriarchal blessing: “We had been talking about patriarchal blessings in seminary. I prayed and asked if I should get mine. Our stake did not have a patriarch at that time, but three days later, our new patriarch was called. I felt it was my answer. That’s when I decided for myself that the Church is true and that I would try harder to do well and choose the right. My patriarchal blessing was amazing. I carry it with me everywhere. Since early-morning seminary started, everything has been clearer. Even in school, I learn very quickly now.”
Derek became the first seminary student in Ireland to memorize all the scripture mastery scriptures. As an extra challenge, he memorized the account of the First Vision as found in Joseph Smith—History.

Baptism Then and Now
Maggie, 11, and Lily, 9, were baptized in a font near the place where the first members of the Church were baptized.
Both girls were very excited to be baptized. When it was Lily’s turn to be baptized, she had an interview with her bishop. “He asked me if I had a testimony of the prophet and if I paid my tithing,” Lily said.
The girls both have good memories of their baptismal days. “When I came out of the water, I had a feeling that I could do anything,” Maggie said.
Both girls got journals so they could record their feelings about their special days.

Before concluding, I hope you will pardon a personal reference to my own father and the power of his good life in mine. For a half century now I have benefited from his wisdom, his generosity, and his goodness. I am not sure I realized the full extent of his influence until recently as I prepared to return home following the final session of a stake conference to which I had been assigned. An elderly brother came up from the congregation to meet me. He thanked me for coming, and then, in obvious reference to the many times I must have quoted my father and referred to his teachings during the conference sessions, he said, “Brother Jensen, if you are ever assigned again to our stake, why don’t you just send your father!” My hope is that in some small way I will have a similar influence for lasting good in the lives of our own children.