Gospel Story Finder

You may remember the sweet experience shared by President Romney, who had been reading the Book of Mormon with his son. He related: “I remember reading it with one of my lads when he was very young. … We were each reading aloud alternate paragraphs of those last three marvelous chapters of Second Nephi. I heard his voice breaking and thought he had a cold, but we went on to the end of the three chapters. As we finished he said to me, ‘Daddy, do you ever cry when you read the Book of Mormon?’

“‘Yes, son,’ I answered. ‘Sometimes the spirit of the Lord so witnesses to my soul that the Book of Mormon is true that I do cry.’

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘that is what happened to me tonight.’” (In Conference Report, Apr. 1949, p. 41.)

Elder Norman Seibold leaned forward in his seat. He was anxious to hear what his mission president would say at the emergency meeting in Frankfurt, Germany.
In 1939, German soldiers were marching in the streets and it looked like war would break out at any moment. Elder Seibold knew that the First Presidency had ordered all missionaries to evacuate from Germany and Czechoslovakia. His mission president, President Wood, had told the missionaries to go to the Netherlands.
But now President Wood said there was a big problem. The Netherlands had just closed its border to people leaving Germany, and the missionaries needed to evacuate to Denmark instead. But since the telephone lines were clogged with emergency calls, President Wood couldn’t contact the missionaries throughout Germany to tell them about the change in plans.
Even if the mission president could contact the missionaries, there was another problem. The military would not allow anyone fleeing Germany to travel with more than 10 marks (about $2). The missionaries had already bought train tickets for the Netherlands and had spent most of their money to be obedient to the law. Now they wouldn’t have enough money to buy new train tickets for Denmark. They were stranded!
“Thirty-one missionaries are stranded between here and the border of the Netherlands with no way of contacting me,” President Wood said. “Someone needs to find them and bring them safely to Denmark.”
Elder Seibold volunteered.
President Wood gave the brave elder 500 marks and train tickets to Copenhagen, Denmark. His special assignment was to ride the railway lines between Frankfurt and the border of the Netherlands, searching for the stranded missionaries. The direction of the Spirit would be his only guide.
After four hours on the train, Elder Seibold reached Cologne, Germany. He felt impressed to get off the train there. The busy station was filled with thousands of people anxious to flee Germany. How could he find any missionaries in such an enormous crowd?
Elder Seibold climbed onto a baggage cart and whistled the hymn “Do What Is Right,” which was a well-known signal to gather missionaries. Eight missionaries in the station heard that whistle, and Elder Seibold sent them safely to Denmark.
At some stops, Elder Seibold stayed on the train. At others, he was prompted by the Spirit to get off and whistle for stranded elders. At every station, Elder Seibold risked that the military would find him and put him in jail for travelling with so much money.
At a station in one small village, Elder Seibold didn’t think he would find any missionaries. But the Spirit told him to get off the train and walk into town. He went inside a restaurant and found two elders who had just spent their last pennies on lemonade. Elder Seibold knew he had been guided there, just as surely as if someone had taken him by the hand.
Eventually Elder Seibold rescued 17 missionaries. The other 14 had reached the Netherlands before the border was closed, but Elder Seibold continued searching until he received a spiritual confirmation that his assignment was complete. Because Elder Seibold obeyed the promptings of the Spirit, all 31 missionaries were safe.

