Gospel Story Finder

Many people in the scriptures who went to the desert were humbled. When I moved to the United Arab Emirates, I thought my ward would be the same as my old one. The Church was the same, but my ward was different.
There were many people from other countries. The nearest temple was a long flight away. I’ve been humbled by this ward, from the sisters who stay late to clean the church to the brothers who check up on everyone. So I guess you could say I was humbled in the desert too.
Brooklyn R., 13, Abu Dhabi, UAE

And healing came from ministering to others in their loss—be they refugees in Europe, the abused or oppressed, or fellow Church leaders like Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Presidency of the Seventy, who had lost a daughter to cancer two months before joining Elder Kearon in the Europe Area Presidency in 2015.
“He and Sister Kearon were wonderful in helping us in that grieving and healing time,” Elder Johnson says. “They were so sensitive to our situation. I’ve always loved them for that.”

Clarissa’s eyes shone as she twirled in front of her reflection in the mirror and watched the green folds of her new dress rise above her ankles and spin around her knees. She felt like a princess.
“Is it finished?” she asked her mom.
“Almost,” Mom replied. “I just need to hem it. Now go stand by the door so I can see how much shorter it should be.”
Clarissa turned slowly as her mother directed. She loved the new dress she would be wearing when she and her younger sister Deseret served as flower girls at Aunt Olivia’s wedding.
Clarissa smiled when she thought of Aunt Olivia. She was Mom’s youngest sister, and she always made time to play games and dress-up with Deseret and Clarissa when all the other adults were talking at family gatherings. Clarissa loved Aunt Olivia!
Clarissa remembered the first time she met Edgar, the man Aunt Olivia was going to marry. Mom had invited Aunt Olivia and Edgar to dinner. He was tall and quiet. At first, Clarissa was scared of him because he didn’t talk much. But then he had smiled at Clarissa and talked to her quietly. They soon discovered that they shared the same birthday! That made Clarissa feel special. She really liked Edgar.
Clarissa was happy several months later when Mom told her that Edgar and Aunt Olivia were going to be married. She and Deseret were even happier when Aunt Olivia asked them to be flower girls. Mom explained that they would get new matching dresses and that they would carry flowers at the reception. They were going to have so much fun!
Clarissa stopped daydreaming as Deseret ran into the room. “Mom, are you ready to hem my dress?” she asked.
“I’m not quite finished with Clarissa’s dress, dear,” Mom said.
Deseret looked at Clarissa. “You look so pretty!” she said. The girls grasped hands and twirled around the room together. “We’re going to be beautiful at the wedding!” Clarissa exclaimed.
“Actually, girls,” Mom said, “you’re going to be beautiful at the reception. You’re not going to the wedding, you know.”
The dancing stopped abruptly. “What?” Clarissa asked. “Why can’t we go to the wedding?”
“We have to!” Deseret cried. “We’re the flower girls! Aunt Olivia asked us.”
“I know you’re the flower girls,” Mom said. “But do you girls remember where Aunt Olivia is getting married?”
“In the temple,” Deseret said.
“That’s right.” Mom smiled. “Aunt Olivia and Edgar are getting married in the same temple that Dad and I were married in. But only adults who have a temple recommend can go to weddings in the temple.”
“Why?” Clarissa asked.
“Well,” Mom said, “getting married in the temple is very sacred and holy. Only people who have made important covenants, or promises, to Heavenly Father in the temple can go. Adults are old enough to understand how important and special those covenants are.”
“Why does Aunt Olivia want to get married in a place where we can’t go?” Deseret frowned.
“I know why,” Clarissa said. “If you get married in the temple, you can be married forever, right?”
“Right, Clarissa.” Mom nodded. “Did you know that a temple wedding is called a sealing?” Mom laughed as Deseret looked up at the ceiling. “Not that kind of ceiling, Deseret. A temple sealing is a bit like sealing an envelope. When you lick an envelope and shut it tightly, it’s sealed, though not forever. When Olivia and Edgar are sealed in the temple, their marriage can last forever—even after they die. Temples are the only places on earth where that kind of marriage can take place.”
“Where will we be during the sealing?” Deseret asked.
“On the temple grounds with Uncle Ammon,” Mom replied. “He’s not old enough to go to Olivia’s sealing, either.”
“Hurray!” the girls cried. Uncle Ammon was a lot of fun, too.
“And then the next day, we’ll go to the reception at the church,” Mom continued. “You girls will wear your new dresses and carry flowers, and lots of people we know will be there. It will be fun. Now why don’t you take this dress off so I can finish it?”
As Clarissa walked to her room to change, she thought about what Mom had said. She knew Edgar and Aunt Olivia really loved each other. She was happy they could be married forever.
Weeks later, the girls walked around the temple grounds with Uncle Ammon. They admired the beautiful temple and the flowers and trees around it. They went into the visitors’ center and saw some pretty pictures and a movie about Jesus. Then they went outside to meet Mom and Dad after the sealing. Together they waited for Aunt Olivia and Edgar to come outside.
Clarissa spotted them as they came through the door. Aunt Olivia looked so beautiful! Edgar—now Uncle Edgar—looked handsome. They smiled as they held hands and hugged everyone.
As Clarissa wrapped her arms around Aunt Olivia, she whispered, “I’m glad I couldn’t go to your wedding.”
Aunt Olivia drew back and looked into Clarissa’s eyes. “What did you say?” she asked.
Clarissa looked down shyly. “I’m glad I couldn’t go to your wedding because I’m glad you got married forever,” she said.
“Me too!” Aunt Olivia smiled as she hugged Clarissa one more time.

