Gospel Story Finder

I learned about performing and persevering on my mission. I served in a little dusty village, Quiriza, Bolivia, near the Argentine border. We traveled by horseback in those mountain villages of Bolivia and lived at a high altitude in dusty, dirty conditions. I felt at times like Ammon and the sons of Mosiah when the Lord told them, “Be patient in long-suffering and afflictions, that ye may show forth good examples unto them in me, and I will make an instrument of thee in my hands unto the salvation of many souls” (Alma 17:11).
My assignment from the mission president was to help build a chapel. It was a wonderful experience building that chapel, using adobe bricks, and bringing lumber, metal decking, and other building materials over a 20-mile, steep mountain pass. It required the same level of pondering, praying, performing, and persevering as we built the Quiriza chapel. I found that it was a labor of love, and because of that love gained by serving those people, it was far more difficult for me to leave Bolivia than it had been to leave home to serve my mission.

—Today, Nicole (not her real name) is an unwed mother.
But it wasn’t too long ago that she was a newly selected seminary officer, sitting with others who had been chosen, listening to their adviser tell them they were some of the best examples of righteous LDS youth in the entire school. He talked about challenges they all would face in the next few years. “Keeping your virtue will be one of them,” he said.
Nicole thought he was talking to somebody else, not her. “I thought I was invulnerable,” she said. “I didn’t need strict guidelines. Rules were for the rowdy kids, not for me.”
She laughed when her seminary teacher reminded couples about “Book of Mormon distance” at dances. She thought her dad was “out of it” when he talked about “early hours, lots of light, lots of people around.”
“I thought those were all convenient cliches,” she says. Then she met a young man she really liked, and they started spending more and more time together. One night, after spending many late evenings alone together, they lost control.
“I didn’t want it to happen. I’m not even sure how it happened. But once it did happen, it was hard not to let it happen again,” Nicole says. “I lost my virtue, I lost my self-respect, and I eventually lost my boyfriend. What’s more, I lost my future. Or at least I lost the future that I thought I once had. Everything’s different now.”

It was near the end of the first semester of my sophomore year in high school when my English teacher announced a new assignment to the class.
“You will each be doing a research paper on a particular person,” he stated. “You may choose your person, but you will need to do some research on them, so they must be real people.”
He passed around the guidelines and told us that we were to give brief preliminary presentations in two days, and then, two weeks later, we were to present our papers in full. We brainstormed different ideas for people to report on, and my list included several great presidents and authors. But when my teacher mentioned that we could also choose “great religious leaders,” I knew that I needed to do my paper on Joseph Smith.
Two days later, I had to get up and tell the whole class who I was reporting on and give a brief outline of who he was. I felt so shaky when I got up to speak, even though I am usually a good public speaker. I was terrified to share my knowledge about Joseph Smith. Was I casting pearls before swine?
When my brief presentation was over, I sat down. And even though everyone applauded, I was disappointed in my inability to speak clearly and proudly about a man I knew was a prophet of God. My throat had been tight the entire time.
It was then that I realized that if I wanted to teach my class the truth about Joseph Smith, I needed to learn more about him for myself and truly come to know who he was.
I began researching the life of Joseph Smith at home, first in Joseph Smith—History, and then in an institute manual called Church History in the Fulness of Times. I found out many things concerning the life, First Vision, and martyrdom of Joseph Smith. After days of study and prayer I began to realize just how great a man Joseph Smith really was, and my testimony of him was greatly strengthened. As I began writing my report, my heart and mind were full of a greater knowledge of Joseph Smith, which gave me courage as I typed out my report. I titled my report “Joseph Smith: Seeker of Truth, Defender of Righteousness.” My heart swells with the power and truth in that title, even to this day.
The night before my project was due, I called the missionaries to ask them if I should tell my class about Joseph Smith’s First Vision and was comforted by their words of encouragement and approval. They even said that they would pray for me in my efforts.
The next day in class, I said many silent prayers—prayers for the Spirit to be there, prayers for me not to be weak in my speech, prayers for me to convey the power of my message through my voice. Finally, my name was called, and I got up to give my presentation.
I gathered my courage and told my classmates all about Joseph Smith’s search for truth and his First Vision. I recounted how the Prophet was persecuted throughout his life and even martyred for his testimony, but how he could not deny what he knew. The Spirit was very strong in the room as I ended by bearing my testimony that if we want to find out the truth of something, all we have to do is ask God with real intent.
When I was done, I sat down and silently thanked my Heavenly Father for the strong presence of the Spirit and for the strength that He put into my words. At the end of class, my teacher asked if there were any students who wanted to leave their reports for his other classes in the coming years, and I decided to leave mine, asking for the Spirit to be with those who would read it.
Now I realize that even if no one in that class joins the Church or changes their opinion about the Prophet Joseph Smith, my testimony was strengthened because I stood “as [a witness] of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).

