Gospel Story Finder

I read also with excitement this summer of the discovery of a gene that could lead to a cure for cystic fibrosis. I thought of a little boy I once knew. As a baby he came into a home where he was welcomed and cuddled and loved. But as the months passed it became apparent something was wrong. His lungs did not function properly. He had what the doctors called cystic fibrosis. He would be under severe handicaps for as long as he lived, and he would not live for long. His parents worried and prayed and watched over him as he struggled for breath and strength. They spent their resources in an effort to provide for him and help him. He died while yet young.

There are tens of thousands like him. There are hundreds of thousands afflicted with other genetic diseases. What a remarkable and wonderful thing that in this summer of 1989 dedicated men of science are at last on the trail of a way to mitigate what have been the unending pains and trials of these crippling and fearsome diseases.

An example of tobacco’s powerful hold is illustrated in a letter which was written by a mother to the popular columnist and human relations adviser Ann Landers:
“Dear Ann Landers:
“A year ago our two-year-old son, Earl, had difficulty breathing, so we took him to a doctor. We learned Earl is allergic to cigarette smoke. My husband said we both had to quit smoking right then and there. He hasn’t touched a cigarette since. I went back to smoking that same night.
“My husband doesn’t know I smoke. I have to sneak around and smoke in the basement, and it is making a nervous wreck out of me. Do you think it would be wrong if we let a nice couple adopt little Earl—a nice couple who don’t smoke? The only problem is that my husband is crazy about the boy. I love him too, but I am more the practical type. What do you think, Ann?
“/s/ Mrs. E. R. M.
“Dear Mrs. E. R. M.:
“I think a lot of people who read this letter are going to say I made it up. It’s utterly fantastic that a mother would put cigarettes ahead of her own child. Don’t present your wild idea to your husband. I wouldn’t blame him if he decided to keep little Earl and unload you!”

The very first Sunday I attended church with the full-time missionaries, I recognized people I had grown up with and knew from the community. One of my best friends from middle school, whom I admired and who often invited me to attend dances at her church, was surprised to see me in the chapel. I was equally surprised to find that she was a Mormon.
Each individual that I knew before coming to church that first time had a lasting impact on me. My best friend was a young woman of great integrity. I always admired her values and was invited to follow them with her, though I never felt I was capable of following her good example. She had always been open and inviting to me. Because of her attitude, I chose to continue to investigate the Church.

Ava stared at the mirror and sucked in her stomach. In her mind, she could still hear the girls from her swim team.
“Look at how your stomach pokes out! You should stand on the back row,” Mackenzie had said. Some of the other girls laughed.
Tears started rolling down Ava’s cheeks. She ran into Mom’s room. “I don’t want to be on the swim team anymore!”
Mom looked up from her desk. “What’s wrong? You love swimming!”
“I’m too fat!” Ava said. “Swimmers should be skinnier.”
Mom led Ava over to sit on the bed. “Where did you hear that?” she asked. “Athletes don’t need to be skinny. They come in all shapes and sizes.”
Ava sniffed. “Today we had team pictures, and Mackenzie said I was too chubby to be in the front row. And then Sarah said I should go on a diet.” Ava felt the tears coming again. “I’m done with swim team!” She buried her face in a pillow.
Mom stroked Ava’s hair. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “That was really hurtful. Some people think the way they look on the outside is the most important thing about them. That’s not true at all. And saying mean things about another person’s body is never OK.”
Later, Mom came into Ava’s room. “I thought you might like this,” Mom said, handing her a piece of paper.
“‘Each time you look in the mirror, see your body as your temple,’*” Ava read.
“President Nelson said that,” Mom said. “What do you think it means?”
Ava shrugged. “That my body is special, like a temple?”
“Exactly,” Mom said. “Temples are all beautiful, and they’re all built of precious materials. But no two look exactly the same. It’s what happens inside them that’s most important.”
Ava nodded. She was getting ready to go to the temple to do baptisms soon.
“A lot of people focus on if their body looks a certain way,” Mom said. “And sometimes that makes them feel bad. What’s a lot more important is how we use our bodies. Heavenly Father gave you a body to learn and grow and help people. Your body is a beautiful home for your spirit.”
Ava felt a peaceful feeling. She was pretty sure it was the Holy Ghost telling her that what Mom said was true.
“I think I’ll tape this on my mirror,” Ava said.
“Good idea,” Mom said. “When you see it, you could think about one thing your body can do.”
Ava already had one. “My lungs help me breathe when I freestyle.”
Then she frowned. “But I still wish I could be skinny.”
“Instead of focusing on being skinny, what about focusing on being strong?” Mom asked.
Mom flexed her arm, which made Ava laugh.
“I guess getting stronger will help with my swimming,” Ava said.
Ava and Mom decided on some goals—like eating more of her favorite vegetables, playing outside after school, and getting enough sleep at night.
“And now, young lady, it’s time for you to work on that sleeping goal.”
“OK, Mom!”
Instead of feeling bad about her body, Ava was beginning to feel more grateful for it. It could do a lot of wonderful things. Like swimming!
See family manual, pages 131–132; Primary manual, 130–132.