Let us look in on him at age eighty. He has worn out his life in sacrifice to the Lord and for His fellow men. He is the President and prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Lord will, in seven weeks, release him from mortality and call him home to service on the other side of the veil. Now his own words:

"I sat in my room pondering over the scriptures; And reflecting upon the great atoning sacrifice that was made by the Son of God, for the redemption of the world."[5]

As he did so he read from the writings of Peter:

"For Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh, but quickened by the Spirit:"
"By which also he went and preached unto the spirits in prison. . . ."
"For for this cause was the gospel preached also to them that are dead, that they might be judged according to men in the flesh, but live according to God in the spirit."[6]

President Smith continues:

"As I pondered over these things which are written, the eyes of my understanding were opened, and the Spirit of the Lord rested upon me, and I saw the hosts of the dead, both small and great."[7]

Through the power of the Holy Spirit he saw the spirits of all of the dead.

And there were gathered together in one place an innumerable company of the spirits of the just, who had been faithful in the testimony of Jesus while they lived in mortality;

"And who had offered sacrifice in the similitude of the great sacrifice of the Son of God, and had suffered tribulation in their Redeemer's name.”[8]

In 1982, the second Christmas after we were married, Cleto and I decided to establish family traditions. Because we were the first members of the Church in our families, our former Christmas celebrations—though they brought us happy memories—lacked genuine compassion and service. Moreover, our first baby, eight-month-old Diego, was reason enough to improve ourselves in this way.
We were quite busy with university studies, household chores, Church callings, and our crash course in first-time parenthood, but we still devoted ourselves to preparing for a special occasion. We used each family home evening in December to make decorations and to come to a better understanding of the symbols and colors we saw everywhere. We also planned on preparing a simple dinner, and we thought up useful and inexpensive gifts. As we undertook a scripture study program, we realized that the true change in our manner of celebrating Christ’s birth would involve choosing a gift for the Savior.
We wondered, “What do you give someone who has heaven and earth at His disposal?” The scriptures provide the answer, declaring that anything we do “unto one of the least of these” (Matthew 25:40) we do unto Him. Because Christmas is a season of friendship and a time of love, we wanted to invite a member of the Church to experience the warmth and sweet spirit we felt in our home. We looked hard to find someone who needed some cheering up and whom helping could be our Christmas present to the Savior.
Each time we invited a ward or stake brother or sister to our home, we were happy to discover that the person was already involved in other activities. But Christmas Eve soon arrived, and we still had not found someone with whom to share our Christmas.
Resigned to our failure, we were getting ready for dinner when the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I was elated to find a friend we had not seen for some time. Avelar had recently gone through the disappointment of an upsetting separation. He was sad and alone and had felt a strong desire to be with us.
We received Avelar with love, and he told us that he had found the environment he needed to be consoled in the midst of his trials. We told him of our preparations to serve and help someone in need so that he could recognize the Lord knew him and loved him.
For all of us, it was wonderful to realize that the Savior had sent us someone we could not find: our friend Avelar. We realized the overriding importance of relationships among Heavenly Father’s sons and daughters. For that reason, on subsequent Christmases we and our three children always remember that the purpose of the season is to strengthen bonds of unity, love, and friendship.

I was baptised in 1968 at the Nottingham chapel, West Bridgford. I was 17 years old. It was not long before I was called to serve as a ward missionary. This was a challenge for me at the start, but after a short period of time I became more valiant in my call, and with the help of local full-time missionaries I began to find it easier to testify to the truthfulness of the gospel.
It was during this time that I would go out with the full-time missionaries on teaching appointments or tracting.
One day they invited me to join them in the Market Square, Nottingham. We called it “Slab Square”—Elder M. Russell Ballard (1928–2023) preached there as a young missionary. They were going to preach the gospel. They stood on a raised wall and started to preach the message of the Restoration. I was amazed when a small crowd gathered, and even more amazed when I found myself volunteering to do what they were doing. The crowd had grown to about 40, and I said a silent prayer and started to share the message of the Restoration. Individuals in the crowd started to respond with some very critical comments, until one gentleman seemed to shout with a very loud voice, “Give the lad a chance!”
It worked and I was able to finish my remarks. I’m not sure if this gentleman was a little the worse for drink but I was very grateful for his comments.
We left the Market Square and I’m not sure what good I did, but I always remember that day in Slab Square. It gave me the courage to stand up and testify, no matter what. I thought, “If I can do that, I can do anything.” Even today I think the Spirit moved not only upon me that day but also upon the gentleman who spoke up for me.

One day while running some errands, I saw a homeless man in front of the bank. I had seen him there before, and I had always tried to make sure that I smiled and said hello. Although I didn’t usually give him money, I wanted him to know that I’m not trying to avoid him and that I recognized him as a real person. When I got out of the car, I went to put change in the meter, but all I had was a “loonie” (Canadian dollar coin) and a bunch of pennies.
As I stood there and pushed the pennies around, making sure there wasn’t a nickel or dime, I heard the homeless man ask, “Do you have change?”
I told him I didn’t, not even for the meter. Then he surprised me by saying, “Oh, here. I’m sure I have a dime for you.”
I had just tried to shake off this homeless man because I didn’t have any change for him, and then he handed me a dime. But his gift was more than monetary. He also gave me a change of heart. His simple act was charity and service in its truest form. A homeless man begging for change gave his change to someone who needed it more at the moment. I thanked him and then, even though he wasn’t expecting it, gave him my loonie.