As my companions and I study our discussions we sometimes become discouraged and have a hard time memorizing. When this happens we often reach for the New Era and try to lose the feeling of discouragement. You know what? After reading only a few articles we are ready to work on our discussions again. The articles are very inspirational—and we are looking forward to the next issue so we can finish our discussions.
Elders Gary Brady and Kevin ElmerMinnesota-Wisconsin Mission

While I was growing up, attending institute wasn’t necessarily a goal for me. Although Elder L. Tom Perry (1922–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles compared institute to “a shield of protection around you to keep you free from the temptations and trials of the world,”1 I thought that once I attended seminary, that was it! I thought I had learned all I could. My seed of faith was planted, and I was ready to grow. I thought I had all the gospel knowledge I needed to take on the world.
But soon I found all the temptations of the world were staring back at me. For me, the transition into young adulthood was not easy. Seminary had given me the spiritual tools I needed, but I didn’t know how to use them.
My first few years as a young adult were spent between my home in New Zealand and the United States. I had a scholarship to a college in Massachusetts and, as a student athlete, I found that my time and focus were never directed toward church. Near the end of my studies, I had not gone to church or done anything related to the gospel in over two years.
I had unknowingly made myself vulnerable in my spiritual fight against the world.
And the world was winning.
But things changed when I came home to New Zealand to finish my last few years of study. I started dwelling on my guilt and shame about neglecting my spirituality. And after being away from the gospel for so long, I had questions and assumptions about the Church that were consuming my small seed of faith.
As I walked around my university with my head down, I came across the institute building. With a heart heavy and full of questions and a crumb of faith left, I convinced myself to go in. I was skeptical of the gospel and was reluctant to indulge in anything Church related, but I enrolled in a class thinking that it could help me find some guidance.
That one class started me on a path that changed my life. And from it, I learned four valuable lessons.
One of the biggest questions I had when I started the class was “Does God still love me?” I was so conflicted about the choices I had made when I had gone away to school. I felt like I had reached a point of no return. But as I continued to attend institute each week, there was always one message in every lesson that stuck with me: “God’s love knows no bounds.”
We may make mistakes, but the gentle reminder from my teacher that our Heavenly Father loves us perfectly was one of my biggest takeaways coming out of each institute class my first semester. I realized that no matter how much we think otherwise, He loves us and wants to guide us.
I had so many questions about the Church growing up, but I never felt like I could voice them out of fear of being judged. And as a young adult, I had even more questions.
When I began attending institute, I was focused more on my unanswered questions than on my faith and the truths I did know. And when the COVID-19 pandemic hit and stress and anxiety consumed me, I struggled to feel the Spirit. Hoping to feel something, I decided to kneel and say a prayer for the first time in months. Before I said a word, tears filled my eyes as I was enveloped in a strong feeling of love. I pleaded with the Lord to answer all my questions, lighten my burden, and bring me peace.
Soon after that prayer, my institute teacher sat with a classmate and me and asked us what young adults need, as he was hoping to create classes that would address the most common struggles and questions. It was comforting to know how much he wanted to help, and I opened up about how I had been feeling. As we talked through the afternoon about our needs as young adults in the Church, I found an answer to my prayer in my classmate’s words.
I realized that I wasn’t the only one with questions and that they weren’t anything to be ashamed of, like I had previously thought.
I felt spiritually uplifted after that conversation, and I was confident for the first time that Heavenly Father cared about my questions and that He would help me find answers in time.
Young adults in the Church are on different paths and have different outlooks, and it can be hard for us to find common ground with one another. But the one thing that we do have in common is the gospel.
With my growing involvement in institute, it was amazing to hear from young adults with so many unique experiences finding their spiritual footing in their fight against the adversary.
The isolation I had been feeling started chipping away when I was at institute. Through constant fellowship and conversations about the gospel, I built friendships, and the influence of these friendships blessed and inspired me to keep building my faith.
As a youth, I went to church because my parents wanted me to. My testimony of the gospel was only a shadow of theirs. But as I continued to grow and seek truth at institute, I learned to stand on my own testimony instead of hiding behind my parents’ testimonies. The seed of faith I had planted years ago started to sprout rapidly since my institute classes provided it with the soil and nutrients it needed to flourish.
Ultimately, institute has played a great role in my conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Institute continues to help me grow my faith and has provided a safe haven for me to ask difficult questions. Although I have been a member all my life, it wasn’t until I attended institute and learned to apply gospel principles in my life that my testimony became sincere and, more importantly, mine.
Participating in institute provides opportunities for numerous blessings for young adults. President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) promised, “As you participate in institute and study the scriptures diligently, your power to avoid temptation and to receive direction of the Holy Ghost in all you do will be increased.”2
I reiterate and emphasize these promised blessings of institute from our past beloved prophet. My constant battle in trying to keep up with the changes of young adulthood became easier when my testimony of the gospel became stronger. Participating in institute helped me develop my testimony, which truly became my shield in avoiding the temptations of the world, and through the constant scripture study alongside my fellow young single adults, I saw how institute is truly a divinely inspired program from our Heavenly Father.

My wife and I were baptized on March 26, 1997. Three months after our baptism, our bishop called me to be Sunday School president. I resisted, saying that I could not fulfill this calling because I wasn’t prepared for it. The bishop, however, persuaded me to accept this challenge and gave me the Sunday School manual to study.
Two months later the Gospel Doctrine teacher called me during the week to tell me she could not be at church on Sunday to give her lesson on section 98 of the Doctrine and Covenants. She named three other people who could substitute for her. I contacted them, but they all had previous engagements. As I hung up the phone after the last conversation, I felt that Heavenly Father wanted me to teach this class.
I was not familiar with the Doctrine and Covenants, but with the help of the bishop’s first counselor, the ward library, and the lesson manual, I was able to prepare the lesson.
I was nervous to teach ward members who knew more about the gospel than I did. But during my short time in the Church, I had learned that if we pray to Heavenly Father, He will help us. On Sunday before the class began, I asked for peace and strength. As I entered the classroom, the brothers and sisters were smiling and receptive, and they helped me. All participated attentively, and I felt that the Spirit of the Lord had blessed me to impart that important lesson.
Afterward I had the assurance that Heavenly Father only gives us tasks that we are able to fulfill—with His assistance and help from other members.

