Gospel Story Finder

My wife, Jill, and I recently witnessed this truth in the faithful lives of Holly and Rick Porter, whose 12-year-old son, Trey, passed away in a tragic fire. With hands and feet severely burned in a heroic attempt to save her dear son, Holly later testified in ward sacrament meeting of the great peace and joy the Lord had poured out upon her family in their anguish, using words such as miraculous, incredible, and amazing.

This precious mother’s unbearable grief was replaced by surpassing peace with this thought: “My hands are not the hands that save. Those hands belong to the Savior! Instead of looking at my scars as a reminder of what I was not able to do, I remember the scars my Savior bears.”

Holly’s witness fulfills our prophet’s promise: “As you think celestial, you will view trials and opposition in a new light.”

Together and with the help of the Spirit we chose our secretary. She was a dependable, friendly mother of five who had always been dedicated to the Church. We knew we could depend on her to be there every week.
Our first challenge was to get to know each child and teacher personally. In particular we noticed one ten-year-old boy who was the only one in his class. His name was Troy. His attendance had begun to drop off as he was assigned one teacher after another, and he continued to miss Primary often. Several times we heard his teachers say, “Why prepare a lesson just for one child, when he usually doesn’t even show up? I’m wasting my time.”
There were suggestions that we move Troy forward or move him back a class so that he could be with a larger group. We tried both. Before long, Troy wasn’t coming to Primary at all. We sensed a real loss, and as a Primary presidency we decided to fast and pray about how to help Troy.
Once again I was amazed to see this principle at work. When we met, we all seemed to have our thoughts turned to our secretary, though we wondered how we could ever replace her.
When I talked to her, I found that she had just completed the Teacher Development Basic Course. We gave her name to the bishop and told him we felt certain Jackie was the one the Lord wanted to help Troy. She accepted the position, knowing it was a class with only one boy who often didn’t come; and she, too, had heard other teachers talk about how hard he was to handle and how discouraging it was to teach just one child. Nevertheless, Jackie tackled this teaching job with a very positive attitude and a feeling of love towards a boy who would very likely give her every reason not to love him.
I made it a point to tell Troy that he had a great new teacher. Unconvinced, he missed Primary that week, and the next.
But as the weeks slipped by, Troy occasionally came to Primary as if checking to see if his teacher really was there to teach just him. Jackie always was. And many times she went to Troy’s home to get him to come.
Jackie prayed often to know how she might be able to reach him. One night as she was thinking about Troy just before going to sleep, the thought came so strongly to her: “Be his friend.”
We gradually watched this ten-year-old boy being loved right back into Primary. There seemed to be a special relationship between Troy and Jackie, his friend. She taught him in the good, usual ways and used the Scouting program for the many fun and interesting activities she created for Troy. Those invaluable teaching moments were used so well by a dedicated teacher who truly knew the value of one child. It wasn’t long before we had perfect attendance from Troy.
Jackie remained Troy’s teacher, advancing with him until he graduated from Primary. Everyone was very proud of him. There were few who knew that if it hadn’t been for the efforts of one special teacher, it just wouldn’t have happened.
Not long after his graduation, Troy developed a serious infection around his heart and, critically ill, was taken to the Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, Utah. It was many weeks before he began to slowly improve. Troy’s mother remembers how amazed everyone was as he taught both nurses and the other patients around him about the gospel. He was not afraid to inquire about their religious faith, and his parents noticed that he was teaching the same basic principles he had learned from his Primary teacher and in his home.
Troy did not recover, and we were greatly sorrowed when we heard he died. He was only thirteen years old. The ward and community were stricken with this news. Most devastated were his family, who had to let go of many hopes and dreams for Troy.
As the plans for his funeral were made, Troy’s parents chose someone to give his life sketch who had been especially close to him—his former Primary teacher. As she spoke that day, everyone could feel her love for Troy, and we understood why he had responded to her.
The years have come and gone, but I have never forgotten this experience. I know that the worth of one soul is great in the sight of our Heavenly Father. That is a testimony I will always have because of Troy and Jackie.

Grandpa had a great desire to serve, and no matter what the job, he was dedicated to it. He served as stake clerk for many years. When the shaking of his hand became so severe that it became difficult to write, the stake president asked him if he would like to be released. Without hesitation and with a twinkle in his eye, Grandpa replied, “You know, President, it’s not writing I have a problem with. It’s fishing. Whenever I go fishing my hand gets to shaking so that I can’t tell if I’ve got a fish on the line or if it’s just me.” With that, Grandpa continued to serve in his position almost until his death.