One summer, my youth choir took a tour to all of the main Church history sites. We had the opportunity to perform concerts in places like Liberty Jail, the Kirtland Temple, and even the Sacred Grove.
While it was a great opportunity to visit the places where the gospel was restored, I had an even more powerful experience realizing that we were preaching the word of God through our music. For instance, as we sang “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2), I felt that we were testifying of the Lord’s Church and of the blessings of having the gospel in our lives. I felt that we were bringing people to Christ.
By the time the tour was over, my testimony had been strengthened so much, and I had seen many of the other choir members’ testimonies grow too. I also hope and pray that we were able to touch the lives of the many people who listened to us. By sharing the word of the Lord through music, we had a great missionary experience. I am now preparing for my full-time mission, and I look forward to continuing to preach the gospel.

Johanna trudged beside the wagon train lumbering westward along the dusty trail. “Why do I have to walk all the way?” she grumbled to herself. But she already knew the answer: The wagons were loaded with precious supplies to help the Saints begin a new life in the West. There was no room for riders.
The burlap sack tied to Johanna’s waist dragged on the ground, so she hitched it up. By nightfall she would have loaded the bag with buffalo chips and small sticks to make a warm fire on the cold prairie. The late summer sun shone warm on her back. It soothed her grumbles.
Johanna began to hum a little tune. The same tune echoed from behind her. It’s that Barney Biegland! Why does he always have to copy me! Johanna turned and stuck her tongue out at him. Crosser than ever, she stopped watching where she was stepping and tripped. Her knees and elbows smacked the ground hard, and she began to cry.
Barney bent to help her up.
“Leave me alone!” Johanna yelled, wrenching away.
“I was just trying to help.”
As Johanna picked herself up, she spotted an Indian sandal! Her eyes scanned the area, and she found its mate. She picked them up and fit them over her thin-soled shoes. They probably belonged to a member of a roving band of Indians, she decided. How soft they felt—like walking on air. She turned and looked at the dusty line of oxen and covered wagons as they plodded across the parched prairie. As she watched, the words Captain Rice had spoken ten days before in Council Bluffs, Iowa, came back to her:
“Twenty miles a day to reach Salt Lake by October conference, and that’s none too soon.” Johanna started walking again with her new-found sandals on.
As the sun sank below the horizon, the wagons formed a circle for the night. The younger men were assigned to herd the oxen, and Barney was one of them. The three cows in the company were milked, and the precious milk was distributed to the sick and to the young children. One cow belonged to Johanna’s family.
Johanna dumped her day’s fuel near the fire, where her mother already had the salt pork out. Johanna helped mix flour and water into dough for ashcakes. She patted the dough into thin cakes and laid them on the hot rocks around the fire. When they were baked, she picked the cakes off the rocks and brushed the ashes off. They tasted flat but were warm.
Johanna thought of the comfortable farmhouse her family had left in Denmark. Meals of roast duck, turkey, cheeses, pancakes, and potatoes had filled the family’s big table. Loaves of hot bread had decorated its center, and she could almost taste the warm butter and honey dripping off a big slice of bread—almost, but not quite. She felt sorry for herself as she munched the flavorless ashcake.
Still, Johanna was not sorry that the Latter-day Saint missionaries had taught her family the gospel. And she was not sorry that her parents had decided to join other Latter-day Saints in the valleys of the western mountains. It was an adventure to travel to a new home. But she did hate the dusty trail and the dull food. The thing she hated most, though, was the walking—over a thousand miles, one step at a time, day after day.
Soon it was time for the nightly song and prayer. Captain Rice gave the scripture: “And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way” [Ex. 13:21]. The Israelites at least had a cloud to lead them, Johanna thought. Exhausted, she sank into her bed in the back of the wagon.
Johanna was startled from a deep sleep by the piercing shouts of “Fire! Fire!” She quickly dressed and peeked out the back of the wagon. Smoke blackened the western horizon. “Leave the bedclothes. I’ll take care of them,” her mother said. “Help your father find the oxen and cow.”
The animals had grazed farther out on the plain than usual, and the men were having a hard time getting the fire-frightened animals back to the wagons.
Running to find her father, Johanna saw him in the distance, driving the oxen. As she ran toward him, he called, “Johanna, lead the oxen back to camp. I must look for the cow. She’s too valuable to lose.”
Johanna found a switch and touched it to the flanks of the oxen as she had done many times before. The smoke was becoming more pungent. When a waft of smoky wind passed over them, the frightened oxen stopped, and even though Johanna switched them harder, they wouldn’t move. Johanna looked around desperately for help. She could hear the crackling of fire now.
Barney came up behind Johanna, leading another team. “Pull the rope of the lead ox!” he called.
As she bent to pick up the rope, Johanna was pulled to the dusty earth. The lead ox had stepped on her skirt!
“Don’t move,” Barney commanded as he hurried over to her. “Watch the ox. When I get him to move, pull away.” Johanna waited anxiously while Barney calmed the ox and got it to step forward, off her skirt.
“Hurry,” Barney told her as he got the oxen to move toward camp and went back to his own team.
Soon Father was at Johanna’s side with the cow. His smile comforted her. As they reached the camp, they heard the call to prayer. In the prayer circle, Johanna slipped her hand into her mother’s.
The captain spoke. “There is no chance for the oxen to escape the fast-moving prairie fire. We must ask the Lord for guidance.”
As a fervent amen was said by all, the captain stood on a wagon tongue and pointed at the sky. “Brothers and Sisters, we have not come this far to be destroyed. That tiny cloud will be our deliverance.”
Johanna looked up into the smoke-blackened sky, and the small cloud began to grow in size. Even as the fire roared across the plain and its heat waves reached up to the clouds and distorted the horizon, the cloud became bigger and heavy with rain. Lightning, brighter than the flames of the fire, lit up the sky. The roar of the fire drummed in Johanna’s ears; the thunder answered back.
The single cloud suddenly became many clouds, all spilling rain onto the fire below. The earth hissed, and steam billowed upward. Johanna looked heavenward. The rain washed the tears and dust from her face.
Then, as quickly as the clouds had appeared, they disappeared. But the fire was out! Blue prairie sky surrounded the wagon train. A thankful group of pioneers knelt again in the circle of their wagons to thank their Father in Heaven.
Later that morning Johanna skipped ahead of the wagon train with the other children. She looked down at her muddy feet squishing in the wet prairie soil. I would ordinarily be grumbling about this, she thought. She smiled and started humming a tune.
Barney appeared at her side. “You sound cheerful,” he said.
“Thanks for helping me with the oxen,” Johanna said shyly.
She put the Indian sandals on again, and they felt even lighter than ever on her feet. Johanna, wondering if the Israelite children had had dirty feet like hers, was sure that they were as grateful for their cloud as she was for the one that Father in Heaven had sent today.