Seventeen-year-old Kim Sherwood of Victor, New York, is delighted to be among those gathered in the study shelter as they get the day under way by singing “Oh, How Lovely Was the Morning.” Equally enthused are her three teenage sisters, Kris, Kari, and Koni, 14, 13, and 12, respectively, and virtually every other member of the cast of more than 500 from 22 states, Mexico, and Canada.
“I’m so excited. I’d rather be here right now than any other place,” Kim says. “I’m looking forward to meeting new friends, having new experiences, telling people about the Book of Mormon, and strengthening my testimony.”
In addition to the Salute-to-Rochester scene, Kim Sherwood is assigned to the “Yearning Scene” and the “Flag Scene.” She’s delighted. Everyone has an assigned companion, and she and Holly Phippen, of Roanoke, Virginia, immediately hit it off and become fast friends.
A writer interviewing Kim asks her if she would like a major role in the pageant instead of being assigned to “crowd scenes.”
“Sure,” she says, “that would be great, but there just aren’t that many female characters in the Book of Mormon.”
“Have you ever thought about the possibility of playing the role of Mary in Nephi’s vision of the Nativity Scene?” she is asked.
“That would be wonderful,” she responds. “Any of the girls here would be honored, but that’s not up to me. There are hundreds of young girls here for the pageant, and I think the Lord and the pageant director might have something to say about who gets that role.”
Three days into rehearsal, assistant director Virginia Schmidt reminds Dr. Sederholm that he has yet to choose someone to play the role of Mary. Mary has no dialogue. No movement. She simply sits and holds the baby Jesus in the Nativity Scene.
“But the role is among the more significant in the pageant,” Sister Schmidt says. “Mary is the mother of the Savior. She must have dignity. She must be pleasant looking. She must have a particular spirit about her. We look for someone with that special look and that special spirit.”
Sister Schmidt and Dr. Sederholm review the older girls in the cast. All are worthy candidates, they agree, but then their eyes fall on a brown-haired 17-year-old from Victor.
“That’s Mary!” the directors agree, and moments later a thrilled Kim Sherwood is excitedly telling her parents about the special honor that has come her way.
“How do I feel? It’s hard to describe. It’s so exciting, so flattering, and yet so challenging. I consider it a privilege and a blessing to be chosen, and I just hope that I can portray it the way the Lord wants me to. I pray that I can touch people in some small way.”
Night after night the show goes on. Aaron Moore fights his perpetual losing battle with Ammon, Kim Sherwood maintains a regal presence in the Nativity Scene, and thousands receive the message of the Book of Mormon and the restored gospel.
Finally, it’s Saturday night of the second week—time for the final performance. The same enthusiasm that has prevailed for two weeks is still there, but somehow it’s different. Everyone realizes that after this one, it’s all over. That’s it.
The show goes on. Once again the audience is impressed by the dazzling lights, the sound, the music, the story. Many are moved by the message. As the final scene fades, the “house lights” go on, and the crowd begins working its way to the parking lots. But “back stage”—back in the trees on the hill—no one is in a hurry to leave. There are hugs and handshakes, tears of joy at having had the experience, and tears of sorrow at the knowledge that it’s over. The cast assembles and sings the inevitable “God Be with You Till We Meet Again,” and the tears flow even more freely. Kim Sherwood and Holly Phippen, friends forever, say good-bye, as do countless others who have formed similar lasting bonds of friendship.

