Gospel Story Finder

In this regard I cannot help but think of my dear sister, Susan B. Stapley. When she graduated from BYU with a degree in French, she was uncertain about how she wanted to use her degree. She was also concerned that she was not married.

Eventually she did meet a wonderful man, Michael Stapley, and they married. Children and heavy Church assignments for her husband came early in their marriage.

Susan poured her talent and energy into the demanding, challenging work of raising her children. At the same time, she was fully supportive of her husband in his work and Church callings. Together they raised eight outstanding children. Their sons and daughters have served missions in seven nations in Europe, Asia, and Latin America.

Today my sister is serving with her husband as he presides over a mission in Argentina. By the time they complete their mission, they will have led and loved some 570 missionaries from eighteen nations.

This extraordinarily bright and talented ­sister, wife, and mother is—among other things—gifted musically and speaks four languages. Yet there were occasions when the overwhelming demands of raising a family led her to question how much good she was doing. At times the loud voices of the world drowned out the still, small voice that whispered that her job was important. Sometimes there were even other voices, such as the one that said, “Mom, don’t you ever feel bad that you went to all the work of getting a college degree and then didn’t do anything with your life?” Twenty years later that same voice is saying, “Mom, how did you ever manage to do it all?” Today it would be impossible to overstate the influence she has had and will have.

But poor or not, Jules couldn’t do without books. His heart was set on owning all the books by Sir Walter Scott and a complete set of Shakespeare’s works. Almost every day, he passed by a store where the books were displayed. He spent what little money he had to buy the set of Shakespeare. For the next three days, he had no money to buy food, and nothing to eat except some moldy prunes. But he had his books! While living in Paris, Jules met Victor Hugo and Alexander Dumas. Encouraged by their examples, he began writing articles and plays. But his works weren’t very successful, and the stress of trying to earn a living by writing caused him many sleepless nights. He had earaches and facial paralysis. These symptoms reoccurred the rest of his life whenever he was under stress.

In 1857 Verne met Honorine, a young widow with two daughters. Marriage to her meant that he had a family to support, so it was important that he earn more money. He and a friend went into business as stockbrokers.

Meanwhile Jules kept writing. His first novel, Five Weeks in a Balloon, published in 1862, was an instant success. He was able to quit his job as a stockbroker and write full-time. He continued writing until the last few months of his life. Master of the World was published in November 1904, four months before he died.

Jules Verne’s books are still popular. They are remarkable for their vision of the future. In Around the Moon, he described the weightlessness of space and the use of rockets to alter the course of the orbit. He even chose a launch site in Florida and included a splashdown at sea. Star of the South is about the effort to make artificial diamonds—which wasn’t really possible until 1955. And the Nautilus in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea was a submarine far ahead of its time.

Verne was not a scientist. His books are fiction. But as science advances, as we reach into space and explore the ocean depths, we continue to be amazed by the man who guessed the future, and traveled there in his imagination.

Katsumi Nakahara of the Iwamizawa Branch has been a member for a little more than a year. He met the missionaries when they were proselyting on the street. “I did not think it was strange,” he says. “But they were foreigners. So I thought I would go and visit the church. I received a brief lesson. But during that lesson I felt the Holy Ghost. Since then it has been a process of following the Spirit from one step to the next.”

Some years ago, I had a friend whom I will call Mark. I will call him that, because that is his name. As with many Idaho boys, we were avid hunters. I remember vividly starting a hunt at 3:00 AM. We started early so we could be on the mountain top prior to sunrise. We took with us the essentials: a couple of sandwiches, some water, extra clothes, and of course, the most important of all were our riffles and three boxes of bullets each. It was never possible to carry too many bullets.

As we walked up that mountain in the dark, we could feel the crisp temperature, even though we were dressed for the cold. As the sun came up, the colors of the mountainside were incredible. The reds, yellows, and oranges of the leaves on the trees were breathtaking in spite of the freezing temperature. There was a gentle breeze that would push the leaves to twist them until the strength of the leave would force itself back into place. It was if the leaves were waving to us and welcoming us on their mountain.

As we arrived a few hundred feet from the top, we knew we wanted to get to the other side of a large gorge. From there, the trees that were so very welcoming could be seen so nothing moving would go unnoticed. It was the perfect spot for hunting.

