Gospel Story Finder

A fine member of the Church was talking with a neighbor who was not of our faith. When the topic of discussion turned to general conference, the neighbor asked, “You say you have prophets and apostles? And twice a year in a worldwide conference they reveal the word of God?”
“Absolutely,” the member replied with confidence.
The neighbor thought about that for a moment. He seemed genuinely interested and then asked, “What did they say in the last general conference?”
At this point the good member of the Church went from feeling excited about sharing the gospel to feeling embarrassed. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of the details of a single talk.
His friend found this troubling and said, “You mean to tell me that God speaks to man in our day and you can’t remember what He said?”
The brother felt humbled by this exchange. He vowed that he would do better to remember the words spoken by the Lord’s servants in general conference.

Early in 1846, when Henry was 17, the Saints had to leave Nauvoo. For the wagon trek across Iowa, Jonathan C. Wright hired Henry to be a chore boy and drive an ox team. Henry liked this job, except for Brother Wright’s restriction that Henry walk his horses but never run or race them.
While Henry was camped with the Wrights at Council Bluffs, Iowa, a United States army recruiter arrived. “I had told my comrades that he would not get a man,” Henry said. But President Brigham Young called a meeting in a brush-covered bowery and asked that 500 men enlist in the Mormon Battalion for the Mexican War. Henry felt impressed to answer the call, so he joined the army. Mr. Wright, upset at losing his hired hand, “was wrathy and said that I could not go.” But Henry went. He was not yet 18, as required by the government, “but as I had nearly got my growth in height I passed without difficulty.”
The next summer, when he was 18, he left California, where the Mormon Battalion had completed its march, and entered the Great Salt Lake Valley just after the 1847 pioneers arrived. Wanting to rejoin his family, he returned east with Brigham Young’s company late that same year to the Winter Quarters area.

Last January, seven-year-old Sailor Gutzler and her family were flying from Florida to Illinois in a private airplane. Sailor’s father was at the controls. Just after nightfall, the aircraft developed mechanical problems and crashed in the pitch-dark hills of Kentucky, upside down in very rough terrain. Everyone but Sailor died in the accident. Her wrist was broken in the crash. She suffered cuts and scrapes and had lost her shoes. The temperature was 38 degrees Fahrenheit (or 3 degrees Celsius)—it was a cold, rainy Kentucky winter’s night—and Sailor was wearing only shorts, a T-shirt, and one sock.
She cried out for her mother and father, but no one answered. Summoning every ounce of courage, she set off barefoot across the countryside in search of help, wading through creeks, crossing ditches, and braving blackberry briars. From the top of one small hill, Sailor spotted a light in the distance, about a mile away. Stumbling through the darkness and brush toward that light, she eventually arrived at the home of a kind man she had never met before who sprang to her care. Sailor was safe. She would soon be taken to a hospital and helped on her way to recovery.
Sailor survived because she saw a light in the distance and fought her way to it—notwithstanding the wild countryside, the depth of the tragedy she faced, and the injuries she had sustained. It is hard to imagine how Sailor managed to do what she did that night. But what we do know is that she recognized in the light of that distant house a chance for rescue. There was hope. She took courage in the fact that no matter how bad things were, her rescue would be found in that light.
After the crash, Sailor had a choice. She could have chosen to stay by the airplane in the dark, alone and afraid. But there was a long night ahead, and it was just going to get colder. She chose another way. Sailor climbed up a hill, and there she saw a light on the horizon.
Gradually, as she made her way through the night toward the light, it grew brighter. Still, there must have been times when she could not see it. Perhaps it went out of view when she was in a ravine or behind trees or bushes, but she pressed on. Whenever she could see the light, Sailor had evidence that she was on the right path. She did not yet know precisely what that light was, but she kept walking toward it based on what she knew, trusting and hoping that she would see it again if she kept moving in the right direction. By so doing, she may have saved her life.
Just as Sailor had to believe that she would find safety in that distant light, so we too must choose to open our hearts to the divine reality of the Savior—to His eternal light and His healing mercy. Prophets across the ages have encouraged us and even implored us to believe in Christ. Their exhortations reflect a fundamental fact: God does not force us to believe. Instead He invites us to believe by sending living prophets and apostles to teach us, by providing scriptures, and by beckoning to us through His Spirit. We are the ones who must choose to embrace those spiritual invitations, electing to see with inward eyes the spiritual light with which He calls us. The decision to believe is the most important choice we ever make. It shapes all our other decisions.
Sailor could not know at first if what she was doing as she pushed her way through the underbrush would actually work. She was lost and injured; it was dark and cold. But she left the crash site and ventured out in hope of rescue, crawling and scraping her way forward until she saw a light in the distance. Once she had seen it, she did her best to move toward it, remembering what she had seen.

Near my home in the north woods of upper Michigan, there once stood an old turn-of-the-century home. For years it had been abandoned, its black, weather-beaten frame cracking with age and crawling with snaky tendrils of ancient vines that wrapped and coiled themselves across the windows and around the doors. Various out-buildings were scattered here and there, but they were barely distinguishable beneath the creeping tangle of brush and brier. The house towered three stories high and cast a forbidding shadow on the bleached and withered ground. This shadow had spread throughout the community and entered the fearful heart of every child around.