He blames it on a short attention span, but it’s more likely the spirit of missionary service that doesn’t allow Brandon Fields to sit still. He’s always wanted to go on a mission, but just wanting to go wasn’t enough. He needed to prepare. When he was 16, the constant urgings of full-time missionaries and a talk he had to give on missionary service in sacrament meeting prompted this Seattle, Washington, priest to do some thinking.
Brandon thought, You know, I should probably start praying for missionary experiences, because that’s what I’m going to be doing for two years, so why not start now? He hasn’t sat still since. And his prayers for missionary experiences have definitely been answered. Between visiting the less-active families in his ward, going team teaching with the missionaries, attending school, and working, it’s a wonder this first assistant to the bishop even has time to breathe. He says he’s able to fit it all in because he just never stops moving.
Brandon’s momentum started to build when he and his best friend, Steve Wells, started to go teaching with the missionaries in their area. “We volunteered a couple of times, and it turned out we were the only priests who could go. So it was us for five months.” Now that he’s only six months away from his mission, Brandon is still helping the missionaries, but he does get a break every once in a while, since there are now a few more priests to help out. Steve is now on a full-time mission in the Philippines.
The gospel is like a favorite recipe, Brandon says, because you want to share it with everyone. “I share it because it makes me happy. And why wouldn’t you want to share what makes you happy?” His enthusiasm is contagious, says Marti Grisham, Young Men president of the Federal Way Washington Stake. “He’s got a real missionary attitude about him.”
But missionary work can sometimes be discouraging, and Brandon says he knows that. Team teaching with the missionaries helps him to overcome, or at least grow accustomed to, occasional setbacks. “It’s showing me how they get disappointed—like appointments not showing up. Just seeing that will help me be able to cope like the full-time missionaries do.” He’s learned to laugh, even when people slam doors in his face. “I’m usually pretty calm and just let stuff go.”
Though his attitude during hard times may be calm, his outlook on missionary work is pure excitement. Brandon has taught discussions with the missionaries a few times and is working hard to memorize as many discussions as he can before he goes into the Missionary Training Center. His study habits need some work, he says, but he hopes to improve with time and practice. “It makes you feel the Spirit and strengthens your testimony when you teach,” he says.
One of Brandon’s best experiences teaching the gospel happened when he was teaching with a full-time missionary. They were teaching a woman who was addicted to drugs and who was reluctant to live the lifestyle of Church members. One night she would not let Brandon and the missionary into her home to teach her, even though she had listened to discussions before and been receptive to their message. They wouldn’t give up on her; so they stood outside her house and sang hymns. Finally, she came out to listen to them. She was baptized a short time later. “I loved seeing the change she made and seeing her baptized,” Brandon says.
“We come to know Christ by following Him,” Brandon says as he teaches a part of the first new-member discussion to Armand Nicholas, 22, who has just joined the Church. Brandon had previously taught Armand the fifth missionary discussion. Brandon flips to scripture after scripture about Christ as if he were in a seminary scripture chase. “He knows his scriptures,” says Elder Mithona Seng, one of the missionaries with whom Brandon works.
After teaching Armand, Brandon and the missionaries visit a young man who had seen a documentary about the Prophet Joseph Smith and wanted to know more about the Church. Brandon helped the missionaries teach the first discussion with the aid of some study cards he had made.
You might think all this future missionary does is race from house to house sharing the gospel. But he also finds time to earn money for his mission, working as a floor supervisor at a movie theater. When movies arrive at the theater, the film is on a few small reels. Brandon “builds up” or combines the smaller reels into one big reel and adds the movie previews. Normally, he might have to watch many R-rated movies as part of his job, but, he says, “I build up the movies, and you’re supposed to watch them. But the people I work with know I don’t, so someone else comes and does it.” And when he puts on his uniform at work, the mantle of member missionary remains firmly in place. He still tries to tell the people he works with about the gospel and has given copies of the Book of Mormon to some of them.
Although he has to get outside his comfort zone, he says trying to be a good example comes more easily when you don’t worry about what others think of you. “Yes, a mission is hard, but it’s fun, because the missionaries have fun. … Just try teaching with them and pray about it. It’s not like Heavenly Father’s going to say no, because we’re supposed to go.” Brandon says he’ll keep sharing his favorite recipe—for happiness that is—the gospel of Jesus Christ.
“A most significant evidence of our conversion and of how we feel about the gospel in our own lives is our willingness to share it with others and to help missionaries find someone to teach. The likelihood of lasting conversion greatly increases when a nonmember has a friend or a relative who radiates the joy of being a member of the Church. The influence of members of the Church is very powerful. I believe that’s why President Hinckley asked us to see that everyone has a friend” (Ensign, Nov. 2000, 75–76).—Elder M. Russell Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve

Old Jerusalem.
Narrow streets—barely wider than alleys—are crowded with people from all over the world: tourists in shorts and sunglasses, priests wearing vestments of various religious orders, young soldiers carrying machine guns, Jewish men and boys wearing skullcaps, and Arabs in flowing robes and shepherd headwear. Some women are dressed in shawls and veils; others are wearing business suits. Little children are darting through the crowd.
As we make our way through the souk (marketplace), the sound of bargaining is everywhere. And the choices are overwhelming. Shopkeepers advertise their goods by lining them out in the street in front of their stores. Wicker baskets are filled with nuts, fruits, and vegetables. Long embroidered dresses hang from overhead. Shelves are filled with religious statues carved from olive wood. There are rows and rows of brass cookware, copper and silver trays, glazed Armenian ceramics, and Persian jugs. And there is an endless array of gold and silver jewelry, sheepskin and leather coats, and exotic oriental rugs.
Someone is making falafel (a fried mixture of spicy ground vegetables); someone else is roasting shish kebab; the smell of fresh bread mingles with the aroma of strange spices. Merchants stand at their doors and invite us inside. Music from various cultures blares from radios.
My wife, Mary, and I stop in a small shop that sells religious items significant to Christians, Jews, and Muslims. As we browse, the shopkeeper—a short, thin Arab man—explains the meaning and use of several items. And he tells us about the Koran.
We decide on our purchase and begin the expected ritual of bargaining on the price. Hoping we’ve settled on a fair amount, we hand the man several crisp, new bills.
He counts them out and surprises us by handing one back.
“You gave me too much,” he explains. The new bills had stuck together. We had overpaid him.
“Thank you,” Mary says. “We appreciate your honesty.”
“Oh, I’m not being honest for you,” the man replies. “I’m being honest for me and my household. I will not buy food for my family with dishonest money!”
As we return to the noisy, crowded street, we realize that we got more than we bargained for—the memory of an Arab friend who wouldn’t sell himself for a crisp, new dollar bill.