The only thing standing in our way was a shale rock slide. To best describe a shale slide, is to have you imagine your mother’s finest china. Now, take all of her largest plates and throw them in a pile on that mountain side. Some of the plates would break, but others would pile precariously on top of the broken pieces, a seemingly stable surface with danger buried beneath. It would take thousands of plates on top of each other to create that slide. You can imagine that if you walked on that, it would give way and slide downhill.

Mark and I began to cross that slide of thousands of plates of rock as flat and smooth as broken china. We had crossed slides like that many times in our years traversing the mountains in scout hikes, hunting trips, and other camping experiences. Since it was not new to us, we felt confident that we would be successful and that there would be no danger.

Let me explain what happened in my case on that shale slide.

Mark led the way with me closely behind him. When we were about halfway across the slide, something very unexpected--at least to us--happened. Something at the bottom of those layers did not hold, and the rocks below us began to move. I immediately considered that I should not have been on that slippery slope.

Mark and I both felt like we were not standing in a holy place. The leaves that previously were waving to us and welcoming us to the mountain now seemed to be mocking us and ridiculing us for being in a place that now had become very dangerous.

The rocks were moving, taking a helpless Mark and me with them. Within just a few seconds, Mark and I had slid about 40 feet down the slope of the mountain. As I reached with both hands for security that did not exist, and as my feet teetered on loose rocks, I realized that we were very close to the edge of a several hundred feet cliff, an edge from which there would be no return.

While on that slide looking down at that deep canyon, Mark and I uttered silent prayers of deliverance. We knew we had pushed limits that were not meant to be pushed, and we knew that now we were in deep need of our Heavenly Father’s help. We knew we had put ourselves in a situation that was not where we needed to be or where Heavenly Father wanted us.

Mark and I looked around and realized we were about half way across the slide. Turning around did not seem wise, because we were afraid that we would disturb too many of the rocks. Moving forward was the only recourse to our poor decision. We knew we had pushed the limits of crossing shale slides one too many times, but we could not take that choice back.

We ever so slowly began to inch ourselves across the remaining slide. During that time, we forgot our purpose of being on that mountain. We forgot how beautiful it all was. We now were only concerned with getting to a safe location and overcoming our poor decision.

Fortunately, the slide did not move any farther. We were able to get to firm ground on the other side. We sat down and offered prayers of thanksgiving and gratitude. Even though the air was still crisp and cold, we both were perspiring and breathing heavily, because we knew what the price of our decision could easily have been.

After Mark and I had sat for a while, we realized we were no longer in danger. But now what? After what we had experienced, the simple excitement of the hunt was lost to us, so we abandoned the purpose of being on that mountain and looked for a way to move on.

We had gone through our mistake, then found a way to overcome it and return to good standing where we would not slide again. That is Repentance. The Savior is that way, as only through Him do we find our way back and gain the strength to become better.

My friend and I hiked up the mountain and crossed at the peak. Within only a few hours, we found ourselves on the right side of the slide and had a clear path to return home. This is as our Heavenly Father wants it to be, that we overcome weaknesses and return home with Him.

I’m pretty much an average Latter-day Saint girl. I go to church and activities weekly and have been in my class presidency. I am very outgoing when it comes to talking about the Church and have many conversations about the Church with friends. I don’t use drugs, alcohol, or tobacco. I don’t watch R-rated movies, and I never swear. Most of the guidance that I have been given by my parents and leaders I take to heart and apply to my life.
But there was one area where I knew I could use a lot of improvement. Although I wasn’t extreme in my choice of clothing, and my dresses always had sleeves, I knew that there was still something that I should change—the length of my shorts and skirts. But I didn’t really want to change because my legs are one of my best features.
The first time that I started to see how the way you dress can affect people was during a two-week church program that had a dress code: knee-length skirts and shorts. So, in other words, no shorts at all for me. Since nothing I owned was long enough, I wore pants the whole time. During those two weeks, I was able to meet two young men who were my age. We spent a lot of time talking and developed a close bond. Occasionally we would see girls in the community wearing tank tops and shorts that barely covered them. For the first time in my life, I realized the effect that women can have on men. My friends talked about how they didn’t want to see girls wearing short shorts and skirts, but sometimes it was hard to avoid.
After two weeks were over, I had the opportunity to drive to a lake for a week’s vacation. I went home, packed my clothes, and was off. I found that after being so modest for two weeks, all my shorts and skirts seemed to have shrunk! For the first couple of days I wore the few pair of longer shorts that I had, but slowly I fell right back into my old habits.
Only a couple of Sundays had passed when I walked into a Young Women class that would start a change that will last forever. The lesson was on dressing modestly, and I don’t think that the lesson was all that different than the ones I had heard before. But because of my experience a few weeks earlier, I was finally ready to hear it. After I got home from church, I went to my room and decided I needed to get rid of a lot of my clothes. I told my parents about the lesson that we had just had and that I had decided to make a change.
Later that night my dad came and told me he was proud of me. He then told me that he would like to buy me a couple of dresses so that I could have some knee-length dresses for church. I told him that would be great.
The next night, I had a big surprise waiting for me in my bedroom when I got home. Lying on top of my bed were several different modest items of clothing my parents had purchased for me. I then tried them all on to see if the length was long enough and if they met my parents’ approval. The next step was to go through all my clothes and discard everything that was too short. It was hard for me to part with my favorite skirts and the shorts I loved so much, but I did. You will now never see me in anything that is shorter than my kneecap. I was also surprised to see what I could find in the stores. Now I just have to look a little bit harder, but modest things will show up.
I have never felt better about myself. I love being able to walk into church or go to the temple to do baptisms knowing that I am a child of God and feeling that I am representing Him in the way that He would want me to through the clothes that I wear.

