Gospel Story Finder

I have had similar experiences in my spiritual life. At Christmastime, after my first child was born, Margo and I traveled back to Utah from Wisconsin, where I was studying physics. When my daughter, Melanie, got an ear infection, we found that we were missing two really important things: insurance coverage and money—two things that many of you have trouble with, too. She cried and cried, and it started to look like a budget-busting Sunday night trip to the emergency room was going to be required. In desperation I went to a bedroom in my in-laws’ house, where we were staying, closed the door, held her in my arms, and gave her a priesthood blessing. She immediately settled down and went to sleep, and the next day a kind doctor treated her ear infection (for cheap) in his office.

My mind tuned in and out as the teacher explained the finer points of perspective drawing. I tried to concentrate, but to no avail. My mind kept wandering.
My thoughts were interrupted by the girl sitting next to me. She was tapping my shoulder, wanting to borrow an eraser. I complied and watched my eraser terminate an entire line of notes from her drawing pad.
As she handed it back, I noticed the eraser. It was gray, made of kneaded rubber, malleable and stretchy. These erasers seem to be a bit of magic. They never wear out; they just keep cleaning up your mistakes, no matter how dark. They’re better than any kind of eraser I’ve ever used.
Then a forceful thought came to me: how this small, gray eraser paralleled repentance. I recalled the words to a scripture in Isaiah: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isa. 1:18). Perhaps Isaiah’s plea for repentance would have been more easily understood if it went, “Though your sins be as graphite …”
Well, maybe not, yet I imagined the pre-earth life; all of us going to earth at our appointed times, to the college of life to become artists. All of us needed to create some wonderful work of art. But upon arriving at the college of life, none of us knew the first thing about art. We had to learn to draw, and while learning we would all inevitably make mistakes. This is where the Savior came in; he made it possible for each of us to have our own eraser to correct our mistakes.
Suddenly I heard people moving around me. I came out of my meditation. Class was finally over. As I gathered my materials, I heard the teacher say: “The best artist is the one who can see his mistakes and correct them.”
The day’s lesson was well learned.

When our youth group was planning to do baptisms for the dead, I wondered what it would be like in my Heavenly Father’s house. With great anticipation, I stepped inside the Los Angeles California Temple. I was overwhelmed at the feeling of peace there. Nothing could have been more opposite from my earthly home. I almost didn’t dare breathe for fear the feeling would go away. But it was constant and calm.
I loved being in the temple. In His house, I did not need to be afraid. It was safe, calm, peaceful, and comforting. I wanted to live there. Heavenly Father’s house was full of love. I was so happy. I promised myself I would be worthy to come back to His house again.

Rex: Now to our third p. The final antidote for discouragement subsumes all the rest. Any discussion about overcoming discouragement would be totally lacking without talking about it. It is prayer. I echo Abraham Lincoln’s words: “Without the assistance of the Divine Being I cannot succeed. With that assistance I cannot fail.”
My own first experience with prayer on this campus occurred the very first day I arrived—or better said, the first night. Because four of us made the trip from St. Johns in a 1943 Chevrolet whose top speed was fifty miles per hour, we didn’t arrive until late at night. The housing office for our dorm was closed, and so we slept that night without the benefit of mattresses, sheets, blankets, or pillows. And for some reason the electricity had not been turned on, so the place was almost pitch dark. But those slight inconveniences were not the heart of the discouragement that I felt. My world seemed to be closing in around me, and my outlook was as dark as the room I occupied. Here I was, 600 miles away from home for the first time, about to become a member of a freshman class three-and-a-half times the size of the total population of my town, and full of misgivings whether a boy from St. Johns could make it at a big university. Instinctively, I got down on my knees, put my elbows on the wire mesh that served as the springs for my unmattressed bed, and began some of the most earnest pleading with my Heavenly Father that I have ever undertaken. It helped. I knew that I was not alone, that I had a partner who was interested in me and willing to help. Though my earthly parents were located hundreds of miles to the south, my Heavenly Father was very much there with me. As I look back on it now, I’m reminded of President Thomas S. Monson’s counsel that “prayer is the passport to spiritual power.” In this case, my misgivings did not completely disappear, but the stifling discouragement gave way to a healthy anxiety. Used properly, this prayer passport is our most powerful possession, yet it is not an Aladdin’s lamp to grant us our every desire. Our Father in Heaven knows what is best for us always and will help if we ask.