Before sunrise I knew it was going to be one of those days. I hadn’t yet eaten breakfast when I messed up my shoes on some really fresh—and really fragrant—cow manure in Grandpa’s barn. Then one of the oversized eager eaters in the hog pen gave me a pretty good shove causing slop to slop onto my shoes and pants.
After breakfast things went steadily from bad to worse to awful. This was the day Grandpa had selected to have us put “soil sweeteners” on a newly cleared piece of land. I didn’t realize it yet, but Grandpa had just sentenced the four of us—Uncle Lynn, the new hired man, my little brother, and me—to a slow death by asphyxiation.
As we pitched several million tons of really ripe cow manure into the spreader, my brother managed to miss the spreader and “accidentally” hit me with a pitchforkful of the stuff. After slipping and falling several times while shoveling, all I could say to no one in particular was “No 13-year-old boy has ever been this dirty.” I didn’t hear anyone disagree.
Things didn’t get any better as the day went along. After the manure had been shoveled, we had to take the spreader to the sawdust pile and load enough sawdust to cover all of North America. Not so bad, I thought.
Boy, was I wrong. First, my brother nailed me in the back of the neck with a shovelful of sawdust. I nailed him back. He tackled me. I stuffed a handful of sawdust down his shirt. He returned the favor. Over and over we rolled, wrestling like a couple of overgrown kittens.
Cow, pig, and chicken manure on my shoes. Cow manure in the center of my back. Hog slop on my pants and shoes. Chicken manure all down my left side. Sawdust inside my shirt, and enough sweat to give me a nice shine.
Now I’m as dirty as I can get, right? I wish. While we were catching our breath, the hired man decided to tell a really dirty, offensive story.
When he finished, there was this long silence. Nobody laughed. Uncle Lynn was the ward clerk and an innocent, virtuous man. I was a newly ordained deacon who wanted to be like Uncle Lynn. My 11-year-old brother hadn’t even understood. Finally, the hired man said something about guessing his story hadn’t been very funny. He had that part right.
By the end of the day, I was dirtier than I had ever been. Eventually, I took a long shower with lots of soap and shampoo. It felt so good to be clean again. My skin was clean. My hair was clean. Even my fingernails were clean.
But no amount of soap, water, or shampoo would wash the hired man’s lewd story out of my memory. Like an unwanted and unwelcome guest, it had arrived and now it wouldn’t leave.
It’s been decades since I heard that dirty story. I’ve never repeated it. I’ve tried hard to forget it. I know the Lord considers me blameless regarding that story. But every once in a while, it pops into my mind for just an instant, and I discover the uninvited guest still hasn’t gone home.
You see, there are some kinds of dirt which soap can’t reach.

Elizabeth “Buffy” Tateoka Fairbanks of Holladay, Utah, loves serving others, and she always wanted to work in the medical field. But by the time she graduated with a degree in biology, she realized medical school wasn’t for her.
Then she discovered a 15-month accelerated nursing program that seemed a perfect fit. Still, she would need help with tuition expenses. Buffy looked into scholarships and found that the military offers tuition assistance programs for those on active duty as well as for those who finish their military service.
“I decided to join the Navy because my husband, Tom, is already in the Navy. He received a scholarship to pay for his degree in mechanical engineering,” she says. After discussing the idea with him, and making it a matter of fasting and prayer, Buffy applied for and received a scholarship “to help me get through nursing school and become a registered nurse.”
Buffy was accepted into the Nurse Candidate Program. “I wasn’t required to do anything but go to school and pass my state licensing exam after graduation,” she explains. “But once I graduated, I was commissioned in the Navy Nurse Corps.”
Nursing school, Buffy discovered, emphasizes critical thinking skills and ways to apply those skills as a nurse. “It was exciting to come through the program knowing how to help save people’s lives,” she says. “I enjoyed learning how to care for patients and getting to know them as individuals.”
The thought of serving in the Navy appealed to Buffy’s sense of adventure as well as her desire to serve others. “In addition to getting help to pay for my schooling, I also knew the Navy would provide opportunities for experiences that I otherwise wouldn’t have.”
Serving in the military means time away from home and family. Fortunately, Buffy and her husband are stationed near each other and they can be together. Even during times of separation, the Internet helps them communicate with each other frequently.
They also know how important it is to rely on their testimonies of Jesus Christ to repel Satan’s temptations. She says, “We are all faced with adversity throughout our lives, and sincere prayer and staying in tune with the Spirit are important to keeping us on the right path, and also help us when we have difficult decisions to make.”
Buffy knows that faith and prayer are important in choosing educational and career paths—and in life in general. She knows that for her, choosing to join the Navy and become a nurse helps fulfill her desire to serve others.