I had that demonstrated to me while welding in a shipyard one winter. One day one of the crew came up to me and with the most friendly smile started to call me all kinds of bad names. I quietly said to him, “Bent, you just don’t call me those names.” He was hurt. He said, “Dan, let me show you something. Come with me.” So I followed him across the deck of the aircraft carrier and over on the other side to a catwalk where another member of the crew was welding. He had raised his hood and was watching us approach when Bent started calling him every name he had called me. The other fellow just grinned and called him back the same names with a few innovations and improvements. Then Bent turned to me and said, “See, I didn’t mean any harm by it.” And he didn’t! He had managed to almost entirely divorce sound from sense in his speech.

Beth, Blondie, Freckles, Beauty, and Dolly went on a backpacking trip. But on their backs they carried Amy, Linda, Jennifer, Heidi, and Cherish.
Beth, Blondie, and crew are the four-legged, half-ton-with-mane-and-tail variety of backpackers; but even though they see the trail from a slightly different angle than their human cargo, they know the mountain trails as well as anyone. They know how to pick their way down a rocky trail because they hate to slip on the loose rocks. They remember the spots where they have stopped to camp for the night. They know how to work a little slack into the reins so they have a chance for a quick bite of succulent mountain grass. They know how good it feels to roll in the dust after their humans have removed the saddles and saddlebags. Even though they enjoy getting out on the mountain trails, they are only horses, more intent on their next mouthful of grass than the beauty of a panorama of rugged mountains, blue sky, and snow-fed lakes. Those beauties are left for their riders to enjoy.
And the beauties of the Tetons, a range of mountains slicing the border between Wyoming and Idaho, were not lost on the girls from the Idaho Falls Idaho East Stake. They chose to spend three days on horseback as their Summiteer trip. The Summiteer program is the adventure-laden fifth year of the Young Women camp certification program. Girls are encouraged to plan and carry out an activity themselves, using the things they have learned about organizing and camping during their four years of the Campcrafter program.
It was a gorgeous morning in August when the girls met to carpool to the mountains. In reviewing how the activity got started, Susan Butikofer, Summiteer leader for the stake, said that the girls wanted to go horseback riding or winter camping, both ambitious undertakings. She said the girls got together to make their decision. “I backed clear off,” said Susan. “If these girls are here after four years of Campcrafters, they want to be here. The leaders aren’t pulling them along anymore. At this age, these girls have so many things keeping them busy, they have to have a real desire, and some have made a real sacrifice to pursue their Summiteer.”
It took extra effort to arrange for the trip. Every girl who participated in the horseback Summiteer trip was working a summer job and had to arrange to take the time off without pay. Also they were inventive about the ways they came up with the fee to pay for the rental horses. One girl gathered earthworms to sell to a fisherman’s bait shop to earn the fee.
The first morning of the trip was spent saddling the horses and consolidating equipment into small bundles to be packed on the mules. Then everyone was assigned a mount. For the inexperienced, coming eye to eye with the animal she would be responsible to saddle, curry, hobble, and keep under control for the next three days was a daunting moment. But the horses knew what they were doing even if the girls didn’t and put up with the fumbling fingers, the jerking reins, and the indecisive directions given by their riders. The horses fell into line behind the lead horse regardless of the directions given by their riders as they headed up the trail. The girls were soon to learn who really was in charge on this trip and that they were just along for the ride.
It was a glorious summer day. The air at that mountain altitude was crystal clear. The sky was such an intense blue that it was a subject of debate whether it was closer to the color of robins’ eggs or more like a tropical sea. The meadows were alive with wild flowers, every color and kind—columbines, Indian paint brush, bluebells, purple lupine, buttercups. Although the valley was in the heat of summer, here in the mountains, it was spring. It was soon obvious that the horses needed little direction while on the trail. This made it easy for the girls to absorb the scenery with names as colorful as the places themselves—up Fox Creek, past Death Canyon, along the Teton Shelf, down the Sheep Steps, into Alaska Basin, and on the Skyline Trail.
As the trail climbed, the trees began to thin out. Tall stands of pine were separated by stretches of rocky meadows. Water seemed to gush from every crevice, and clear, cold streams joined together to form high-running creeks. With the sun, the flowers, the water, the scenery, and the good company, it was nearly as perfect a day in the mountains as it could be.