When Sister Pieper and I were raising our family, we wanted to teach them good nutrition. We planned nutritionally balanced meals and encouraged our children to try eating each food served. As an incentive, we created a rule that only those who took at least one bite of each food served would be able to have sweets that day. One evening at dinner, our son Chris said that he did not want to eat his peas. We encouraged him to try at least one bite and reminded him of the rule that if he did, he would be able to have ice cream for dessert. Chris said that he wanted ice cream. We reminded him that if he wanted ice cream, he would first have to take a bite of his peas. He continued to insist that he wanted ice cream but refused to eat his peas. As a result, he watched while his brothers and sisters ate ice cream for dessert, complained the rule wasn’t fair.

The next day in family scripture study we were reading Alma’s teachings to his son Corianton about laws and punishments. We read that there are always consequences when laws are broken. Suddenly, Chris blurted out, “that’s peas and ice cream.” We had a good discussion of how we have agency to choose what we will do but we cannot choose the consequences of our actions. This helped us all learn important principles and apply them in our lives.

Years ago our son came home from Primary with a small picture of Jesus Christ. His Primary teacher had given it to him, and he cherished that picture. He slept with it, protected it, and carried it with him to school.
One Saturday morning we decided to take a family hike up a nearby canyon. Our six-year-old son carefully placed his picture of Jesus Christ into his backpack. That was it—he packed nothing else. When we stopped for lunch along the trail, he got busy finding small, unique rocks, and soon he had a large pile of them.
He asked me if he could take all these rocks home, and I said, “Sure, but you’ll have to carry them out yourself.”
He agreed and began filling his pack. Then he carefully placed his picture of Jesus Christ back on top and zipped it up. I lifted the heavy pack, put it on his back, and watched as he took one step forward and five steps backward until he fell to the ground. Undaunted, he opened his pack and removed three small rocks. One more try, one more fail.
Now, thinking there might be a lesson to be taught, I lightheartedly suggested that maybe he should remove his picture of Jesus. “That should lighten your load,” I said.
I will never forget the hurt look on his face. It seemed to say, “Dad, you really want me to take Jesus out of my pack and leave Him behind?” And then his look changed to “Dad, you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

Everything was starting to work out perfectly. I had graduated from Oxford University with a degree in music and had started working for a professional orchestra in Edinburgh, Scotland. My career was progressing, and I was making lots of friends.
While studying, I had decided to delay full-time missionary service. Now the idea of serving was far from my mind. Fear of many things, especially the fear of stifling my career plans, made me think that I was an exception and that I didn’t need to serve. The sacrifices involved seemed too great.
Good friends and sweet experiences with the Spirit, however, began to change my heart. The love of a caring, watchful bishop helped me gain a stronger, deeper testimony of the restored gospel. Soon I knew that I needed to accept a call to serve. I had no idea how I would pick up my career in a competitive environment after a two-year break, but I trusted that the Lord would bless me for my decision. I left my job not knowing how things would work out.
I was called to serve in the West Indies Mission, speaking French. The challenges were hard, but I loved serving the people and seeing their lives change. During those two years I focused solely on seeking the will of my Father in Heaven. Serving others selflessly brought me more joy than I had ever experienced.
After returning home, I saw the world from the perspective of new priorities and values, and I sought to keep my life centered on the gospel of Jesus Christ. I immediately sought employment, but opportunities were few. After a string of unsuccessful job interviews, I realized that my two years in an unrelated field of work had scared off many potential employers. Would my mission really cost me my career?
I’m thankful that the answer was no. Almost three months later I spotted a vacancy that was perfect for me. I had just the right set of skills for the type of work involved. Not only that, but job candidates were required to speak fluent French! My mission opened the door for this opportunity. Three interviews later I was offered the job. My career was even further ahead than it would have been had I not served. I felt the Lord’s mercy and love. I know that He prepares blessings for us when we do our part.

