Gospel Story Finder

My testimony didn’t come to me by way of a great revelation or by some overpowering, indescribable feeling. I always thought I would have to experience one of those things to know the Church was true.
I was struggling with my testimony between my eighth- and ninth-grade years. My parents had always taught me the right things, and I had been riding on their testimonies. At this time, doubts started to accumulate in my mind, and questions I couldn’t answer found their way to the surface.
Hanging around friends who didn’t obey the commandments made it harder for me to find the truth. As I struggled through the year, I lost the sense of who I was and what was important. I was aggravated all the time. I only wanted to be around my friends. My life was plagued with wrong decisions and their consequences. I was praying and reading my scriptures, but I didn’t seem to be getting an answer when I asked if the Church was true.
I don’t know exactly what happened to me, but I finally realized my lifestyle was not good. An awful sense of guilt rushed through me as I realized how many people were affected by my actions. However, I couldn’t seem to get away from my friends. When I hit high school, things didn’t get much better.
Taking seminary was one of the best things I could have done. It helped me see what I was doing, and that I was getting nowhere in life. I still desperately wanted to find out if the Church was really true.
Later in the year, I became best friends with a girl in my ward. My friend played a major part in helping me find myself. Over the summer we went to Especially for Youth and girls’ camp. I began really seeking the truth instead of expecting it to be handed to me on a silver platter. I was able to share my testimony with friends at EFY. Ordinarily I wasn’t the strong one. I didn’t even know I had it in me. It was then I knew I had known all along the truthfulness of the Church.
Friends can either make or break you, and I found that out. I merely had to find myself and start living the principles Heavenly Father had laid out for me to follow.
So it wasn’t some big, shocking conviction, it was merely a look inside myself and a calm assurance that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only true church. My life is so much better because I made the decision to follow the Lord.
In recent years, my testimony has only strengthened. I have come to rely on the Lord for everything. There are still trials ahead, but I know I can face them if I have faith and trust in the Lord.

Brother Ayerdis currently serves as bishop of the Brooklyn Second Ward, where meetings are conducted in Spanish. He recalls the day when he took his family to see the judge who would grant them permanent residency in the United States: “Our children sat beside us on the long bench—quiet, like angels.” The judge thought that New York would corrupt the children and said to the family, “What a shame that you had to bring your lovely children here.” Sister Ayerdis responded, “We may have left our furniture, our house, and our clothes behind in our native land, but we did bring our traditions.”

Aioo Suisala just turned 19. He works to earn money for his mission. On Saturdays and during school vacations he works with Letane and Sosaia at nearby plantations with many of the other people from the village. They get to the fields either by walking or riding horses. At the plantations they weed the taro plants, fumigate, pick bananas, and check how the pineapples are ripening.
On Sundays Aioo, who is assistant ward clerk, Sosaia, and Letane attend Church meetings and take care of their responsibilities in the ward. Their chapel is less than ten years old, and the local Saints helped to build it. Aioo and Sosaia both remember working on it.
Aioo stands in stake conference in Pesega as he is sustained to be ordained to the Melchizedek Priesthood. He has been looking forward to and preparing for this day for a long time because it means that he is almost ready to go on his mission.

One night I was hanging out with a group of friends. We were talking and they started gossiping about my other friends who weren’t present. I felt uncomfortable about what they were saying. I then got a prompting from the Spirit that I should stand up for what I believe.
Without further hesitation, I told them I didn’t feel very comfortable about what they were saying and asked if they would not gossip when I was around. They said it’s just a part of life and it didn’t matter. Without getting upset about it, I listened to their point and then explained what I believe. Then I got up and walked away.
My experience that night made me think about what Joseph Smith went through. When Joseph Smith retrieved the gold plates, he experienced a lot of persecution. No matter how much persecution there was, Joseph Smith still stood tall and didn’t falter. God was with Joseph Smith and helped him, and I knew that God was with me too when I stood for what was right.
I did lose a couple friends that night for defending my beliefs, and I was sad about that. But I felt peace and comfort for doing what was right. A little later, one of my friends thanked me for what I had said. Because of that, I gained a friendship back that was stronger than it was before.
Andrew F., Utah, USA