“I can’t believe people go to work this early,” someone says, watching the lonely headlights of a car appear and then quietly disappear down the streets of the still-sleeping town. It is dark, early-morning dark, in the church parking lot. The coolness of the early hour inspires thoughts of sleep and warm beds rather than the day of work ahead, but work is what everyone has come out to do. After all, this is no ordinary Saturday morning; it is the beginning of the second annual Wood Run.
In the lumberjack country of Oregon or the thick pine forests of Washington, a project to cut and stack timber would raise no eyebrows. But when youth from Kanab, Utah, decide to hold an annual Wood Run, eyebrows are raised. The surrounding countryside poses some problems. The sage-covered flatlands, dry gulleys, and beautiful but barren red bluffs that characterize the small southern Utah community make it easy to wonder how far you would have to travel to find lumber, especially enough to satisfy this eager group.
The Wood Run originated when the Young Women of the Kanab Second Ward said they could stack and haul more wood than the Young Men could. And just one year ago, in the first official Wood Run, they proved it.
This year, as they stand waiting in the church parking lot, the young men say things will be different.
As the last cars pull in and the sun begins to rise, the dark shapes in the parking lot take on identity, and a spirit of competition begins to whisper through the crowd. In the new light the Laurel and Beehive advisers look around and confer.
“Do they have more people than we do?”
“I think so.”
“We’re outnumbered!”
“Well,” concludes Charlene Swapp, Beehive adviser, “there are more boys this year, but we’ll still beat them.”
The girls seem to agree. “Are we going to whop ’em?” asks the Young Women’s president, Jo Anne Goodfellow. “Yeah!” comes the resounding chorus from a group of enthusiastic young women.
The men are not in agreement, however. Loral Linton, teachers quorum adviser, stands by, listening to the boasts with a knowing smile on his face. “We’ll get even this year,” he says smugly.
This attitude seems to prevail among the young men and has resulted in a slight alteration of the event’s original name. Among themselves the event has become known as the Revenge of the Wood Run.
Soon everyone in the parking lot has piled into cars and trucks to head for the Kaibab National Forest to make good their claims of victory.
“That’s where we’re going,” someone says, pointing to a smooth, flat-topped hill of purplish hue that rises in the distance across the border into Arizona. “That’s the Kaibab.”
“That’s the Kaibab?”
The words of a lifelong resident, a man who homesteaded his own land out here and really knows the area, come to mind. “Kaibab is Indian for mountain lying down,’” he’d said, looking off in that direction and adjusting his cowboy hat.
Well, the Indians were right.
From this distance the level swell on the horizon hardly resembles the picture that the word mountain conjures up. Where are the jagged cliffs, the snow-capped peaks, the single vertical summit rising up to pierce the clouds?
It’s hard to believe that this level mountain stretches out to form the towering north and south rims of the Grand Canyon. And harder still to believe that it provides enough wood to keep one of the largest sawmills in Utah and Arizona in business.
But as the caravan of cars and trucks works its way closer to the Kaibab, the sage-covered plains give way, almost imperceptibly at first, to hills sprinkled with pine. The caravan climbs higher, and the air becomes cooler. Sparse pine becomes forest. Suddenly you’re a believer.
After bumping over dusty dirt roads, the caravan stops, and everyone climbs out. Instructions are brief. “Women stack on the right side of the road and men on the left. Three chain saws to a team. The winner is whoever stacks and loads the most wood onto the trucks before lunch.” Within minutes chain saws are buzzing, chips of wood and sawdust fly, and the strong scent of freshly cut pine fills the air.
“This is all waste wood that loggers have left piled up,” says Bishop Jack Frost, referring to the large, unkempt piles of wood and brush that are being cut into with a vengeance.
The young women have quickly formed a log-passing brigade, and from what looks like just a pile of brush come the beginnings of what will soon be a healthy-sized stack of clean, much-needed wood. According to Bishop Frost, the cutting and stacking are just the beginning of the project. Once the wood is taken home, it must be split and then delivered throughout the winter to those that need it for fuel.
Last year Mary Jo Morrison and her daughter Jodi received some wood from the project. “Normally, we would have had to buy the wood,” says Mary Jo. “I was very appreciative. It was not just logs, either. The wood was cut, and split, and ready to burn. I work full-time, but this year Jodi is able to go up and help. Those kids work hard.”
“It gives you a good feeling to be doing something for people who can’t go up and chop the wood themselves,” says Jodi, a first-year Beehive.
Although much of this year’s Wood Run still lies ahead, for now everyone seems intent on gathering as much wood as they can. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s the best service project I’ve ever been on,” says Bishop Frost. “The kids all get a sense of usefulness out of it. They feel like they’ve accomplished something. And they have. It’s hard work to gather this much wood.”