Some years ago, a client seeking my professional advice described to me the nature of his business, which involved selling secondhand furniture and household goods in partnership with his father. They acquired their stock by attending auctions and market sales and by clearing unwanted items from homes. They were always careful to ensure that they could realize more money in reselling than they had expended in the purchase.
On one occasion, the son had contracted to clear the contents of a home following the death of an elderly occupant. Hanging in one of the rooms was a painting. Pausing to examine it, he considered the possibility that one day he would discover an antique or painting of far greater value than the previous owner had realized. But concluding that this painting was not in that category, he removed it from where it was displayed, carried it to his vehicle, and put it among the other items.
Later, as he and his father were unloading the vehicle, the father picked up the artwork, examined it carefully, and said, “I wish I knew more about paintings and how to tell if they are valuable.” The son responded that he was sure this one would not be classified as such. Nevertheless, the father felt it would be worth having the painting checked by a friend who managed an art gallery.
Several days later, the father’s friend informed him that the painting probably had a value of at least £12,000 (almost U.S. $29,000 in the early 1970s). Excited by the news, the father and son set out for the art gallery to collect the painting. This time they took a blanket in which they carefully wrapped the work of art. The son held it securely in his arms as they returned to the shop. The painting sold at auction for £12,500.
In telling this story, my client concluded by saying, “I can’t imagine why anyone would be prepared to pay so much for such an ordinary painting.”

“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.”

Heavenly Father knew that this strong-willed son needed a good father. He picked out a great one for me. My dad’s devotion to his children and grandchildren consumed much of his time. He loved the Lord and was about the Lord’s errand throughout his days. He was not only my dad; he was one of my heroes.
Dad was the president of my priests quorum and bishop of our ward during my teenage years. You who have been a bishop’s son know that sometimes performance expectations tend to be a little high for bishops’ sons.
During Dad’s tenure as bishop, a new meetinghouse was built in our area. Local financial shares were partially fulfilled by providing labor. Often I arrived home to find a note on the kitchen table inviting me to join Dad in working on the new building. These invitations were not always received with great warmth and enthusiasm. It seemed to me that the bishop’s son received more than his fair share of invitations to work on the new meetinghouse.
As the building neared completion, landscaping commenced. The priesthood brethren were extended a work opportunity to haul fertilizer to the site. Because the bishop was a part of the expedition, the bishop’s son felt an obligation to respond. We drove to a mountain sheep corral. Into a large truck we shoveled very finely ground, dry sheep fertilizer. The wind blew much of what we threw into the truck back to us. This unsavory material gathered in our eyes, throats, noses, ears, and down our backs. I can’t ever remember being more uncomfortable. I’m afraid I verbalized my feelings with emotion. When we arrived back at the meetinghouse to unload the material, I found my new bike had been stolen. My complaining was loud. Why would the Lord permit someone to steal my bike when I was about His work?
When Dad and I arrived home, we showered and sat down to an evening meal. My complaining about the day and my lost bike continued. As we knelt in prayer, Dad thanked Heavenly Father for the opportunity of the day’s service and expressed love for me. He asked forgiveness for the person who had taken the bike. He noted his sorrow for the loss but expressed gratitude that it wasn’t his son who had committed the theft. Dads make great heroes. I pray that if you are fortunate enough to have a father close by, he can be your hero. Dads, live in such a way that your sons and others can look up to you as heroes.

Once she convinced me to attend a fireside with her. Elder Paul H. Dunn was the speaker, and although I don’t remember what he said, I do remember Liz’s reaction to his talk. She cried.
“Hey, Liz,” I asked. “What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong.” She wiped her tears and smiled at me. “It’s just the wonderful spirit I felt as Elder Dunn spoke to us.” Her response puzzled me. I couldn’t understand why anyone would cry when nothing was wrong.
The Arizona Temple was the only other Mormon place she ever had me visit. If I asked her what she wanted to do for a night out, she’d always reply, “Let’s go visit the temple. I love it there.”
I gave in, and we went there a few times. Usually we just walked through the grounds and admired the gorgeous landscaping, but after our third visit she talked me into touring the inside of the visitors’ center.
Inside, we saw several films and met many very friendly people. After the films and introductions, we went on a guided tour of the center. At the conclusion of the tour, our guide bore his testimony of the things we had seen that night. Liz cried.
After that experience, the temple was one of her favorite topics. “Chris, isn’t the temple a beautiful place? That’s where I’ll get married someday. I’ve promised myself that.”
“I guess I wouldn’t mind getting married there either,” I said. “It’s really no different than a cathedral.”
“It is different. When two people are married in the temple, they’re married forever.”
“That’s fine with me. I’ve always believed that true love lasts forever.”
Liz grew very serious. “You don’t understand. Only active members of the Church are allowed in the temple. You wouldn’t be allowed to enter.” She explained again that when her time came, she would be married in the temple. No other place was acceptable for her.
“But what if you really love a guy who’s not LDS?” I asked. “If you really love someone, it shouldn’t matter where you get married. All that matters is that you’re together and you’re in love.”
“If two people really love each other,” she answered shaking her head, “they’d never settle for anything less than an eternal relationship.” She paused and looked me in the eye. “I never would.”
As we neared the end of our senior year, we had many arguments about temple marriage. Liz maintained that she’d never marry outside of the temple. I argued that, in true love, the ceremony was not important. Love was eternal regardless of the type of marriage.
The more we discussed it, the more she talked about the temple and how special it was. I was confounded. It was obvious that we were falling in love, yet Liz wouldn’t budge on her temple marriage hang-up. I felt positive that if our love matured, she would eventually give in and agree to be married anywhere. I was wrong.
One afternoon at school, Liz met me at our locker. Her eyes were tearfully red, and her voice was taut with emotion. “Chris, I’ve decided that we can’t see each other anymore. We can’t go out again—ever.”
Her words stunned me. “What do you mean? Look, I don’t care what your parents think …”
She looked up at me with tears streaming down her face. “It’s not my parents. It’s me. I can’t allow myself to date you. I don’t want to fall in love with you.”
“Liz, you’re just upset. Why don’t we just talk this out like we’ve always done? You’ll feel better in a little while.”
She backed away from me. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” she sobbed. “I can’t afford to see you again!” She pressed a shiny black paperback into my hands and ran down the hall.
We stopped seeing each other. Liz started going out with LDS guys, and I moped around campus. I thought about the many discussions we’d had. What was it that made her so stubborn about a temple marriage? Why wouldn’t she compromise? What made her so special?
Several weeks after we broke up, I returned to school late one spring afternoon. I searched through the mess in my locker and soon found what I was looking for. The little black paperback was slightly dog-eared but still readable. Maybe it would answer some of my questions. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me carrying an LDS book, tucked it inside my jacket, and went home.
When I got home I hurried upstairs with my secret bundle and hid it in my desk drawer. I knew my parents wouldn’t approve of me reading Mormon “propaganda.”
Two weeks passed before I had a chance to be alone with the book. When I had the opportunity, I took the book out of my desk, stretched out on my bed, and started to read.
I opened the book, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, and skimmed its pages. A section about the Joseph Smith story caught my eye, so I read it carefully. As I read the story of Joseph Smith’s vision, I knew that it was true. I also knew that if his story was true, then the church he founded must also be true.
A little later I agreed to take the missionary discussions, and I rapidly gained a testimony of the principles of the gospel. After the discussions, I knew that I should join the Church, and after much fasting, praying, and soul searching, I was baptized. Liz was there. She cried.
A little more than a year after I was baptized, Liz and I again visited the temple, this time to be married for time and all eternity. That was 13 years ago. Today, and every day, as I watch our family blossom and grow, I’m grateful for the strong testimony of that cute little Mormon girl. I’m thankful that she was courageous enough to refuse to compromise on an issue that meant eternal happiness for her, and eventually, for me too.