The meaning of church to most people is a little different than what it is to me. Where I live, church consists of the two LDS families in Sand Point (an island town on the Aleutian Chain in Alaska) meeting for an hour to partake of the sacrament and participate in talks, prayers, and questions. My dad is the branch president. Our branch has no meetinghouse, so my family and the other member family take turns hosting the Sunday meeting.
At first I didn’t like “going” to church, and I really don’t know why. Maybe it was because I was the only teenage girl on the island who attended. I know it wasn’t because my friends teased me about church as much as it was the questions they asked. I really didn’t understand the Church and I had doubts about it. Was the Church true? Did God care? And most of all, What would happen to me when I died?
For a while, I’d read the Book of Mormon and never seemed to get anywhere. Satan seemed to be doing all he could to keep me from gaining a testimony.
One day, my feelings began to change. After a very difficult day, I came home from school very upset. I’d forgotten my lunch, had an unfriendly run-in with a hockey puck, and my best friend and I had had an argument. When I returned home, I ran upstairs, dumped my books on a chair, flopped onto my bed, and started crying.
As my tears ceased, I noticed I had left my triple combination on my desk. As I walked over to put it away, it fell open to a page marked by a card. The verses marked in ink caught my eye. I read in Doctrine and Covenants 18:10–11 [D&C 18:10–11]: “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God; For, behold, the Lord your Redeemer suffered death in the flesh; wherefore he suffered the pain of all men, that all men might repent and come unto him.”
Suddenly I realized that Christ loved me and I wanted to know him better. I had expected my testimony to be handed to me. I assumed it would be easy. I know now that I have to search, ponder, and pray. I’m not going to get my testimony from my parents or grandparents, or my brothers and sisters. If I have faith my Savior will help me, and together we will find my testimony.
That night I decided to start reading the Book of Mormon again. This time, I was committed to finishing it.

Not long ago I attended a dance at a stake that was not my own. The friend who invited me began introducing me to a group of girls standing near the door as we entered. Since I didn’t know anyone, I was anxious to make some points with the ladies, so I said, “Wow. There sure are a lot of beautiful girls in your stake.” My friend looked around the group and, trying to be funny, said loudly, “Where? Where? I don’t see any.” Needless to say, we were not the most popular guys at the dance that night.
If the above experience had been a scene on a TV show, my friend’s “clever” comment would have been followed by laughter. In real life, the girls were offended and avoided us the rest of the evening. What many don’t realize is that those producing TV shows use a laugh track—prerecorded laughter that can be turned on and off at the touch of a button. That’s why laughter always follows sarcastic put-downs or mean jokes. It sounds like everyone enjoys the negative humor. In real life, there is no laugh track. People might put up with put-downs and manage a chuckle for the sake of saving face, but deep down, negative humor hurts. No matter how perfect the timing or how smoothly executed the joke, usually the only ones laughing are those who are afraid they may be your next targets.

My wife, Harriet, and I love riding our bicycles. It is wonderful to get out and enjoy the beauties of nature. We have certain routes we like to bike, but we don’t pay too much attention to how far we go or how fast we travel in comparison with other riders.

However, occasionally I think we should be a bit more competitive. I even think we could get a better time or ride at a higher speed if only we pushed ourselves a little more. And then sometimes I even make the big mistake of mentioning this idea to my wonderful wife.

Her typical reaction to my suggestions of this nature is always very kind, very clear, and very direct. She smiles and says, “Dieter, it’s not a race; it’s a journey. Enjoy the moment.”

How right she is!