Nobody would argue with him on that point. Across the road and farther up from where the girls are working, the young men are diving into their pile of wood in a less organized but equally effective manner. As soon as the chain saw has rendered a log into chopping size blocks, the blocks are thrown onto a pile and then loaded onto a truck.
Echoing the bishop’s feelings, Chad Goodfellow, teachers quorum president, says that the Wood Run is a better service project than most he’s been on. “There’s a lot done here. This is an activity, but it also does some good for everybody else.” He’s right. By the time the project is over, nearly everyone in the ward will have had the opportunity to take part in helping others.
And their help doesn’t go unappreciated. “I’m a widow, and usually I’ve bought my wood,” says Nedra Baughman, who received some wood last year. She was surprised one day to find a truck and some of the youth from the ward in front of her home. “There they were, two unloading the wood, some splitting it and others stacking it,” she says. “I was overwhelmed. It makes you feel humble and very grateful.”
With this kind of response awaiting their work, the workers find the day goes quickly.
Before long the trucks begin to fill with wood, and lookouts are sent to spy on the opposing team. Extra sweatshirts or jackets are laid aside or tied around waists as the morning’s cool edge melts into afternoon.
The log-passing brigade formed by the young women continues to function but at a slightly slower pace—slow enough, anyway, to allow a good sawdust fight and accommodate plenty of laughter and talking.
“It’s very hard work,” says Shelley Allen, a Mia Maid and veteran worker from the previous year, “but it’s fun when you’re all working together. And when you take the wood to people’s houses, they like it. That’s the neat part.”
Jamie Leavitt, Beehive president, shakes some clinging bits of sawdust from her hair and agrees that delivering the wood to people who need it really does make all the hard work worthwhile.
Of course, hard work or not, none of the young men is so tired that he can resist climbing the sides of the huge diesel truck to scale the mountain of wood it holds and shout claims of victory to those below.
The deadline that seemed years away while the workers were standing sleepily in the cool morning dark at the church parking lot has arrived. It is time to declare a winner.
The noisy crowd gathers. Dusty gloves are dropped to the ground and then joined for a rest by their equally dusty wearers. Examining the cuts and scrapes on her uncovered arms, one young woman suggests that the winners be determined by comparing the number of scratches on the arms of the opposing teams. Seeing the dirt embedded in the young women’s shirts and ground into the knees of their jeans, someone else suggests the winners be judged by the amount of dirt they’ve accumulated. If dirt is the criterion, the young women are certainly the day’s winners!
Although some claim the wood got heavier as the day wore on and some reactions to getting up so early were not always positive, the young people feel good about the work they’ve done.
“This has really been fun,” says Andy Compas, first assistant in the priests quorum. “Last year I got to deliver the wood, but I didn’t get to come out here.” For Andy, as for most of the youth, the real magic of the project is in the delivery of the wood. “Just to see their faces when we took it to them,” he says of the year before. “They couldn’t tell us how much they appreciated it.”
For Dan Allen, who operated a chain saw, the day’s experience is nothing new. He works for a logging company, so the cutting, stacking, and hauling of the wood are all part of a normal day’s work to him. The difference seems to lie in giving up an otherwise free day to help someone else. “It’s a lot more fun to cut and stack wood when you’re doing it as a service for someone else,” he says.
Most of the day’s work is done now, and everyone takes advantage of the free time to relax. Well, almost everyone.
What may prove to be the toughest job of the day is still waiting. It belongs to Bishop Frost, who must judge the work and come up with a winning team. Both sides feel they’ve won.
“I don’t know if you dare judge,” counsels one adviser. But drawing on the wisdom and the example of Solomon, the bishop thinks it over and makes his decision.
In an odd twist guaranteed to satisfy both teams, the bishop declares the young men to be the official winners, but before any cheers can be raised, the bishop gives the young women the honor of having worked the hardest. It seems to work.
Lunch is cleared away, jackets and gloves are retrieved from tree stumps, and everyone gathers for one last picture by the side of the huge diesel truck. The edge of competition so evident earlier that morning in the church parking lot has faded. They are friends.
After all, everyone here knows what the real meaning of the project is. They know it goes beyond the difficulty of rising early, stacking wood, and loading trucks. They know it even goes beyond the momentary thrill of victory. The work may give a sense of accomplishment and the competition may provide some fun, but everyone who participates knows it is the giving that makes it all worthwhile.