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

Third, we promise as we take the sacrament to keep His commandments, all of them. President J. Reuben Clark Jr. (1871–1961), a counselor in the First Presidency, as he pled for unity in a general conference talk—and he did so many times—warned us against being selective in what we will obey. He put it this way: “The Lord has given us nothing that is useless or unnecessary. He has filled the Scriptures with the things which we should do in order that we may gain salvation.”
President Clark went on: “When we partake of the Sacrament we covenant to obey and keep his commandments. There are no exceptions. There are no distinctions, no differences.” President Clark taught that just as we repent of all sin, not just a single sin, we pledge to keep all the commandments. Hard as that sounds, it is uncomplicated. We simply submit to the authority of the Savior and promise to be obedient to whatever He commands (see Mosiah 3:19). It is our surrender to the authority of Jesus Christ that will allow us to be bound as families, as a Church, and as the children of our Heavenly Father.
The Lord conveys that authority through His prophet to humble servants. Then faith can turn our call as a home teacher or a visiting teacher into an errand from the Lord. We go for Him, at His command. An ordinary man and a teenage junior companion go into homes expecting that the powers of heaven will help them assure that families are united and that there is no hardness, lying, backbiting, nor evil speaking (see D&C 20:54). Faith that the Lord calls servants will help us ignore their limitations when they reprove us, as they will. We will see their good intent more clearly than their human limitations. We will be less likely to feel offense and more likely to feel gratitude to the Master, who called them.
There are some commandments which, when broken, destroy unity. Some have to do with what we say and some with how we react to what others say. We must speak no ill of anyone. We must see the good in each other and speak well of each other whenever we can.
At the same time, we must stand against those who speak contemptuously of sacred things, because the certain effect of that is to offend the Spirit and so create contention and confusion. President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) showed the way to stand without being contentious as he lay on a hospital gurney and asked an attendant who, in a moment of frustration, took the name of the Lord in vain:
“ ‘Please! Please! That is my Lord whose names you revile.’
“There was a deathly silence, then a subdued voice whispered, ‘I am sorry.’ ” An inspired, loving rebuke can be an invitation to unity. Failure to give it when moved upon by the Holy Ghost will lead to discord.

Samuel loved to watch television with Papá, especially on Saturdays. Papá worked hard all week. But on Saturday, Mamá cooked pastelitos de piña (pastries with pineapple filling) and they all watched TV together.
One Saturday night, they decided to watch a partido de fútbol (soccer game). But the game started late, and it would last for a long time. When the first half was over, the score was 0-0. Samuel wanted to keep watching. But he couldn’t stop yawning.
“Time for bed, Samuelito,” Mamá said gently. “You need to get some sleep so you can stay awake in church tomorrow.”
“But Mamá,” Samuel said, “it’s two of the best teams in Honduras!”
Papá looked at the clock. “All right. You can keep watching. But you need to get up on time tomorrow.”
The game got even more exciting in the second half. Samuel was wide awake now! He and Papá were both cheering. First there was a corner kick. Then the goalie made a great save. One team scored, and then the other. Before Samuel knew it, the game was over. It ended in a 1-1 tie.
The next morning, Samuel was so tired that he didn’t want to get out of bed. But he knew that going to church was important.
During sacrament meeting, Samuel started to fall asleep. His head kept nodding. Mamá poked him to help him stay awake. But he was so tired that he didn’t pay attention to the speakers.
“I think your Saturday is getting in the way of your Sunday,” Papá said.
In Primary, Samuel’s teacher talked about keeping the Sabbath day holy. She asked what the children could do to make Sunday special. Samuel thought for a minute. Then he said, “Go to bed on time on Saturday!”
When they got home after church, Samuel talked to Mamá and Papá. “I had fun watching the game last night,” Samuel said. “But I should have gone to bed earlier. I think we should use part of Saturday to get ready for Sunday.”
“I agree,” Papá said.
Mamá nodded. “Me too.”
The next Saturday, there was another game on TV.
“What should we do tonight?” Papá asked. “The game goes late again.”
“We could watch a movie instead,” Mamá said.
“Or we could go for a walk,” said Samuel.
“Is a walk OK with you?” Papá asked Mamá.
“Of course,” Mamá said. “It’s just nice to be together as a family.”
“And when we come home,” Samuel said, “we can all get a good night’s sleep. Then we’ll be ready for Sunday!”