Recently, I had a phone call with one of my close friends. It went like most of our conversations do—we laughed, joked, and talked about our lives.
But my heart sunk as it became clear to me that this friend, one of my very favorite people in the whole world, was no longer living in accordance with the gospel of Jesus Christ. I remained neutral and kind during our call but hung up feeling disappointed. I was sad that this friend and I no longer shared the same values.
I wondered if I should have said more. Should I have stood up for what I still believed in? I didn’t agree with the decisions my friend was making, but I also didn’t want her to feel like I was trying to condemn her. And I certainly didn’t want to jeopardize our friendship.
Five different points have helped me as I’ve pondered this situation.
Standing for God’s law while still loving and supporting those who live differently from us can seem complicated. Sometimes it feels like remaining loyal to God and His commandments means appearing judgmental if we disagree with someone’s choices.
I’ve often felt confused about how to balance law and love.
President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency, spoke on this very topic at a worldwide devotional for young adults, saying: “I have previously referred to our ‘continually [trying] to balance the dual commandments of love and law,’ but I now believe that goal to be better expressed as trying to live both of these commandments in a more complete way.”1
In other words, law and love are actually interconnected and inseparable. The apostle Paul wrote, “Love is the fulfilling of the law” (Romans 13:9–10).
And Heavenly Father expects us to love everyone—including those who disagree with us. In the New Testament, the Savior taught His followers to love even their enemies (see Luke 6:27–28).
Love is God’s law, not its opposite. We should never stop loving someone in the name of following Him.
This can be a hard pill to swallow, especially when our motives for “judging” seem to come from a good place—I want my friends and family to understand the peace and joy that come from living the gospel. I want them to feel gratitude for the Savior and for what He’s done for us.
But I have to remember that I can’t force anyone to believe in the gospel or practice a certain principle. Each person has their agency.
President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, then the Second Counselor in the First Presidency, provided clear counsel when he said: “We simply have to stop judging others and replace judgmental thoughts and feelings with a heart full of love for God and His children. … I will even quote a bumper sticker I recently saw. … It read, “Don’t judge me because I sin differently than you.”2
We are all imperfect and all in need of forgiveness (see Romans 3:23). I’m humbled when I remember this fact.
Jesus Christ taught that the first commandment is to love God and the second is to love our neighbor (see Matthew 22:37–39).
Like me, perhaps you know individuals who believe they must leave the Church to better love, respect, and include all people. This has sometimes made me wonder if it’s really possible to love God and love others simultaneously. The world certainly doesn’t think so.
Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles offered a helpful perspective when he explained that “ignoring the first commandment, or reversing the order of the first and second commandments, risks a loss of balance in life and destructive deviations from the path of happiness and truth.”3
He provided four ways we can “put the first commandment first” so we can love others while remaining close to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ:
Keep the commandments
Serve one another and help others come unto Christ
Pray and study the scriptures
Live with accountability to God4
It’s comforting to know that I can’t go wrong if I love God first. Following His law and staying close to Him and my Savior will forever help me love my neighbors, even when their beliefs and choices differ from mine.
Now, going back to the phone call with my friend. Should I have said something more to her?
President Oaks offered helpful counsel when he said: “Whenever possible we will refrain from judging people and only judge situations. … We can set and act upon high standards for ourselves or our homes without condemning those who do otherwise.”5
When I find myself in conversations over a situation I may not agree with, I’ve decided to seek the guidance of the Holy Ghost to know how to respond. Sometimes I may feel that the right thing is to share my opinion; sometimes I may feel guided to share less. But in all cases, it is important to follow the Savior and not judge unrighteously.
My friend and I still talk about the gospel, and our openness with one another has helped deepen our relationship. Even though I don’t try to convince her of my beliefs, I still try to be an example of a disciple of Christ. Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said, “Each time you bear vocal witness or demonstrate through your actions your commitment to follow Jesus Christ, you invite others to ‘come unto Christ.’”6
I know that it is possible to love those whose choices we don’t agree with—it’s one of the core principles of the gospel. By following the example of Jesus Christ, I know I can love God and His children, even when it’s difficult. And I believe these same things for you too.

