Gospel Story Finder

Reuben remembers his experience as a 14-year-old teacher and going home-teaching for the first time. “I was kind of nervous because I hadn’t done it before, but then after I read over the lesson, I thought, ‘I can do this.’ Having the Spirit with me helped because it helped me to say the things that the people we were visiting needed to hear, even though I hadn’t originally planned on saying certain things,” Reuben says. “I’ve learned that in order to have the Spirit help you, you first have to prepare and try to be ready. If you can do that, it can help you out a lot.”

Along the road, perhaps nearly half way from the mouth of Parley’s Canyon to the city, I … saw a bright-colored, dainty, charming little girl approaching me in the middle of the street. It was a strange meeting, we two. My hair had grown out somewhat. But three months’ journey over the plains and through the mountains without hat or coat or shoes for most of the way had wrought havoc with my appearance. My hair stuck out in all directions; the freckles seemed deeper and more plentiful and the features less attractive than when the journey began. Shirt and trousers barely clung to my sturdy form, and my feet were black and cracked. …

But try as I would, the shock of hair was unmanageable, and so no wonder the dainty little lady was somewhat timid in approaching me. She had on her arm a basket of luscious fruit, peaches, plums, and grapes. These she extended to me, the “ugly duckling” of a boy from the plains, and asked me if I would have some peaches. The answer was to gather up several which I strung along in the crook of my arm, and as soon as I had obtained what I supposed a reasonable portion, I wondered how I could get this fruit so wonderful back to Polly [his sister, Mary] and … turned back as best I could to the wagon where Polly was concealed under the wagon cover because of her being a little ashamed of her appearance. Running behind the wheel ox and climbing up on the tongue of the wagon, I called to my sister, handed to her the fruit . …

… Across the way on Temple Square block, the foundations of the temple rose above the general level of the surrounding ground and seemed to be an object of interest to nearly all the emigrants, many of whom were permitted to go within the wall, and view it. By and by there were numerous meetings in various groups of people, friends of the emigrants, parents and sweethearts, and perhaps in some instances wives of the teamsters that had returned. There seemed to be an air of cheerfulness in all this meeting of people on the arrival of this large emigrant train of Saints.
Mary and I seemed to be so little part of this excitement and joy, because nobody seemed to come for us. Mary remained concealed under the wagon cover, and I lonesome and heartsick sat upon the tongue of [the] wagon, my chin in my hands and elbows upon my knees, thinking “Zion” was not so much after all, if this was all of it. …
Presently, however, approaching from the west gate, I saw a woman in a red and white plaid shawl. … She seemed to be daintily picking her way, and there was something in the movement of her head as she looked to the right and to the left that seemed familiar to me. The woman was moving in my direction, and the closer she came the stronger the conviction grew upon me that there was my mother. …
I stood until she came nearly parallel to where I sat; then sliding from the tongue of the wagon, I took a few steps, which brought me near to her and, plucking her gown, I said: “Hey Mother,” and she looked down upon my upturned face. Without moving she gazed upon me for some time and at last said, “Is this you, Harry? Where is Polly?” Of course Polly was in the wagon, and I led my mother to where she was hiding, and when mother and daughter met, there was a flood of tears on both sides. At last I joined them, making the trio of the united family. It seemed difficult for our mother to realize that we at last were her children after more than four years of separation, but once in a while, a smile would break through the tears and she seemed to be extremely happy. A neighbor of hers … had driven her from Bountiful to the city to get us children, and it took but a short time to leave the remaining emigrant teams and people to find this wagon and make the start for home, Bountiful.
There was one thing remembered in this reunion, and that was on my part. I felt that I had arrived, that I belonged to somebody, that somebody had an interest in me, and these were the thoughts that were in my mind as I sat in the wagon on the drive home to Bountiful. I had heard incidentally that my mother owned her house, and that, of course, for English people, who among the poorer classes were all renters, meant a great deal to me. Now I was going to my mother’s home—her own house.
As the wagon drew near to Bountiful, … we came to the site of a log house with a dirt roof on one part of it and another part adjoining on the south that had been built up to the square with logs unchinked without a roof, and this, my mother turned to explain to me, was her home. But soon mother and children climbed out of the wagon and went into the house. …
No one was at home when the little group entered, much to the disappointment of the mother as to the children, for, of course, we were anxious to meet our other sister, “Annie,” who was remembered lovingly by us. Our mother seemed annoyed, for she had expected her other daughter at home, perhaps with supper ready. It was only a short time, however, until “Sister Annie” came in and what a charming thing she was—bright, blue-eyed, fine long hair combed back from her face. Everything about her seemed so perfectly clean and wholesome, and to my eyes she was beautiful too, and spritely. She seemed to be everywhere about the house at once, and the meal that our mother had expected was soon under way. …
… What was left of the day was the wonderful meal prepared by Annie. Not much variety of food, for our mother was desperately poor, but what there was, was fit for princes—just white light buttermilk biscuits with butter, clear water from the creek, and dark, sweet, sticky fluid called “Molasses.” It was heartily enjoyed, Mary and me furnishing the principle appetites. How long the talk of the reunion lasted is not remembered, but it must have been far into the night. With the awakening of the next day, my life in Utah had begun.