A few months before my eighth birthday, my mom and I were cleaning out my bedroom. We noticed how much stuff I had that I didn’t really use, and my mom asked me where I would put the new things I was going to get for my birthday. After talking about it, I said, “I don’t need gifts for my birthday. Let’s find someone who doesn’t have anything and give him or her the gifts.”
On my birthday, I invited my friends over for a party. I asked that instead of bringing a gift for me, they bring one for a seven-year-old girl who was living in a homeless shelter. A fire at the shelter had burned all of her belongings. During the party we took our gifts to the girl. Because of a death in the family, she wasn’t at the shelter, so we left the gifts on her bed. It was sad to see how little this family had. We all left feeling very grateful for what we have. When my mom asked me later how I thought the party had gone, I said, “It was fun. We did something good today.”

There are those of us who have laid away our little ones in the grave, and we had that responsibility. A little daughter was born to us over in Holland while I was president of the mission there, and we kept her until she was three and a half years old. My wife has said time and time again that she knew the angels brought that spirit to her because she felt their presence, and yet we laid her away in the grave. If we had to feel that that was the end, we would have given anything in this world to have her back again. And then we come to this great knowledge that we have in the restoration of the gospel, that she will be ours in the eternal world and we will have the joy of seeing her grow up without sin, unto salvation. Sometimes I have thought that probably some of these choice spirits did not need the experience here in mortality like other children, and that is why the Lord has seen fit to call them home.

President Spencer W. Kimball, the twelfth president of the Church and for whom one of our buildings on campus is named, once wrote of his great internal struggle when he received the call to be an apostle:
“I was telling [the Lord] that I had not asked for this position, that I was incapable of doing the work, that I was imperfect, and weak and human, that I was so unworthy of so noble a calling…. How I prayed! How I suffered! How I wept! How I struggled!” [6] And yet, despite these concerns, our dear President Kimball later served for 43 years as an apostle and prophet. During the 12 years of his presidency, the number of operating temples literally doubled and missionaries serving around the world increased by 50 perecnt. [7] He helped bring about tremendous good for both the Church and the world.

Not long ago, while riding on an airplane, I talked with a young man who was seated beside me. We moved from one subject to another, and then came to the matter of religion. He said he had read considerably about the Mormons, had found much to admire, but that he had a definite prejudice concerning the origin of the Church and particularly Joseph Smith.

He was an active member of another religion, and when I asked where he had acquired his information about the LDS church, he indicated it had come from publications of his church. I asked what company he worked for. He proudly replied that he was a sales representative for IBM. I then asked whether he would think it fair for his customers to learn of the qualities of IBM products from a Xerox representative. He replied with a smile, “I think I get the point.”

I took from my case a copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and read to him the words of the Lord expressed through Joseph Smith, words which are the source of those practices my friend had come to admire in us while disdaining the man through whom they had come. Before we parted, he agreed to read the literature I would send to him. I promised him that if he would do so prayerfully he would know the truth not only of these doctrines and practices which have interested him, but also of the man through whom they were introduced. I then gave him my testimony concerning the prophetic calling of Joseph Smith.