Some year ago, President Harold B. Lee, directed by inspiration and revelation, called DeWitt J. Paul to serve as patriarch in one of the eastern stakes of the Church. The call humbled both Brother and Sister Paul beyond words. They wondered. They worried. They prayed for assurance and heavenly confirmation.

The vote of the people demonstrated their supporting approval. Then came the time for ordination. In a basement room situated in the stake meetinghouse, DeWitt Paul sat nervously on a chair and said a silent prayer. Seated next to Sister Paul was a dear friend to whom she had confided her concern. This trusted friend related a most unusual and inspiring account of that which happened next:
“When Elder Lee, who stood behind Brother Paul who was seated, raised his hands to put them on Brother Paul’s head, a very bright light like sunshine, as if coming through a high window about twelve inches square, suddenly focused on the crown of Elder Lee’s head.” She continued: “What a rare coincidence that the sun should begin to shine with a clear, bright light just at the moment Elder Lee was to place his hands upon the head of Brother Paul to pronounce a blessing and ordination! The experience was a confirmation of a sacred call. Suddenly, I realized there was no window in that basement room through which the sun might beam its rays.”
Peace had replaced turmoil. Faith had overcome doubt. Precious are the hands of a prophet.

Sister Burton: Knowing and living our purpose unites us across cultures. I met a woman in Uruguay last year who told me how she had been called to be Relief Society president at the darkest time of her life. She was tempted to say, “I can’t do it right now.” But because she had made sacred covenants, she said, “I will do what I’ve been asked to do. I have faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I know through His Atonement I can do it.” Then she said to me, “My calling brought light into my life as I served my sisters. I relied upon the Lord, and He blessed me.”
I recognized the purpose of Relief Society in her story. Her faith in Heavenly Father and in Jesus Christ and His Atonement helped her. She had made sacred covenants and wanted to keep them. As she worked in unity with the bishop, she fulfilled her calling. Now she has a testimony that the Lord blesses us when we trust Him. I add my testimony to hers that our Savior Jesus Christ will help us through every mortal challenge and everything that seems unfair in this life.

I was 14 years then and had not entered university. I got my first degree before going on a mission. I entered university life in Nigeria. University life was different and influenced me. Then the miracles began. After you get your degree, you are required to do a year of national youth service. When I was called to do my national service, I was called to Lagos. Normally, a lot of people pay money in bribes to the government to go to Lagos, but I didn’t pay anything. While I was in Lagos, I had a mighty change of heart and I prepared to go on a mission. From Lagos I was sent to Accra as a missionary. I met my wife and came back to Accra after my mission, and we got married in 2010.

On June 5, 1932, Elder Widtsoe came to Naples to baptize me, but a revolution had started in Sicily, and the police at Palermo refused to let me leave the island. The following year, Elder Widtsoe asked me to translate the Joseph Smith pamphlet into Italian and to have 1,000 copies published. I took my translation to a printer, Joseph Gussio, who took the material to a Catholic bishop. The bishop ordered the printer to destroy the material. I sued the printer, but all I received from the court was an order to him to return the original booklet.

When Elder Widtsoe was released as president of the mission in 1934, I started correspondence with Elder Joseph F. Merrill, who succeeded him. He arranged to send me the Millennial Star, which I received until 1940 when World War II interrupted the subscription.

In January 1937, Elder Richard R. Lyman, successor to President Merrill, wrote that he and Elder Hugh B. Brown would be in Rome on a certain day. I could meet them there and be baptized. However, the letter was delayed because of war conditions, and I did not receive it in time.

From then until 1949, I was cut off from all news of the Church, but I remained a faithful follower and preached the gospel of the dispensation of the fulness of times. I had copies of the standard works, and I translated chapters into Italian and sent them to acquaintances with the greeting, “Good day. The morning breaks—Jehovah speaks!”

On February 13, 1949, I sent a letter to Elder Widtsoe at Church headquarters in Salt Lake City. Elder Widtsoe answered my letter on October 3, 1950, explaining that he had been in Norway. I sent him a long letter in reply in which I asked him to help me to be quickly baptized, because I felt that I had proven myself to be a faithful son and servant of God, observing the laws and commandments of his kingdom. Elder Widtsoe asked President Samuel E. Bringhurst of the Swiss-Austrian Mission to go to Sicily to baptize me.