My siblings and I, as kids, grew up not knowing and feeling what it means to enjoy the real spirit of Christmas centred on the life and mission of the Saviour, Jesus Christ. We celebrated Christmas as just one special day. In many ways my Christmas experience was mixed with childish wishful thinking. To me, Christmas day meant one thing: a Christmas gift. No gift, no Christmas.
Despite our childhood hearts focusing only on our Christmas gift, we knew this period between when school let out and Christmas day wasn’t going to be an easy ride. It would be a tough time which I will call “time to behave”. Our loving parents didn’t accept any excuse and made sure everyone had something to do. Each evening after dinner, the work plan for the next day was briefly discussed and individual or group assignments appropriate to our age were given. It was during this time to behave that we were taught the value of work, family unity, bearing one another’s burdens, teamwork and other valuable life skills. Just before Christmas, our parents would judge how well we conducted ourselves on all these household chores and farming activities, and they would decide whether we were to receive or miss out the Christmas gift. I am profoundly humbled and thankful for such a self-disciplining time to behave childhood experience which molded my life with everlasting character.
Many years have gone by. We have grown from childish to adult pursuits, being caught up in the business of busy life. I vividly remember some of these wonderful, happy moments when I got my Christmas gift. On the other hand, it is hard to forget a few unpleasant Christmas days when I missed out on my Christmas gift after failing to live up to my loving parents’ expectations during the time to behave period. It was through these childhood experiences that I came to love and treasure the Saviour’s birth and the Christmas season.

From the pulpit, Elder Wirthlin enjoyed sharing lessons he had learned as a football player. One important lesson came at the bottom of a pile of 10 players during a conference championship game. After attempting to score what would have been the winning touchdown, Joseph was tackled just short of the goal line.
“At that moment I was tempted to push the ball forward. … I would have been a hero,” he recalled. But then he remembered the words of his mother: “Joseph,” she had often said to him, “do what is right, no matter the consequence.”
Joseph wanted to be a hero in the eyes of his mother more than in the eyes of his teammates. So, he said, “I left the ball where it was—two inches from the goal line.”6

Some years ago while traveling to my mission in Germany, I found myself, in stormy November, aboard a ship sailing from New York to Bremerhaven. The ocean boiled with turmoil. We were all seasick. All we could eat were soda crackers and zwieback, a type of dry toast. I was almost afraid I was not going to die!
As the days passed it dawned on me—I’m really going on a mission. Do I truly have a testimony? Am I prepared to bear it “at all times and … in all places” (Mosiah 18:9)?
I thought I had a testimony, but now the real trial of my faith was coming. I was going to a foreign land where the only words I could speak in German were Volkswagen and auf Wiedersehen.
During the voyage I realized my testimony was not a spiritual fire of conviction, particularly of the Book of Mormon. And so I knelt on the cold steel floor of that rocking ship and begged the Lord with my tears. I prayed, “Dear Father, I have to know that the Book of Mormon is true. I have read it, I think I understand it, but I desire the fire which helps a man know that the Book of Mormon is Thy word. Please, Father, help me.”
Somewhere on the lonely Atlantic, during those turbulent days, a sweet spirit and peace came to me—“the peace of God, which passeth all understanding” (Philip. 4:7). I received a witness that the Book of Mormon is the word of God, and that supernal event became my hour of conversion.
2. Righteous Works
Oliver Cowdery took a positive action. He moved himself from thinking to doing. In my case, while on board that ship, I had more intimately studied and pondered the Book of Mormon. Young Joseph reflected on the Bible, then went into the woods to pray. Moses climbed Mount Sinai. My great-grandmother Nelson boarded a ship in Denmark, with a flock of little children, to join the Mormons in Utah. Righteous works yield a divine harvest. The Lord said, “He who doeth the works of righteousness shall receive his reward, even peace in this world, and eternal life in the world to come” (D&C 59:23).