In those days I often recalled a childhood memory. When I was a boy, The Ed Sullivan Show was one of the most popular programs on television. As a variety show, it featured performers with widely divergent talents. One performer was a man who appeared regularly. Many poles, perhaps a dozen or more, were set up on stage with stacks of dinner plates beside them. This agile individual would spin a plate on top of one of the poles, then move to the next pole and spin a second plate, and then a third and a fourth. As he proceeded down the line of poles, the rotation of the plates on the first and second poles would begin to slow, and the dishes were in danger of falling off and crashing to the floor. Seeing this, the man would quickly run back to those poles and, with a gentle spin, increase the motion that allowed the plates to keep spinning. The excitement of the act was to witness the ability of the performer to expand the number of rotating plates while not letting any fall. Invariably, a point would be reached at which he was not able to keep up. There was a limit to his ability to increase the number and properly care for the plates already in motion. The sight of dishes sliding from their precarious perches and the cacophony as they hit the hard floor vividly proved the point that even the most skilled performer has his limits.

In areas where we have a preponderance of first generation members who don’t have a broad background in the Church, we see the most individual growth. Not long ago, I was talking with a father who had been converted three years prior to our conversation. He said, “Shortly after my baptism, I was called to be in the Sunday School presidency of my branch. I really didn’t have an opportunity to study the gospel during Sunday School classes. Now my teenage children who are enrolled in the seminary program are learning a lot more about the gospel than I know.” This father sought some additional helps to learn more about the gospel, more rapidly. He needed to keep up with the children in his home. The seminary and institute program provided him these additional gospel helps. These helps are particularly significant for the first generation members, but there is a real thirst among people in some of the long-established stakes to know more about the gospel.

Several decades ago an acquaintance of mine left a small southern Utah town to travel east. He had never traveled much beyond his little hometown and certainly had never ridden a train. But his older sister and brother-in-law needed him under some special circumstances and his parents agreed to free him from the farmwork in order to go. They drove him to Salt Lake City and put him onto the train—new Levi’s, not-so-new boots, very frightened, and 18 years old.

There was one major problem and it terrified him. He had to change trains in Chicago. Furthermore, it involved an overnight layover, and that was a fate worse than death. His sister had written, carefully outlining when the incoming train would arrive and how and where and when he was to catch the outgoing line, but he was terrified.

And then his humble, plain, sun-scarred father did something no one in this room should ever forget. He said, “Son, wherever you go in this church, there will always be somebody to stand by you. That’s part of what it means to be a Latter-day Saint.” And then he stuffed into the pocket of his calico shirt the name of a bishop he had taken the time to identify from sources at Church headquarters. If the boy had troubles, or became discouraged and afraid, he was to call the bishop and ask for help.

Well, the train ride progressed rather uneventfully until it pulled into Chicago. And even then the young man did pretty well at collecting his luggage and making it to the nearby hotel room that had been prearranged by his brother-in-law. But then the clock began to tick and night began to fall and faith began to fail. Could he find his way back to the station? Could he find the right track and train? What if it were late? What if he were late? What if he lost his ticket? What if his sister had made a mistake and he ended up in New York? What if? What if? What if?

Without those well-worn boots ever hitting the floor, that big, raw-boned boy flew across the room, nearly pulled the telephone out of the wall, and fighting back tears and troubles, called the bishop. Alas, the bishop was not home but, aha, the bishop’s wife was. She spoke long enough to reassure him that absolutely nothing could go wrong that night. He was, after all, safe in the room, and what he needed more than anything else was a night’s rest. Then she said, “If tomorrow morning you are still concerned, follow these directions, and you can be with our family and other ward members until train time. We will make sure you get safely on your way.” She then carefully spelled out the directions, had him repeat them back, and suggested a time for him to come.

With slightly more peace in his heart, he knelt by his bed as he had every night of his 18 years and then waited for morning to come. Somewhere in the night, the hustle and bustle of Chicago in the 1930s subsided into peaceful sleep.