But there were saddle sores in paradise. At the end of the day’s ride, when at last the camp spot for the evening was selected, there were some mighty groans, some bent backs, and some crooked legs as the girls dismounted. But no matter how tired the girls were, the first concern was to take care of the horses. Saddles were removed, bridles carefully coiled, and hobbles attached. “Come on, come on, just move your other hoof over here.” Linda Garner, of the Idaho Falls 38th Ward, was talking out loud as she struggled to get her horse to put his front legs close enough together to fasten the hobbles, a small girl trying to coerce a large animal into cooperating.
After setting up camp and getting dinner started, it was time for a treat. Custom-made snow cones were just the thing to cool down and quench thirst. The crushed ice was gathered from the remnants of a nearby snowfield. Punch mix was prepared at double strength and poured over the snow. No machine could chop the ice more perfectly than nature had already done.
That evening a full moon rose over the mountains like a spotlight. It was so bright that the girls didn’t need flashlights to find their way around camp.
By the second day, the girls were old hands at preparing their horses for the day’s ride. Jennifer Goodell of the Idaho Falls 38th Ward saddled her horse and wandered up the hill from camp and sat down to watch the early-morning light play among the peaks. It was a time for a moment’s introspection as she absorbed the beauty of nature and the feeling of oneness with our Creator.
The second day offered some unexpected challenges. The group had to negotiate a section of steep loose shale, and there were mushy snowbanks that would be too dangerous to ride across. The girls walked down the trail, leading their horses across the snowbanks, staying uphill in case their horses started to slide. Everyone was careful and made it across safely.
By now, some of the inexperienced riders were feeling more comfortable on horseback. Cherish Haroldsen of the Idaho Falls 41st Ward had never been on a horse until this trip. She was given a gentle horse, and she soon got into the rhythm of trail riding. She just tied her reins to the saddle horn and let her horse find his own way. “I figure the horse knew where to put his feet better than I did,” Cherish said. “As long as another horse is in front of him, he does real good. But just try to make him do something the others aren’t doing. He’s like a teenager. He follows peer pressure.”
The group entered a beautiful basin where snow-fed lakes connected by small waterfalls descended like huge stairsteps. The trail faded and disappeared altogether as it led across flat, slick rock. By this time, the girls were gaining confidence and, instead of following the lead horse, they spread out in groups of twos or threes, picking their own ways across the rock. But they soon found that taking off on their own didn’t always work well. What looked like a good way to go often led to the edge of cliffs or into an impossible thicket of trees that forced them to turn back and retrace their routes.
A forest ranger had gone over the trail before and had marked the best way across the slick rock with small pyramids of stone. These markers, or cairns as they are called, were easy to spot and if followed led safely across the section where the trail was obliterated. The girls found they could not rely on their own instincts or observations to select a good path. They found they had to trust the one who had gone on before to show them the best way. The girls started talking about following the cairns. “This is like our leaders giving us lessons about how to live our lives,” said one. “Yes,” said another catching on to the symbolism, “it’s like learning to follow the prophet. By listening to him, we can follow the right trail even when we can’t see where it leads.”
On the final day, the girls were busy packing the mules and saddling their horses. Heidi Hicks, of the Coltman Second Ward, settled into the saddle and said, “It doesn’t hurt as bad this morning.” Indeed, the girls were becoming toughened to riding, but it was time to head home.
The downward trail was rough. It was very steep, eroded in spots, and had plenty of rocks to trip up even the most surefooted horse. But things went well. When a horse slipped, its rider hung on or slipped a foot out of the downhill stirrup in case a hasty dismount was called for. Horses and girls came through like troopers. Heidi summed up the feelings of many when she said, “If we had done that the first day, we would have been in tears.”
At the end of the trail, the horses were anxious to get back to the corral, and the girls were again thinking about the activities awaiting them in the valley. But the impact of the trip was not overlooked.
As one leader said at the last night’s campfire, “Many of you will be taken to faraway places to serve in the Lord’s kingdom. You’ll always remember these beautiful mountains and your home nearby. Bathe in the beauty, and pay attention to it.”
The Summiteer program is designed to allow girls to use what they have learned in Campcrafters in planning and carrying out their own activities. It is easy to draw parallels to life. Girls are taught correct principles about outdoor life and about living the gospel. They find that in both, if they follow the markers, the cairns along the trails, set out by wise leaders who have led the way, they can find the correct paths.