My wife, Jean, and I had prayed that October morning in 1986 that we would be led to someone we could influence for good. When I received the message that afternoon to visit a man about an insurance problem, I made no connection between the assignment and our prayer. But that is how I met Larry.
Early in our visit I learned that Larry had also knelt that day, asking Heavenly Father to send someone to help him. Larry had recently been arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol and had lost his driving privileges until he took a driving course. These humiliating events brought him to kneel at the end of his living room couch.
As we talked, a special relationship quickly developed between us. I discovered some interesting facts about Larry. He was 82 and a member of the Church, but he had not been active for 60 years. His wife had died three years earlier without joining the Church. He lived in my ward, but apparently no one knew he was a member. The ward had no record of him.
I lost no time in asking if he would like to go to church with my wife and me the next Sunday. He agreed. I explained that since he had lost his driving privileges, he had no need for insurance at the moment. I offered to drive him places when he needed a ride.
When we picked him up the following Sunday, Jean took an instant liking to him, as I had. Larry, who walked with a cane, had a noticeable limp, so he rose with difficulty when I introduced him in priesthood meeting. He surprised me by telling the brethren how grateful he was to be there. As we drove him home later, he commented that he had enjoyed the meetings and the people. He said he would like to go to church the next week.
Each time I visited him, I learned more about his life. He was born in Ephraim, Utah, and could remember being baptized as a boy. He had been ordained a deacon by his uncle. I reported this information to the bishop and asked that Larry’s Church records be requested from Salt Lake City. In the meantime, Jean and I received permission to teach Larry gospel lessons in his home.
He finished reading the Book of Mormon we gave him in what seemed record time. So I suggested he read it again because it would mean more the second time. We also gave him a Doctrine and Covenants and Pearl of Great Price to aid his study.
We continued the lessons and took him to church with us for several weeks. Then one Sunday morning the bishop stopped Larry and me on our way to priesthood class and said, “Larry, we can’t find your records.” I made a lighthearted remark about his possibly needing to be rebaptized.
Something about the situation offended Larry. As we came out of the high priests group meeting, he looked me in the eye and said, “Don, I will never set foot in this church again. And when I make a promise like this, I keep it.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “The bishop doesn’t want me here and says I don’t belong here, and I won’t be back,” he added.
He wanted me to take him home. During the drive, I tried to explain that he must have misunderstood what the bishop meant. When Larry got out of the car, I asked if we could still give him a lesson that week; he said no. I was sick inside for several days.
Wanting to do something, I decided to call Church headquarters to check on Larry’s records. The record of his ordination as a deacon was located immediately, but the woman who helped me could not find his baptismal record. She told me to call back in two days. By then, she had also located the baptismal record and was sending a membership record to our ward.
I was elated! Now I had a reason to go see Larry. He was thrilled to receive the dates of his baptism and ordination and to renew our friendship. My hopes of helping him back into activity were rekindled.
About this time, Larry found he needed surgery to have his hip replaced. I asked him if he would like a priesthood blessing beforehand.
“What’s a blessing?” he asked.
I explained, and Larry said he would like one, so I called the bishop to help. The bishop pronounced the blessing. Larry has remarked many times since about the warm sensation that passed through his body and about the peaceful feeling that remained with him through his operation and quick recovery.
When he was released from the hospital, he convalesced at home, with daily visits from a home health-care nurse. I also visited him daily, as did others. Sisters from our ward brought in meals for a week.
During the three or four weeks of Larry’s recovery, we had ample opportunity to learn more of each other. Many times he expressed gratitude for the help given him. I learned of his strong love for the Church, for the bishop, and for the members who had visited him.
I could see that it was time to help Larry come back to Church meetings. He responded to my wife’s invitation and began attending. The test of his resolve came one weekend when Jean and I had to attend a stake conference out of town. I asked Larry if I could get someone to take him to church, and he replied, “No, I believe I’ll stay home this Sunday.” That was a disappointment! As soon as we returned, we visited him and learned that a neighbor had asked if he could take Larry to church that day. Larry had gone with him. Once again, the Spirit had intervened to help.
Larry’s experiences strengthened our testimonies as we saw the hand of God move in his life. This once-forgotten man was led out of darkness into light. He has said many times that since we met, he has never had a desire to have an alcoholic drink, even though drinking had been a long-standing habit for him.
Because Larry’s record had remained clean during the period his driver’s license was suspended, his driving privileges were restored without further action. After his license came in the mail, he told me, “You won’t have to pick me up for church. I’ll meet you there.”
Not long afterward, he was ordained a high priest. It seemed the right time to bring up the idea of going to the temple.
The temple, of course, had come up in the lessons we had taught in his home. One day I had taken Larry to the cemetery to retrieve some wreaths from the grave of his wife, Billie. I was surprised to see an engraving of the Salt Lake Temple on her headstone. He explained that although he had not been active in the Church at the time of her death, it had seemed to him then that the engraving of the temple “ought to be there.”
So when I raised the subject of taking him to the temple for his own endowment, it was gratifying but not surprising to hear him say, “Yes, I want to go.” I asked if he wanted me to talk to the bishop about preparing him to go. “No, Don,” he replied. “I believe I should start standing on my own. I’ll talk to the bishop Sunday.”
It was a beautiful summer morning when Jean and I picked Larry up for the drive to the Salt Lake Temple. We later learned that he had lived in Salt Lake City as a young man, had seen the temple many times, and had wished someday to go there. Once inside, he was awestruck by the ever-increasing beauty of each room. The kindness and love of the temple workers warmed him. “If heaven is like this,” he said later, “that is where I want to go.”
Larry has been an inspiration to me, and he moves me to be better. He is kind and caring and has a knack for complimenting people. He is a young man for his years, with a positive outlook. It has been a privilege to know him.

I am also reminded of President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994), who was assigned to succor members of the Church in Germany following World War II. “Through the God-inspired welfare program, he literally fed the hungry, comforted the weeping, and lifted closer to heaven all with whom he met.”2
Years later, President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) referred to that event at a dedication service in Zwickau. At the meeting, an elderly Church member approached him and said: “Please tell President Benson that we love him. He saved our lives: mine, my wife’s, my children’s, and many, many others.’ He was as an angel sent by God to literally restore to us hope and confidence in the future.”3