At the appointed hour the next morning, he set out. A long walk, then catch a bus. Then transfer to another. Watch for the stop. Walk a block, change sides of the street, and then one last bus. Count the streets carefully. Two more to go. One more to go. I’m here. Let me out of this bus. It worked, just like she said.

Then his world crumbled, crumbled before his very eyes. He stepped out of the bus onto the longest stretch of shrubbery and grass he had ever seen in his life. She had said something about a park, but he thought a park was a dusty acre in southern Utah with a netless tennis court in one corner. Here he stood looking in vain at the vast expanse of Lincoln Park with not a single friendly face in sight.

There was no sign of a bishop or ward or a meetinghouse. And the bus was gone. It struck him that he had no idea where he was or what combination of connections with who knows what number of buses would be necessary to get him back to the station. Suddenly he felt more alone and overwhelmed than at any moment in his life. As the tears welled up in his eyes, he despised himself for feeling so afraid—but he was and the tears would not stop. He stepped off the sidewalk away from the bus stop into the edge of the park. He needed some privacy for his tears, as only an 18-year-old from southern Utah could fully appreciate. But as he stepped away from the noise, fighting to control his emotions, he thought he heard something hauntingly familiar in the distance. He moved cautiously in the direction of the sound. First he walked, and then he walked quickly. The sound was stronger and firmer and certainly it was familiar. Then he started to smile, a smile which erupted into an audible laugh, and then he started to run. He wasn’t sure that was the most dignified thing for a newcomer to Chicago to do, but this was no time for discretion. He ran and he ran fast. He ran as fast as those cowboy boots would carry him—over shrubs, through trees, around the edge of a pool.

Though hard to you this journey may appear,
Grace shall be as your day.
The words were crystal clear, and he was weeping newer, different tears. For there over a little rise, huddled around a few picnic tables and bundles of food, were the bishop and his wife and their children and most of the families of that little ward. The date: July 24, 1934. The sound: a slightly off-key, a cappella rendition of lines that even a boy from southern Utah could recognize.

Gird up your loins; fresh courage take;
Our God will never us forsake;
And soon we’ll have this tale to tell—
All is well! all is well!
(Hymns, no. 13)

It was pioneer day. The gathering to which he had been invited was a 24th of July celebration. Knowing that it was about time for the boy to arrive, the ward had thought it a simple matter to sing a verse or two of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” to let him know their location.

God is anxious to help us feel His love wherever we are. Let me give an example.

As a young missionary I was assigned to a small island of about 700 inhabitants in a remote area of the South Pacific. To me the heat was oppressive, the mosquitoes were terrible, the mud was everywhere, the language was impossible, and the food was—well, “different.”

After a few months our island was struck by a powerful hurricane. The devastation was massive. Crops were ruined, lives were lost, housing was blown away, and the telegraph station—our only link to the outside world—was destroyed. A small government boat normally came every month or two, so we rationed our food to last four or five weeks, hoping the boat would come. But no boat came. Every day we became weaker. There were acts of great kindness, but as the sixth and seventh weeks passed with very little food, our strength slipped noticeably. My native companion, Feki, helped me in every way he could, but as the eighth week commenced, I had no energy. I just sat under the shade of a tree and prayed and read scriptures and spent hours and hours pondering the things of eternity.

The ninth week began with little outward change. However, there was a great inward change. I felt the Lord’s love more deeply than ever before and learned firsthand that His love “is the most desirable above all things … yea, and the most joyous to the soul” (1 Nephi 11:22–23).

I was pretty much skin and bones by now. I remember watching, with deep reverence, my heart beating, my lungs breathing, and thinking what a marvelous body God has created to house our equally marvelous spirit! The thought of a permanent union of these two elements, made possible through the Savior’s love, atoning sacrifice, and Resurrection, was so inspiring and satisfying that any physical discomfort faded into oblivion.

When we understand who God is, who we are, how He loves us, and what His plan is for us, fear evaporates. When we get the tiniest glimpse of these truths, our concern over worldly things vanishes. To think we actually fall for Satan’s lies that power, fame, or wealth is important is truly laughable—or would be were it not so sad.