Finally, and perhaps most meaningfully, the Book of Mormon has guided my personal life. I remember turning to the scriptures when I was about to end a dating relationship. I felt a great deal of anguish. But a verse I read, 2 Nephi 10:20, spoke directly to my heart and gave me a calm feeling: “Now, my beloved brethren, seeing that our merciful God has given us so great knowledge concerning these things, let us remember him, and lay aside our sins, and not hang down our heads, for we are not cast off; nevertheless, we have been driven out of the land of our inheritance; but we have been led to a better land, for the Lord has made the sea our path, and we are upon an isle of the sea.”
Remembering the Lord, as that verse suggests, gave me courage and hope. I could rely on the “great knowledge” of the gospel that God had given me, and I could be assured that I was not “cast off.” There were good things ahead.

I would like to share another experience of faith. The only child in his family, Elder Hermelindo Coy said good-bye to his mother and left for the first time in his life his small village in the mountains of Senahú, Guatemala. He entered the Missionary Training Center on 14 March 1991. Although he had been a member of the Church for only two years and was very timid about talking to people, his determination to serve was great. His formal education was less than five years of elementary school in his native language of Kekchí. Spanish, the official language of Guatemala, was foreign to him.
During his mission he learned to live with pain in his leg. He rarely complained. In August 1992 he noticed, in addition to the increase in the pain, something abnormal about his knee. The diagnosis was bone cancer. A more careful exam revealed cancer in the liver, lungs, and lymphatic system; in other words, his illness was terminal. He did not understand the nature of the illness or its seriousness. With the help of a translator and using examples from the farm life with which he was familiar, he came to understand he had little time to live.
He never asked, Why is this happening to me? He did not lament or express negative feelings. He was obedient to all that was required of him. He was asked if he would like to return home, but he asked to remain in the mission and serve as long as possible, even until his death.
By October he walked with difficulty, requiring the use of a cane. He could work only a few hours each day. By December he was unable to walk. For the first time he was discouraged because he could not proselyte. His worry was always who would take care of his mother after he died.
In one of his visits, the mission president asked him to teach more of the basic doctrine to his mother, who, along with mission nurses, was providing 24-hour care. When he taught the plan of salvation to his mother in his native tongue, his face radiated assurance and light. Elder Coy was understanding with power and conviction what he was teaching.
As his strength declined, he placed his complete trust in the Lord. On one occasion when the pain was very strong, he expressed in prayer, “Heavenly Father, I do not know the day or the hour that I will die, but I want to know soon from Thee about my new assignment.” He died in February 1993. His death blessed all the missionaries, leaders, members, and even nonmembers who learned of his courage to serve and endure to the end. His faith was so simple it was contagious. He never feared death. He strengthened all who knew him.