Samu, a ten-year-old African boy, walked slowly down the village farm road. He smacked at the hedge with every step, trying to spear a leaf on the pointed tip of his msasa stick.
When he finally reached the gate in the hedge, he paused hopefully. Then he reached out and swung the gate open and shut, open and shut. The gate was badly in need of oil and squeaked loudly as Samu swung it backward and forward.
Soon Samu heard the same loud squeak come from the old woman’s front porch. It was the bird—the clever talking bird!
“Squeeeeeeeeek, squeeeeeeeeek! Naughty boy! Who’s there?” called the bird in the yellow cage. Then it barked shrilly like the old lady’s Pekinese dog.
Samu clutched the gate and giggled. “Hello, hello!” called Samu.
“Hello, hello!” replied the bird.
Samu felt very clever. He ran to his home in the village and told his mother that he was teaching a bird to speak. His mother laughed, because she knew nothing of talking birds.
“I will show you, Mother,” Samu said excitedly. “As soon as I get a bird of my own, I will teach it to talk!”
Mother was busy pounding corn into mealie, and she just laughed at Samu’s promise and told him to run away and play.
Samu asked some of his friends to help him catch a bird. “I will teach it to talk,” he told them. But his friends only laughed, for they had never heard of a talking bird.
Next Samu spoke to Old Mwanza, who sat all day by his hut warming his old bones in the sun.
“Birds do not talk. Men talk—and they talk too much,” said the old man, shaking his grizzled head at Samu. “Why teach birds to add to the chatter?”
Samu wandered off into the bush by himself, wondering how he could catch a bird and train it to talk as the old woman’s bird did. He had almost given up hope when he saw a black crow sitting in the branches of a msasa tree hoarsely croaking about nothing in particular.
Why don’t I try to make friends with this bird by feeding it? he thought. I will bring it some of mother’s cooked mealie every day at the same time until it knows me.
Samu quickly ran home and begged for some hard-cooked porridge. His mother gave him a handful, and back he ran to the msasa tree and spread lumps of mealie on the ground. Then he hid in the bushes. After a lot of surprised scraaaking, the crow hopped down and began to peck at the mealie.
Every day for three weeks Samu took a handful of porridge and fed the crow. It no longer flew up into the tree with a scraaaaak of fright when Samu arrived. Now it hopped up close to him and jumped up and down in the dust, waiting for Samu to spread the porridge.
At first when Samu tried touching its feathered back, it hopped out of reach and looked at him with bright beady eyes as it scolded, “Quraaaaaaack?”
But in another week Samu could stroke the crow’s back gently while it pecked up the food.
Now! he decided triumphantly. Now I can teach it to talk.
“Say hello,” Samu told the crow. “Hello, hello, hello.”
“Scraaaaaaaak!” replied the crow.
“You will have to do better than that,” Samu said patiently. “Now try again. Say hello. Hello, hello, hello.”
“Scraaaaaaaaak?” repeated the crow, putting its head to one side and blinking at Samu with curious eyes.
“Look,” scolded Samu. “If the other bird can say it, so can you. You’re not trying.”
“Crraasquk,” squawked the crow as it flew up to the lowest branch of the msasa tree.
Samu walked home through the bush, dragging his bare feet and feeling miserable. Why wouldn’t his bird even try to talk?
He went back to see Old Mwanza and told him that the crow refused to learn to talk.
“This bird that talks with many voices and barks like a dog and squeaks like a gate,” said the old man, “must have two tongues. Perhaps your bird only has one tongue.”
I guess my crow does have only one tongue Samu thought sadly. But I will try once more! So back he went to the msasa tree with a handful of mealie. He fed his crow and then squatted down in the dust beside it. “Hello!” he said loudly. The crow danced sideways for a moment and then hopped on to Samu’s knee.
“Squaaaaako!” said the crow, and again it flew up into the tree.
Samu felt quite sorry for himself. All of his work for nothing!
Behind him the old man chuckled. He had followed Samu to see how he was getting along with teaching his bird to talk. “Samu,” he said, “it’s good to try hard to do something. But it is foolish to try to do the impossible. Would you try to teach a hen to swim like a duck or a dog to crow like a rooster?”
“No,” said Samu sheepishly. “But the old woman’s bird talks. Why shouldn’t mine?”
“I have found out about the old woman’s bird,” explained Old Mwanza. “It is a parrot—a talking bird. Your crow will make a fine pet. Why don’t you teach it to come when you call and to hop after you when you go for walks. Then you will be teaching it something it is able to learn.”
“One day I will get a talking bird,” said Samu. Then he started to laugh. “Teaching a crow to talk is like teaching a dog to crow!” he said.
The crow looked at him with its bright beady eyes and said, “Squarrrrrrrrk!”

“When you turn yourself over to the Lord,” Sonny says, “He’ll put people in your path.” He tells of backing up his motor home one day and ending up in a ditch. He called for a tow truck, and the Spirit prompted him to speak to the driver about the gospel. “I told him, ‘The Lord put me in this ditch so I could meet you.’ He laughed, and we talked. It turns out his grandmother was a Mormon at one time. He wanted a copy of the Book of Mormon. We try to keep copies nearby, and I was happy to give him one.”

Whether it’s bringing the joy of music to the world, fixing a neighbor’s fence, or teaching the gospel, Chance has discovered the strongest and purest motivation behind it all.

“One of the most important things I’ve learned is the love God has for us,” he says. “I was going through a really tough time, and I was filled with this hatred and was blaming God for my issues. I was saying, ‘Why did you allow this to happen? Am I not worth it?’ And through this experience, I had a great moment at Especially for Youth. I learned that the number-one important thing about this gospel is that God always loves us. No matter how far gone we are, He always, always loves us and wants us to be happy and will do everything He can for us to be happy.”