I learned that just as rockets must overcome the pull of gravity to roar into space, so we must overcome the pull of the world to soar into the eternal realms of understanding and love. I realized my mortal life might end there, but there was no panic. I knew life would continue, and whether here or there didn’t really matter. What did matter was how much love I had in my heart. I knew I needed more! I knew that our joy now and forever is inextricably tied to our capacity to love.

As these thoughts filled and lifted my soul, I gradually became aware of some excited voices. My companion Feki’s eyes were dancing as he said, “Kolipoki, a boat has arrived, and it is full of food. We are saved! Aren’t you excited?” I wasn’t sure, but since the boat had come, that must be God’s answer, so yes, I was happy. Feki gave me some food and said, “Here, eat.” I hesitated. I looked at the food. I looked at Feki. I looked into the sky and closed my eyes.

I felt something very deep. I was grateful my life here would go on as before; still, there was a wistful feeling—a subtle sense of postponement, as when darkness closes the brilliant colors of a perfect sunset and you realize you must wait for another evening to again enjoy such beauty.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to open my eyes, but when I did I realized that God’s love had changed everything. The heat, the mud, the mosquitoes, the people, the language, the food were no longer challenges. Those who had tried to harm me were no longer my enemies. Everyone was my brother or sister. Being filled with God’s love is the most joyous of all things and is worth every cost.

When you see Madilyn Paige perform, you would never guess the 20-year-old once suffered from paralyzing stage fright. At age 16, she faced her fear by trying out for the singing competition The Voice. She made it to the finals, where her voice enchanted judges and viewers alike.
Since then, Madilyn has released singles and is soon to release an album. She continues performing at venues like the Stadium of Fire in Provo, Utah, USA, and keeps chasing her dream to spread light and share uplifting messages through her music.
“I think music is a superpower. I feel so fortunate that I’ve been blessed with this gift. I want to use it to bring hope and happiness to people.”