When my grandma passed away, I felt really sad about not being with her anymore. It was hard to not have her here.
I was attending a church at the time, but I felt that I was missing something. I wanted to know more about where my grandma would go after this life. One day I decided to pray and ask God for help.
I received an answer a couple of days later when I met two missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In our first meeting, they taught me that Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, have a plan of happiness for each of us and that death is not permanent. I decided to keep meeting with the missionaries, and a few weeks later I made the decision to be baptized. A month later my mom and my brother were baptized too.
Now I’m almost 17 years old, and I am so excited to serve a mission one day and work to bring people closer to Christ—just as the missionaries did for me.
Being apart from my grandma is hard. But knowing that families can be together forever because of Jesus Christ and the work done in temples brings me peace and joy!
Lucas R., São Paulo, Brazil

I recently heard a wonderful story about a little girl named Sarah, whose mother had the opportunity to help another woman in her ward named Brenda, who had multiple sclerosis. Sarah loved to go with her mother to help Brenda. She would put lotion on Brenda’s hands and massage her fingers and arms because she was often in pain. Sarah then learned to gently stretch Brenda’s arms over her head to exercise her muscles. Sarah brushed Brenda’s hair and visited with her while her mother took care of her other needs. Sarah learned the importance and joy of serving another person and came to understand that even a child can make a big difference in someone’s life.

Tamika nodded. “Tell me about when Grammy Rose escaped.” Tomorrow they were visiting a place where her great-grandma Rose might have stayed, and she wanted to hear the story again.
“Again?” Gram laughed. “All right. That’s one of my favorites too.” She leaned back and got comfortable.
“Your great-grandma Rose lived on a big farm called a plantation with her mama and daddy. They were slaves, and they wanted to be free,” Gram said. “One day, Rose’s mama died of a fever. Her daddy decided it was time to escape with Rose.”
Gram’s fingers traced lines along the quilt as she talked, like she was tracing a map of the journey.
“They left at night and followed the North Star. It’s part of a constellation called the Big Dipper,” Gram said. “Back then, slaves called it the Drinking Gourd.”
“What’s a gourd?” Tamika asked.
“It’s like a squash. Slaves would use hollowed-out gourds as spoons to scoop water from buckets to drink,” Gram said. “Rose and her daddy followed the Drinking Gourd north. People from the Underground Railroad helped them along the way.”
Tamika nodded. She knew that the Underground Railroad wasn’t really a railroad. It was a name for the people who helped slaves escape to safety. Tomorrow Tamika and her mom were going to a house called Slave Haven, where some of the slaves hid on their journey north.
“But we don’t know for sure if Grammy Rose stayed in Slave Haven,” Tamika said.
Gram looked thoughtful. “That’s right. Rose couldn’t write, so we don’t know the exact places she stayed,” Gram said. “But when I was a girl, Rose told me her story, and I wrote it in my journal.”
As Mama tucked the blankets around Tamika, Gram told her one more thing about Rose.
“Grammy Rose always said that miracles from God brought her safely north. That taught me to look for miracles every day,” Gram said. “Like warm sunshine.”

Two months ago, a person who is not a member of our church, Michael Harris, an expert skier, was buried alive in an avalanche at a place called Stevens Pass, Washington. Unfortunately, that day, he was skiing alone and did not have a beacon signaling device on him. Alone and entombed, he did the only thing he could think of that might help him. He prayed, saying: “Heavenly Father, I am in a bad way. I need help, and I think you’re the only one that can give it to me. I don’t know how you could do this, but I need you to tell someone where I am and how to get to me.”

That “someone” was his wife, Penny. She had been tracking her husband on and off that morning on her iPhone. When she noticed that the tracking dot was no longer moving, and that he had stopped answering her texts, she sensed something was wrong. She immediately drove one hour up to the pinned location, and with the help of the ski patrol, located exactly where her husband was. They dug him out, and saved his life. He had been buried for four hours. While he had a broken leg and suffered some lung damage, he suffered no frostbite and had a clear air passage and required no CPR.