A Young Women teacher I know taught the Laurels in a very remote area with few Church members. The slim prospects for eternal companions discouraged her girls terribly. She taught them to cultivate a vision of their future home and marriage, urging them to pray actively for their future companions, who were surely alive somewhere. She taught them to live worthy of such a dream, every day, every night. All six of her Laurels ultimately found and married righteous young men in the temple.

Soon afterward I was called to be Laurel class president. I felt very inadequate; there were several Laurels in the ward who were far more qualified. When my new calling was announced, one of the girls in the ward expressed her dissatisfaction. “How could they call you?” she said. “You hardly attend church. What do you know?”
She was right; I didn’t know anything. I felt sure my calling would drive many of the Laurels to inactivity—including me. The whole situation seemed too much to bear. If anyone was at the end of her rope, I was.
When I met with my class adviser, Marlene Evans, I told her that someone had made a huge error. However, she assured me that I had been called for a reason. She began to work tirelessly with me, and I went to her home on a regular basis to learn my responsibilities. With her encouragement, I could eventually conduct a meeting without my knees knocking together.
Once Sister Evans gave me a card that read, “When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.” She indicated that the rope represented life, and that by not taking righteous actions, we let life slip through our fingers. The knot represented the decision to hang on to the gospel and the security it brings.
I remembered that lesson throughout the coming months. I was attending high school full-time in addition to taking correspondence courses. I was working evenings and Saturdays. I paid for my own tuition, fees, books, clothes, and room and board. There were many times I felt I was at the end of my rope. Was I a super kid, doing it all and by myself? No, but I tied a knot and held on.
Today, I am a university graduate, working as a social worker. I married in the temple and have four children. They have been to the temple and have served missions. And I have served in leadership positions in the Young Women organization. Each time I do, I take every opportunity I can to share Sister Evans’s message with the youth. Her caring and her message changed my life.
I wouldn’t have the abundant blessings I enjoy today if I hadn’t learned to tie a knot and hang on.

Jenni Holt is from Ottawa, Canada’s beautiful capital city built on the wooded banks of the Ottawa River. She and friends from the Ottawa Ontario Stake talked with Church magazines about how prayer affects their lives.

One of the most interesting things the Ottawa teens discussed was how their prayers were answered. First, Susan Brook said, “If you want an answer, you have to listen for it.”
Susan said her answers sometimes come by reading the scriptures. She had a good example: “One day, I was just really tired, and I was being mean to everyone. I didn’t want to talk. I remember reading in the scriptures, I don’t even remember where, and it said, ‘Be humble.’ It hit me. That’s my answer.” (See D&C 112:10.)

In 1988, we were asked to an interview with the Missionary Committee. We suspected that a calling might be in the offing, so Ed, who had had a stroke about two years earlier that affected his heart, went to the doctor first so that he would know if he could accept an assignment. The doctor was absolutely firm that Ed must not leave the country. Thus, when Ed was asked if he could accept an overseas assignment, he was very disappointed to report the doctor’s instructions. I would have supported Ed wholeheartedly in his calling, but it was not to be.

Then, a few weeks later, I was called to serve on the Primary General Board, and a year and a half later, I was called to my present position in the Relief Society.

When I was being set apart, President Thomas S. Monson, who had known us for years, said, “Eddie, Chieko has supported you in your priesthood callings—in the bishopric, as mission president, and as Regional Representative. Now it’s your turn to support her.” Ed smiled and agreed to do so. Of course, this was not a change for Ed.