Suddenly there are a dozen girls DarLynn Hawkins hardly knows at her bedroom door. They are all Latter-day Saints, they are all about her own age, and they are giving her big smiles and plates of cookies.
“Why don’t you come to our church next Sunday?” one of them asks, and they all nod and smile some more.
DarLynn smiles back and wonders when these girls will leave.
But they don’t leave. They talk and laugh, and eventually DarLynn begins to feel their enthusiasm. And she begins to wonder if this is what it’s like to be a Latter-day Saint. Is it always fun? Her father was LDS once. She had heard things about the Church, but …
That was about a year and a half ago. Now DarLynn Hawkins, 14, is a member of the Church. She and two of her best friends, Amy Van Camp and Erica Egli, both 14, are sitting on the couch in Amy’s house in Gurnee, Illinois, remembering the events that led to DarLynn’s baptism.
“We had just moved here,” says DarLynn, “and I didn’t really know anyone. All of a sudden here were all these girls asking me to come to their church. I knew who Amy and Erica were, because we’re in the school band together …”
“But we didn’t really like each other,” Erica adds with a grin. All three girls laugh.
“No, we weren’t best friends or anything,” says DarLynn. “And I did think I was being rushed into the Church at first.”
Amy admits that maybe they were pushy. But, as she points out, there are no instructions to follow when you want to talk to a friend about the Church. And every now and then, you make a mistake. “We’d heard her father had been a member of the Church at one time. Erica and I just got the feeling DarLynn might need the Church in her life. The standards of the Church are so high, and they can help you through the tough times.”
When Erica and Amy sensed that DarLynn was uneasy, they slowed things down. They became closer friends with her during a school band trip, gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon (she read parts of it during the summer), and invited her to Church activities (which made her more comfortable with the other members). Eventually, Amy and Erica gained the courage to ask DarLynn if she would like to have missionaries visit her home.
Erica says it wasn’t easy getting up the nerve to ask DarLynn such an important question. “You have to conquer the fear. We were afraid that if she didn’t accept, it would hurt us because the Church means so much to us. I was afraid she would laugh at the lessons or think they were boring.”
But DarLynn said yes. “And everything the missionaries said was so interesting,” she says. “They really got through to me and made it fun. There was a time in every discussion when I’d almost cry. Then during one discussion the missionaries asked me to read, ponder, and pray. I did that night, and the Spirit was there. It was so cool. I started to cry, and I knew the Church was true.”
DarLynn’s parents had watched her carefully study the teachings of the Church. When she asked for their permission to be baptized, they were happy to give it.
While there are no rules to follow when talking to a friend about the Church, there is one common mistake some people make—going to places or doing things you know are wrong with your friend, with the idea that you will take that friend to a Church activity next time.
That’s not too bright, says DarLynn. “When I was younger, I wanted to try everything—smoking, drinking, everything. Then I got to know Amy and Erica. They were strong in the Church, and I thought that was really cool. It made me want what they had. We wouldn’t be as close now if they had followed me and had done the things I wanted to do back then.”
And if Erica and Amy had not been examples to DarLynn, they would have missed a great ending. Erica says, “I’ll never forget …” and Amy joins in, “DarLynn’s baptism!”
“It was the best feeling as we watched DarLynn being baptized, because we had helped her find the truth,” Erica continues. “You could see how happy she was. After she changed into dry clothes, she came out and said, ‘I’m perfect, and you’re not!’”
“I was kidding,” says DarLynn.
They all laugh again—a trio in perfect harmony.

A few years ago I decided to get in shape. I had never exercised much, and I was a lot softer and flabbier than I wanted to be. Fortunately, as a college student, I had free access to the university’s P.E. facilities—weight room, indoor track, whatever I needed.
As luck would have it, someone in my ward was already lifting, and his partner was moving away. So I became his new partner, and we started the program with enthusiasm.
The benefits of having a partner soon became apparent. For one thing, it was nice to have someone to talk to while I was working out. For another thing, I felt more committed to keeping a regular schedule because I knew someone would be counting on me to show up.
But the most important reason came up later, when we were bench pressing.
With most weight exercises, if your strength gives out while you’re in the middle of a set, you can simply drop the weights, or let go of the machinery. With bench pressing, you lie down and push weight above you. If you can’t hold it any more, you can’t just let go, because the bar would fall on your chest and possibly do serious damage. You have to push it up all the way—just one more time—and let it rest on the supports.
That’s why having a partner is so important. If your strength fails you when you’re bench pressing, you say, “Help!” Your partner, who is standing behind you watching, is on the alert and can pull up the bar as you’re pushing it, keeping you from hurting yourself. He can do it because he isn’t tired from lifting, and because standing up, he’s in a better position to hold the weight than you are.
An unspoken rule is that the partner doesn’t interfere until you say so. Sometimes it may look like you’re struggling, but the partner won’t reach in and start pulling up the bar until you ask him to.
One day my partner had to cancel our lifting appointment. He had worked the graveyard shift the night before and was too tired to work out, but he encouraged me to go by myself, which I did. I handled the other exercises just fine, since they don’t require a partner. And then I tried bench pressing.
I knew I shouldn’t try it without a partner. I knew that by the end of my third set, exhaustion would set in and I would need help on my last repetition. Sometimes just knowing my partner was there made me brave enough to try a few more repetitions than I normally would—because I knew if I got in trouble, he could help. Now, without him there, I figured I could do it, since I didn’t push myself too hard. I thought if I just did two sets, instead of three, I could probably handle it on my own.
I was wrong, of course. By the time I was halfway into my second set, my muscles were starting to give out. And yet I didn’t stop. I wanted to push it for just two more repetitions. On the second one, my arms came down, the weight now resting just above my chest—but my arms wouldn’t go up again! My strength was gone. I couldn’t do any more. I pushed and strained and wiggled around on the bench, but my arms were absolutely finished. I could do no more. This was the time I would normally say, “Help!” and my partner would pull the weight off me. But I had no partner. I had gone into it alone, and I was stuck.
Fortunately, a kind soul happened to walk by and saw my predicament, and he helped me out. I was embarrassed, but at least I wasn’t hurt. As I looked back on the incident, I realized how it ties in with the gospel. When we accept the gospel and are baptized, we become partners with Jesus Christ. Having Him with us motivates us to do good, just as having a lifting partner helped me stay on schedule with my workouts. And while we’re “working out”—going through life, trying to endure to the end—it’s good to have a friend there with us.