“Look at that boy,” Ike sneered from across the campfire. “See how scared he looks when we talk about killing old Three Foot. You’d think we were up here hunting cougars instead of a mangy, thieving coyote. Mr. Penry should have kept that Indian back at the ranch to wash dishes or something!”
“I wish he had,” Gray Hawk murmured. He flushed at the men’s laughter and ridicule and slipped away to his bedroll. Can’t they tell the difference between fear and distaste? he thought resentfully. I don’t want to kill anything except for food.
Gray Hawk believed that the land belonged to the coyote, too, and that its existence is important in the overall plan of life. It has sensitive ears, sharp eyesight, a keen nose, and is extremely intelligent—except when it came to a rancher’s property rights. If it is hungry and could not find a young rabbit for its young, it will steal a chicken—a small price to pay for the rodent control provided by coyotes, the boy felt. But old Three Foot had raided the Penry ranch chicken yard and so he was to be hunted down and killed.
Gray Hawk had worked at the Penry ranch since March. He was an expert rider and liked the job until the balding, red-bearded Ike had been hired. The big man disliked Indians. He said so loudly and often. The youth had accepted good-natured gibes from the other men, but Ike was cruel. His remarks were stinging insults, meant to nibble away chunks of Gray Hawk’s pride. The youth’s small salary helped his family and he knew they needed it. Gray Hawk sighed and snuggled deeper into his blankets.
Early the next morning a rider came out to take the cowhands back to work in the north pasture. To Gray Hawk’s dismay, only he and Ike were left to continue the hunt for the wily Three Foot!
Ike was furious. “Not much chance of catching him unless I do it by myself,” he grumbled to the men as they left. “That Indian wouldn’t see Three Foot if he were running alongside his horse! Look how he’s hung back and let us do all the tracking.”
Late that afternoon Ike spotted the distinctive trail by a waterhole where tracks led off toward some high bluffs to the east. The big man loosed a yell of triumph and streaked off. Gray Hawk followed more cautiously. Loose rocks provided dangerous footing for a fast-moving horse.
Gray Hawk shouted a warning when he saw a large prairie dog village ahead. He knew the area would be riddled with holes and burrows. But Ike didn’t seem to hear his cry. He raced straight ahead, his eyes on the bluffs, searching for the elusive gray coyote the Indian youth had already spotted twice. Then Ike saw the loping figure, pulled out his rifle, and fired without really taking aim. There was a shrill yap of pain, and the coyote dropped out of sight behind a rock. Gray Hawk felt sick.
“I got him! Got him with one lucky shot!” Ike yelled triumphantly, just before his horse stumbled and went down. The big man somersaulted through the air and hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash. Gray Hawk leaped from his saddle and raced to his fallen companion who was lying motionless. Ike’s horse struggled to its feet and shied away as the youth approached.
Ike’s usually ruddy face was as white as the underside of a toad. His right leg was twisted and bent at an awkward angle. Gray Hawk was glad that Ike was unconscious as he worked to straighten the man’s broken leg.
The Indian boy’s search for sticks for a splint led him to where he had seen the coyote go down. He noticed a few splotches of blood, but the animal was gone. A glance at the tracks showed that the coyote Ike had wounded was not Three Foot. The youth was glad it had escaped.
Darkness had come by the time Ike regained consciousness. Gray Hawk was preparing supper, his face impassive in the red glow of the fire. He glanced up as Ike groaned and struggled to sit up. His fingers touched the thick bandage covering his throbbing head. Bewildered, he saw that the youth had splinted his leg and bound it with strips of blanket. It wasn’t easy for Ike to express his gratitude, nevertheless he mumbled his thanks. Gray Hawk understood and returned a pleasant nod.
A full moon rose and it seemed ironic that three coyotes would position themselves on high points around the camp for a “sing.” It was not the yapping of dogs. First one and then another would break out into a series of barked phrases. Gray Hawk wondered if Ike noticed the constantly changing intonations and inflections. Each animal took a turn, as though they were discussing the intruders, asking for and advancing opinions.
“Listen to those varmints,” Ike said suddenly, laying his empty plate aside. “It sounds like they’re carrying on a conversation.”
“Maybe they are,” Gray Hawk said, grinning, “and it’s not likely that what they’re saying is very complimentary to us.”
“Do you reckon they’re mourning the death of the one I killed today?” Ike whispered thoughtfully.
“No. You only winged it, and not very seriously from the little blood I saw,” Gray Hawk replied. “It wasn’t Three Foot. This one was smaller and left a set of four good tracks.”
“Then I busted my leg and went through all this for nothing!” Ike growled. But he didn’t seem as angry as Gray Hawk had expected.
At dawn Gray Hawk made Ike as comfortable as possible and placed food and water within reach before leaving for the ranch. A wagon would have to be driven out to take the injured man back to the bunkhouse. It would be the next morning, at the earliest, before help arrived. Ike looked apprehensive as the Indian youth prepared to leave.
“Be careful,” Ike said gruffly. “If anything happens to you, it might take a spell before Mr. Penry gets worried and sends someone out to find us.” Gray Hawk nodded and mounted his horse.
As the sun rose, Ike grew bored and restless. He thought about cougars and rattlesnakes and stiffened with fear when some loose stones rattled down the slope. Then he burst out laughing as two surprised coyote pups tumbled down in a tangled wad. The man remained quiet and watched the plump pups struggle to their feet and make several unsuccessful attempts to climb back up the bluff. He caught a glimpse of their worried mother on a high ledge, and noticed a wound on her right shoulder.
Finally, one of the pups seemed to realize that continued assaults on the bluff were useless. While his sister whined shrill cries of distress and clawed at the rocks, he sat down and stared at Ike. His instinct told him the crippled man was an enemy, but a harmless one.
Time passed slowly. Ike leaned against a boulder, grateful for the shade as the temperature rose. He laughed at the way the pups romped and wrestled with each other like regular dogs, growling with mock ferociousness. The fluffy balls of fur didn’t look like coyotes. Ike favored the young male. He had even whistled and tried to lure it closer, but it was too wary. Gray Hawk would not have believed how much pleasure the company of the small frolicking coyotes gave Ike.
The big man sighed and reached for one of the water canteens. He drank deeply and wiped trickles of water off his beard. One pup watched with bright eyes, then whined enviously. The romping and playing had left him very thirsty.
Ike looked at the canteen, then at the coyote. He had another full one, but help could be several days away if Gray Hawk found the ranch deserted and had to ride to the north pasture. Besides, it was ridiculous to even think of sharing precious water with coyotes!
“You’re not getting any!” Ike growled, trying to stare the pup down. Nevertheless the young coyote detected a friendly note in his voice. He stiffened his front legs and dashed closer in a mock attack, then back, and sat down panting. How long can they live in this heat without water? Ike wondered. He had sighted the worried, pacing mother several times, but, so far, she had never left the ledge. His gun was beside him, but Ike no longer felt like killing coyotes—not even old Three Foot, who had probably sired the pups.
The pups grew listless in the heat. They curled together at the base of the bluff where a small outcropping cast a shadow. Ike became more and more worried as they slept. Suppose they were dying! He poured water onto his plate and pushed it toward them as far as he could reach, then he whistled shrilly, waking the coyotes. The female arose first and stretched her quivering muzzle toward the water. She took a few cautious steps before a warning growl from her brother stopped her.
“Stop being so all-fired suspicious!” Ike scolded. He took a stick and pushed the water closer to them. His rugged face split into a wide grin when the female crept to the plate and began to lap the water. The male abandoned his caution and joined her when he saw that Ike was still leaning against the boulder.
Ike awoke during the night and remained motionless as he watched a gray shadow slip in close to the pups. The mother sniffed her young then stared toward the man. The happy pups licked her face and pawed at the probing muzzle, but she was in no mood to play. The reunited family soon faded into the darkness.
Moments later, another coyote “sing” began. Ike wondered if he only imagined a more joyful note in the yapping cries. He snorted. Then he remembered the enjoyment he’d had watching the pups during the day. “Still … those pups were cute. I don’t intend to track down another coyote as long as I live, not after getting acquainted with those little rascals.”