When Sally was about eight years old, she lived in Salt Lake City. President David O. McKay (1873–1970) was the prophet. Sally had heard many stories of people having the chance to see him. After general conference, he always came out a back door of the Tabernacle and climbed into a big car. A huge group of people waited outside the Tabernacle to see him, hoping to shake his hand, say hello—even just see him in person instead of on television. Sally thought it must be wonderful to actually meet the prophet.
She decided she would ask her parents if they would take her to Temple Square during general conference. But she did not tell them that she wanted to wait with all the other people and maybe have the chance to talk to President McKay. This was her special secret.
It was a beautiful day—not too hot, not too cold—when Sally’s family went to Temple Square during an afternoon session and listened to conference on the Tabernacle grounds. Large speakers carried the meeting to everyone outside, because the Tabernacle—every bench, every seat—was filled with people.
As Sally walked by the open doors, she caught a glimpse of the Tabernacle Choir and the General Authorities. Her heart leaped with excitement as she thought, “Today’s the day! Today’s the day! I’m going to meet President McKay!”
She could see people starting to gather at the back of the Tabernacle. After receiving permission from her parents, she joined the group and struggled toward the front. She wasn’t very tall, so if she didn’t stand right in front, how would she meet the prophet?
At last, with a wriggle here and jostle there, she reached the front of the crowd, where ropes blocked off a pathway between the Tabernacle and the road. There, just as she had heard, waited the big shiny car.
“Not much longer to wait,” she thought. She could hear the closing hymn being sung. “Sing faster! Sing faster!” she silently urged. After the closing prayer, the organist began to play the powerful Tabernacle organ once more. It was really time!
The crowd around her pressed forward, pushing against the ropes a bit. People were pouring out of the building, many of them joining the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the prophet, too.
The big car started and pulled forward a little. A large door at the back of the building opened.
But much to Sally’s dismay, now that the car had moved, she couldn’t see a thing but the car! She could also see the heads of a few men. But President McKay was not well, so although he was a tall man, he now sat in a wheelchair. Sally couldn’t see him at all—not even to catch a glimpse of his wheelchair’s rubber wheels. How was she supposed to see the prophet, let alone meet the prophet, if she couldn’t see anything?
She wanted to dash under the rope and run to the car. She wanted to climb in the car and shake his hand, say hello—something.
But all too quickly, the door slammed shut and the big car pulled slowly onto the road. It was over. He was gone.
Sally stood stunned. Her dreams! Her plans!
The crowd scattered, leaving her standing alone, staring at the ropes that had been dropped to the ground after President McKay left.
Then, a quiet whispering thought entered her mind: “Why do you want to meet him, anyway?”
“To see him and to know for myself that he is a prophet,” she almost said aloud, feeling the sting of tears.
Suddenly, she sensed a warm feeling in her heart. It was sweet and loving and slightly reproving. The thought came: “You do not need to see him to know. All you need to do is ask.”
Ask?
It was so easy, so simple! Before she could even begin to say a quick prayer in her heart, an incredible warmth filled her from the top of her head down to her toes. She knew. The man in that car, the one who had sat so quietly all through conference, the one who seemed so frail—who, to her, seemed like he must have lived forever—was without a doubt a prophet of the Lord. She didn’t need to meet him. And she didn’t need to shake his hand. He didn’t need to pat her on the head or speak to her. She just knew.
And now she understood that for the rest of her life, she could always find out that the man who became the prophet and President of the Church was called of God. All she had to do was ask.

As you can tell from the letterhead, I am a prisoner at the Colorado State Prison. Last year for Christmas I received a subscription to the New Era from my sister and her husband. I have enjoyed reading it this past year. We use it in our Church meetings here. There are four members here with me. Our group started last January, and we have been studying the Articles of Faith by James E. Talmage. About once a month we have a general discussion. We are interested in obtaining reading material that would be of help to us. We don’t have enough good reading material. In closing, the men here would like the members to know that even though we have erred, we are concerned about our future in this life and the life hereafter. In case you’re interested, I’m twenty-two years old.
# 40131State Prison,Canon City, Colorado 81312