Later in the day the Dunns arrived. “We don’t get many General Authorities up here,” one boy explained as the group clustered on the shores of the lake waiting for the Dunns’ helicopter. “When they do come, we get excited.” The excitement was very real when the whirr of the propeller and the roar of the engine turned all faces skyward. As the Dunns stepped out of the craft, camera shutters clicked, handshakes were exchanged, and swarms of smiling people enveloped them. Suddenly a chorus of “Shall the Youth of Zion Falter” filled the air as everyone lifted their voices in unison. “Only in Alaska, only in Alaska,” murmured one boy almost to himself.
From that point on, the tenor of the conference intensified. A still-vibrant, but now-hushed feeling swept the crowd as they gathered in the sands with their backs to the shimmering sun and listened to Elder Dunn in the first of three addresses to them.
“I know that many of you have traveled long distances to come to this conference. Yet I get the feeling that it was all worth it,” Elder Dunn said, looking into their faces. “I think I see here spiritual eyes that are very comforting. I don’t have too much concern about the future when I can look out at such a sea of righteousness.”
He spoke and they listened. They listened until their hearts overflowed, the fullness glistening down sun-bathed cheeks. And then they listened some more. When it was time to climb back on the buses, many were reluctant to leave. Only the promise of hearing Elder Dunn the next day, Sunday, gave them the will to part.
Sunday began early, and many of the now-scrubbed faces were drooping a little as they entered the large cultural center on the university campus for church meetings. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over a month,” one girl on the planning committee later admitted quietly. But the tiredness almost felt good. It came from days filled to overflowing with Mormon-style work and fun.
It wasn’t long before the faces began to glow with spiritual awakening. The group divided for the first meetings. The boys met with Elder Dunn for a priesthood meeting in front of a huge mural of the Fairbanks countryside.
“Can you imagine,” he said, “what we could do if we took faith in God, confidence in self, and added that third ingredient—determination?” Then he answered his own question. “There isn’t a boy or a man in this room who couldn’t go all the way in doing anything he needs to do.”
Meanwhile the girls were meeting with Sister Dunn in the auditorium. The sweet spirit of womanhood at its best radiated from the girls as they listened to Sister Dunn bear her witness of the growth that can come through service in the kingdom.
“You know, girls, service is the only way to develop our capacities,” she said with quiet conviction. “The Lord wants us to grow and develop.”
From the third row a baby began to fuss and then cry. Sister Dunn paused for a moment, and everyone smiled as the mother offered the child comfort. Somehow it all seemed very right.
When the boys joined the girls in the auditorium for the final event of the conference, a three-hour testimony meeting, each paused for a moment in the greeting. The mysterious transformation that had occurred over the short night was most pleasing. Shirts and ties had replaced T-shirts, and soft dresses had replaced blue jeans. But the change was more than washing off the dirt and donning the Sunday best. They felt cleaner through and through. It was as if the words of the last night and the anticipation of the experience to come had brought a renewal of spirit, a new understanding of life.
As the meeting progressed, this renewal grew. Heart joined heart in a declaration of the power of righteousness that bowed many heads and filled many eyes. The lines of those waiting to bear testimony grew up the stairs the length of the auditorium.
“Do you know that the group sitting right here in this room could change the shape of Alaska?” Elder Dunn began the testimony bearing. “People want what you and I have if we are bold enough and courageous enough to share it with them. I’m just naive enough to think that you and I can convert the world.”
He spoke with boldness, and they answered with conviction.
“There is a feeling in this meeting that I can do anything that’s right,” one boy said, adding his testimony to Elder Dunn’s.
“I look around me and everyone is just sort of glowing,” observed one girl, her voice hushed in marvel.
And they did. It was a glow more beautiful than that of the midnight sun from the tallest mountain. It welled up from three days of nurturing and spilled over, moving all within its touch to swelling hearts and wet cheeks. Nonmembers stood to express their gratitude and testimonies in embryo. Adult advisers wept silently beside their youth. The Dunns watched in quiet wonder. And every heart joined in the silently resounding chorus, “His truth is marching on.”

After he received the gold plates, Joseph Smith’s life was threatened and many attempts were made to steal the plates. Joseph and Emma, his wife, moved to Harmony, Pennsylvania, and Martin Harris, a friend from Palmyra, New York, came to visit.
Mr. Harris … returned again to my house about the 12th of April, 1828, and commenced writing for me while I translated from the plates, which we continued until the 14th of June following, by which time he had written one hundred and sixteen pages of manuscript. … Mr. Harris … began to importune (beg) me to [let] him … carry the writings home and show them; and desired of me that I would inquire of the Lord … if he might not do so. I did inquire, and the answer was that he must not. However, he was not satisfied with this answer, and desired that I should inquire again. I did so, and the answer was as before. Still he … insisted that I should inquire once more. … Permission was granted … on certain conditions; which were, that he show them only to his brother, Preserved Harris, his own wife, his father and his mother, and a Mrs. Cobb, a sister to his wife. In accordance with this last answer, I required of him that he should bind himself in a covenant to me … that he would not do otherwise than had been directed. … He bound himself as I required of him, took the writings, and went his way.
Martin Harris had been gone for three weeks, and Joseph had heard nothing from him. Joseph took a stagecoach, then walked the last twenty miles in the dark to his parents’ home in Manchester, near Palmyra. He immediately sent for Martin. Several hours later, Martin arrived and explained that the manuscript pages had been lost.
Notwithstanding … the great restrictions which [Martin Harris] had been laid under, and the solemnity [seriousness] of the covenant which he had made with me, he did show [the manuscript pages] to others, and by stratagem they got them away from him, and they never have been recovered unto this day.
I should have been satisfied with the first answer which I received from the Lord; for he told me that it was not safe to let the writing go out of my possession.
I returned immediately home. Soon after my arrival, I commenced humbling myself in mighty prayer before the Lord … that if possible I might obtain mercy at his hands and be forgiven of all that I had done contrary to his will.
Both the plates and the Urim and Thummim were taken from me … ; but in a few days they were returned to me, … and the Lord said thus unto me:
“Now, behold, I say unto you, that because you delivered up those writings … into the hands of a wicked man, you have lost them.
“And you also lost your gift [of translation] at the same time, and your mind became darkened.
“Nevertheless, it is now restored unto you again; therefore see that you are faithful and continue on unto the finishing of the remainder of the work of translation as you have begun.” (D&C 10:1–3.)
The Lord told Joseph Smith that the people who stole the manuscript planned to change some of the words. If Joseph translated the same plates again, the thieves would show the pages they had altered and say that Joseph wasn’t a prophet because the two translations weren’t identical. The Lord long ago commanded the Book of Mormon prophet Nephi to prepare a second set of plates covering the same things, and He told Joseph to translate this set, instead.
(See History of the Church, vol. 1, pages 18–24; The History of Joseph Smith, Lucy Mack Smith, pages 128, 133.)

“Dora … Dora!” Ed was calling me in his coaxing voice. That usually meant he wanted me to do something for him. I dropped my spigot and walked over to where he was.

“We’re going to go swimming. Do you want to go with us?”

“Nah, I don’t want to.” I started to walk away.