Although most of the Saints had left Nauvoo by summertime, some still remained because of poverty or sickness. This made anti-Mormons very angry. On September 10, 1846, about eight hundred men with six cannons began to fire on the Saints still in Nauvoo. The attack continued for several days until an agreement was reached that every Mormon would leave except five men and their families, who would stay to sell the remaining property.

This man who has achieved so much and shared so much once had to learn to live with a great disappointment. Almost every day for many years he has driven past a reminder of a dream that did not come true. On a lawn near the entrance to the NASA compound is a Saturn V launch vehicle with an Apollo spacecraft at its tip. It lies on its side, broken into stages like the earth-beached skeleton of some great space creature. People stand and look at it and shake their heads. It is so huge there isn’t room for it in their imaginations. Standing there they have to reach inside themselves and expand their estimate of what man is. This is the stuff of legends. This earthbound ship was built to take men a million times higher than the ancient tower that provoked God’s wrath when its builders aspired to heaven. This mighty craft was scheduled to propel Don Lind to the moon, until budget cuts canceled his flight. Now that dream lies rusting on the grass with the mighty Saturn engines.
Looking at the Apollo rocket, Brother Lind said reflectively, “When I realized that I wasn’t going to the moon, that was a traumatic experience, and I had to reevaluate what was really important. I realized again what I knew all along—being an astronaut is not my most important calling. I remember a discussion my wife Kathleen and I had in which I said that getting to the moon couldn’t be all that important because probably 15 years later only she and I would remember if I made it. Can any of you name all the people who’ve been on the moon? But if one of my kids was in the state penitentiary or had just gone through some horrible divorce or something like that, that was important, so what I did as a father was obviously more important than what I did as an astronaut. So I came to the conclusion that there are really only two things that count—what you do for the family and what you can do to build the kingdom, and the rest of it is pretty trivial. And really, whether you walk on the moon just isn’t that important.”

What is interesting is that when Samuel and his friends joined their friend and brother, Charles Amoah, in The Gambia, Samuel’s interest in pursuing his goal of travelling abroad waned considerably for reasons he admits he doesn’t know and he never bothered about. Samuel eventually abandoned his desire to travel abroad from The Gambia. He had somehow found The Gambia as a home, which he now strongly feels that God knows something about that.

Other Minnesota youth are busy setting a good example, too. Maggie Albaugh, a Laurel in the Anoka stake, stepped outside her comfort zone when she taught a girl in her class to pray. Katie was one of the more popular girls in her school, and Maggie didn’t know her very well. “She’d never prayed and was never into religion,” Maggie says.
The sudden death of one of their friends brought them, and their whole class, closer together. Katie stopped Maggie in the halls of their school, knowing of her LDS standards, to ask her questions about life and death. “The only advice I could give her was the simple advice to pray,” Maggie says. “I just felt that, as Mormon youth, prayer helps us through a lot of things and a lot of people don’t have the same understanding of prayer. It is a gift that was given to us to communicate with our Heavenly Father.”
So Katie prayed, and at a memorial service for their friend, she shared with her class the comfort she had received through prayer.