Thompson remembered from his boyhood in Norway speeding down mountains on skis. Why can’t mail be delivered this way, he reasoned.

In January of 1856, Thompson set out on his first mail run from Placerville, California, on the western slope of the Sierras, to Carson Valley on the east side, nearly one hundred miles away. To travel on top of the snow, he wore ten-foot-long, twenty-five-pound runners that he had whittled himself. Observers and Thompson both called them Norwegian snowshoes.

His first winter trip might have been Thompson’s last, because at one point he mistakenly trusted a snowbridge across a chasm. It had seemed firm and solidly frozen, but when he reached the center, it began to pull away from the cliff behind him. Fortunately, he managed to grab a tough pine root on the cliff ahead just as the bridge collapsed and fell into the rocky abyss below. He thanked God and vowed he would never make that mistake again.

As he went on, he had to judge correctly the safety of the icy crust of fifty-foot drifts. He kept his bearings by observing trees, wind direction, rock and mountain formations. When nighttime came, he stayed on course by observing the stars. He slept warmly at night by setting a stump afire, hollowing a cave in a snowdrift facing the fire, and lining the cave with pine boughs.

It took three days’ travel for the longer, steeper climbs of the eastward crossing and two days to return to California. When the citizens of Placerville, California, heard Thompson’s High Sierra whoops as he skimmed down the last slope carrying mail from Carson Valley, they cheered. “Snowshoe Thompson!” they shouted, and the name “Snowshoe” was born.

“How are we going to make it to church today?” Ellie’s little sister, Peppa, asked. “There’s so much rain!”
“Don’t worry,” Ellie said. “We’re brave!”
Ellie helped Peppa button her coat. Then she pulled on her own rain boots.
Ellie and Peppa walked outside with Mami and Papi. It was raining harder than ever. The wind turned their umbrella inside out. Ellie didn’t feel quite so brave anymore.
“What should we do?” Ellie asked. It was too stormy to walk to the bus.
“We’ll take a taxi instead,” Papi said.
“Good idea,” Mami said. “Let’s go!”
They walked down the flooded street. No taxis or cars drove past them. Even the panadería (bakery) was closed.
Finally they saw the area where taxis parked to pick people up. But the first taxi space was empty.
“Oh no!” Peppa said.
“Está bien. It’s OK,” said Ellie. “There could be one. We just can’t see it yet.”
They walked closer. The next parking space was empty too.
“Now what?” asked Peppa.
“I know,” said Ellie. “Let’s pray.”
The girls whispered a prayer. “Nuestro Padre Celestial, please help us find just one taxi so that we can make it to church today. We’re trying to choose the right, and this rain is making it hard. En el nombre de Jesucristo, amén.” Ellie was still learning Spanish, so she mixed English and Spanish together.
They walked a little more. The next parking spot was empty too.
“Maybe we should turn around and go home,” Papi shouted over the wind.
“Our feet are soaked!” said Mami.
“Let’s just go a little bit farther,” said Ellie. “We just need one taxi.”
Now they could see the last parking spot.
There, with its green light on, was a taxi!
Ellie and Peppa hopped in the taxi. Mami helped them smooth down their hair. “We’re sorry to get your seats wet,” Papi told the driver.
They arrived at the chapel and greeted their friends with besos and abrazos (kisses and hugs).
“I can’t believe we found a taxi,” Mami said. “¡Que suerte!”
“It wasn’t luck,” Ellie said. “Peppa and I prayed that Heavenly Father would help us get to church. And He listened!”

About one year ago my wife, Alessandra, got a text message on her phone from a sister in our home ward in Brazil. It had been more than two years since they had last met. This sister wrote: “On one of the worst days of my life, I don’t know how I got to church. When I did, you saw me. You held my arm and told me to sit by you. I talked to you. You listened and counseled me.”
This seemed to be a simple conversation at the time. But it turned out to be an opportunity for my wife to be an instrument in the hands of the Lord. She ministered to that dear sister who was going through a challenging time. Alessandra didn’t really think about it. She simply felt prompted to listen and to offer comfort, and she acted on the prompting. Now, more than two years later, she received this text message from that sister, expressing her gratitude.

One night my young cousin ran away from home, so I hurried to go look for her. As I drove, I prayed for the Spirit to help me. I knew that God would answer and direct me, and I tried to listen to the Spirit’s promptings. But when I couldn’t hear anything, I began to feel desperate and felt that the Spirit was not prompting me.
Although I wanted to go farther away to search, I felt that I should stay in the area around my cousin’s home. So I decided to drive around the area once more. As I stopped at an intersection, I saw the silhouette of a young girl walking. I had found my cousin!
As I got out of the car and ran to her, I realized that the Spirit had been directing me all along by helping me feel that I should stay in the same area. Because I had been listening for a quiet voice, I nearly ignored the Spirit’s promptings. I then understood that many times we will not hear a voice, but we will feel impressions in our hearts.
I was so thankful for the Spirit’s guidance. Truly He is always there! As the scriptures say, “The Holy Ghost shall be thy constant companion” D&C 121:46).