“How come you never want to swim?” he asked.

“I don’t like drowning. That’s why.”

“You’ve never drowned yet,” he reminded me.

“I don’t intend to either,” I told him. “Even if I did go swimming, it wouldn’t be a hundred miles up in the air where you can’t climb out on the ground.”

“Ah, come on, Dora,” he coaxed. “We need you for a lookout so we don’t get caught.”

“What’ll you give me?”

“A pretty bottle. I found one where Papa was digging. Been buried a long time, and it’s purple.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Will you come?”

Why not? I thought. “If it’s as pretty as you say,” I finally agreed.

He pulled a piece of lavender colored glass from his pocket.

“It’s broken,” I said.

“Didn’t say it wasn’t,” he replied. “But just look at the color when the light shines through it.”

He was right. It was beautiful.

It was a long walk to the swimming spot we had found on the other edge of town. I guess it was worth it to the boys, who liked to be sweating hot when they climbed up the side and dropped into the cool water of the tank that stood by the tracks to fill the tenders of the train locomotives when they came by.

All my coolness had evaporated in the heat, and I stood waiting for the boys in the shade below the tank. I was grateful for any breeze that stirred the air to cool me off, and I kicked back the hot sand with my bare feet to see if there were a cooler spot underneath.

“When are you coming down?” I shouted up. I was answered only by loud splashes and playful laughing. They didn’t hear me. They didn’t even hear the mournful wail of the faraway train whistle or my shouts of “Train’s coming!”

They did hear the wild shriek of the brakes, though, as the engine shuddered to a stop. The sudden suspension of splashing in the tank told me that. I knew it was too late for them to climb out now without being caught, so I hid down in the shadows and tried to look invisible.

The engineer jumped out and turned on the spigot to fill the water tender on his train. If he noticed me, he ignored me. Soon he closed the valve, climbed back in the engine, and with a double toot of the whistle was on his way again.

After the train sounds died away, Ed shouted down, “Turn some more water into the tank.”

“What for? Aren’t you wet enough already?” I teased.

“So we can get out. That train drank half the water, and we can’t reach the top.”

“Can’t reach the bottom either,” Frank added.

“Where’s the tap?” I asked, looking around for it. I could only see the one the engineer used to drain the tank.

“I don’t know,” Ed shouted impatiently, “but find it!”

Finally I found another valve. But the tap had been shut off by stronger hands than mine. “I’m not strong enough,” I cried.

“Oh, come on,” Ed encouraged. “Try harder.”

“Why don’t you stand on each other’s shoulders?” I suggested.

“We tried that, and it doesn’t work. We still can’t reach.”

“Climb up the sides then.”

“It’s too slippery,” Ed called.

“Go get Papa,” Frank insisted.

“He’ll be mad,” I reminded him.

“He sure will,” Ed said, reconsidering.

Finally, however, there seemed to be no other solution, so I started off on a run to find Papa.

I was stumbling from fatigue and panting for breath when Mr. Leslie, one of our neighbors, came along on his horse.

“Why, what’s the matter, Dora?” he asked.

“My brothers will drown in the water tank. They can’t get out.”

“The train tank? They shouldn’t be in there.”

“I know they shouldn’t, but they are. They were swimming and the train came along and took most of the water. Now they can’t reach the top to get out and I can’t turn on the tap and they’ll drown.”

“There, there, now calm down. We’ll get them out,” Mr. Leslie said soothingly. “I have my rope right here.” He reached down and pulled me up behind him on the horse, and we loped all the way back to the tank.

“Ed?” I called to the silence that had settled down as we rode up. “Mr. Leslie’s going to turn on the water.”

When the water started running into the tank in a slow trickle, Mr. Leslie climbed up and pulled the boys out one at a time with the rope. When they were all out and scrambling into their clothes, Ed asked Mr. Leslie, “You aren’t going to tell Papa about this, are you?”

“Can’t think of any reason why not,” Mr. Leslie replied.

“ ’Cause he’ll whip us good,” Frank said.

“A little whippin’ never hurt any boy that I know of,” Mr. Leslie teased.

“He’ll never let us go swimming again,” Frank pleaded.

“It’ll save us a lot of trouble if you could just forget this happened,” Ed suggested. “We’re willing to pay by working for you. We’ll both pull weeds for you for half a day.”

“I’ll help too,” I offered.
The next morning when we got up Papa was waiting with a little green willow.

“Somebody needs a whipping,” he said. I couldn’t figure out how he’d heard about swimming in the train tank so soon.

“Come over here,” he directed, and he led us out by our water tank. “Look at that mess.” He pointed to a mire where the cows had sloshed up and down all night in the mud made by my siphon. He picked up the onion hose that had been pulled from the tank.

“Who,” he thundered, “thought of this?”

“I didn’t do it,” Ed said.

“Me neither,” Frank insisted.

“Well, I’m sure it wasn’t Georgie,” Papa said. “Dora, was it you?”

I turned my face down so I wouldn’t have to look at his blazing eyes, and he could tell I was guilty.

“Run along, boys,” he said. “I have some private business with Dora.”

He had to switch me a little so I’d learn my lesson. Then when he was through he said, “That was really a smart way to get a cold drink, but it sure made a mess, didn’t it? Next time remember to turn it off.”

(To be continued.)