My wife remembers how her life was touched by a question the missionaries asked. She had an extensive religious background, and one day her brother invited her to hear the missionaries. After teaching doctrine, they directed a question at her reasoning: “Why do you think The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true Church?” The thoughts this question inspired affected her in such a way that a few seconds later her feelings were also touched. Tears came to her eyes on answering that question, and the Spirit testified to her, thus deepening the conversion process she experienced.

There have been times in my life when I felt as if there was no hope for me to be happy or to return to our Father in Heaven. Several years ago I was disfellowshipped from the Church. I had lived a life of pride and sin and had suffered greatly because of my actions. My engagement to the woman I loved didn’t work out, my relationships with others were suffering, and I wasn’t happy.
Although I wished I had chosen to be humble long before then, I was compelled to be humble and to seek to do the will of the Lord. I started to read the scriptures more frequently, to pray more often, and to seek to serve others. I tried to repair the relationships I had neglected for so long, including my relationship with Heavenly Father. I truly desired a change of heart.
It was early morning as I drove to school one day, and the sun was not yet up. The eastern horizon glowed, and the western horizon was dark, with a full moon descending behind it. I had developed the habit of conversing with my Heavenly Father while driving. As I prayed during this car ride, my mind was enlightened, and a new hope was placed within my heart.
I realized that my life was glowing and getting increasingly brighter, just like the eastern horizon. The darkness was dissipating, and my sins, which were as great as that full moon, were descending. They were not yet gone, but I knew that they soon would be if I continued my sincere repentance. I had hope that someday my life would be as bright as noonday.
With time and as I prayed for love for my Heavenly Father and others, I became more humble. Increased humility led me to serve God and others more selflessly, and my hope for eternal life and a better future was renewed and replenished. As that hope grew, so did my faith that my Savior, Jesus Christ, is mighty to save and to cleanse me from all unrighteousness. I know the words of Mormon are true: “Ye shall have hope through the atonement of Christ and the power of his resurrection, to be raised unto life eternal” (Moroni 7:41).