A spy? Seven-year-old Amanda couldn’t believe her eyes. She traced her finger over Mosiah 9:1 again, just to make sure.
“I, Zeniff, having been taught in all the language of the Nephites, and having had a knowledge of the land of Nephi, or of the land of our fathers’ first inheritance, and having been sent as a spy among the Lamanites …”
A spy! There it was.
Amanda closed her Book of Mormon. She knew she should be listening to Brother Anderson’s sacrament meeting talk, but she couldn’t help but giggle. She knew lots of Book of Mormon stories, but she never knew there was one with a spy in it.
She sank down on the bench and peeked at the page again. Zeniff the Spy. It sounded mysterious. And important.
I could be a spy! she thought excitedly. She knew all about spies. Spies noticed everything. Spies used secret codes. Spies wrote down important information with special pens.
Amanda knew some secret codes. And she had a special pen—well, a very special pencil. She rummaged through her scripture case and pulled out the sparkly yellow pencil she had earned in Sister Wooster’s Primary class for perfect attendance. Then she pulled out her little purple notepad. It had pages and pages just waiting to be filled with important information.
Amanda the Spy! she thought. It sounds mysterious and important!
The closing song and prayer captured her attention. She loved to sing the hymns, and she always wanted to mean it when she added her own “amen.”
Normally Amanda would have hurried to Primary. But today she peered over the back of the bench and watched.
Brian Fisher tripped on his shoelaces. Three babies were crying. And … and … something small and gray was under the last bench.
It was an envelope. A heavy envelope that jingled.
It sounds like money, she thought. She peeked inside. It was money!
Amanda hugged it to her chest. Wow! she thought. I could buy a doll. Or a new book. Or lots of candy! She pulled out her notepad and pencil and wrote, “Found money.”
Then she wondered, It’s all right to keep it, isn’t it? After all, it isn’t that much money. If she’d found a million dollars, that would be different. But this was just a few dollars. Whoever had lost it probably wouldn’t even miss it.
Amanda gave the envelope a quick kiss—then gasped. The letters seemed to jump right off the paper: “Bishop Johansen, Creek Ward.”
It was a tithing envelope!
She plopped down on the bench, feeling like she’d been punched in the stomach. It wasn’t fair! She had already planned what she was going to buy.
It was hers! Wasn’t it?
She looked at her notepad. What would Zeniff have done? she asked herself. Spies were experts at staying out of trouble. Amanda thought she knew what to do.
She glanced around. Brother Campbell was just leaving the chapel. He was a member of the bishopric.
Stuffing her notepad into her pocket and dashing toward the doors, she called to him, “Brother Campbell, I found this envelope in the chapel.”
Brother Campbell shook Amanda’s hand. “Thank you, Sister Pratt,” he said. “I’ll make sure the bishop gets it.”
Turning toward the Primary room, she thought, Amanda the Spy knows how to stay out of trouble, too! She got out her notepad and wrote, “Turned money over to Brother Campbell.”
“Oh, no!”
Amanda looked up to see the box in Sister Kelly’s hand bounce onto the floor, spilling crayons.
“What next?” Sister Kelly despaired as she balanced her crying baby on her hip and desperately grabbed at pictures slipping from her fingers.
Without even thinking, Amanda dashed down the hall toward her CTR teacher. “Don’t worry, Sister Kelly,” she said as she started to pick up crayons. “I’ll help.”
“I can help, too,” her friend Melanie said.
Amanda and Melanie quickly filled the box with crayons.
“Thanks so much,” Sister Kelly said with a grateful smile. “Everything’s been going wrong today.”
“No problem,” Amanda and Melanie said together.
“Come on, girls,” Sister Kelly whispered, glancing toward the Primary door. “We’d better hurry.”
Amanda and Melanie slipped quietly into Primary and sat with their class. Amanda quickly wrote, “Helped Sister Kelly pick up crayons,” in her notepad.
“Sister Kelly,” the Primary president said, interrupting Amanda’s thoughts, “Randy could not come today. Would someone else in your class like to give the prayer?”
Sister Kelly glanced at the four children in her row. Amanda did, too. She knew Jared wouldn’t do it. He was scared. And she knew Wayne wouldn’t do it—he never volunteered for anything. That left Melanie and her. But Melanie was holding Sister Kelly’s baby.
“I’ll do it,” Amanda volunteered. She walked quietly to the podium. When she sat down again, she wrote in her notepad, “Said opening prayer for Primary,” and drew a smiling face.
“What’s that?” Melanie whispered.
“It’s my spy book. I’m writing down important information.”
“Oh. I thought maybe it was a CTR book or something.”
Amanda read all the things she’d written. “Found money,” “Turned money over to Brother Campbell,” “Helped Sister Kelly pick up crayons,” and “Said opening prayer for Primary.” It was like a CTR book. The entries showed she had chosen the right.
She wrote “CTR” in large letters on the cover of her notepad. It’s like a secret code, too, she thought happily. Amanda the CTR Spy! Being this kind of spy really is wonderful and important.