In Norway, right by the town of Drammen, there is a mountain called the Spiralen. From the outside it looks like a normal mountain, but inside it is hollow. The mountain hides an old quarry where rock was dug, forming a spiral tunnel. Now the tunnel has been converted to a roadway that takes cars to the top for a panoramic view of the town and the ocean.
Not long ago, 43 priests and Laurels from the Norway Oslo Stake climbed the Spiralen as part of a priests and Laurels conference. This was not a regular youth conference; the stake sponsors one of those each year. But the stake also has a long tradition of holding a special conference at which all the priests and Laurels gather for two days of fun and serious discussions.
On the first evening of the conference, local Church leaders joined the youth for a panel discussion and answered gospel questions posed by the priests and Laurels. “All the questions were interesting,” said Jaren Rosaker, Oslo Third Ward. His friend, Christian Tarjei Gylseth, agreed. “They gave good answers as well.” Afterward the youth gathered for dinner and a dance.
The next morning they climbed the Spiralen. It was soon clear that this hike was going to be more than just a fun activity. They should have known. The hike was going to be an object lesson.
First the priests and Laurels divided into family groups using surnames from Church history, such as Smith, Young, and Kimball. The family groups were sent on their way up the path in intervals. The first rest stop was for water. Everything seemed normal. The second stop was for juice. Gradually, the hike’s meaning started to become clear—traveling in family groups, the rewards becoming better and better.
John Gundersen of the Fredrickstad Branch said he caught on to the symbolism of the hike at the first stop. “I started to understand when they told us to hold to the iron rod.” The first stop could be telestial glory. The second stop could be the terrestrial. When the families emerged from the woods at the parking lot near the top, they were expecting the end of the journey and their celestial reward. But it was not over yet.
Each family was given a wheelbarrow loaded with five large stones. They were told to continue up the path. Everyone was laughing and joking, and no one thought this last stretch would be hard at all. One strong boy could easily handle the loaded wheelbarrow, they thought—until they saw the last pull to the summit. It was so steep and slick that they would have a hard time just getting themselves up the hill. But their wheelbarrows and those loads of rocks would make it really hard work.
Each family figured out their own method for getting up the hill. ElRay Gene Hendricksen from the Hokksund Branch said, “We decided to share the burdens. Everyone took a stone out of the wheelbarrow. Two other guys took the empty wheelbarrow. We made it. We were the only family group who did it that way.”
No one complained. They all just pitched in and figured out how to get their rocks to the top. Then came their reward. Hot and tired, they rested and looked out at the beautiful country below them. They were pleased that everyone made it to the top, where they were able to drop their burdens, represented by the stones. They piled the rocks together into an impromptu memorial. Then they were served lunch—food for the body—and listened to a speaker who talked of heavenly things—food for the soul.
Bishop Aabo of the Drammen Ward explained that at times the climb was more challenging for some than for others. For a while a few carried the burdens while the others just walked along and didn’t need to help. But even though the challenges were uneven, eventually they all had to work together to make sure everyone made it to the top. Bishop Aabo pointed out that Jesus Christ promised he would help make our burdens light. Gaining our own testimonies gives us strength to reach the pinnacle.
The hike was the perfect conclusion to the conference. On a social level, it was great fun. Cathrine Opdahl of the Oslo Second Ward said, “The most fun is meeting people of your same age from different parts of Norway, getting to know them in a new way.”
“Yes,” said Kathinka Svendsen, also of the Oslo Second Ward. “We have problems in common, especially at school where people are not accepting that you’re a Latter-day Saint with high morals.”
“Here,” said Kjetil Pedersen of the Drammen Ward, “it’s people with your same attitude and outlook about religion. It’s good to do something together.”
Some of the most profound things these young people had to say came in quiet moments when asked about answers to prayers or about their testimonies. Then they spoke about the calm, quiet feeling of peace that could only come from the Lord. Jaran said, “I read Moroni 10:4 [Moro. 10:4]. That says if you ask God if what is written in the Book of Mormon is true, he will answer. I tried it out. I got the feeling that it was true. It is kind of a warm, good feeling inside.”
Hanne Akselsen of the Oslo Second Ward also felt something intense when she read the Book of Mormon. “I had taken the first discussion from the missionaries, but I hadn’t felt anything special when they told me I had to study and pray. I tried. I prayed and studied. What happened was amazing. It felt like the Book of Mormon was written to me. I just recognized it. It was so familiar and right.”
Coming to the priests and Laurels conference “helps build Zion here in Norway,” said Ida Podhorny of the Moss Ward. “We learn to be in the world, not of the world. I’m thankful for my good friends.”
Désireé Bjerkoe, the stake Young Women president, said, “Our purpose is to strengthen the youth and get them to strengthen each other. Actually that’s what they do. They stay up late and talk. That time is golden. If they don’t have friendships in the Church, then they turn to their friends outside the Church.”
Soon it was time to leave the mountaintop and go back down to the real day-to-day world. But as these friends made their way back down, they knew that in that high place they had built a monument more significant than one of simple stones. ElRay Hendricksen explained: “It is a monument that symbolized that we had all done the same things and made it to the top by helping each other. But we are not finished yet. We will have to develop ourselves and stay together and stay true.”
On a mountaintop in Norway, one group of teens found some answers.

This was the first youth conference Chris Windham, 14, of the Nacogdoches Ward, Longview Texas Stake, had attended. He had fun at the dances, listened to the speakers, and filled up on good food. But his strongest memory might be when his group came to the final house as they installed their last smoke detector. It was Chris’s turn to talk to the homeowner and explain their purpose. Each group member had taken a turn being the one to handle the screwdriver, hold the ladder, or do the talking.
At this house, it was Chris’s turn to talk. He reached for a picture of Christ. It was supposed to have someone’s testimony written in the accompanying paper. But they had run short, and the paper was blank.
Chris handed the picture to the man they had just met. He said, “I don’t have a written testimony to give you with this picture of Christ.”
He paused. The adult leaders, who were standing behind him, glanced at each other. What was Chris going to do?
As Chris said later, the Spirit was urging him to tell this man what he believed. So, without hesitation, Chris bore his testimony with power and conviction to someone he had just met. “I know that Christ lived, and that He suffered and died for us. …”
As Chris spoke, tears sprang to the eyes of the man listening. He carefully held the picture of Christ, with head bowed, and listened to the words of a 14-year-old boy.
For a few days, the LDS youth in these two stakes didn’t feel so few in numbers. They were a force for good, and they pulled strength from being together. They bore their testimonies, in writing and in testimony meeting.
Melanie Paul, 16, Coushatta Branch, Shreveport Louisiana Stake, said about their written testimonies, “These are going to people who may change their lives. I stressed the influence of Jesus Christ in my life. They may never get another chance to hear a testimony from a member of the Church. When you start writing, you aren’t just saying empty phrases. It’s true.”
This group also wanted to take sides against a chorus of bad influences. “The advertising is all aimed at kids our age,” said John Daniels, 18, Queen City Ward, Shreveport Louisiana Stake, “encouraging us to smoke, to drink, to do other things. We need someone on the other side, warning us, telling us where we can go wrong and how to avoid it.”
The voice of warning against the vices of the world may not be as loud and strident as a smoke detector, but for those with ears to hear, it is just as compelling, a voice of warning that may save someone’s life eternally.