In the spring of 1829, Mary and Peter Whitmer welcomed Joseph and Emma Smith and Oliver Cowdery into their home so the translation of the gold plates could be completed. The demands on Mary’s time were high. She cared for nine people in her own home and assisted her married children who lived nearby.
Mary’s five sons and both of her (eventual) sons-in-law became official witnesses of the gold plates in June 1829. That same month, Mary received a witness of her own.
Outside her home, a gray-haired man with a knapsack over his shoulder approached Mary and said, “My name is Moroni. You have become pretty tired with all the extra work you have to do.” Taking the knapsack off his shoulder, Moroni continued, “You have been very faithful and diligent in your labors. It is proper, therefore, that you should receive a witness that your faith may be strengthened.” He then revealed the contents of his knapsack—the gold plates.1
Mary became a witness of the gold plates, like the Three Witnesses and Eight Witnesses, whose testimonies are in the introductory pages of the Book of Mormon. Mary’s humility and diligence prepared her to be a witness. Her testimony isn’t written in the introductory pages of the Book of Mormon, and her name isn’t on plaques, monuments, or the minds of many Saints who came after her. Although her daily contributions in her home and family likely went unnoticed by many, they were known by God.

Three days after my father graduated from high school in 1944, he reported for the Navy. He became a chief petty officer and received his assignment to AO-96, the U.S.S. Tamalpais. The ship sailed across the Pacific, delivering water to famous places like Eniwetok, Leyte, and Ulithi. The Tamalpais received a call into Tokyo Bay in the summer of 1945, so Dad witnessed the end of the war—an iconic moment of the 20th century.[1]
In my office, I display a silk Japanese flag Dad brought from Japan. It’s a joy because I later served my mission there among a wonderful people my dad had never said anything bad about. But I prize this brown and black volume the most of Dad’s things—his military copy of the Book of Mormon. I raise it sometimes when I attend devotional.
Dad eventually started a small business and reared five children. To relieve stress, we’d go to the mountains, including Yellowstone. There, Dad sometimes opened the scriptures. Under the gentle lights, we’d read the Book of Mormon. I don’t remember much of what we read, but I remember what I felt: a quiet assurance of the truth of this book. So, when Dad died the day after Christmas when I was 10, those memories’ importance grew. I thank God that Dad found a way to somehow teach me to love the Book of Mormon.

Loren Eiseley walked along a stormy beach late one afternoon “with the wind roaring at his back and the seagulls screaming” overhead. Tourists who came to the beach would collect shellfish and sea life tossed up each night, boil them in large kettles, and take the shells home as souvenirs. Eiseley walked far down the beach around a point away from the collectors and saw “a gigantic rainbow of incredible perfection.” Toward its foot he “discerned a human figure … gazing … at something in the sand.”

“In a pool of sand … a starfish had thrust its arms up stiffly and was holding its body away from the stifling mud. … [“Is it still alive?” Eiseley asked.]

“‘Yes,’” [said the man standing in the rainbow] and with a quick … gentle movement he picked up the star and spun it … far out into the sea.

“It may live,” he said, “if the offshore pull is strong enough. …”

At first Eiseley felt only the futility of the man’s efforts, “throwing one starfish at a time back into the sea when it nightly tosses out hundreds.” He walked away, looking sadly “at the shell collectors … [and] the steaming kettles in which … voiceless things were being boiled alive.”

The next morning Eiseley again went to the beach. Again the star thrower was there. “Silently [Eiseley] … picked up a still-living star, spinning it far out into the waves. … ‘I understand,’ [he] said. ‘Call [me a star] thrower [also].’”

Of throwing the starfish back he wrote, “It was like a sowing—the sowing of life on an infinitely gigantic scale. …” He saw the star thrower stoop and throw once more. Eiseley joined with him. They “flung and flung again while all about [them] roared the insatiable waters.”

They, “alone and small in that immensity, hurled back the living stars.” They set their shoulders and “cast, … slowly, deliberately, and well. The task was not to be assumed lightly.” (Loren Eiseley, The Star Thrower [New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1978], pp. 171–73, 184.) Each moment counted if they were to rescue the starfish that they sought to save.

A little over a year ago, my husband and I visited Nauvoo. As we walked through the Old Pioneer Cemetery searching for the grave of an ancestor, Zina Baker Huntington, I was touched by the peaceful solitude and spirit I felt. I walked through the trees and read the names on the gravestones, many of them children and families. I wept as my heart was turned to our forefathers, many of whom had joined the Church and come to Nauvoo. In my mind I asked many questions: Why did they leave their comfortable homes and families? Why did they suffer persecution, sickness, even death? Why did they sacrifice all that they had to come to this place and build a temple? They hardly had shelter, and yet they were building a temple! Why did they do it? And when the temple was nearly completed, how could they leave it behind? As I sat silently contemplating this scene, the answer came forcefully yet softly to my mind and heart: “We did this for you.”