On the afternoon of February 4, 1846, sunlight danced across New York Harbor as a crowd huddled at the wharf to bid farewell to the Brooklyn, a 450-ton ship bound for San Francisco Bay on the coast of California, a sparsely settled region in northwestern Mexico. On the deck of the ship, waving to their relatives and friends below, were more than two hundred Saints, most of them too poor to travel west by wagon.18
Leading them was twenty-six-year-old Sam Brannan. After the October conference, the Twelve had instructed Sam to charter a ship and take a company of eastern Saints to California, where they would wait to rendezvous with the main body of the Church somewhere in the West.
“Flee out of Babylon!” apostle Orson Pratt had warned. “We do not want one Saint to be left in the United States.”19
Sam soon chartered the Brooklyn at an affordable price, and workers built thirty-two small bunk rooms to accommodate the passengers. He had the Saints pack plows, shovels, hoes, pitchforks, and other tools they would need to plant crops and build homes. Unsure of what lay ahead, they stowed ample food and provisions, some livestock, three grain mills, grinding stones, lathes, nails, a printing press, and firearms. A charitable society also donated enough books to the ship to form a good library.20
As Sam prepared for the voyage, a politician he knew in Washington warned him that the United States was still determined to stop the Saints from leaving Nauvoo. The politician also told Sam that he and a businessman with interests in California were willing to lobby the government on the Church’s behalf in exchange for half the land the Saints acquired in the West.
Sam knew the terms of the deal were not good, but he believed the men were his friends and could protect the Saints. A few days before he boarded the Brooklyn, Sam had a contract drawn up and sent it to Brigham, urging him to sign it. “All will go well,” he promised.21
He also informed Brigham of his plan to establish a city at San Francisco Bay, perhaps as a new gathering place for the Saints. “I shall select the most suitable spot,” he wrote. “Before you reach there, if it is the Lord’s will, I shall have everything prepared for you.”22
By the time the Brooklyn left its moorings, Sam was certain he had ensured safety for the Saints leaving Nauvoo and a smooth voyage for his company. The ship’s course would follow ocean currents around the stormy southern tip of South America and into the heart of the Pacific. When they reached California, they would found their city and start a new life in the West.
As a steamship guided the Brooklyn away from the wharf, the crowd of loved ones on the pier gave three cheers to the Saints, who responded with three cheers of their own. The vessel then made its way to the narrow mouth of the harbor, spread its topsails, and caught a breeze that carried it into the Atlantic Ocean.23

When the one-year anniversary of Joe’s baptism was approaching, he started asking about going to the temple. Again, my reaction was, “Whoa! Slow down! I’m not ready for that.”
So my patient husband waited. Every now and then, he would slip something into the conversation like, “Honey, I read a great article about the temple. Do you want to read it?” or “Hey, babe, I saw a wonderful video about the temple. Do you want to watch it with me?” His enthusiasm was endearing, but it wasn’t getting me any closer to being ready to go to the temple. Finally, one day he asked me directly what made me feel unprepared.
“You know I had some issues with the Church growing up,” I said. “But I loved going to the temple. Baptism trips were my favorite. I loved the way I felt in the temple, so calm and peaceful. But I don’t know about the rest of the temple. What if someone says or does something that bothers me? What if that ruins going to the temple for me? What would be the point of being a member of the Church if you can’t go to the temple? So I don’t want to go until I’m sure nothing will shake me.”
I found solutions to most of my issues, but I was still struggling with one: how could I be part of a church I didn’t always agree with? This led me to the final step of learning from my journal. I realized I needed to try to understand why other people believe what they believe and say what they say. I needed to know why God had directed the Church to be the way it is today.
I found my answer through my husband. When he first started reading the Book of Mormon, a line from the title page stood out to him: “And now, if there are faults they are the mistakes of men; wherefore, condemn not the things of God.” Joe had quoted this over and over, but now it meant something more to me.
I realized that the Church exists in an imperfect world populated by imperfect people. And that includes me. We all have times when we get things wrong before we get them right. I realized I needed to stop judging others, just as I wouldn’t want them to judge me. We are all on a path of learning and growth.
I also realized that the Church is the Lord’s. It is in His hands. Yes, He works through imperfect people, but He directs His work. He knows what is needed, and when.
After this, I felt ready to go to the temple. I was pleased to find that it felt just as good on that day as it had years before when I had done baptisms. On our third wedding anniversary, my husband and I went to the temple again to be sealed together and have our son sealed to us. It was so sweet and such a happy day. I kept thinking that this was what all families are meant to be—eternal. And I had yet another realization: though there might be policies or doctrines that might take me time to sort out, there are also rare and beautiful truths in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. One is that each of us can actually talk to Heavenly Father and receive answers. Another is that through living prophets, He gives guidance for our day.

While the formal classroom may be intimidating at times, some of the most effective teaching takes place other than in the chapel or the classroom. Well do I remember that about this season, some years ago, members holding the Aaronic Priesthood would eagerly look forward to an annual outing commemorating the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood. By the busload the young men of our stake journeyed ninety miles north to the Clarkston Cemetery, where we viewed the grave of Martin Harris, one of the three witnesses of the Book of Mormon. While we surrounded the beautiful granite shaft which marks his grave, Elder Glen L. Rudd, then a high councilor, presented the background of the life of Martin Harris, read from the Book of Mormon his testimony, and then bore his own witness to the truth. The young men listened with rapt attention, touched the granite marker, and pondered the words they had heard and the feelings they had felt.

At a park in Logan, lunch was enjoyed. The group of young men then lay down on the lawn at the Logan Temple and gazed upward at its lofty spires. Beautiful white clouds hurried by the spires, moved along by a gentle breeze. The purpose of temples was taught. Covenants and promises became much more than words. The desire to be worthy to enter those temple doors entered those youthful hearts. Heaven was very close that day. Learning what we should learn was assured.