On January 18, 1951, President Bringhurst arrived on the island and baptized me at Imerese. Apparently, this was the first baptism performed in Sicily. Then, on April 28, 1956, I entered the temple at Bern, Switzerland, and received my endowment. At last, to be in the presence of my Heavenly Father! I felt that God’s promise had been fully fulfilled—the day had come indeed when the source of the book was known to me and I was able to enjoy the effects of my faith.

Like Tino, Quim served a mission in Portugal. When Harold Hillam, president of the Portugal Lisbon Mission, told Quim, “Brother Moreira, you’re going to be a missionary,” Quim replied: “How? I have no money, my parents aren’t members, and I’ll have to quit my studies.” But the mission president insisted that he must be prepared to go on a mission in a few months, and Quim continued to pray, asking the Lord how it could be done.
One night, in a dream, he saw himself dressed as a missionary, leaving home with his suitcases, and he awoke knowing that it would happen. Financial help was found through the Church, and Joaquim Moreira left school to accept the call. That is a very important decision in Portugal, for it is difficult to gain readmission to a university.

For a time, a volcanic eruption, a cyclone, and COVID-19 prevented full-time missionaries from proselyting on the island of Tanna, Vanuatu, in the South Pacific Ocean. But after months of missionary work by local Church members and returned missionaries there, more than 100 people were prepared for baptism.
As missionary companions, we took a 45-minute plane flight from Efate Island south to Tanna Island. We brought a large stack of baptismal forms and used a mission pickup truck to begin our visits to the island’s eight branches. By the time we arrived in August, the number of people ready for baptism had grown to 114.
On August 18, 2022, we went to the branch in Sideseawi. We had no way to contact the branch president to tell him we were coming. We just went and hoped to find him.
When you think of Tanna, think of jungle roads. We drove our pickup truck as far up the mountain as we could. Then we left it and started walking. It took us three hours to reach the village. All we had to eat were coconuts we found along the way.
When we reached the village, the branch president was not there, but his counselor was. We talked to him about missionary work, and then it started to rain. When it starts to rain in Sideseawi, people try their very best to find a safe area. We hurried down the mountain to our truck.
When there’s no rain in Tanna, it’s safe to drive. But when there’s rain, that’s when it’s scary. When we reached our truck, we started driving but soon got stuck crossing a river.
We tried to push the truck out, but that didn’t work. So, we called the district president for help. Help came and we tried again to move the truck, but the rains kept coming bigger and bigger. Several rivers were filling and flowing down from different areas around us.
Photograph courtesy of the authors
Those who were helping us got out of the river, but we held tightly to the vehicle’s seats as the river rose. We didn’t want to abandon the truck. The water was now up to the truck’s door handles on the current side.
We called our mission president, Mark Messick, and told him what was going on. “Right now the water is getting bigger and bigger,” we said. We asked if it was OK to save our lives and leave the truck.
“Thank you for giving me a call,” President Messick told us. “It’s OK! Leave the truck where it is and find a safe place now!”
We were close to where two rivers met. The other river near us was already big and fast, but the river where we were was still small, like it was waiting for us to get out. But then, boom!
Someone shouted from the riverbank. Elder Nalin, from Tanna, understood the warning: “Water!”
Our truck was stuck sideways, with the rising current rushing against Elder Toa’s door. Elder Nalin got out first. Elder Toa had to climb into the back seat and out the door on the other side of the cab to get out. He quickly looked on the back seat for our baptismal forms and scriptures but didn’t see them. He thought Elder Nalin had already taken them. As soon as Elder Toa got out, the river took the truck.
If water ruined the forms, we would have to return to areas we had visited and redo interviews. We would also have to fly back to the mission office in Efate to get more baptismal forms and then return to Tanna.
Elder Silas Toa
Photograph by Christine Hair
Elder Brian Moses Nalin
Photograph by Christine Hair
As we watched the truck being swept away, Elder Toa finally spotted the scriptures and the baptismal forms on the back seat. “How can this be possible?” He wondered how he had not seen them before.
While we were still in the river, we called on the power of God to protect our scriptures and baptismal forms. We had faith that He could save them according to His will.
Then we got out of the river and knelt and prayed about the truck and our baptismal forms and scriptures. We couldn’t see the truck anymore, but we knew that everything was going to be fine.
People from Sideseawi found the truck later that day and called the district president. The truck had been carried about 820 feet (250 m) downstream. Everything in the truck was wet, except for our baptismal forms and scriptures! They were dry, sitting on top of some pamphlets, notebooks, and manuals.
We gathered a group to help us get the truck out of the river. The truck had to dry out but was quickly repaired. It had no dents or scratches.
After the storm, we mostly walked to the different branches in Tanna. When your legs get tired of walking, you walk with your heart.
Over the next few days, we finished our baptismal interviews and baptized 114 people, many of them families. One branch had 48 people ready for baptism. We started interviewing them at 7:00 a.m. When we finished, we saw the sun going down.
A flood of trials may come into our lives, but we testify that our faith in God’s power will bless us. Not even Tanna’s flood of water could overpower our Heavenly Father’s flood of blessings.