“We had some acreage with a large garden; we also had chickens, pigs, and a cow. I grew up feeding the animals and cleaning the chicken coops and the cow barn. My father and I had an agreement: I would clean the barn every Saturday exactly as he had taught me to do it, and in return he would give me ten cents to go to the Saturday matinee and two cents for penny candy. There was a different movie at the theater each week, and I really enjoyed those Saturday movies.

“My mother worked harder than any woman I have ever known. She had eight boys and one girl, and she taught us discipline by having us work around the house and in the garden.

“I remember that many summer mornings when we’d go into the fields, Mother was right at our sides. We’d pick fruit and berries to can and store throughout the winter. The garden rows seemed very long to me as I worked up and down them throughout the summer.

“My father was a very gentle person. He disciplined us by letting us know that if we did wrong, we disappointed him. He and I were great friends, and he made me feel loved. I knew that he really cared about me. I felt a special bond with my father, for I was born on his birthday, November 25.

“At Christmastime our family would string popcorn and cranberries on thread to decorate the little Christmas tree. Maybe we would only have one gift and a few pieces of candy and popcorn, but they were wonderful Christmases, filled with love and fun family activities.

“We skated on Utah Lake during the winter. Sometimes we would go out a little too far on the ice, and we would hear it crack beneath us. In the summer we would swim in the Provo River, diving off the rocks into the cool, clear water. We played kick the can, hide-and-seek, and marbles; and we used a large tin can nailed to the garage and a little rubber ball to play basketball.

“We always attended church. I was sometimes wiggly and didn’t show all the interest that I should have shown, but I knew that what I was learning there were the things that really mattered.

“One of the spiritual experiences that I remember best from my youth happened when I was about five years old. My next older brother, Jay, had just been baptized. He was walking down a road between Provo and Orem. A man who had been drinking came swerving down the road in his car, and the door handle of the car caught my brother at the back of his neck. Jay had a serious fracture and concussion. We all prayed that he would get better, but after twenty long days in the hospital, he died. I vividly remember my mother and father sitting with us and saying, ‘Jay has gone back home to the God who gave us all life. The Lord could have saved him, but for some reason He didn’t. There will be a work for Jay to do where he is now, and we should not question the Lord. We should not have any bitterness or lasting sorrow.’ We all resolved that we were going to trust the Lord, and we all knew that someday we would again be with Jay.

“As I was growing up in Provo, there was another boy my age in my grade at school. His name was Walt Hansen. He and I were great friends; there was a great bond between us. His family did not attend Church, but Walt came because of the influence of his friends who reached out to him. Years later he became a bishop in the Provo Sunset Ward, and I’ve often heard people say that Walt Hansen was the most kind and helpful bishop that they had ever known. I hope that you children will realize that you may be a good influence in the lives of your friends and help someone else discover the gospel.

“I have two messages for young people: First, try to look on the bright side of things—look for the very best in people and in life. Have confidence in yourself, be happy, and develop good feelings about yourself. Try hard to please your Heavenly Father, because there is much joy from being obedient to the Lord’s teachings. Remember that you never know what the Lord has in store for you. When my parents brought me to Salt Lake City to general conference, we would sit in the balcony of the Tabernacle. I would look down and see the General Authorities. They seemed to be very wise, and they spoke with confidence. I felt the spirit of their testimonies and their love for the Lord. Now I sit in one of those red chairs, but I never thought back then that I would have such a calling.

“My second message to you is to pray to your Father in Heaven. Picture Him in your mind as the personal, loving, kind Father that He is, One who expects you to do your best in your Church assignments as well as in life. Pray for inspiration on how to live your life. I have found that most of my inspiration has come after I have prayed and while I am doing the things that I know that I should be doing. Inspiration and blessings flow as we serve our Heavenly Father.”

No one involved will ever forget the day the youth of the Phoenix 41st Ward, Prescott Arizona Stake, and the youth of the Caborca Mexico District got together for a conference.
“At first it was really weird because everything was done in Spanish and we had to have translators,” said David Larson, a teacher from Arizona. “But after a while, everyone was mixing and the youth found out that we are really the same in the Church.”
The conference included activities, workshops, and dances, but the high point was the service project. Armed with supplies, the youth cleaned, painted, and refurbished the town plaza. Many people passed by as the work was going on, and the youth told them about the Church and its values.
By the end of the conference, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind why it had been themed “Forward Together.”