When I entered the ninth grade, however, I decided it was time to get over being frightened of the old place. I wondered if perhaps I couldn’t use it for a party. Now, being the only Latter-day Saint in my high school, I had heard and tolerated some pretty cruel things. I figured I could stand up to jokes and criticism for not smoking and drinking, but what I couldn’t take was hearing over and over again about how Mormons just didn’t know how to really have fun at parties. Because of that, my bishop (who was also my dad and a biology professor at the nearby university) came up with an idea to prove my friends wrong. On Halloween night he would temporarily move into the local neighborhood haunted house. But by then—thanks to the efforts of my dad, brother, and missionaries—it would be transformed into a terrifying realm of horror and fright. According to plan I invited about 20 of my closest nonmember friends. Since all of them lived in town, about six miles away, I assumed none of them had ever heard of the old Sutinen home. I assumed correctly.

At 7:00 the party began at my house; and after about an hour of games, pizza, and root beer, I suggested we visit a poor old man named Toivo. I explained he lived alone but always had treats ready for any trick-or-treater who dared venture down the lonely, overgrown trail that led to his home. My suggestion was enthusiastically received until they saw Mr. Sutinen’s home. Even I, who knew my dad waited within, felt a shiver of fear creep along my spine, like a spider on a web of nerves. We approached cautiously toward where the house loomed up, outlined starkly against the moonlit sky. To add to the eerie effect, a single light flickered from behind the drawn curtains. Ghostly wisps of fog clawed at our legs, and branches whipped wickedly against our faces. We were considering bravely marching on, when shrill laughter split the tomblike quiet. Some of the group turned, running wildly for home, while the rest huddled near and bombarded me with questions. “Are you sure this is the right house?” “How long have you known this man?” “Are you positive he’s harmless?” and finally, “If this is a joke, you’re gonna be sorry!”

Reassuring them that everything was fine, I boldly knocked upon the blistered door. Like something out of a horror movie, the door slowly creaked open, and I gazed into the red-rimmed eyes of a madman. With a start I realized this white-haired maniac was my father!

“Trick-or-treat,” my friends whispered as Toivo Sutinen ushered us into his parlor. This room was dimly lit by two flickering candles perched on large polished skulls. Nice touch, Dad, I thought as I gazed at the skulls, the cobwebs, and the coffin set back in a corner.

“Wall now, ain’t dis a surprise. Ten purdy gerls cum ta visit ol’ me,” muttered Mr. Sutinen in a slurred drawl. “Ah was jist gunna eat ma supper. Join me, hey?”

Carol, the Good Samaritan of our group, slapped “old” Toivo on the shoulder and heartily agreed. The rest warily glanced around. And Mary, still hovering near the door, asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Uh, Mr. Sutinen, what were you planning to eat?”

“Why, ma favorite,” happily responded Mr. Sutinen, “barbecued bat wings!”

Too late we noticed the dozens of murky specimen bottles crowding the counters and shelves of the kitchen.

“Unless, of course,” finished Mr. Sutinen, whacking something near him, “you want ta wait until Mabel here thaws out.”

Looking up, we saw a row of frozen cats hanging stiffly from the rafters!

This, of course, made sense when one remembered my dad was a professor of biology and used such things in his labs. But to my friends it was a ghastly spectacle and required a hasty exit by the nearest door—which was locked! Mary promptly began to cry, and several others looked like they wanted to. I begged my friends to stay and humor this crazy old man a little while longer, and they agreed.

“Wall, ah kin see yer not hungry,” cheerfully said the old man, picking up one of the candle skulls. “Why don’t ah take you on a tour of ma home?”

Happily accepting any excuse to leave the kitchen and its occupants, we followed Toivo Sutinen up the rickety, wooden steps and into a narrow hall.

“First room on the left here was ma dear Mildred’s” explained Toivo opening the door wide and allowing us to enter.

Except for a dusty end table on which lay a bloodstained knife, everything in this room was covered with enormous sheets. Avoiding eye contact with the knife, we halfheartedly listened to Mr. Sutinen reminisce about his dear departed wife. Uncomfortably we began to realize he was talking about Mildred as if she were still alive.

“Yep, ma heart was near broke, couldn’t stand it no more. So went out late one night and brought ma Mildred back home.”

With a flourish, Mr. Sutinen pulled back the bed sheet. And there, in all her skeletal beauty, lay the former “Mrs. Sutinen”!

That was too much; my dad had gone too far! Screaming frantically we ran from the bedroom and down the stairs. We must have triggered something because as we ran ghosts in Victorian dress swooped past, bats squeaked, and howls echoed through the empty corridors. The door was now wide open, but as we bounded down the steep steps, something huge and hairy jumped out from behind a nearby tree.

I don’t remember much after that except a lot of screaming and running. Within minutes we were safely back in the security of my home, breathlessly reliving each terrifying moment. My mother insisted I tell my friends the truth, but it took some doing to convince them crazy Toivo was not only my father but the “minister” of my church.