For thirty years and more, Sister Louise Lake, who has now passed away, lived alone trapped in a wheelchair. A parade of problems plagued her constantly. But she made it, beautifully prepared to meet our Heavenly Father. And this is how she did it. Each morning over the years she practiced an “exercise in joy”—a kind of fervent blessing-counting session upon awakening. Imagine! An exercise in joy under those circumstances. She didn’t curse God and die. (See Job 2:9.) She gave thanks and lived—anyway—touching many of us in remarkable ways because of what she had learned about trouble.

President Paulo Kretly of the Mozambique Maputo Mission shared this experience: “It is common in Mozambique [for] couples to live their lives together [without being married because] African tradition require[s] an expensive dowry to marry, a dowry most couples can’t afford.”
Members and missionaries thought and prayed about how to help.
The answer to their prayers was that they would emphasize the law of chastity and the importance of marriage and eternal families. And while helping couples to repent and legally marry, they would teach of the happiness that only comes through following Jesus Christ.
This is a picture of couples from two different cities in Mozambique. Married on Friday, they were baptized with their older children on Saturday. Friends and family were invited to “come and see,” and hundreds did “come and see.”
Following the baptism, one sister said, “We needed to choose whether to follow the traditions of our fathers or to follow Jesus Christ. We chose to follow Christ.”

Tiger Brown was the meanest man I’d ever met. During the first summer after my mission I worked a highway construction job. Tiger was the foreman. He was about 60, short and stocky, with a bulldog neck and face. His eyes were small and angry, like a bear’s eyes.
My job was to follow a machine that laid down asphalt mix and to make sure the surface was clean and level. Large rocks would make their way through the machine, ending up buried in the asphalt. I would have to pick them out with a shovel and fill in the hole with hot mix from the front of the machine. Then I’d rake it smooth so it matched the rest of the road surface. We were laying a new surface on a highway in the west desert of Utah that summer. In the middle of the day the temperatures would be a hundred plus in the shade, and with the steaming hot asphalt it was nearly unbearable. The machine would often drop several big rocks at once, and I’d have to run just to keep up.
About four times a day Tiger would come by.
"Hey!" he’d growl at me above the roar of the machine. He would walk up to me with quick steps, his head down, pawing the air with his arms moving like an attacking grizzly. He always wore the same clothes—a ragged blue denim jacket, old khaki pants, a worn-out flannel shirt, and a dirty baseball hat. If you didn’t know him and saw him in downtown Salt Lake, you’d probably feel sorry for him and offer him a dollar. On the job no one ever made that mistake or even had to ask how he got his nickname.
"That’s not the way you do it," he would mumble, grabbing the shovel out of my hand. For ten minutes he would do my work. He would attack it with a vengeance terrifying to watch. No matter how far behind I was he would catch up to the machine in a quarter of the time it would have taken me. There was nothing I could do then but stand, humiliated, watching until finally he’d hand the shovel back to me.
"I should have hired your grandma," he’d snarl, and then after a disgusted glance he would stalk off.
He watched his crew like a red-tailed hawk watches a covey of mountain quail. If there was ever any indication of something out of order, the work moving just a little slow, or if the new road surface wasn’t perfectly level, or if the asphalt mix wasn’t just right, he would swoop down with that eagle nose and those fierce eyes, yelling, "Hey!"
I’m ashamed to admit it now, but I had bad feelings for the man, feelings that almost bordered on hate. I felt that way until about the second month of work.
We’d finished a stretch of road and were getting the equipment ready to move to a new location. The place looked like an ant bed that had been kicked. The work was moving fast, and the crew was on the run getting their equipment onto the back of trucks and large trailers. Tiger came suddenly into the middle of this scene waving his arms and yelling.
"Hey! Hey!"
He stopped all the work and grabbed the driver of a large crane by the arm and directed him toward the hot mix machine. The hot mix machine was a 50-foot long cylinder used to mix gravel and hot tar. When the crane reached the hot mix machine Tiger had the operator lower a hook that hung by cable from the crane’s arm. With the entire crew watching and wondering if he’d finally slipped his gears, Tiger put his foot in the hook and jerked his thumb upward. He rose up to about 40 feet, level with the top of the hot mix machine.
After reaching the cylinder, he carefully bent down and picked up a small bird’s nest full of bald-headed baby birds. The proud and very worried parents, two kingbirds, were hovering over the nest. Tiger jerked his thumb downward. When he reached the ground, he walked over to a small cottonwood tree and gently placed the nest in its branches. He had several of us put barricades around the tree.
"Hey! Hey!" he yelled when he turned around. "Get back at it. You think this is a spectator sport? I should have hired your grandmothers."
Tiger still barely nodded when I said good morning to him, and he yelled at me and took my shovel when my work wasn’t up to his standards; but after the incident with the birds I saw him in a different way.
We broke the Utah record a few weeks later for the amount of asphalt laid in a day. The inspectors said it was as smooth and as good a surface as they’d ever seen. Whenever I drive over that highway I feel a sense of pride. Tiger believed in giving a good value of work for his dollar and he expected the same from his crew. I started looking past his faults to the good in the man. By the end of the summer I not only learned to respect Tiger, but I also learned to like him.
Since then I’ve found there are many people like Tiger, and I’ve had to look past their faults to see the good. Some have become very good and valued friends.