I dropped the phone onto the wall cradle and slumped dejectedly into an easy chair. I looked up at the ceiling.
The phone call had come as a complete surprise. I tried to recall the last time that I had been assigned to give any kind of a talk in church. A missionary farewell was to be held in our ward next week, and our first counselor wanted to know if I would be willing to speak in church. It would have been very difficult to say no, but the topic I was assigned certainly tempted me to do so.
Testimonies had never been an easy thing for me to discuss, and recently, it had become even more difficult. Not too long ago, I had decided to re-read the Book of Mormon. When I came to the end, I decided that finally I would test Moroni’s promise. After much prayer, I had received no miraculous witness, no flash of light, and now the bishopric wanted me to speak in front of the ward on the subject of testimonies. I felt that I could hardly attempt to teach others how to gain and strengthen a testimony when I could hardly gain one myself.
The remainder of the week, I went through the motions of preparing a talk on testimonies. I looked up several stories and scriptures to use as examples, and I reviewed several other Church books on the subject. By Sunday, I had a talk prepared, but I felt far from ready to give it.
I paid little attention to the bright, clear weather of that morning as I walked the few blocks to church. I kept thinking that despite my research, I wasn’t prepared for this talk. In fact, I felt that I didn’t have the right to tell my fellow ward members how to gain a testimony when I didn’t have one myself. Somehow, I managed to drag myself up the stairs and into a seat behind the podium. I had trouble looking at the bishop when he shook my hand.
After church finally let out and the agony was over, I left for home as soon as I could. I was still thinking of the talk that I had given. I had talked too fast. Because of my nervousness, I had squeezed a full five-minute talk into about 30 seconds. I could still see the desperate look on the missionary’s face when he saw how much time he would have to use up.
I threw open the front door and went straight to my room. I dropped my scriptures on the desk, flopped down on the bed, and loosened my tie. Then I removed my note cards from my jacket pocket so that I could review them one more time before I shredded and trashed them for good. During my review I re-read one scripture in particular that I had used in my talk. Doctrine and Covenants 76:78–79 talks about bodies terrestrial: “they who are not valiant in the testimony of Jesus; wherefore, they obtain not the crown over the kingdom of our God.” [D&C 76:78–79]
At this point I decided to take a good look at the scriptures. For some reason, I opened to Alma, chapter 18, verse 35 [Alma 18:35]. Here I found this scripture: “And a portion of that Spirit dwelleth in me, which giveth me knowledge, and also power according to my faith and desires which are in God.”
It was a small scripture, not one that is often quoted. In fact, it didn’t even deal directly with testimonies. But it made sense to me. This short scripture pointed me in the direction I had to search for my testimony—inside of me! The gift of the Spirit, which gives us knowledge, was inside of me!
I began to recollect the times that I had read the Book of Mormon in the past. The main question on my mind had never been, “Is this true?” Instead, I had wondered how to apply a certain bit of knowledge to everyday life. I recalled discussions with friends about Church doctrine. I remembered the good feeling I got from helping others.
Slowly, I began to realize that I had within myself a testimony that had been growing for some time. That one little scripture had helped me to realize my real strength. I felt like running to the bishop and asking if I could give my talk over. I had found my testimony. It had been hidden there all along. I still have the note cards from that talk, and written on the front is the Alma scripture reference.

The Las Vegas Nevada Redrock Stake might seem a funny place for stars to be born. But youth there really shined when they put on a play called “Star Child” for their stake as part of their youth conference activities. The play, which focuses on some of the same eternal principles that are important to know before entering the temple, provided a lot of fun for the youth and great entertainment and learning for the audiences. And while there were plenty of challenges, the youth all say they feel they had heavenly help making the play a success.
These priests from the Bend Third Ward, Bend Oregon Stake, made it! They biked along the Oregon coastline and crossed the California border in four and a half days. To accomplish their goal, the boys had to average 80 miles per day. To keep their bodies going, the young men ate mass quantities of bananas, bagels, and pasta. To keep their minds and spirits going, the boys sang hymns while they rode.
“It sounds a little weird,” says Matt Dustin. “But it worked. By singing as a group, we stayed together. We also stayed happy and cheerful.”