As the Saints arrive in the Salt Lake Valley, they begin to find happiness in the fertile and untouched basin. They plant crops. They sing songs and dance. They have found a home where none will come to hurt or make afraid. Or have they?
The chipper of crickets comes from above and behind the audience, and then the pioneers on stage begin to stomp wildly, threshing their arms and feet to kill the two-inch black insects. Louder and louder the sounds come until the Saints fall on their knees and pray for deliverance. Finally the calling of sea gulls fills the air—relief is near and the balcony chorus changes the shushing and finger clicking of cricket sounds to a song of thanksgiving.

President George Albert Smith taught a very important lesson on the disposition of tithes. He told of inviting a boyhood friend, whom he had not seen for some time, to accompany him to a stake conference. This friend had achieved success in the financial world. As they were driving home from the conference, he told President Smith about his method of paying tithing. He said that if he made ten thousand dollars, he would put one thousand dollars in the bank for tithing. Then, he said, when someone needed money for a worthwhile cause, he would write them a check. “Little by little I exhaust the thousand dollars,” he said, “and every dollar of it has gone where I know it has done good.” Then he asked President Smith what he thought of that plan.

President Smith replied: “I think you are a very generous man with someone else’s property. You have not paid any tithing. You have told me what you have done with the Lord’s money, but you have not told me that you have given anyone a penny of your own. He is the best partner you have in the world. He gives you everything you have, even the air you breathe. He has said you should take one-tenth of what comes to you and give it to the Church as directed by the Lord. You haven’t done that; you have taken your best partner’s money, and have given it away.”

About a month later, the two men met on the street, and President Smith was happy to learn that his friend was paying his tithing as the Lord has directed. (See Improvement Era, June 1947, p. 357.)

A few years ago, while I was sitting in sacrament meeting one Sunday, I felt particularly weighed down by my weaknesses and imperfections. I remembered a talk given by President Jeffrey R. Holland, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who spoke about the significance of the sacrament:
“How ‘sacred’ and how ‘holy’ is [the sacrament]? Do we see it as our passover, remembrance of our safety and deliverance and redemption?
“… (The sacrament) should be a powerful, reverent, reflective moment. It should encourage spiritual feelings and impressions. As such it should not be rushed. It is not something to ‘get over’ so that the real purpose of a sacrament meeting can be pursued. This is the real purpose of the meeting.”
But I wasn’t sure how to make my experience in sacrament meeting like this.
At this time in my life, I felt that I was not thinking about the sacrament the way I really wanted to. Instead of focusing on Jesus Christ, I was distracted by every thought that drifted in and out of my head as the bread and water were passed. But on this Sunday, I wanted to feel the Spirit.
I thought about how the Savior, before beginning His Atonement, introduced His Apostles to the sacrament at the Last Supper.
This introduction to the sacrament was an intimate experience shared between Him and His Apostles. Sometimes I wish I could have witnessed it firsthand. I wish I could have gotten to know the Savior like His Apostles did.
So, after the bread was blessed, I prayed to Heavenly Father. I asked for forgiveness and to be made clean through Jesus Christ. I asked Him to help me keep my thoughts on the Savior and remember what this ordinance means for my life and for my covenants.
When I concluded my prayer, I thought about Jesus Christ’s life and all the stories about His earthly ministry, from His humble birth in Bethlehem to His glorious visit to the Americas. I thought of His Atonement and what that sacrifice means for me.
I started seeing how everything about the gospel is interconnected, with Jesus Christ being the centerpiece. After this sacrament meeting, I began to stay more focused on the Savior in my daily life. This change was gradual at first, but as the weeks passed and I continued to focus on Him, I understood what the prophet Isaiah meant when he said, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isaiah 1:18).
Partaking of the sacrament while pondering the life of the Savior can bridge the gap between us and allow us to have an intimate experience with Him each week.
I know I can feel the Savior’s healing power and perfect love because I make time to focus on Him every day. He knows me personally! And focusing on Him has truly helped me enhance my understanding of His renewing power that I can access as I participate in the sacrament ordinance.
I know now that through Christ, we truly can be white as snow.