I have a dear friend who served as a stake president. The patriarch in the stake over which he presided had experienced some health challenges and was unable to perform in his calling. The ailing patriarch had difficulty moving about and dressing and caring for himself, and his strength was limited. One Sabbath afternoon this good stake president visited the home of the patriarch to encourage him and check on his well-being. As the stake president entered the home, he found the patriarch dressed in his suit and white shirt and tie, sitting in a recliner in the front room. The stake president greeted the dear patriarch and, knowing how hard it must have been to dress himself, graciously suggested to the patriarch that it was not necessary for him to get dressed up on the Sabbath or to meet visitors. In a kind but firm voice, the patriarch reproved the stake president and said, “Don’t you know that this is the only way I have left to show the Lord how much I love Him?”

The stake president was quick to observe. He both heard and felt the lesson, and he applied it. Reverence for the Sabbath day and the importance of respect and appropriate demeanor and dress took on added importance in the ministry of the stake president. The spiritual ability to see, hear, remember, and act upon that lesson was a great blessing in his life—and in the lives of many others.

Often I have felt the priesthood power, power outside myself, moving through me to the person being blessed. I remember blessing a young mother who came seeking renewed strength to endure a difficult pregnancy. She had great faith, and as I blessed her as her bishop, I felt power streaming down my arms and through my fingers into the crown of her head. I felt it course through her body, even to the tips of her toes. It was a powerful, cleansing, rejuvenating force, almost electric in its energy, yet calm and soft and assuring. After the blessing, she arose, and with tears in her eyes said, “I felt that all the way to the tips of my toes.”

In 1867, when Johanna Larsen Winters was 16 years old, she and her family left their comfortable home in Denmark to join with the Saints in Utah. It was a hard journey—hard to give up their home, and harder still to cross the plains on that long, tedious walk on foot.
One day, things went from hard to much worse in a hurry.
“We were camped on a large, open flat,” Johanna wrote. “The oxen were brought to camp as usual and yoked up, ready to start. We sang our morning hymn, and prayer was offered by Brigham Young Jr., the leader of our company. Just then we all noticed at a distance something like a small campfire that was in the direction we were to travel. The fire increased in size and the wind bore it right toward us.
“Captain Rice ordered the oxen unyoked and said, ‘we will sing again,’ and he offered up a prayer for our safety. The oxen were driven in the opposite direction for fear of a stampede as the fire was coming closer and we could feel heat.”
The danger was real and the pioneers didn’t exactly have any good options. They had to choose between the possibility of being trampled to death by frightened oxen or being trapped by a fire rushing ever closer. What could they do? What would you do?
“Brother Young stepped up on the highest part of a wagon tongue, raised his hand and said, ‘Brethren and sisters, stand still; we are not here to be destroyed.’ He stood still there; all at once he pointed to a little cloud not much bigger than a man’s hand. He said, ‘There is our deliverance.’
“At the same moment, there was a terrific peal of thunder, a flash of lightning, and rain poured down. We thanked the Lord for our deliverance, and we went on our way rejoicing.”

The teachers quorum of the Tempe Arizona Sixth Ward went the extra mile for one of their ward members recently when they designated a private parking space for him in the church parking lot.

Brother Conrad Roskelley of their ward is confined to a wheelchair and drives a specially equipped car. A parking space near the church entrance was often hard for him to find, and the observant members of the teachers quorum recognized this. The youths went to work, obtained permission to mark a space reserved, and built a concrete ramp so Brother Roskelley could maneuver his chair up onto the sidewalk more easily.

The next week they surprised him by asking, “How come you didn’t park in your parking space?”

Early in the year 1884 the beautiful Mormon temple in Logan, Utah, was almost ready to be dedicated. …
While the temple was being built, Bishop Henry Ballard, who had worked on the temple from its beginning, prayed earnestly that in some way he would receive names of ancestors who had lived in far-off England.
On the day before the dedication of the temple and while several of Bishop Ballards’s daughters were playing … two strange men suddenly approached!!!
One of the men gave the oldest girl a folded newspaper saying …
“Give this to your father and to no one else, go quickly and don’t lose it.”
The girl hurried to take the paper …
… to her father.
It was the Newberry Weekly News, printed in his hometown in England just three days before. One full page was filled with birth and death dates of people buried in the Newberry Cemetery.
The temple president said, “Bishop Ballard you are authorized to do work for these people, you received the record through messengers of the Lord.”