As a 13-year-old boy, Lyman O. Littlefield accompanied the camp of Zion, which went up to Missouri. He later narrated this incident of a small yet personally significant act of service in the life of the Prophet:
“The journey was extremely toilsome for all, and the physical suffering, coupled with the knowledge of the persecutions endured by our brethren whom we were traveling to succor, caused me to lapse one day into a state of melancholy. As the camp was making ready to depart I sat tired and brooding by the roadside. The Prophet was the busiest man of the camp; and yet when he saw me, he turned from the great press of other duties to say a word of comfort to a child. Placing his hand upon my head, he said, ‘Is there no place for you, my boy? If not, we must make one.’ This circumstance made an impression upon my mind which long lapse of time and cares of riper years have not effaced” (in George Q. Cannon, Life of Joseph Smith the Prophet, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1986, p. 344).

One afternoon I was talking with Ebrahim, a new friend from Iran. He wanted to know how much I got paid to help in the camp. I smiled and told Ebrahim that I was a volunteer. He had never heard of this word, so I explained. He was shocked and then asked how much money my team leader made. I laughed and told him that everyone in that camp was a volunteer.

I guess word got around, because more of my new friends began commenting on it, saying how surprised they were that we would help them for nothing in return. They had never seen anything like it.

After the horrible, inhumane ways they had been treated, they were justified in thinking that no one would help them—especially strangers. Many told me they hadn’t had any idea what would happen to them once they reached European soil. What a great surprise it must have been to be welcomed off the raging sea into open, caring arms and emergency blankets.

It wasn’t long after these conversations about us volunteers had begun circling the camp that I noticed something very interesting. The refugees began to help me with my tasks! They started picking up trash. They asked if they could help make hot drinks and serve them throughout the freezing nights. They helped with folding, sorting, and distributing donated clothes and setting up and taking down tents. And to my amazement, by the end of my service, there were hardly any jobs left for me to do.

I couldn’t carry a heavy water jug without a man offering to carry it for me. I couldn’t wash dishes without refugees happily telling me they would do them. And not only could I not fling open a garbage bag without a herd of boys rushing over to help, the refugees had almost stopped throwing their trash on the ground altogether!

The changes I witnessed inside the camp were undeniable.

Winfred was helping Jajja (Grandma) make dinner.
“Mmm, I love matoke,” Jajja said.
“Me too,” Winfred said. “It’s one of my favorite meals! I like the green bananas. And the peppers and tomatoes. But the best part is the sauce.”
“That’s because the sauce combines all the flavors into one,” Jajja said.
They kept cutting vegetables. Then Winfred sighed.
“Jajja,” she said, “how do you stay so happy all the time?”
“I try to,” Jajja said. “But I’m not happy all the time. Sadness is a part of life. Are you sad right now?”
Winfred nodded. “I miss Taata (Daddy), because he’s working far away. And I miss school, because we can’t go right now. And I miss my friends from church.”
“It’s OK to feel sad about those things,” Jajja said. “Life is not always easy. But when I’m sad, I try to follow my recipe for happiness.”
“Your recipe?”
“Just like I have a recipe for matoke, I have a recipe for happiness. Sometimes sadness is too big to go away right away. But often I find that my recipe is just what I needed to feel better.”
“What is your recipe?”
Jajja smiled. “Why don’t you see if you can figure out a recipe for yourself? Then you can tell me about it.”
That night when Winfred prayed, she knew Heavenly Father was listening. She realized that prayer made her happy! She got a piece of paper and wrote, Winfred’s Recipe for Happiness. 1. Pray. Then she went to sleep.
The next morning she read her Book of Mormon. Reading the scriptures made her happy too. She found her paper and wrote, 2. Read scriptures. Then she looked at the scripture she had opened to: “Believe in Christ” (2 Nephi 33:10).
Winfred added another note: 3. Have faith in Jesus Christ.
Winfred thought about how nice Jajja was to let her visit. Winfred found Jajja and said, “Thank you for letting me stay with you.”
Saying thank you made Winfred feel good. She wrote on her paper again. 4. Be grateful.
Then Winfred asked her neighbors if the younger children could come and play. She brought her little sister, Milfred, and her little brother, Alfred. When they were done playing, she invited the children to read with her. Jajja cut up a watermelon for everyone to share.
Later Winfred went to visit her friend named Happy. Together, they washed the dishes for Happy’s mother. Then they swept the floor. It was fun to help!
When evening came, Winfred helped her siblings with their homework. She studied the alphabet with Milfred. She helped Alfred with his math.
That night, Winfred talked to Jajja again.
“I feel much better today! I think I found my recipe for happiness.”
“Wonderful! Tell me,” said Jajja.
“Winfred’s Recipe for Happiness,” she read. “1. Pray. 2. Read scriptures. 3. Have faith in Jesus Christ. 4. Be grateful.”
“That is a marvelous recipe,” Jajja said. “But I think you may have forgotten something. What else made you happy today?”
Winfred thought for a minute. “Well, I had fun playing with the little children. And helping Happy and her mother. And studying with Milfred and Alfred. Wait … that’s it! Helping others is the last ingredient.”
“That’s right,” Jajja said. “Serving others is like the sauce—it combines all the other good things into one.”
“That’s a good recipe.” Winfred grinned. “I want to try it again tomorrow.”