Later, when my dad, brother, and the missionaries returned, everyone wanted to ask them questions. I’m not sure that much gospel doctrine got discussed that night, but all in all the experience had a positive effect on my friends. Two of them later joined the Church and four others seriously considered it. The greatest result, however, was that from then on there wasn’t a single Church activity that wasn’t attended by as many nonmembers as members.

Photograph courtesy of Megan M.
When Megan M. of Utah, USA, was younger, she would often hear the same thing whenever her older brother and sister went to school dances. “They’d always go to the dances and then come home and complain about the music,” she says. “Dance after dance, I’d hear them complain.”
As she was approaching the age when she would be able to attend school dances, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go. One day, at a fireside where her stake president was talking about the influence of music, she “had a strong feeling that something had to be done about my high school dance music. I got straight to work.”
Megan, who plays alto saxophone in the school’s jazz band, noticed how much fun people had at their annual event featuring big-band music and dancing. The thought came to her, “What if the jazz band could play at the homecoming dance? Kids could then dance to an alternative choice of live music instead of disk jockey recordings. They could actually feel the influence of great music at a high school dance and have a great time!”
Her band instructor loved the idea and helped her get it approved through the school administration. Then Megan asked alumni band members to play so that current band members could enjoy the dance.
On the night of the dance, the DJ and the jazz band were set up in different areas. At first, only a few people wandered over to the jazz band, but eventually there was a huge crowd. Some of Megan’s Latter-day Saint friends came by to say hello and then went over to the area with the recorded music. But about five minutes later, they came back.
“I ran over to them and asked why they had come back,” says Megan. “They told me they couldn’t feel the Spirit listening to the DJ music, so they decided to return.”
They weren’t the only ones who had this experience. Megan says, “The next day, I got emails from some of my friends saying, ‘Can we please do that at every dance?? Please!!!’ I even heard that the administration said it was the best school dance they’d ever had.”

From the front porch of my grandparents’ home, I could see the dark blue, spiny-backed ridge line of a mountain range. The road atlas called them the Clear Creek Mountains, but my Grandpa McClary said they were the Windmakers, though I never heard anyone outside of our family refer to them by that name.
“Why do you call them the Windmakers?” I asked my grandpa one summer evening as we sat on the porch, watching the sun’s last rosy light creep higher on the mountainside.
“Feel that breeze?” Grandpa replied. I did, a cool little gust that ruffled my hair and sent a shiver down my shoulders. Grandpa leaned back on his chair and wrapped his fingers behind his head. “That puff comes right from those mountains. I can tell you almost the exact spot, right up that big canyon next to that feather of snow,” he nodded. “Every day about this time, the wind blows down from those mountains. That’s why I call ’em the Windmakers. Someday I’ll let you in on a secret I know about those mountains.”
“Secret?” The word grabbed my attention, as it would capture the interest of any nine-year-old boy talking with his grandfather.
“Yes, secret. When the time’s right, you’ll understand it,” he promised, a trace of intrigue in his voice. “Don’t try to get it out of me; I won’t tell.”
So I had to be satisfied that I’d learn the secret of the Windmakers at a later time. But it was always on my mind when Grandpa, my father, and I made our annual fishing trip to the mountains.
The trip actually began 300 miles away from the Windmakers, in my hometown. On the first weekend in August, my father came home from work at noon, and we began a ritual honed to perfection through the years. We packed our car and said good-bye to my mother and little sister, Melissa. Then we began the long drive to my grandparents’ home in Springvale, a small town in the shadow of the Windmakers.
On Saturday morning, we’d spread out our camping and fishing gear in Grandpa’s backyard. Then we’d pack all of the equipment in the back of Grandpa’s pickup truck and pull a canvas tarp over it. One of Grandpa’s neighbors, Mr. Dahlstrom, always peeped over the fence during our preparations. “So, Jess, looks like you plan to do some serious fishing this week,” he’d greet. “That we do, Henry, that we do,” Grandpa replied happily.
It took all morning and some of the afternoon to get everything ready, carefully organizing every fish hook, tent peg, and frying pan. We never took much food. “We’ll live off the land, by our wits,” Grandpa winked. When we finished packing, Grandpa always looked solemnly at his truck and pronounced final approval. “We are now ready to go fishing. To the mountains, gentlemen.”
After that, my father turned the truck around and parked it front first in the driveway. “To make our getaway even faster on Monday,” my father explained. “When it comes to fishing and your grandfather, every second counts.”
Sundays, of course, we went to church. Although it was the ward my father grew up in and most people there knew our family, Grandpa took special delight in introducing us to anyone within earshot. “This is my son Richard, and his son, Jason. You remember Richard from his days as a deacon here. He was the ornery one in the bunch, but he turned out all right somehow. Credit his mother for that, I suppose.
“Anyway, he and Jason have come this week to exact a fearsome toll on the fish of the nearby mountains. Next week, I’ll let you know who was victorious—the fish, or the fishermen,” Grandpa pledged.
Early on Monday, when the sky was still black, we’d arise. Grandma McClary always had a huge breakfast on the table for us. “Last decent meal you three will get until you come back,” she teased. After eating, we were off, three generations spanning 50 years, yet close enough to fit snugly on the seat of a pickup truck. Our destination: the Windmakers, their dark outline only now taking shape against the pink morning sky.
The excitement of those mornings still lingers: Grandpa’s unfailing good humor; all of us singing on the drive to the mountains, always very loud and off-key; the fragrance of a forest morning, fresh pine and dew; and the conversation between my father and grandfather, always about good friends, good memories, and good lives.
Ninety minutes into our drive, two tracks of dirt veered away from the main road. We followed the little road a few miles to a small meadow at the foot of a dozen large trees. It was there, with the stream close by, that we pitched camp.
“In the name of our honorable family, I christen thee Camp McClary!” Grandpa exulted while jamming a shovel into the ground.
It didn’t take long for us to set up camp, a tribute to Grandpa’s meticulous packing. After the tent was up and everything in place, we broke out our rods and reels and tugged on our waders. Soon we stood at the water’s edge, casting Grandpa’s hand-tied fishing flies into the riffles and pools.
We worked our way upstream, hopscotching from boulder to boulder, from one bank to the other. Most years the fishing was good, and when one of us caught a fish, the other two invariably let out a whoop. We kept only what we needed. “It would break your grandmother’s heart if we came back a few pounds heavier,” Grandpa said.
The best memories of all, though, are of Grandpa. He was tall, white-haired, and handsome. On our outings to the Windmakers, he always wore a tattered blue hat with a dozen fishing flies hooked to it. He called it his lucky cap, and said it was as important on those fishing trips as his rod and reel.
Late in the afternoon, we hiked back to our camp. Grandpa fried our trout in his homemade lemon butter. Nothing ever has tasted quite as good as those high mountain meals cooked over a campfire. For dessert, Grandpa always had a bag of gingersnap cookies, though I never saw him pack them. We’d sit on the edge of the creek, the three of us, eating cookies and going over the day’s adventures. When the breeze kicked down the canyon in the early evening, Grandpa would lean back and announce: “The Windmakers.”
Tuesdays and Wednesdays were spent fishing. When Thursday came, the truck was loaded, though not quite as carefully as the Saturday before. We drove back to Springvale, arriving about noon. Grandma treated us to a sumptuous lunch, and we took turns grumbling about how bad the food was on our trip. “We stared starvation right in the eye,” Grandpa dead panned. “But your meal here, Sarah, has brought us back from the edge.”
“We were so hungry that we almost forced ourselves to eat some of Dad’s cooking,” my father chimed in.
On Friday, Dad and I returned home. Grandma and Grandpa stood in their driveway, waving good-bye until we turned a corner and went out of sight. We got home a little tired, with some trout in our ice cooler and enough wild tales of our adventure to the Windmakers to last until next August.
I started accompanying my father on the trips to the Windmakers when I was five, and for a decade, the trips varied only slightly. Never did I think that things might someday change. Then, suddenly, they did.