The workshop couldn’t have been busier if it belonged to Santa’s elves. From one end to the other, workers were unloading trucks, repairing sleds and furniture, sorting buttons for clothing, sewing, and even stacking skis.
But these weren’t elves at work. They were young men and women from the Ogden Utah Weber Stake. And the workshop wasn’t at the North Pole. It was at the Deseret Industries welfare complex in Ogden, where the youth of the stake converged one Saturday to help the regular employees beat the Christmas rush.
It was part of a month-long program to get the youth acquainted with the elderly and handicapped who form the main part of the labor force at the facility, which repairs and sells used furniture and clothing. It was also part of an effort to help those employees have a merry Christmas. In addition to the day spent working in the warehouse and production areas, the young people also presented a week’s worth of morning devotionals, put in another Saturday collecting reusable items, and just a few days before Christmas, sponsored a party for employees.
“The whole idea was to get in the Christmas spirit,” Paula Watkins of the Uintah Second Ward said. “When you do something for other people, it makes you feel that you’re giving of yourself.”
Frost was still in the air the morning the young men and women went door-to-door in their ward areas reminding people to donate items in good or reparable condition. Couches, lamps, dolls, toasters, an adding machine, desks, chairs, and other household wares soon bulged the sides of two large trucks, with more contributions still coming. One neighborhood florist donated a whole van full of Christmas decorations. One young man, enthused by the spirit of giving, pedaled up on his used bicycle and donated it to the drive. Half a dozen truckloads of usable items were amassed during the day.
The following week the group began presenting morning devotionals. Each ward was assigned a particular day. Ward members presenting the program would meet with D.I. employees in the Ogden complex chapel for prayer, song, and a spiritual thought.
The devotionals strengthened the staff, according to Niolee Petersen, a supervisor. “One of our goals is to bring the Spirit into the lives of those who work here, and the devotionals help a lot. These were special spirits, a lot of good kids. They have communicated very well with the handicapped workers.”
The following Saturday, however, is when real friendships and close relationships began to grow.
“We have about 30 handicapped workers under the direction of each supervisor, but they don’t all work on the same shift,” Sister Petersen explained. “Handicaps include age, physical impairments, and social and emotional maladjustments. This group of young people moved right in and helped everyone who was there on Saturday. It didn’t take much instruction before they were doing high-quality work.”
It was indeed a sight to see a deacon working side-by-side on a commercial steam press with a woman who could have been his grandmother, but who joked and chatted with him like a schoolmate, or to watch a squadron of young men descend on a carpentry shop and learn under careful tutelage some fine points of cabinet making. Other work assignments included sorting clothing, polishing shoes, shredding rags to make rugs, pricing items for sale and affixing tags, ironing, and a variety of other tasks.
“But,” as Shelley Johnson of the Uintah Second Ward stressed, “the most important thing isn’t what type of work we did. It’s that we were able to help other people.”
About 325 young people participated in the project. They worked in two shifts, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. Each person was given the name of an employee to become acquainted with. Some were then given tasks to perform on their own, others were assigned to work under the direction of an employee, and others worked with supervisors.
“It was something different, something I’ll remember for a long time,” said Nan Brian of the Uintah First Ward. One of the supervisors said Mark Stockset of the Uintah Second Ward was a “real whiz on the steam machine.” Mark laughed. “I’ve never worked with one before,” he said, “but I’m kind of used to it now.”
“I think this whole Deseret Industries idea is a good thing,” said Janean Dickson of the Uintah Second Ward. “It helps people take care of themselves. It teaches the value of work and makes you count your blessings.
“I was especially interested to see the quality of merchandise they sell. The clothing isn’t worn out and run down; it’s nice. They have things for sale I’d be glad to wear.”
“Next time I give things to D.I., I’ll be more aware of what they can use,” said Lisa Fowles of the South Weber Second Ward, “so I’ll make a more meaningful donation.”
Over in the furniture repair shop, three young women from the stake removed nails from furniture being prepared for reupholstery.
“Did you think you’d be doing this kind of work today?” they were asked. “No,” came the reply, “but it’s fun to be able to work firsthand with tools. I don’t usually get a chance to do that, and the exposure will help me.”
“The people who work here have been really friendly to us,” David Jensen of the South Weber Second Ward said. “They seem like they’re glad to have us here.” Laurie Glissman, of the same ward, added, “It helps you when you work along with people; you come to understand them and the way they are. And it sure put me in the Christmas spirit to realize how fortunate I am. I think this welfare program is a good way to help those in need, because they can work and maintain their dignity.”
“Those who have never had a chance to get close to the handicapped don’t understand them.” Gladys Huber, another supervisor, said. “It’s good to see these young folks come out and get to know their brothers and sisters.”
“The workers were a bit wary about it at first,” Sister Petersen added. “But when the young people got here and started working with them, they were delighted. It’s been a perfect show of brotherly love.”
The employees did in fact seem impressed by the youthful volunteers. “They learn pretty fast, and work hard,” Rell Smith said. “It’s good to have them here. We’d like more groups to come. Just let us know when.”
Janean spent the day working with Lottie Dayton, putting size labels on clothing and hanging apparel on racks.
“If I weren’t here today, I’d just be sitting home, or maybe riding my horse,” Janean said. “This is more important—it’s more important to serve the Lord than to serve yourself. That’s what Christmas is all about, helping others. We had to put priorities in order. Sure, it was hard to squeeze everything in, especially when we were trying to do Christmas shopping of our own. But we were excited to come down here, and she’s so sweet …”
Her voice trailed off as she looked over at Sister Dayton, who was still hanging things on the rack as she softly hummed “Where Love Is.”
As young and old labored amid clothing baling machines, steam tunnels (used to remove wrinkles from clothing), label racks, and sorting tables, the workshop did turn out some Christmas magic after all. By the end of each shift, there were no young and old, no handicapped and nonhandicapped, just friends, co-workers, and fellow Saints.
The same spirit prevailed at a Christmas party ten days later.
“We brought all the workers to the stake center,” Nan Brian of the Uintah First Ward explained. “When they got there, we gave each one an ornament with his name and the name of one of the kids in the stake who had worked with him printed on it. Then we did all we could to make them realize we are their friends.”
That included a program of carols, stories, a visit from Santa Claus, and of course, the true story of the birth of Christ as recorded in the scriptures.
As the workers were escorted home and the youth of the Weber Stake returned to their final holiday preparations, there was a warmth and a glow about both groups. Some had learned that others still cared, and some had learned that caring is the solid foundation of December’s glorious celebration.