It’s been a long time since then but I can still remember the details of the shearing pens, the strong smell of the sheep and the sweating men, the steady soft rhythm of the machines, the men constantly moving, bent over the animals, the wool rolling off in great folds.
There was usually one boy tying fleeces for every three or four men, but I worked only with my father. I was young but my father was also fast, shearing over 200 sheep on his best days.
There was usually a contest, the men chipping in a quarter and the rancher putting up a five or ten dollar bonus, which my father almost always won. Two other men in this camp were also fast. One, a giant, big-boned Scot, worked right next to my father; and before the week was out it was their contest. They were both passing the other men by 20 sheep.
On the last night, after supper, the big Scotsman lit a large cigar and leaned back.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I think I’ll be taking the bonus with me, and I’ll bet you a hundred dollars on it.”
My father smiled and tipped his milk glass in a circle.
“I’ll take another glass, Mama,” he said. He turned to the Scot. “Well, I won’t bet with you, but I will beat you.” He lifted the glass of milk and drank half of it. “You’re pretty good,” he said. “But I got the edge on a man that smokes and takes a drink. You won’t last in a hard contest.”
The Scot looked at the cigar.
“We’ll see about that,” he said. “We’ll see about that.”
Cal Fredricks, the rancher, stood from his chair. “I’m upping the bonus for tomorrow.” He hesitated and rubbed his hand on his pants. He was a short, tough looking man. “To a hundred dollars, just to make things interesting.”
Word got around. “The Mormon and the big Scot are going at it.” Before it was finished there were a hundred men and women and children watching. My father would pass the Scot by one and two sheep, only to have the Scot pass him a little later. They were tied for nearly an hour. Locked into a strange mirrored cadence, hands rose, coming down with choreographed smoothness, cutting thick folds of lanolin-rich wool.
“One hundred and fifty,” someone shouted. “One sixty.”
My arms began to ache and sweat streamed down my face, burning my eyes.
“Three hundred for the Scot.” The Scotsman had broken the cadence and moved ahead one. Then my father did what I’d seen him do before. He picked up his pace and put all his reserve energy into it. Slowly he passed the Scot.
“Three hundred and eleven,” the voice boomed over the drone of the machines and the crowd and the sheep.
When it was over my father had won by only three sheep. The two men, breathing hard and drenched with sweat, collapsed next to each other in a pile of bundled wool.
The Scotsman pulled a small handbag close to him. He took out a small box of cigars, opened it and picked one up looking at it. Raising it to his nose, he sniffed in a deep breath. Then he took the cigars into his hand and threw them out into the mud.
“Next year,” he said grinning, “I’ll give you a real run for your money.”
My father laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead with a red handkerchief. “We’ll just have to wait to see about that,” he said.

We found a place to stay in Ogden with a family named Ferrin. Mother got better and cooked for this household of grown men in return for our board and room. I fell in love with one of the Ferrin brothers, Jacob Samuel. We were married in the Endowment House, and we moved to Provo with my brother Heber.
Later my husband and I moved to Arizona, where we were once again pioneers in an unknown territory.

Despite Elder Pratt’s earlier attempt, more than 100 years passed before the Church was permanently established in Chile. In 1956, Elders Joseph Bentley and Verle Allred were sent from the Argentina Mission to preach the gospel in Chile, now enjoying greater religious tolerance. In Santiago, these missionaries had the support of the Fotheringham family, members who had moved from Panama and had been hoping for missionaries to come.
The first baptisms were performed in Chile on November 25, 1956, in a pool at a country club in Santiago. Elder Allred recalls, “We went to the country club before the sun came up and had a service with prayer and short talks. I entered the water with Brother García; I baptized him first, and then eight other people after him. This was a very special occasion. What we all felt was unforgettable. … These members would be the pioneers of the Church in Chile and I believe that every one of them remained faithful until death: the Garcías, the Saldaños, and Sister Lanzarotti.”3