Some years ago, I met a remarkable family. Each member of the family had an unshakable testimony of the reality of the Resurrection. Each of the children had been born with a rare form of muscular dystrophy. The only daughter, Shanna, was then five years old. All of the children were intelligent and faith-filled.
We visited for a while, and the special spirit of that family filled my office and my heart. Then the parents asked if little Shanna could sing for me. She sang of a brighter future:
On a beautiful day that I dream about
In a world I would love to see,
Is a beautiful place where the sun comes out
And it shines in the sky for me.
On this beautiful winter’s morning,
If my wish could come true somehow,
Then the beautiful day that I dream about
Would be here and now.1
Eventually, Shanna passed away at age 14. At the funeral services, I spoke of the lovely song Shanna sang. I concluded with the thought: “Because our Savior died on Calvary, death has no hold upon any one of us. Shanna lives, whole and well, and for her that beautiful day she sang about is here and now.”

Early Saints who crossed the plains to the Salt Lake Valley aren’t the only pioneers in the Church. All members who help strengthen the Church and prepare the way for others are pioneers.
As one of only two Czech children in the Prague First Branch, Lukás Kroutil, age 7, is a pioneer. By his obedience and example, he is preparing the way for other Czech children who will eventually join the Church.
Lukás’s mother’s name is Helena Kroutilová (ová added to a name shows that it is a woman’s married name). She has been a member of the Church for a year, and Lukás is eagerly awaiting his own baptism. He says: “Being baptized means that you are a member of the Church. You make a covenant that you will keep Heavenly Father’s commandments. If you’re a kid, listening to your parents is a very important commandment.”
Lukás rides a tram with his mother to church. Meetings are held in a large house that also contains the Czech Prague Mission offices and the mission president’s home. Some of the rooms have been converted into a lovely new chapel, where the two Prague branches hold their sacrament meetings.
Primary is in English because most of the other children in Lukás’s Primary are from the United States and speak English. Missionaries translate opening exercises and Sharing Time for Lukás and Anita, the other Czech child in the branch. Lukás loves to sing. His favorite hymns are “Come, Ye Children of the Lord,” “Love One Another,” and “I Am a Child of God.” The Primary children learn songs in both English and Czech. Every fast Sunday they sing the prelude music for sacrament meeting. Most of the songs are in English, but they always sing at least one song in Czech. Whenever a song is translated into Czech and published in the Liahona, the quarterly Church magazine in Czech, all the children learn it.
When the Primary separates into classes, the Czech children have their own class taught by Sister Eva Cadová and the missionaries. Lukás loves to learn in Primary. During class he and his teachers read Book of Mormon and other scripture stories and articles from the Little Star section of the Liahona.
Sacrament meetings are in Czech. English-speaking members wear headphones, and a missionary assigned to the branch translates for them. But when it is time to sing, the headphones come off and everyone sings praises to their Heavenly Father in Czech. One of Lukás’s jobs in the branch is to hand out the hymnbooks before sacrament meeting, then put them away after the meeting. “I like to help people at church. I pray for those who are sick, and I help my mom with her calling.”
Lukás walks to school. He enjoys studying math and science, exercising and playing sports, and learning poems by heart. He likes to write but dislikes dictation (his teacher reads a sentence, and the students write it down). It isn’t that he can’t remember all the letters in the words. He can. What makes Czech words extra difficult to spell are the diacritical marks over the letters (there are two in Lukás’s name), and he has a hard time remembering where they all go.
None of the members of his branch live near him, so he is also a pioneer at his school. He tries hard to be a good example for his friends by helping them to choose the right. “Kids like to tattle and tell stories about each other. Sometimes my friends use bad language or want to tell things that aren’t true. I tell them not to do these things.”
Studying hard is important to him because he wants to become an architect and build houses when he grows up. At home after schoolwork is finished, he watches television, rides his bike, or plays hide-and-seek or computer games with his friends. Playing softball with the missionaries on their preparation day is his favorite sport. He is the goalie on his soccer team, and he plays tennis well.
Lukás cares for a sleepy little hamster named Kikina. He feeds his pet seeds, carrots, potatoes, apples, oranges, and nuts and keeps the hamster house clean so the small animal will stay healthy. When Kikina is awake, Lukás talks to him. He used to put Kikina in a toy car and pull him around the room. That was until Kikina jumped out of the car window one day. Lukás has decided the hamster doesn’t like riding in the car.