While recently touring the beautiful Brigham City Utah Temple, I was reminded of an experience that I had while serving as the coordinator of the open house, rededication, and cultural celebration of the historic Laie Hawaii Temple.
A few months prior to the completion of the extensive renovation work, I was invited to tour the temple with the Executive Director of the Temple Department, Elder William R. Walker, and his Temple Department associates. In addition, various members of the general contracting firm were in attendance. The purpose of the tour, in part, was to review the progress and quality of the work performed. At the time of this tour, the work was about 85 percent completed.
As we moved through the temple, I watched and listened to Elder Walker and his associates as they inspected the work and conversed with the general contractor. On occasion I observed one man running his hand along the walls as we moved from room to room. A few times after doing this, he would rub his fingers together and then approach the general contractor and say, “I feel grit on this wall. Grit is not temple standard. You will need to re-sand and buff this wall.” The contractor dutifully took notes of each observation.
As we approached an area in the temple that few eyes would ever see, the same man stopped us and directed our attention to a newly installed, beautiful leaded-glass window. This window measured about two feet (0.6 m) wide by six feet (1.8 m) tall and contained an embedded, small stained-glass geometric pattern. He pointed to a small two-inch (5 cm) colored-glass square that was part of the simple pattern and said, “That square is crooked.” I looked at the square, and to my eyes it looked evenly placed. However, upon closer inspection with a measuring device in hand, I could see there was a flaw and that this little square was indeed one-eighth of an inch (3 mm) crooked. Direction was then given to the contractor that this window would need to be replaced because it was not temple standard.
I admit that I was surprised that an entire window would need to be replaced because of such a small, barely noticeable defect. Surely, it was unlikely that anyone would ever know or even notice this window given its remote location in the temple.
As I drove home from the temple that day, I reflected on what I learned from this experience—or, rather, what I thought I learned. It wasn’t until several weeks later when I was invited to tour the now completed temple that my understanding of the prior tour experience became clearer.
As I entered the completely renovated Laie Hawaii Temple, I was overwhelmed by its beauty and quality of finish. You can appreciate my anticipation as I approached the “gritty” walls and the “flawed” window. Did the contractor re-sand and buff the walls? Was the window really replaced? As I approached the gritty walls, I was surprised to see that beautiful wallpaper now hung on all the walls. My first thought was, “So this is how the contractor addressed the grit—he covered it.” But, no, I learned that it had always been the plan to hang wallpaper on these walls. I wondered why a little hardly detectable grit mattered if wallpaper was to cover it. I then eagerly approached the area where the flawed window was located and was surprised to see a beautiful floor-to-ceiling potted plant sitting directly in front of the window. Again I thought, “So this is how the contractor addressed the crooked little square—he hid it.” As I moved closer, I pushed the plant’s leaves aside and smiled as I saw that the window had indeed been replaced. The formerly crooked little square now stood neatly and evenly in the pattern. I learned that it had always been part of the interior design to have a plant in front of this window.
Why would walls with a little grit and a window with a little asymmetry require additional work and even replacement when few human hands or eyes would ever know? Why was a contractor held to such high standards?
As I exited the temple deep in thought, I found my answer as I looked up at the refinished exterior and saw these words: “Holiness to the Lord, the House of the Lord.”