Illustration by Ben Simonsen
I felt the hot tears of anger slowly slide down my face. I wiped them away with my hand, but I could still feel the slightly salty taste on my lips as sobs of anguish began to pour out. I just wanted to hang out with my brother. Why couldn’t he be my friend, too?
Just a few hours before, I had stared at my older brother, Steve, in complete surprise, waiting for him to tell me that he was only joking. “Well, do you want to play?” Steve asked impatiently.
I gave myself a quick pinch to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, and then I voiced a timid, “Yeah, sure.” I still couldn’t believe that my brother had invited me to play a game with the “big kids”! After all, I’d been told for three years that I was still too young to play more difficult board games with my brother and his friends.
I went into the room where the older boys were setting up the board game. As the game started with everyone strategically placing their game pieces, I felt like I was dreaming. For the first time, I felt equal to my brother—not like I was just his tagalong.
The dream ended quickly, however. The game was tough, and my inexperience and lack of knowledge became painfully obvious as the other players quickly and soundly defeated me.
Losing so quickly was bad enough, but to make matters worse, the other guys started to make fun of me. I tried to continue playing even though they were being mean, but it was hard to hold back my tears of frustration. Unfortunately, one tear trickled down my cheek before I could wipe it away. My brother saw it and teased me too. I couldn’t take it anymore and ran to my room.
So there I was, crying by myself, wondering why my brother couldn’t just be my friend. I went to sleep that night feeling sad and alone.
The next morning I woke up still feeling worthless. I decided to get dressed and climb the hill behind our house to a secluded place where I could think and be alone. But when I got to the door of my bedroom, I noticed that a piece of paper had been slipped below my door. Unfolding it, I read:
Dear David,
I would like to ask for your forgiveness for the way I acted last night. I was more interested in winning than in helping you figure out the game. As it turned out, I did end up winning the game, but if you had been a few years older and had just a little more experience, you would have easily won. Next time we play, I’ll try to teach you a few pointers that might be helpful. Again, I ask for forgiveness and wish you better luck next time. You’re really an exceptional player for your age.
Love, Steve
True to his word, Steve did help me with some strategy ideas during the next game. He was also very careful not to hurt my feelings. In fact, I noticed that Steve began to take a greater interest in me. That’s not to say that he suddenly became my best friend, but he gave me more encouragement and became more willing to listen when I told him about things that were important to me.
Neither of us ever mentioned the letter or the change that occurred in our relationship. I guess it’s just one of those things that guys don’t talk about much. I kept Steve’s letter, but it wasn’t until I began reading the Old Testament that I understood why I had become so attached to it. I was struck by Genesis 4:9, which reads, “And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother’s keeper?”
I realized that my brother had been faced with the same question but had given a much different response from Cain. The letter is a wonderful reminder to me that I am blessed with a brother who answered, “Yes, I am my brother’s keeper.”

Unfortunately, my activity in the Church didn’t last. My marriage was difficult, and I turned to old vices to escape my pain. Hobbies began to replace church attendance.

Three years passed, and I reached rock bottom. I had to make a choice. Could I live the gospel for myself regardless of what was happening in my life? Or would I just give in to the darkness? I knew that committing to the strait and narrow path meant getting rid of negative influences in my life. Also, my desires to go back to church highlighted that my spouse and I were on different paths. With the state of our marriage at that point, we were headed toward divorce already.

I was scared. There was no guarantee that my efforts would grant me the good things I wanted in this life. But my decision came back to what I had learned years before—that I was happiest living the gospel. I decided to commit fully and put myself in God’s hands, come what may. From here on out, it was me and Him.

Once again, I started going back to church and getting my life on track. One of the happiest days of my life was when I received a temple recommend again. I found solace in the temple as my marriage continued to fracture and ultimately came to an end.

As scary as that decision felt, through that experience I learned to appreciate God’s hand in my path. Even though I had stumbled, the race wasn’t lost. I wasn’t competing with anyone else. When I relied on the Savior for my self-worth, I could stop spending all my efforts trying to change others’ perspective of me.

I found myself at church being OK sitting alone or amidst members who were in different stages of life. I made an effort not to hide and made myself available to talk with people in my ward. I was able to enjoy attending my meetings for their intended purpose.

Having that peace also helped as I got back into dating. I still didn’t get a lot of second dates, but I now knew I didn’t have to compromise my standards just because I had slipped up in the past. I was living the gospel to the best of my ability, and I was good enough to date those who were living the gospel to the best of theirs too.

I ultimately found a worthy daughter of God who I married in the temple. Her path was very different than mine, but when it came to a love of the Savior and an understanding of His Atonement, we were on the same page.