Following my release from my first mission in 1923, I returned home to Whitney, Idaho, on Christmas Eve. It was a joyful reunion with my ten brothers and sisters, and especially with my father and mother.
Father and Mother always made it a practice to hang the stockings, one on each chair, for the children and to place their limited gifts on or under or near each chair. They took me into their confidence that Christmas Eve. We stayed up all during the night. In fact, we didn’t retire at all. We filled the stockings after going to the granary and elsewhere on the farm to get the presents which had been secretly hidden. This took a good part of the night. The rest we spent in visiting together, with Father and Mother telling me of the progress made by each of the children while I was away, and with me reporting to them and responding to their questions regarding my wonderful mission to the British Isles. My love for my parents had never been quite so great before as it was that night.
It was a happy morning. I could not hold back the tears as I watched with pride the reactions of my six brothers and four sisters and the loving expressions of my noble parents as they watched their posterity partake of the Christmas spirit and as they felt of the unity which prevailed in our family circle.
(December 1988, p. 21.)

Mom put bricks in the oven and then wrapped them in blankets so our feet would stay warm as we traveled in our car without a heater. It was 1935, and we were making the 60-mile (96 km) drive from Salt Lake City to Payson, Utah, to visit my grandparents in early December. The snow was falling lightly around us and swirled in what looked like little tornadoes on the road ahead. My big brother, Fred, and I were bundled in heavy coats and itchy wool socks and mufflers. The drive seemed endless to me as a seven-year-old.
We made this trip every December. The Christmas season didn’t really start until we were in Grandma and Grandpa Tanner’s warm kitchen making popcorn balls. Grandpa would stoke up the fire, and Grandma would fill a wire basket with popcorn and shake it vigorously over the fire until it filled with puffy, white corn. Then Grandma would pour hot honey butter over the popcorn in a big cast-iron kettle and mix in peanuts. When the mixture cooled, we would dig in with our butter-covered hands and make festive balls to share with family and friends.
This Christmas, however, would be different. Usually Fred and I rode in the backseat, but this year we were wedged between my parents on the bench seat up front. A small white coffin carrying the body of my one-year-old brother, Gerold, took up the backseat. A case of measles had turned into pneumonia and snuffed out his young life. Earlier we had gone to the mortuary to pick up the small wooden coffin.
As we made the two-hour journey, Dad led us in singing Christmas songs. Mom and Dad harmonized, and the beautiful music comforted us as we grieved the loss of our baby.
When we got to Grandpa’s house, the usually jovial crowd of family and relatives was waiting solemnly. The coffin was taken from the backseat and brought into Grandma’s spotless parlor. My grandparents’ bishop spoke a few kind words, and then we were back in the car to ride to the cemetery, where we all wept as this precious little boy was laid in the frozen ground.
Christmas did come. The fire was stoked, the popcorn was popped, and the festive popcorn balls were delivered on Grandpa’s horse-drawn sleigh. There was sadness that day but also a resonant peace as I listened to my faithful grandparents reading the story of Christ’s birth.
My grandparents had been born of pioneer parents who had laid many babies in the ground. As our family mourned our loss, we turned to where our ancestors had turned—to the Son of God and His words. I remembered the Christmas story with a different heart that year, for it was because of the baby born in a manger that the baby we had laid in the ground would rise again and be ours.
Many decades have passed since then, but each Christmas I still pour honey butter over popcorn, mix in peanuts, shape the mixture into balls, and remember.

In my own immediate neighborhood we have had our share of heart-wrenching tragedies. In October 1998, 19-year-old Zac Newton, who lived only three houses east of us, was killed in a tragic automobile accident.
Less than two years later, in July, 19-year-old Andrea Richards, who lived directly across from the Newtons, was killed in an automobile accident.
One Saturday afternoon in July 2006, Travis Bastian, a 28-year-old returned missionary, and his 15-year-old sister, Desiree, who lived across the street and two houses north of us, were killed in a terrible automobile accident.
One month later, in August 2006, 32-year-old Eric Gold, who grew up in the house next door to us, suffered a premature death. And others in this neighborhood have also suffered heart-wrenching experiences privately endured and known only to themselves and God.
With the loss of five young people, one might assume that this is an unusual number of trials for one small neighborhood. I choose to think the number only seems large because of a close, caring ward, whose members know when there is a pressing need. It is a ward with members who are following the admonition of Alma and the Savior—members who care and love and bear one another’s burdens, members who are willing to mourn with those that mourn, members who are willing to comfort those in need of comfort, members who endure together.
In each of these instances we saw an outpouring of love, service, and compassion that was inspirational to all. Bishops arrived, home and visiting teachers went into action, and Melchizedek and Aaronic Priesthood quorums and Relief Societies organized to take care of both spiritual and temporal needs. Refrigerators were stocked, houses cleaned, lawns mowed, shrubs trimmed, fences painted, blessings given, and soft shoulders were available for crying on. Members were everywhere.
In every one of these instances, the families who lost a loved one expressed increased faith, increased love for the Savior, increased gratitude for the Atonement, and heartfelt thankfulness for an organization that responds to the deepest emotional and spiritual needs of its members. These families now speak about how they got to know the Lord through their adversity. They relate many sweet experiences that grew out of their pain. They testify that blessings can emerge from heartbreak. They give praise to the Lord and would echo the words of Job: “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).