My mother was a great delegator. Each Saturday morning as my brothers and sisters and I were growing up, we received housecleaning assignments from her. Her instructions to us had been learned from her mother: “Be certain you clean thoroughly in the corners and along the mopboards. If you are going to miss anything, let it be in the center of the room.”

She knew very well if we cleaned the corners, she would never have a problem with what was left in the center of the room. That which is visible to the eye would never be left unclean.

Over the years, my mother’s counsel has had enormous application to me in many different ways. It is especially applicable to the task of spiritual housecleaning. The aspects of our lives that are on public display usually take care of themselves because we want to leave the best impression possible. But it is in the hidden corners of our lives, where there are things that only we know about, that we must be particularly thorough to ensure that we are clean.

At this same time, ward youth leaders challenged our teenagers to read the entire Book of Mormon before school started that August. Our children brought the challenge home, and our family committed to join them in their efforts.
No sooner had we finished the Book of Mormon when our August 2005 Ensign arrived, with the challenge of President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) to read the entire Book of Mormon by the end of the year. Hyrum and his brother Joseph were thrilled—to think that we had already obeyed the prophet! Then their older siblings, Seth and Bethany, reminded them that President Hinckley had asked us to read it again, regardless of how many times we had already done so.
“But why?” the boys asked. “We have read every word, and what else is there to learn besides what we have already read?”
After a few moments of silence, somebody mentioned the blueberries. “Remember when we thought we had picked every blueberry? But when we went back, there were always more blueberries—always! No matter how many times we went, no matter how recently, there were always blueberries by the bunches.”
We quickly recognized the connection. Like the nearby farm and its abundant supply of delicious blueberries, the Book of Mormon is a constant source of spiritual nourishment with new truths to be discovered. So we began once again to read the Book of Mormon.
As I accepted the prophet’s challenge, I read things in the Book of Mormon that I had read many times before, but I saw them in a different way or understood them as they applied to new circumstances or challenges. I know that each time we sincerely read the Book of Mormon, we can receive new insights and come closer to the Savior.