Most of the children at Sean’s school have never heard of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He is one of only ten Church members attending his school from kindergarten to twelfth grade. But he and his brother and sister are good examples and take advantage of missionary opportunities whenever they arise. Their father is the ward mission leader, and the missionaries visit them often. Sean likes having the elders over for dinner, and he wants to serve a mission when he turns nineteen.
One day he told two school friends, “When I grow up, I want to be a missionary.” His friends didn’t know what that meant. He explained, “A missionary is someone who tells people about Jesus!” At age five, Sean was being a missionary!

I remember a cold winter evening as I was on radio car patrol on the east side of Salt Lake. Suddenly the silence was broken by the beep, beep, beep of an emergency radio call. “Car 16,” came the dispatcher’s voice. “Such and such an address, 9–40.” Nine-forty was a police code meaning unknown trouble. It might be a cat in a tree, family fight, lost child, or even a homicide. Calls like this were always tense because you just didn’t know what to expect.
I arrived at the address, an old two-story home surrounded by a rickety picket fence. I made my way toward the front porch along a broken and weed-choked sidewalk. The paint was peeling off the house, and it looked like it could have been the scene for a good Halloween movie. I knocked on the door, and as I did, it came partially ajar. There was no sound. I pushed the door open a little wider and cautiously poked my head inside. “Hello. Did anyone here call the police?” No answer. I opened the door wider and stepped inside.
I found myself in a small vestibule, no more than four feet square. It was nearly dark inside and smelled of a strange and musty odor. To my left was a narrow and steep stairway going to the second floor. “Hello,” I called again. “Is anybody there?” This time I heard a sound. It wasn’t much of a sound, just a quiet sound like a sob. The beam of my flashlight cut through the gloom as I pointed it up the stairway toward the sound.
There, huddled miserably on the bare wooden stair, was a young girl. She was barefoot and poorly dressed, with long, straggly hair. Her eyes were red, and I could see she had been crying hard. Her breath came in gasps, and I inquired again concerning the call for help. “Did you call the police?” All she could do was sob and point through the open doorway at the top of the stairs.
I made my way past the girl and entered into a scene of true desolation and tragedy. The room was small. No carpet covered the bare wooden floor. It was littered with the obvious signs of drugs and alcohol. Empty beer cans were strewn about, and evidence of marijuana was everywhere. Lying in the center of the floor was a young man. A dark pool of blood surrounded his head, and near his lifeless fingers lay a small, shiny revolver. I was heartsick as I called for assistance and began the investigation of a terrible tragedy.
I share this experience to emphasize again the fickle nature of the friends that Satan might send to tempt you to take part in such parties as these. We learned from our investigation that there had been 20 to 30 young people at the party. The gun was a plaything, and a game of Russian roulette seemed exciting to those using drugs and alcohol. No one expected to be hurt, yet tragedy struck and a young man’s life was lost. No friends stayed behind to help. No friends even did anything to comfort the one who did stay—the sister of the poor dead boy.

June 7. Billy’s mother called me and asked if I wanted to come over and have dinner with them tonight. Billy was too shy to ask, she said, and wanted her to ask me. (Mom and Dad said it would be fine.) She also said that Billy can’t stop talking about me, that the past few weeks he’s been happier than she can ever remember. “He thinks the world of you,” she said, and she thanked me for being so good to him.
I could tell that she was crying, because her voice started breaking up. I told her that it was easy to like Billy because he was so good. I didn’t tell her, but I had been starting to feel happier inside myself than I had in a long time, and I was already happy. Dad says, “When we open our hearts to others, like Jesus did, we feel a whole different kind of joy.”