Get tough with yourself. President Spencer W. Kimball gave us a powerful example in a talk to the youth of Stockholm, Sweden. Describing his own boyhood, he said:

“As I was out alone, milking the cows, or putting up the hay, I had time to think. I mulled it over in my mind and made this decision: ‘I, Spencer Kimball, will never taste any form of liquor. I, Spencer Kimball, will never touch tobacco. I will never drink coffee, nor will I ever touch tea—not because I can explain why I shouldn’t, except that the Lord said not to.’ He said those things were an abomination. There are many other things that are, too, that are not in the Word of Wisdom. But I made up my mind.

“That’s the point I am trying to make. I made up my mind then, as a little boy: ‘I will never touch those things.’ And so, having made up my mind, it was easy to follow it, and I did not yield. There were many temptations that came along, but I did not even analyze it; I did not stop and measure it and say, ‘Well, shall I or shall I not?’ I always said to myself: ‘But I made up my mind I would not. Therefore, I do not.’

“I’m a little older than any of you here tonight, and I want to just say that I will soon go into another year and that I have never tasted tea, nor coffee, nor tobacco, nor liquor of any kind, nor drugs. Now that may sound very presumptuous and boasting to you, but I am only trying to make this point: that if every boy and girl—as he or she begins to grow a little more mature and becomes a little more independent of his friends and his family and all—if every boy and girl would make up his or her mind, ‘I will not yield,’ then no matter what the temptation is: ‘I made up my mind. That’s settled.’” (In Conference Report, Stockholm Sweden Area Conference, 1975, pp. 86–87.)

I used to have a hard time reading, and I was really self-conscious about it. I wouldn’t read in class because it was hard for me to sound out some of the words, and I was afraid to read out loud because the kids in school would tease me because I couldn’t understand what I was reading. It was hard for me to make friends, too, because my family moved around a lot. Then my family moved to Oregon, USA.
One of my new neighbors quickly became one of my best friends. He encouraged me to go to church. The guys there didn’t tease me like the kids in school did. They took it upon themselves during church to help me read the scriptures. They spent the time to help me learn to read the words I couldn’t sound out. Slowly, they gave me the courage to read out loud. From that day on I would read even if it would take half the class time for me to read what the teacher asked me to read.
I was blessed with these great guys who took me under their wings. They didn’t have to do this for me, and they could’ve stayed silent, but following the Spirit, they made a choice to help me and made a difference in my life. We too can make a difference in others’ lives; we just have to be willing to listen to the Spirit to guide us to those people who are in need of help.