I have struggled to find an adequate way to tell you how loved of God you are and how grateful we on this stand are for you. I am trying to be voice for the very angels of heaven in thanking you for every good thing you have ever done, for every kind word you have ever said, for every sacrifice you have ever made in extending to someone—to anyone—the beauty and blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I am grateful for Young Women leaders who go to girls camp and, without shampoo, showers, or mascara, turn smoky, campfire testimony meetings into some of the most riveting spiritual experiences those girls—or those leaders—will experience in their lifetime. I am grateful for all the women of the Church who in my life have been as strong as Mount Sinai and as compassionate as the Mount of Beatitudes. We smile sometimes about our sisters’ stories—you know, green Jell-O, quilts, and funeral potatoes. But my family has been the grateful recipient of each of those items at one time or another—and in one case, the quilt and the funeral potatoes on the same day. It was just a small quilt—tiny, really—to make my deceased baby brother’s journey back to his heavenly home as warm and comfortable as our Relief Society sisters wanted him to be. The food provided for our family after the service, voluntarily given without a single word from us, was gratefully received. Smile, if you will, about our traditions, but somehow the too-often unheralded women in this Church are always there when hands hang down and knees are feeble. They seem to grasp instinctively the divinity in Christ’s declaration: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … , ye have done it unto me.”
And no less the brethren of the priesthood. I think, for example, of the leaders of our young men who, depending on the climate and continent, either take bone-rattling 50-mile (80 km) hikes or dig—and actually try to sleep in—ice caves for what have to be the longest nights of human experience. I am grateful for memories of my own high priests group, which a few years ago took turns for weeks sleeping on a small recliner in the bedroom of a dying quorum member so that his aged and equally fragile wife could get some sleep through those final weeks of her sweetheart’s life. I am grateful for the Church’s army of teachers, officers, advisers, and clerks, to say nothing of people who are forever setting up tables and taking down chairs. I am grateful for ordained patriarchs, musicians, family historians, and osteoporotic couples who trundle off to the temple at 5:00 in the morning with little suitcases now almost bigger than they are. I am grateful for selfless parents who—perhaps for a lifetime—care for a challenged child, sometimes with more than one challenge and sometimes with more than one child. I am grateful for children who close ranks later in life to give back to ill or aging parents.
And to the near-perfect elderly sister who almost apologetically whispered recently, “I have never been a leader of anything in the Church. I guess I’ve only been a helper,” I say, “Dear sister, God bless you and all the ‘helpers’ in the kingdom.” Some of us who are leaders hope someday to have the standing before God that you have already attained.
Too often I have failed to express gratitude for the faith and goodness of such people in my life. President James E. Faust stood at this pulpit 13 years ago and said, “As a small boy … , I remember my grandmother … cooking our delicious meals on a hot woodstove. When the wood box next to the stove became empty, Grandmother would silently … go out to refill it from the pile of cedar wood outside, and bring the heavily laden box back into the house. I was so insensitive … [that] I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill [that] box.” Then, his voice choking with emotion, he said, “I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my omission for all of my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.”

The boy watched his father’s horse plunge away into the frigid whiteness. Then he started back toward his tepee, anxious to share the story of his first coup with his mother, grandfather, and little sister. But he had only gone a few steps when someone pulled at his arm. It was Yellow Fox, a village boy. “Your pony is gone too,” he said excitedly. “I saw it run away when the Shoshones first came!”
“My father will find it, with the others,” Little Wind responded confidently.
“He’ll not find your pony!” Yellow Fox insisted. “I saw your horse go toward the high rock county. Your father and the others rode off in another direction. They’ll not find your pony. But maybe a Shoshone will.”
Little Wind gazed anxiously toward the great mountains veiled in glacial mist. His pony had been given to him as a gift by his father before the big hunt. It was priceless to him. He had to find it before the next storm or he might never see it again. If he hurried, he could be back before his mother even knew he was gone. If he waited for his father to return with the horses, it might be too late. I’m well dressed against the weather in this big otter coat Mother made me, he assured himself. Besides, my pony probably hasn’t gone very far.
Little Wind pulled his wrappings snugly around him, gave a quick glance toward his tepee, and hurried off in the direction of the hoofprints in the snow.
What Little Wind did not know was that a new storm was gathering just beyond the mesas. Hidden behind the fog, it crouched like some huge, nameless beast ready to lunge across the sky and engulf anyone or anything careless enough to leave the fires of home.
(To be concluded.)