Anthon stepped from his doorway onto the cobbled street, hesitated, and turned back to his wife—“the best in the land” he called her.
“Are you coming, Ibine?”
His wife stepped out of the doorway. She was wrapped in woolen scarves and a heavy coat. The February night was icy cold. Their destination was the seashore, a few blocks from their home. The children followed Ibine out the door. Thorvald and Astra were too young to be baptized but not too young to be excited for their parents. Only Anthon didn’t feel excited. He was quiet and pensive while walking along the clean-swept streets of Aalborg, Denmark.
He and his family were nearing the place where they would be baptized. A sick feeling of loneliness hit him in his stomach. “My homeland, my forefathers, all that has been good to me—am I giving up their trust in me for a far-fetched religion sprouted in a distant; new country?”
Every member of the Mormon church who lived in Aalborg was there on the seashore, some holding lanterns. It was a small but cheery group. They sang hymns and smiled. But Anthon was still quiet. He looked into the faces of his beautiful children and wondered if he was doing what was right for them. He knew he would have to find a private school for them because the prejudice in the public schools against the few Mormon children was too much for such young children to bear.
The singing was over. A prayer was given to open the meeting. The missionaries asked a blessing on Brother and Sister Jensen that as they were baptized they would not fall ill from the freezing temperatures. A hole was chopped in the ice. The sacred ordinance was performed for both Anthon and his wife, Ibine. The two new members were welcomed with hugs and handshakes and sent quickly home to their warm fireplace. It was then that Anthon noticed something special—something unexpected. On their way home he found himself walking, almost skipping, with lightened step—his wife and children smiling at him all the way. The heavy burdens of worry had been lifted. He knew he had done the right thing, and above all he knew now that there was something important for him to do in life.

Near the turn of the century two missionaries approached a mountain village in one of the Hawaiian Islands. A man standing near his hut saw them coming and said to his children who stood nearby, “Run down the hill and tell those men to go back. We are not interested in what they are preaching.” The children obeyed their father.
The missionaries, however, continued up the hill. Upon reaching the crest, they walked to the father and said, “We do not mean to be rude. But we have traveled many miles to tell you that there is a living prophet on the earth today.”
A look of excitement swept over the man’s face. “What did you say?” he asked.
The missionaries repeated their testimony: “There is a living prophet on the earth today, and we want to share with you his message.”
Turning to his children, the man exclaimed, “Quickly, run and get mother, and call together your brothers and sisters. Tell them that there is a living prophet.” A short time later this family accepted the gospel and was baptized. (Related to Elder Asay by Tom Kaleo of Hawaii, about his own father.)

Riptide “‘He needs a hug,’ Zach’s father said, ‘and then he needs a name.’” Zach named the puppy Riptide after the current so strong when it runs out to sea that the sandbars crumble. Riptide became a self-appointed lifeguard on the beach. The officer didn’t want him there—until the riptide came when the human lifeguards couldn’t save all the swimmers being dragged out to sea. … Based on a true story.Frances Ward Weller4–8 years