When his grandmother goes grocery shopping, Lukás carries the bags home. He helps clean the house, dry the dishes, and take out the garbage. One day he cleaned the entire house as a surprise for his mother. His favorite things to do with his mom are read the Book of Mormon and have family home evening. Treats like French fries or Tatranky (a wafer cookie covered with chocolate) make family home evening even more fun.
He loves being around the full-time missionaries. One day he was playing softball with them, and an elder accidentally hit him in the head with a big metal baseball bat. The elders wanted to take Lukás to the hospital, but he refused and said he just wanted to go home. He felt certain that if he prayed, Heavenly Father would make him better. As soon as he prayed for help, his head stopped hurting. He knew Heavenly Father had answered his prayer.
He is looking forward to becoming a full-time missionary. He knows that he may have to learn another language. However, he will happily go wherever the Lord sends him. He looks forward to telling people about Jesus Christ and the Church and teaching them how to pray.
Until then, he will continue to be a pioneer in his own country and in his own branch by being a faithful member, setting a good example, and following the prophet. And if any of his friends like to read and they believe in God, he will give them a Book of Mormon and tell them to read it. Then he will tell them his favorite scripture story—the story of Joseph Smith and the First Vision.

Janie Sigoda stared at the strange hat and shiny red notebook on the table. She was still wondering what they were for when her father started the family home evening lesson.
“Did you know,” he asked the family, “that the Nephites kept records but that they didn’t always remember to write all the important things that happened to them?”
Janie forgot about the hat and notebook and bounced up and down on the couch. “Yes, Dad,” she said, “in Primary Sister Lind said that Jesus asked the Nephites why the story of Samuel the Lamanite hadn’t been recorded.”
“It sounds like you already know the story,” Dad said with a smile. “Can you find it too?”
Janie opened the family copy of the Book of Mormon and searched through Third Nephi. “Here it is!”
Her father began reading while Mom held the baby. Janie and her brother, Chris, cuddled with Dad in the big overstuffed chair so that they could read with him the Savior’s words about Samuel the Lamanite.
“You see,” he finished, closing the book and looking at each of them, “keeping records is very important to the Savior.”
Janie’s eyes went back to the notebook, and even before her father spoke again, she guessed what he would say.
“Do you all see this red notebook?” Dad held it high, and the baby tried to reach and grab it. “This isn’t just any old notebook,” he went on, letting baby Karen play with it a few moments. “It’s a special reporter’s notebook. We don’t want to miss great stories in our family record either.”
He picked up the funny hat and stuck a card with FAMILY REPORTER printed on it into the hatband. “Each month someone gets to be the Sigoda family reporter. Who will it be first—Mom, Chris, me, or Janie?”
“Oh, please let it be me,” Janie begged.
Dad winked at Mom, then smiled at Janie. Pulling her close, he put the hat on her head and handed her the shiny red notebook. “Here’s your gear, Miss Sigoda. Next month you can read your report of our family stories to us.”
The month passed with lots of stories to write. One Sunday they visited Grandma, and Janie made sure that she wore her reporter’s hat and carried her notebook. Grandma always had great stories. “Tell me something about Dad when he was a boy,” Janie asked her privately after dinner.
“Oh, your dad!” Grandma’s laugh twinkled in her eyes. “I remember the time our bishop asked the congregation to raise their hands if they wanted a new parking lot. Every person there but one raised his hand to vote yes. Then, when the bishop asked if anyone was against the new lot, your dad raised his hand high and called out, ‘I am, bishop. If you put in a parking lot, we won’t have anyplace to play basketball!’ The rest of the congregation laughed for ten minutes!”
That was a good story to report, but the best one Janie wrote was of when Chris was baptized. She worked hard to get all the details exactly right for the family records. She made sure to include the facts that Dad baptized Chris and that both grandfathers were witnesses to the baptism. And she carefully wrote down each word of Chris’s testimony after he was confirmed: “I want to thank Mom and Dad and my sisters for all that they teach me,” he said. “I know that this church is true and that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me.”
The month ended too soon for Janie. She read her stories on family night, wearing her reporter’s hat. She especially liked watching her brother’s face light up when she finished by reading all about his baptism.
“Janie,” Mom said, “Dad and I are proud of you, and I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus are too.”
Dad gave her a big hug, then said, “You’re the last person to hold the family record, and like the prophets in the Book of Mormon, you get to pick who keeps the record next. So, sweetie, who will it be?”
Janie looked first at her mom, then at her dad, then at Chris. She could see his eyes shining just as hers had shone the month before.
“Chris,” she said, “I give the record to you.” She handed the hat and precious red notebook to him. As Chris jumped up and down and put the reporter’s hat on, Janie smiled. She knew how he felt—being a family reporter was great.