Pink has always been my favorite color, so when I first saw the gift under the Christmas tree, I naturally assumed it was mine. The coat-size box was beautiful; silver glitter formed stars against the pink background and twinkled, reflecting the colored lights.
I rushed to the package, but my heart sank as I read the tag: “Merry Christmas, Jill.” My older sister always got everything I wanted—now the pink package, too.
In fact, Jill seemed to have every gift I wanted—from her innate ability to play the piano to her generous spirit. Jill’s talents gave me goosebumps, just like the pink package.
Many years before, after seeing my self-confidence deflate with every attempt at music, my mother had encouraged me to seek something in which I could excel. But even if I became the best rope-jumper in town, I still would not be able to give people goosebumps the way Jill could with her music. I couldn’t understand why Heavenly Father hadn’t given me any talents.
My discouragement worsened through high school as I unsuccessfully tried out for cheerleader, for tennis, for the school play, for dance club, and for class officer. Halfway through my sophomore year, I became so depressed I found it hard to concentrate in class or seminary.
Early one morning, as I stared aimlessly out the window at the ski team boarding a bus, my seminary teacher called on me. “Sister Mecham,” she said, “would you please read that scripture for us?”
“Where was it again?” I asked, trying to act as if I had been paying attention.
“Moroni 10:8–17.” [Moro. 10:8–17]
As the words fell from my mouth I envisioned Moroni sitting next to me telling me himself: “Deny not the gifts of God, for they are many; and they come from the same God. And there are different ways that these gifts are administered; but it is the same God who worketh all in all; and they are given by the manifestations of the Spirit of God unto men, to profit them. …
“And all these gifts come by the Spirit of Christ; and they come unto every man severally, according as he will.”
Suddenly I realized that Heavenly Father had given me gifts, both spiritual and temporal. I just hadn’t looked hard enough to find them. It seemed apparent that he had bestowed upon me the talents I needed the most and those with which I could ultimately do the most good. And best of all, I knew his gifts were given with love.
I rushed to school with a newfound determination—I would find the gifts Heavenly Father had given me.
That morning I picked up my school newspaper and realized writing for it was one extracurricular activity I had not yet tried. I stopped in at the newspaper office and signed up for my first assignment. I learned I had a knack for research, organization, and writing—traits that helped the next year when the adviser asked me to edit the same school paper.
Though Jill has, in my opinion, more visible talents, I feel just as blessed. Heavenly Father has given me the gifts I need the most. My writing ability has helped me through many situations where music couldn’t. And I should have known my mom wouldn’t let me down. She also seems to know my needs better than my wants.
Christmas morning finally arrived and I watched Jill open the beautiful, pink package. As she held her new coat I knew it was made for her.
Then my mother handed me a smaller gift marked “Merry Christmas, Annette.” Although its outward appearance was not as enticing as the pink package, its contents were chosen just for me. As I slipped the pink sweater over the top of my pajamas, I looked at my reflection in the mirror and felt goosebumps. It was my color and size, but more than that, I had learned the importance of gifts given with love.

One night, my family went over to our friends’ house. My brothers and I were playing with their kids, and we went into the TV room and started watching a show. When my mom came to check on us, she told us she didn’t want us to watch that show, so we shouldn’t go into the TV room again. Then she left. But I went into the TV room anyway and watched the show.
That night, my mom asked if I went back into the TV room. I told her that I didn’t. The next morning I felt so terrible that I started crying. I went to my mom and said, “I lied! I’m really sorry!” She gave me a hug and thanked me for telling the truth. But I still didn’t feel good. I went into my room and knelt down and prayed. I told Heavenly Father I was sorry for disobeying my mom and lying to her, and that I didn’t like the feeling I was having. When I finished praying, the terrible feeling was gone. I felt happy again.

by Vickie L. Barnes
Bang! The runners spring into action in response to the starter’s signal. Tiffany is ahead in a second. Her feet pound the soft pavement of the track. She sets her pace, expecting to be passed by the other runners. As she runs, she looks over her shoulder. They are all there—all six of them—their faces strained in their effort to maintain the pace Tiffany has set. She looks forward again, her mind now racing faster than her feet. She is ahead! She has never raced before, so she really doesn’t have anything to compare the experience to, but she feels as if she can go the distance at this pace. The realization that she is ahead seems to give her an extra boost—a little extra energy.
Members of Tiffany’s ward track team line the inside of the track, calling her name, shouting their enthusiasm and encouragement. Tiffany takes one more look over her shoulder. With an exhilaration she has not experienced before, Tiffany bursts through the ribbon at the finish line.
Tiffany won first place in the 12- to 13-year-old division of the 880-yard race in the annual West Jordan Utah South Stake Youth Track Meet. She was one of 200 participants in 11 track and field events. But victory at the finish line was only the beginning of Tiffany’s story. In all her 12 years, Tiffany had never won anything and had never felt that she excelled in anything. She had been an average student because she lacked the self-confidence required for achievement. During the track meet, Tiffany learned she has a physical prowess not enjoyed by many young women. She now trains at least once a week with her Beehive leader, a former high school coach, in preparation for participation in high school and college track.