It had been almost three months since the train of two-wheel handcarts had left for the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. Without enough money to buy teams and wagons, the emigrants had had their carts made in Iowa City. All their belongings were either loaded inside the carts or lashed to the sides of the carts. And every able-bodied person took his turn pushing and pulling them during the journey. Now the distant snow-topped mountains and the cooler nights warned the struggling band that they must waste no time, or winter would be upon them before they reached their destination.
Several fires for the evening meal had already been lighted, and all those old enough to help were busy at necessary tasks. Some of the men were greasing axles; others were repairing carts, a number of which were almost beyond repair. A few men with guns fanned out from the campsite, hoping to obtain game. Women were dipping meal from wooden casks, in some cases scraping the bottoms.
Ben Ashford, large for a twelve-year-old, walked cautiously along the almost dry creek bed. He was a good shot, and he hoped that he might scare up a jackrabbit, because the Ashford provisions were very low.
Hearing a low moan, Ben stopped and quietly looked around. The sound came again. Certain that it was a person making the noise, Ben ran back to camp shouting, “It sounds like somebody’s hurt down in the creek bed!”
“You must be hearing things, Ben. There’s nobody within miles of here,” said his father.
“Well, it could be an animal, but it sounds like a person … Honest!”
Taking the gun from Ben, his father called to two other men, “Bring your guns—the boy thinks there’s a person or a beast down in the creek bottom.”
The men stopped and listened intently as they approached the creek bed. From a cavelike hole in the bank came the sound of a barely audible moan. Brush and grass had been drawn over the opening, and while Ben’s father jerked off the brush, the others stood ready to shoot.
Glaring at them from inside the opening was a young Indian boy with a sharp pointed stick in his left hand. Blood covered his right shoulder and arm. After making signs to the boy that he wouldn’t be harmed, the men helped him from his hiding place.
Back at camp when Ben’s mother dressed the boy’s wounded shoulder, he didn’t even whimper.
There were only a few dried berries and a small serving each of oatmeal porridge for supper, but Ben’s family shared what they had with the Indian lad. As the boy began to recover, they talked kindly to him and learned that his name was White Cloud. Slowly he began to trust them, especially Ben. With signs and a few English words, White Cloud told them that he and a friend had been picking mountain berries and had gone too far from their camp. His friend had been killed, and he himself had been grazed by a bullet and had escaped by running down to the creek bed and hiding there.
“We’d better post an extra guard tonight,” advised Sandy McIntire, the camp leader, when he saw the boy. “Although we’ve had friendly relations with the Indians so far, White Cloud’s people might suspect us of shooting the boys.”
With the first light of dawn, the camp was stirring. Weeks before, Ben had discovered a bee tree not far from one of their camps. The honey had been shared, and Ben’s mother had used theirs on special occasions. Now Ben grinned broadly when he saw his mother drop a little of the precious sweet into their breakfast porridge.
After a prayer for help and guidance, the carts rolled forward. Mr. Ashford took the shafts to begin pulling the cart. His wife ducked under the cart handle to add her strength beside her husband. With Ben, his younger brother, and the Indian boy pushing from behind, the Ashford cart moved steadily over the rough, rock-strewn trail.
Without warning, White Cloud stumbled and fell, and Ben called for his parents to stop. The Indian boy made no complaint as he struggled to his feet, and when Ben’s father started to lift him onto the cart, he pulled back and shook his head violently. By not helping to push, he was able to walk along at their slower pace.
The sun was just slipping over the horizon when several mounted Indians appeared, riding out from behind a bold outcrop of rock just ahead. The carts were stopped, and an order was quickly given to remain calm and to display no firearms.
The Ashford cart was near the front of the line where they could clearly see the approaching Indians, and White Cloud recognized them at once. He cried out, pointed to himself, and ran weakly toward the braves. The riders broke into a gallop, then slowed down and stopped upon reaching the boy. The leader dismounted, and for a long moment the train waited while man and boy talked. Then, remounting with the boy behind him, the leader approached the carts with his hand raised, palm out. Ben’s father and Sandy McIntire stepped out to meet him.
“I am Walking Horse. You helped White Cloud, my son. We want peace with you.”
“We are your friends,” Ben’s father responded.
White Cloud’s good arm was held tightly about his father’s waist as they rode away.
Ben said slowly, “I’m glad I found White Cloud. I only wish he could have stayed with us long enough for us to have become good friends.”
Relieved by the outcome of the meeting, Sandy McIntire waved for the emigrants to move out, saying, “We’ll stop for the night as soon as we reach water.”
They made camp in an open space by a little brawling stream. All were exhausted from pulling and pushing the carts, often uphill. Two men had circled out ahead of the train to search for game but returned empty-handed. Suddenly two Indians on horseback entered the little valley.
Ben, who was watching anxiously, exclaimed, “It’s Walking Horse!”
Walking Horse was leading a heavily ladened pack horse. The second rider was also leading a pack animal. The members of the emigrant train were speechless as the Indians unfastened the pack horses’ lashings and dropped two elk at the feet of Ben’s father and Sandy McIntire.
Ben’s father responded instantly: “We are grateful. Our people are hungry. God be with you.”
“White Cloud said you have no meat. Now you have meat.” Walking Horse raised his hand slowly in a sign of peace. He touched his heel to his horse’s flank, and the two Indians and their horses were soon out of sight.