Worried that her pregnancy might end her schooling, Ellis prayed all one night to the Lord that she might have the strength to finish her classes before the baby was born. Ellis did not miss a single class! On May 25, 1877, the day after she passed her exams, she gave birth to a baby girl. Ellis was delighted to have a daughter, and she wrote in her diary: “It is to me the crowning joy of a woman’s life to be a mother.”

When I returned home from my mission, I also struggled with comparing myself to others.
Elder Uchtdorf addressed the dangers of comparison, saying: “We spend so much time and energy comparing ourselves to others[.] … This drives us to create expectations for ourselves that are impossible to meet. As a result, we never celebrate our good efforts because they seem to be less than what someone else does.”
I was too focused on what other returned missionaries were doing, which made me feel like I wasn’t progressing much at all. But asking Heavenly Father for help with changing my focus and actively striving to do so allowed me to worry less about what others were doing. Instead, I focused on my unique path and the steps I could take each day toward my spiritual and temporal goals.

Many years ago when I served as a bishop, I presided over a large ward with over 1,000 members, including 87 widows. On one occasion I was visiting, along with one of my counselors, a widow and her mature handicapped daughter. As we left their apartment, a lady from the apartment across the hall was standing outside her door and stopped us. She spoke with a foreign accent and asked if I were a bishop; I replied that I was. She told me that she noticed I often visited with others. Then she said, “No one visits me or my bedfast husband. Do you have time to come in and visit with us, even though we are not members of your church?”
As we entered her apartment, we noticed that she and her husband were listening to the Tabernacle Choir on the radio. We talked with the couple for a while, then provided a blessing to the husband.
Following that initial visit I stopped by as often as I could. The couple eventually met with the missionaries, and the wife, Angela Anastor, was baptized. Sometime later her husband passed away, and I had the privilege of conducting and speaking at his funeral services. Sister Anastor, with her knowledge of the Greek language, later was to translate the widely used pamphlet Joseph Smith Tells His Own Story into the Greek language.

By then, running had become a way of life. She challenged herself more, pushed herself harder, and then, in 1978, faced the two greatest challenges of her life. One challenge was to run completely across the United States. The other was to accept the message of the Mormon missionaries.

Standing on the steps of the Los Angeles City Hall on 12 March 1978 she knew she was facing “the greatest challenge of my life” both spiritually and physically. “It was my greatest ambition, but I felt so apprehensive. Would I really be able to do it? What lay ahead of me? Was I strong enough? Had I prepared properly? I wished I’d had enough sense to have stayed at home.”

Then the clock struck nine and she was off. Followed by two vans, Mavis ran fourteen hours a day, starting at 4 A.M. and stopping only for meals. She ran through thirteen states, through four time zones. She took six million footsteps, one at time. She wore twenty-five pairs of shoes in rotation, and had repairs made forty times.

The weather, almost systematically, hit her with every variation. For four weeks she slogged through intense heat. For the next four weeks, she struggled through gale-force winds—that literally blew her off her feet more than once—and bitter cold, staggering along under the weight of two tracksuits, a soft, flat cap with no visor, gloves, and a lightweight jacket the wind can’t blow through. Then it rained without stopping for seven days. One raincoat would keep her dry for exactly one hour; she wore two. Together, they kept her dry for four hours.

The weather was not her only challenge. “The traffic was frightening,” she exclaimed. At one dangerous stretch, cars were whizzing past every seven seconds. She stopped running only one day—the thirty-third—when shin splints made it impossible to continue. The next day, teeth gritted and literally dragging her right foot, she was back on the road.