On 8 October 2024, 31 young single adults from Papua New Guinea arrived in Tonga to attend the Nuku‘alofa Tonga Temple for the first time. The group included two full-time missionaries serving in the Papua New Guinea Lae Mission and most of the others have received or are waiting to receive mission calls.
They were warmly welcomed at the airport with traditional candy leis by former Lae mission leaders, Sitiveni and Kilisitina Fehoko (2016–2019), as well as several returned missionaries who served in Papua New Guinea.
After receiving their own endowments, the young adults lovingly performed proxy baptisms, initiatory, and endowments for their grandparents and other ancestors. They finished their temple service with a final sealing session, linking and uniting generations with eternal sealing power.
The young single adults had researched family names in anticipation of doing temple work for their deceased relatives.
In the evenings, they were met by Elder Sione Tuione, an Area Seventy as well as former mission leaders in New Guinea including Isileli and Milika Fatani, (Papua New Guinea Lae Mission 2019–2022), Mosese and Akanesi Naeata (Papua New Guinea Port Moresby Mission 1997–2000), and the Fehokos who offered powerful messages of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and eternal families.
The Fatanis and Fehokos provided delicious Tongan feasts and local wards hosted dances each evening, which the young adults loved.
The young adults also enjoyed an afternoon of sightseeing and shopping. Several of them received dental care at the Church’s dental clinic at Liahona High School.

With 11 kids in our family, we eat a lot. We share extra produce with friends, and they share with us. One summer, though, we got more than we ever dreamed of.
We awoke one morning to find 150 torn plastic bags disgorging potatoes onto our front lawn. Why were they there? Where had they come from? Had a fiendish french fry franchiser gone insane? Had frivolous aliens traveling the states for food samples jettisoned Idaho potatoes in favor of Iowa sweet corn?
Nothing so exciting. Dad’s reputation as a pack rat reached the ears of a green grocer with potatoes that weren’t quite good enough to sell, but not quite bad enough to throw away. His solution was to give them to my dad, who brought them home, slit open the bags to let them air, and then, of course, left for work. Getting rid of them was left to us.
There were many suggestions. Drop them off a cliff and watch them splatter far below. Save them until they were really rotten and then throw them at each other. Let them ferment and use the alcohol to run the car.
Mom decided to stage the first and only GPPM (Great Potato Peeling Marathon). We began by sorting them. The good ones—probably about 1,000 pounds worth—were piled on the lawn. Out came the lawn chairs, towels, and the little kids’ wading pool full of water. Divided into teams, we began washing, wiping, peeling, and hauling them into the house to be canned in one of our three pressure canners.
Joshua, then two, came toddling out. Seeing what looked like a beach party, he ran over to the pool and jumped in. Up he sputtered from the slimy water with his mouth full of starch, his hair plastered with peels, and a betrayed look in his eyes.
We peeled until our fingers blistered. Countless quart jars later, we quit. The storage shelves were full, the lawn was clear, and I thought that I would never look another potato in the eye again.
My parents thought otherwise and called a family council to discuss how to eat them. Have you ever thought about how many ways there are to eat potatoes? There’s a Walt Disney song about Johnny Appleseed in which he says, “Apple fritters, oh so tasty, apple tarts, and apple pasty—You can cook an apple any way.” If I were a musician I would write a ditty like this, “Scalloped potatoes and au gratin, mashed, souped, but not rotten—You can cook a potato any way.” The P file in our recipe box expanded beyond the pumpkin section, and all of us tried a lot of new casseroles.

Things don’t always work out the way they hope, but that doesn’t mean the Lord’s arm of mercy isn’t still extended (see 2 Nephi 9:14). Kache says, “There was a cow this last summer that needed a C-section. We pulled the first calf out and it ended up being twins.” They both died not long after the C-section. “Seeing them die was hard,” said Kache, but he is learning to trust God even when things don’t work out. “If we are strong and stay true to the gospel, we will be rewarded in the end.”