It’s what’s inside that counts, at least that’s what Mom always said. And while Joshua didn’t understand everything that that meant, he was sure that his mom knew what she was talking about when it came to chocolate-covered cherries. They were one of his dad’s favorite treats at Christmastime, and they had become one of Josh’s also.
This wonderful candy was shaped like a little pitcher’s mound with a swirl of chocolate on top. And while the chocolate outside was good, it was the inside that Joshua really loved: a gooey, sticky, sweet, white cream and liquid surrounding a delicious maraschino cherry. The liquid center sometimes made it a little difficult to eat without making a mess, but that challenge was all part of the fun.
Sometimes he bit right into the top and looked down as if looking into a volcano with a red-hot-lava cherry. Sometimes this caused the side to break, and the hot lava came gushing out onto his hand, making him slurp and lick as quickly as he could to keep from getting sticky all over. Sometimes he tried to eat one in one gigantic bite. Being only six, that was a lot of candy in his mouth and sometimes a little juice squirted out onto his chin.
But his favorite way to eat a chocolate-covered cherry was to turn it upside down and carefully nibble off the bottom piece of chocolate. That left him with a little cup full of delicious syrup with a cherry floating in it like ice cream in root beer floats. Then he would sip a little juice and nibble a little chocolate. He could eat the cherry inside whenever he wanted, but he usually saved it for his last bite!
One Saturday before Christmas, Dad asked that magic question, “Who wants a chocolate-covered cherry?” The family had just finished lunch, and Joshua thought that it was the perfect time for just such a treat.
Joshua and his brother, Jacob, both cried, “Me! Me!” Jaclyn, their older sister, would certainly want one, too, but she had finished lunch early and was in another room on the computer.
“Wait!” Dad said. He was standing in the kitchen, holding the box of cherries with a sad look on his face. “There are only two chocolate-covered cherries left. What should we do?”
Josh thought about it. They could cut one in half. They had done that before with other candy. But cutting a chocolate-covered cherry would only make a big mess and ruin the candy. They could just quietly eat them in the kitchen, and Jaclyn wouldn’t even know. But he knew that that wasn’t really fair.
He started to think about the family home evening lesson they’d had that week. They had learned that Christmas is the celebration of Christ’s birth and how He came to earth to give us all a very special gift that only He could give. The family had talked about how Christmas isn’t about all the things you get but about showing love to your family and friends.
Suddenly a wonderful and terrible thought entered his mind. It was terrible because it meant missing out on his favorite treat. It was wonderful because it was what Joshua knew that Jesus would want him to do.
“Dad,” he said, “you can give mine to Jaclyn.” He almost couldn’t believe his own mouth was saying those words. But as soon as he said them, he felt a wonderful, warm feeling inside. It was as if his whole insides had become like the inside of a chocolate-covered cherry—sweet and happy.
“Are you sure, Josh?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Josh said, this time with a smile on his face.
Dad gave the last piece to Jaclyn, and Josh couldn’t believe that he could be so happy about not getting a chocolate-covered cherry.
That night, after pajamas were put on, teeth were brushed, prayers were said, and Mom and Dad had kissed everyone and tucked them into bed, Joshua lay awake thinking about his day. As the glow from the Christmas lights on the house filtered into his room, he thought about his decision to give the last chocolate-covered cherry to Jaclyn and how happy she had been and how wonderful that had made him feel. And then he realized his mom was right—it is what’s on the inside that counts!

My name is Emily. Do you know what I like best about being me? I like having lots of feelings inside me, and I like showing my feelings in lots of different ways.
Today I gave a talk about Jesus Christ in Primary. I showed I was scared when my voice cracked.
I felt peaceful, though, when I looked up and saw my father and mother smiling at me. I covered my mouth so I wouldn’t laugh out loud when my big brother winked at me.
I felt happy when I told everyone that Jesus is my friend. I said, “Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, and I love them.”
I showed reverence when I walked to my seat with my arms folded. I closed my eyes and bowed my head when the closing prayer was given. I listened to the prayer and said amen at the end so that Father in Heaven knew I was praying too.
During sacrament meeting I sat still in my seat and thought about Jesus while the bread and water were being passed. I felt warm and calm and happy and peaceful. I felt the Holy Spirit inside my heart. I like that feeling best of all.

They were looking for an all-day party that was short on cost and long on fun—and they found one. The young people of the Providence [Utah] Ward headed for the nearby hills and skiing, tubing, tobogganing, snowmobiling, and lots of good times.
The group went to Beaver Mountain. For some skiers it meant perfecting stem christies, but for others it meant struggling with first-attempt snowplows.
Denise Burton recalled her first time on skis. “I was really frustrated. My boot kept slipping off my ski, and I finally got so mad that I took off my skis and walked down the hill. But it was fun.”
After hours on the slopes there were lots of huddled masses yearning to be warm as they filled themselves with hot chili in the lodge. Dessert was two ski movies.
Everyone in the Providence Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women groups will remember the show-offs, cold chair lifts, and helpfulness of friends that day. Many expressed feelings similar to Todd Hammond’s when he said, “As I was up in the mountains, I thought that there had to be a God to create this beautiful scenery.”

As a young teenager I participated in a Church basketball game. When the outcome was in doubt, the coach sent me onto the playing floor right after the second half began. I took an inbounds pass, dribbled the ball toward the key, and let the shot fly. Just as the ball left my fingertips, I realized why the opposing guards did not attempt to stop my drive: I was shooting for the wrong basket! I offered a silent prayer: “Please, Father, don’t let that ball go in.” The ball rimmed the hoop and fell out.

From the bleachers came the call, “We want Monson, we want Monson, we want Monson—out!” The coach obliged.

Many years later, as a member of the Council of the Twelve, I joined other General Authorities in visiting a newly completed chapel where, as an experiment, we were trying out a tightly woven carpet on the gymnasium floor.

While several of us were examining the floor, Bishop J. Richard Clarke, who was then in the Presiding Bishopric, suddenly threw the basketball to me with a challenge: “I don’t believe you can hit the basket, standing where you are!”

I was some distance behind what is now the professional three-point line. I had never made such a basket in my entire life. Elder Mark E. Petersen of the Twelve called out to the others, “I think he can!”

My thoughts returned to my embarrassment of years before, shooting toward the wrong basket. Nevertheless, I aimed and let that ball fly. Through the net it went!

Throwing the ball in my direction, Bishop Clarke once more issued the challenge: “I know you can’t do that again!”

Elder Petersen spoke up, “Of course he can!”

The words of the poet echoed in my heart:
Lead us, O lead us,
Great Molder of men,
Out of the shadow
To strive once again.

I shot the ball. It soared toward the basket and went right through.

That ended the inspection visit.

At lunchtime, Elder Petersen said to me, “You know, you could have been a starter in the NBA.”