“I prayed often for courage to bear the pain,” she remembers. “I didn’t ask God to take it away, but just to help me bear it.” She prayed often throughout the journey: “‘Please God, give me the stamina to fight the wind, the endurance to continue the distance I need to go, the willpower to keep going.’ At no time did I ever doubt that I would finish the distance, but I can assure you that there were times when I didn’t know how I could finish the day or even the next hour. And then I prayed, in the words of John Henry Newman’s beautiful hymn, ‘Please, God, I do not ask to see the distant scene. One step enough for me.’” (“Lead Kindly Light”, No. 112).

Finally the weather relented, and “the last two days were the most beautiful imaginable.” She trotted into New York and landed at the city hall just before noon on May 20, the only woman in history to have run from the Pacific Coast to the Atlantic Coast across the U.S.. Exhilarated from the run, after sixty-nine days, two hours, and forty minutes, she was surprised that it was over, “It came too suddenly,” she said.

Was it worth it? “Yes! I grew beyond my wildest dreams. I learned that nothing is impossible if you’re prepared to work hard enough. Age is irrelevant. There are no barriers and no handicaps. And you must do it yourself. No one can run for you. I also learned that failure is important. From it we learn discipline, patience, perseverance, and the ability to accept disappointments.”

With the continued help of Mirian, coupled with Luiz’s assistance, we baptized nearly 25 people in this neighborhood in a period of six weeks. I’ll always remember the time we decided to talk with those who had harassed Mirian so badly before. As if nothing had happened between them, Mirian helped teach these families, several of whom became converted to the gospel.
I was transferred not long after this and shortly thereafter was shocked to learn that Mirian had died of complications following a ruptured appendix. Yet as sad as that was, she had accomplished a great mission. Because of her deep faith in the Lord and his powers to protect, Mirian had overcome her fear of her fellowmen and had helped to teach the gospel to those who had physically scarred her for life. Many of them now revere her name for forgiving them and bringing them the gospel of Jesus Christ. Looking back now, I realize that one of my great missionary experiences in Equador was to see the true spirit of member-missionary work in action.

Ever since he was a boy, Wilford Woodruff wanted to know which church was true. When he was 26 years old, he still had not joined any church. He lived with his brother Azmon on his farm.
Wilford: Heavenly Father, help me to know how to live my life.
On December 29, 1833, two Mormon missionaries stopped at Azmon’s house. He and Wilford were both away working, but Azmon’s wife was home.
Missionary: God has restored His Church upon the earth, and we would like to tell you more about it.
Woman: My husband and brother-in-law are not home right now, but we would definitely be interested in hearing more.
The missionaries rented the local schoolhouse that afternoon. They passed out notices inviting anybody who wanted to learn more about the gospel to come to a meeting that evening.
When Wilford got home from working, his sister-in-law told him about the meeting. He immediately turned his horses around and started to the schoolhouse, praying the whole way to know whether or not the missionaries were true followers of Christ.
Woman: But, Wilford, what about supper?
Wilford: These men could be the answer to my prayers! I must go.
Wilford arrived at the schoolhouse, which was packed with people. His brother Azmon was already there. Wilford couldn’t find an empty chair, so he sat on one of the writing desks where he could see and hear everything.
Missionary: I bear strong testimony of the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon. I also know that Joseph Smith is a prophet who has come to fulfill a great mission here on earth.
Wilford: I can feel the Spirit telling me that these are men of God.
After the missionaries were finished speaking, they asked members of the congregation if they would like to stand and say anything. Immediately, Wilford stood up and told everyone that he knew the missionaries were speaking the truth.
Wilford: The Lord urges me to bear testimony of the truth of this message. Do not oppose these men, for they are true servants of God. They have preached to us the pure gospel of Jesus Christ.
Two days later Wilford and his brother Azmon were baptized.

A young lady named Amalia reported that her first reaction when she heard the Mormon missionaries were coming was not favorable. “Those tall boys?” she had asked contemptuously. But after listening to the message and reading the pamphlets, she and her mother both found the doctrine convincing. But they still lacked a spiritual witness. “We were waiting for a voice or something,” she says, “and it just didn’t come.” But when they went to their first meeting something very special happened.

“When we entered the chapel, the meeting stopped while everyone welcomed us. They received us with so much love that we were touched. They cried and embraced us as if they had known us forever. We were accustomed to images and silence when we went to church, so we were overwhelmed that day by the bare walls and the love. After that I prayed every day, but I still wasn’t sure I had a testimony. Then one day the missionaries challenged us to be baptized, and it suddenly seemed as if I had always known that the Church was true without remembering exactly when I had come to know it.

“Since my baptism my testimony has grown every day. I have had many prayers answered. Whenever I pray, I always hear the answer inside myself. Many of the things I pray about might seem small and unimportant to others, but to me they are important. I remember one evening I was so discouraged that I was crying. I needed help from the Lord in understanding a problem, and so I prayed, and the answer came: ‘Everything will be all right.’ Then I could see the answer to my problem so clearly that I wondered why it wasn’t obvious from the start. My mind was at rest, and I dried my eyes and slept peacefully that night.