“Can your family come caroling with us on Thursday night?” Sarah asked. “We’ll sing at a nursing home and have hot chocolate and cookies afterward.”
Caitlyn shook her head. “I wish we could! But our family’s going to an ice-skating party that night.”
Caitlyn liked ice-skating, but she was tired of having every night in December filled. After school she talked to Mom about it. “I really want to go caroling with Sarah, but every night is so busy. I feel like there’s not even time to think about Christmas!”
Mom nodded. “I know what you mean.” She ticked off items on her fingers. “Ice-skating party. School program. Service project.”
“All those things are good,” Caitlyn said with a frown. “How do we decide which ones to do?”
“I’ll talk to Dad,” Mom said. “Maybe we should have a family meeting about this.”
After dinner that night, Mom brought the family calendar to the table. “Caitlyn and I have been talking about how busy December is,” Mom said. “We’ve decided that we’re going to unschedule Christmas!”
“But we have to have Christmas!” seven-year-old Ben said. “That’s when we celebrate Jesus’s birth.”
“I don’t mean getting rid of Christmas,” Mom said with a smile. “We just need to clear out some of the things leading up to it. We’re so busy these next few weeks that we haven’t made time to focus on Christ and family.”
Dad opened up the family calendar. “So let’s talk about what will really help us focus on Christ this Christmas season. First off, the ice-skating party or caroling with Sarah’s family?”
“Skating sounds fun,” Caitlyn said, “but I’d rather go caroling. I bet singing at the nursing home would really help us all focus on Christ.”
“Sounds like a good choice to me,” Dad said with a smile. “We can go ice-skating another time.”
“Yay! I love caroling!” Ben said.
“OK,” Mom said. “That’s four votes for going with Sarah’s family.” She put an X through the skating party and wrote in “caroling.”
One by one, the family went through each item on the calendar, crossing off some and writing in others. They marked some nights as family nights to stay home and do things together. Other nights they made sure that what they had planned would focus on Christ.
“Can we make a gingerbread house?” Ben asked. “The old-fashioned kind?”
“I think that can be arranged,” Mom said.
“And let’s act out the Nativity! We can’t forget that,” Caitlyn said.
Mom wrote it on the calendar. “This way we’ll be sure we made room for it.”
Thursday night, Caitlyn and her family went caroling with Sarah’s family. “This is so neat,” Caitlyn said to Sarah as the families sang song after song at the nursing home. “Everyone looks so happy to see us.”
The families made a plan to come sing next month. And maybe next Christmas too!

When Joseph saw his brother Hyrum walking toward him, he left the ax buried in the log he was cutting up for firewood. Hyrum was nearly six years older, and just about the best friend that nine-year-old Joseph had in the whole world. Hadn’t he sat with Joseph day and night, holding his leg to ease the pain when it was so sore and swollen! And no one was more fun to wrestle or run with than Hyrum. Joseph challenged Hyrum to a footrace every chance he got, though he still needed a crutch at times and walked with a limp.
“Hyrum, I’ll race you to the house for dinner.”
Hyrum grinned. “Then you’d better take a head start while you have the chance.”
Joseph took off like a duck after a June bug, under the apple tree then right through the corn patch. No use worrying about tromping through the corn, he reasoned. An early frost had already ruined it.
Joseph reached the house and raced right through the open door, shouting, “I beat you, Hyrum!” But he came to an abrupt standstill when he saw his father and mother in earnest conversation. His father looked at the boys for a full half minute before he spoke, as though he were still trying to make friends with an idea. “We’re thinking of moving to Palmyra. It’s a settlement in New York state.”
Hyrum was the first to find words. “It’s because of the drought and the frost killing our crops the past three years, isn’t it?”
“ ’Fraid so. We’ve done the best we could, and you’ve both worked like men to help. If we hadn’t been able to sell a little fruit from our trees, we’d have starved. Caleb Howard says folks are getting forty bushels of wheat to an acre in New York. He’s going to Palmyra right away … said we could go along with him. If I could only arrange our affairs in time …”
“Why don’t you go on ahead, Father? We can follow with Mother and help her,” Hyrum suggested.
Joseph chimed in, “We can help get things ready here.”
Lucy put her arms around her two sons. “With the help of the boys I’m sure I can manage. Sophronia is thirteen now and she can take over the little ones. You go on ahead and find a place for us to live.”
By the time the moon was new once more, Joseph’s father had sent for the family and Mr. Howard was back in Vermont to help them move.
Joseph helped his mother pack their homespun sheets and quilts. A huge hide-covered trunk, bound with metal bands, was filled with clothing. Joseph helped his brothers put this, along with their featherbeds, iron pots and pans, and furniture into the wagon.
“Let’s be off,” Mr. Howard called impatiently, as he climbed onto the wagon.
Lucy and her eight children gathered beside the wagon, for most of them would have to walk. Mr. Howard clucked to the team. Unwillingly, they hunched forward, taking up the slack in the halter. The loaded wagon creaked and groaned like a weary old woman leaving her bed of a morning.
As they moved away from the house, Joseph took a last look at the fruit trees, gnarled and near-barren from years of struggle. And the puny ears of corn left in the garden would have made him laugh if they had not made his mother weep.
Joseph looked at her and knew her thoughts were close on the trail of his own. Trouble had been crowding them for over four years, but now … now they could see nothing ahead but blessings.
As the family walked past the stone wall that marked the end of their property his mother shifted the baby in her arms and took Joseph’s hand. Her mouth eased its hard line into a gentle smile. In spite of his limp he seemed as spry as a cricket.
“We’ve had three years of crop failure and a year of sickness,” she said. “But the Lord has been with us. We need to thank Him for preserving our lives through such tremendous afflictions … more so than if we had seen nothing but health and prosperity.”
Joseph lifted his face and his smile caught the sunlight.
“It’s a new beginning, Mother.”
(To be continued.)