July 1990: I had come home. I was back in Prague, in my native country of Czechoslovakia—a country I had left twenty-two years before. I left because I couldn’t tolerate the political climate of the time. Now, within a few months, an overwhelming change had been wrought in the country, and I was free to return.
I suppose I expected to feel the same as I had so many years before. But I felt like a tourist. Everything seemed smaller and shabbier, and I felt as though I had lost my family and childhood roots.
But a few days after I had arrived, as I was walking along a crowded street, I suddenly felt a kinship with the people around me. I was among my own people. A great feeling of love and belonging came over me, and I felt the joy of the freedoms that they had gained after forty-five years of strict control.
It was exciting to meet with family and friends to tell them what I had been doing since I left home and to introduce them to the gospel. At a meeting I had with former school friends, I explained that I was a member of the Church and shared my testimony with them. I gave each one of them a copy of the Book of Mormon, along with any other Church literature available in Czech, and I referred them to the missionaries. I told them that now they had the freedom to choose, and that the best thing they could do for themselves and their families was to choose to accept the gospel. “If you are going to build a new home,” I told them, “start with a good, solid foundation.”
Eagerly I attended church in Prague, where the members met in a rented room. They were very happy to be able to gather together publicly and to openly discuss the gospel with relatives and friends.
My oldest son, David, had the opportunity to pass the sacrament, and later, at a testimony meeting back home, he said the experience made him realize the responsibilities and blessings that came with the priesthood.
A special experience for me was meeting with my sisters. One of them, Ilona Kebrt, and her daughter, Olga, went with me to church. Olga was very impressed with the appearance and behavior of the full-time missionaries. “I have never seen boys my age act and look like this,” she said. “They look as though they came from a different world.”
We had the opportunity to meet President and Sister Richard W. Winder. He is the first mission president in Czechoslovakia since before World War II. My sister was very curious about President and Sister Winder, the life they had left behind in Salt Lake City to fulfill their mission assignment, their unpretentious way of living in Czechoslovakia, and the love they showed for the people. She felt of their spirit, and cried.
Five days before I was due to leave Czechoslovakia for home, President Winder informed me that President Gordon B. Hinckley of the First Presidency would be visiting Czechoslovakia and holding a meeting in Brno, 160 kilometers from Prague. President Winder asked if I would attend the meeting and act as an interpreter for President Hinckley. I accepted, and with Ilona, I drove to Brno.
That meeting was a highlight of my visit. With President was Sister Hinckley, and President Hans B. Ringger, president of the Europe Area, with Sister Ringger, President and Sister Winder, and my brothers and sisters in the gospel. President Hinckley understood how nervous I was, acting as his interpreter and translating Church terminology into Czech, and he was very considerate. It was a very spiritual experience for us all. My sister didn’t take her eyes off of him, and her face shone at me from the congregation.
Since my visit, I have learned that the gospel seeds I planted have started to bear fruit. My niece, Olga, has been baptized, and she is now living with a family in London, England. She wrote to me: “When you visited with us, I heard you share your testimony of the gospel, and although I didn’t completely understand what you meant, I wanted to know more. Now, as a member of the Church, I know. I feel as though I have grown in wisdom beyond my years. Life makes sense to me, and for the first time I know what to do.”
In returning to Czechoslovakia, I found my family and friends—roots that I thought were lost. And I have come to realize that the basic desire for truth is never dead. I am sure that the gospel will spread in Czechoslovakia and that the Czech and the Slovak Saints will take their rightful place in the worldwide family of the Church.