“I still have a long way to go, but with faith I will continue to grow. I have to study and learn more every day. I have so much still to learn! I want to share the happiness I have found with everyone. I invited all my friends to my baptism. At school I told my religion class about the Church. That didn’t go over too well with the priest who taught the class, but I wanted to share the gospel with everyone. I help the full-time missionaries every chance I get. I love everybody. I want to bring happiness to as many as I can. I visit the sick. I make presents for the branch members. I teach the children how to help their mothers at home. The gospel has simply turned my life upside down. I’m not the same person I was, and I’m not the same person I’m going to be. I’m never going to stop trying to become better.”

For you to feel that urgency, I first share the story of Noelle Pikus-Pace, one of those Latter-day Saint athletes. In Noelle’s event, the skeleton, athletes build momentum as they sprint and then plunge headfirst on a small sled. With their faces inches above the ground, they race down a winding, icy track at speeds that top 90 miles (145 km) an hour.
Remarkably, years of preparation would be considered either a success or a disappointment based on what happened in the space of four intense 60-second runs.
Noelle’s previous 2006 Olympic dreams were dashed when a terrible accident left her with a broken leg. In the 2010 Olympics her dreams fell short again when just over one-tenth of a second kept her from the medal stand.
Can you imagine the anxiety she felt as she waited to begin her first run in the 2014 Olympics? Years of preparation would culminate in only a sliver of time. Four minutes total. She spent years preparing for those four minutes and would spend a lifetime afterward reflecting on them.
Noelle’s final runs were virtually flawless! We will never forget her leap into the stands to embrace her family after crossing the finish line, exclaiming, “We did it!” Years of preparation had paid off. We saw her Young Women medallion around her neck as the silver medal was placed there beside it.
It may seem unfair that Noelle’s entire Olympic dreams hinged on what she did during just four brief minutes. But she knew it, and that is why she prepared so diligently. She sensed the magnitude, the urgency of her four minutes, and what they would mean for the rest of her life.

At about that same time, I was invited to a lunch for all of the Relief Society sisters in my ward who had read either the Book of Mormon or a short Church history book. I had become casual in my scripture reading, so I qualified to attend the luncheon by reading the short book because it was easier and took less time. As I was eating my lunch, I had a powerful feeling that though the history book was a good one, I should have read the Book of Mormon. The Holy Ghost was prompting me to change my scripture reading habits. That very day I began to read the Book of Mormon, and I have never stopped reading it. Though I do not consider myself to be an expert, I truly love reading all the scriptures, and I am grateful I started the lifetime habit of reading them. It would be impossible to learn the lessons the scriptures contain by reading them only one time through or studying selected verses in a class.

Last Saturday was Mommy’s day off. Daddy and I got up early and made her breakfast. We brought it to her in bed. Boy, was she surprised!
Daddy made her hot cereal with peaches because that’s her favorite.
I poured her some orange juice and put a muffin on a small plate.
Daddy put everything on a tray. Then we added a flower in a vase, and a card we’d made that said: Happy Day Off!
Mommy was so happy! She said that it was the best breakfast she’d ever had.
After she ate breakfast and got dressed, Daddy and I told her the rules: 1. No housecleaning. 2. No cooking. 3. No laundry. 4. No worrying about anything. Mommy said she liked those rules.
She sat on the couch, reading a book, while Daddy and I cleaned the house. Daddy put the dishes in the dishwasher, and I vacuumed the carpet. Then I dusted the furniture, and Daddy swept the kitchen floor. It was hard work, but it was fun, too! I like doing things for Mommy. She always does things for Daddy and me.
Mommy took a nice, long bubble bath while Daddy and I made lunch. She said that it had been so long since she had taken a bubble bath that she had almost forgotten what it felt like. I told her that she could use my bubble bath anytime she wants to.
After lunch, Mommy went shopping for a new dress. While she was gone, we did the laundry. Mommy said it was the best laundry job she’d ever seen.
After that, Mommy listened to music and took a nap. Then we took her out to dinner. She wore her new dress, and she looked beautiful!
Mommy gave us both a hug and a kiss. She said it was the nicest day off ever! She said thank you and told us how much she loves us. I am glad we gave Mommy a day off. It was fun, and it made her happy. We love her very much. She’s the best Mommy in the world!

The Prophet Joseph Smith was a tall, strong man. He grew up on a farm and spent many hours clearing the land and planting crops with his father and brothers.
The Prophet loved spending time with young people. One of his favorite activities was wrestling. In those days, wrestling consisted mostly of trying to throw your opponent off balance.
One day Joseph noticed a crowd of enthusiastic young men and boys. When he got closer, he saw that they were wrestling. He decided to join them.
There was one especially large fellow who seemed to be the champion. He was proud of the fact that no one had thrown him, and he was eager to wrestle the Prophet.
The match had scarcely begun when the champion found himself being carried by his collar and the seat of his pants to a nearby ditch, where Joseph dropped him.
As the crowd yelled and cheered, Joseph helped the young man to his feet, patted him on his back, and said, “You must not mind this. When I am with the boys, I make all the fun I can for them.”
Although he was the first President of the Church and a very busy man, Joseph Smith knew that taking time to be friendly with others was important.