I grew up in the dryland wheat-farming country of northeastern Oregon, where my father managed an agricultural experiment station. I spent my boyhood in the little town of Moro, Oregon, which had about 300 people. There were no other members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Moro. We were the only members in the whole county.
We attended a small branch in The Dalles. But when I was about five years old, World War II started and we could not get tires or extra gasoline and could not drive the 80-mile round trip each Sunday. So a home branch was organized in our home.
Each Sunday we held sacrament meeting and Sunday School. My father taught my older brother, Richard, and my older sister, Joan. My mother taught my younger sister, Mary, and me. My mother was an excellent teacher and a wonderful storyteller. She made the scriptures come alive. We sang hymns and Primary songs.
My parents taught us exactly who we were and where we came from. I grew up with the sure knowledge of Father in Heaven, of Jesus Christ, and of the teachings of the gospel. My testimony developed steadily because of the teachings I received in my home.

Willie turned the corner and hurried on to the store. Just as he opened the door, Mrs. Johnson and her four-year-old twins, Mary and Kerry, came out.
“Now, Kerry, please stop that!” Mrs. Johnson was saying. “And, Mary, you can hold your treat in a minute.” Mrs. Johnson was trying to balance two full bags of groceries and keep track of her squabbling children.
“But I want to hold the treat!” Kerry wailed.
“No! I want to!” Mary wailed back.
“Hi, Mrs. Johnson,” Willie said brightly. “Need some help?”
“Oh, yes, Willie, please,” Mrs. Johnson said desperately. Willie took a hand of each girl and followed Mrs. Johnson to her car. A relieved Mrs. Johnson set down the groceries.
“I want to hold it now!” Mary yelled again.
“It’s still my turn!” Kerry yelled back. A small sack containing cookies from the bakery was in danger of being torn apart by the quarreling girls. Suddenly Willie had an idea.
“Wait a minute! Just hold the sack still,” he told them.
The girls stopped their tug-of-war and watched Willie reach in his “good for something” bag.
“What’s in there?” Kerry asked.
“You’ll see.” Willie smiled at her. Pulling his hand out of the green velvet bag, he showed the girls the brown lunch sack. “This will make things easier.” He took the treat bag from Kerry, put one of the cookies from it into the brown lunch sack, then handed a sack to each girl. Both smiled happily.
“Thank you, Willie,” Mrs. Johnson said gratefully. “That was a good idea!”
“Well, you never know when something will come in handy from my ‘good for something’ bag.”

Lara sat by the big window, looking at the pictures in the book that Grandma had given her. She wished that Mother had time to read the story to her. Baby Emily seemed to need all of Mother’s time.
Baby Emily started crying again. Lara put the new book down and went over to the baby’s crib. Lara picked up the blue and pink rattle and shook it. It sounded like a bunch of little bells. Lara thought that it sounded nice, but Baby Emily just kicked and cried some more.
“Doesn’t she like the rattle?” Lara asked.
“She’s too little,” Mother explained, picking up Baby Emily. “She’ll like it when she gets a little older. I’ll change her diaper; then she’ll be happy again.”
Lara ran to get a soft white diaper from the top of the tall stack. Then she got a damp cloth and the bottle of baby powder. After the clean diaper was on, Lara took the cloth to the bathroom and put the powder back on the shelf with Baby Emily’s other things.
When Mother sat in the rocking chair with Baby Emily, Lara tiptoed out of the room. She knew that Mother wanted the baby to go to sleep.
Lara wanted to run and shout and skip, but even before Baby Emily came, Mother wouldn’t let her run and shout and skip in the house.
The newspaper was on the floor, so Lara folded it and put it on the table.
“You are a big help,” Mother said, coming into the room. “Emily is asleep, and because you helped, I have time to do something with you. What shall we do?”
“We could read my new book.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ve been wanting to read that story.”
Lara got the book and snuggled happily beside Mother in the big chair by the window.

“While we were in the mission field, Dad asked all of us to invite our nonmember friends to a fireside. About thirty young people attended, and for 2 1/2 hours Dad told them all about our church and about the gospel. Then he bore his testimony to them. Many of them hadn’t lived lives to be proud of but they all listened. The impact was something! Some of our friends commented that it was certainly a different way to spend a Friday night. I’m sure many who attended will never forget that evening. Seeds were planted that may bear fruit in years to come.”