Gospel Story Finder

I’m driving my husband to a chemo treatment. It’s midmorning in early September, and the road is so drenched in water and fog that the white line on the side of the road is almost invisible. Wind rocks the car, and my fingers hurt as they grip the wheel. In another life, just a few weeks ago, we’d never have left the house in a downpour like this. But we have a 10:00 a.m. appointment with a small bag of poison, and not going isn’t an option.

Ahead is a stretch of road that lies low in the valley. It collects the fog like a bowl, and the water pools on the freeway there. I’m terrified of hydroplaning, but just before we hit the dreaded spot, the fog lifts a little. My windshield wipers catch up with the water, and a calmness settles in my chest. The rain drenches us for the whole 25 miles, but we make it in one piece.

Later, when we are done and the sun is elbowing through gray clouds outside the treatment center, my husband, Jacob, tells me he wasn’t afraid as we drove.

That’s all fine. But he wasn’t the one behind the wheel.

Jacob doesn’t leave it there. “The Savior has control over the elements. He walked on the water and calmed the seas.”

My heart lifts at the thought: Jesus walking on water (see Matthew 14:22–33), Jesus rebuking the storm (see Matthew 8:23–27). “The Master of ocean and earth and skies.”2

Jacob’s voice is breathy and scratchy—a side effect of all the treatments. “I knew we were going to be OK. I could tell that you were nervous, though. I prayed, ‘I know Thou canst control this water. If it be Thy will, please lift the rain a little so she can see.’”

I remember the easing of the rain and the peace settling inside me.

The woodland was under a heavy shroud of cloud cover that weekend. Rain filtered through the air, and the cameramen waited patiently to expose their film. It rained, and they prayed. And it rained some more. If the filmmakers were unable to complete filming in that one week during the spring of 1975, the project would have to wait a year until the surroundings were right again. The season would soon change, and to add to the problems, the lead actor had to leave the following Friday. On Monday morning the crew awoke before dawn and began to set up all their equipment, thinking somehow they could compensate for the weather. But suddenly it stopped raining. When the sun came up, they beheld the loveliest mist they had ever seen. The tall, wet grasses sparkled, and the birds burst forth in song, and they knew they had been blessed with a beauty they could never have produced themselves.
That morning the Brigham Young University Department of Film Production began filming scenes for the First Vision. Stewart Petersen, who played the Prophet Joseph, walked through those tall grasses with thoughts of that other “beautiful, clear day, early in the spring of eighteen hundred and twenty” (JS—H 1:14) when Joseph Smith humbly prayed for an answer to his question, “Which of all the churches should I join?”
The First Vision is a historical film commissioned by the Church for release as a teaching aid and missionary tool. The script follows Joseph Smith’s own account of the spring of 1820 in Palmyra, New York, when, after reading and pondering James 1:5, he decided to ask of God which church was true.
The singular beauty of that first morning was followed by a week of busy filming. By Thursday renewed bad weather set in—more clouds and more rain. By the end of the day there was still one important scene that needed to be put on film—and that scene had to be filmed in bright sunlight. It was the scene where Joseph runs toward his home on a bright sunny day. So Friday morning they set up an 18-foot scaffold for their cameras in the center of the field that lay between the grove and Joseph’s home. They offered another special prayer and waited. After what seemed like hours the clouds parted. The cameras rolled. Just before the scene ended, the clouds closed in again, and darkness prevailed. “That’s all we got,” said David Jacobs, producer-director, “but that was all we needed—it’s the scene that opens the film.”
In Joseph’s own account of the First Vision he tells of entering the grove and kneeling to supplicate the Lord. Suddenly he felt a literal darkness—“some power which entirely overcame me … the power of some actual being from the unseen world.” (JS—H 1:15–16.) How to handle the feeling of such an evil influence was hard to conceptualize and then transfer onto film. On the plane to New York the week before, David Jacobs had been studying some research material on a recently discovered account of the vision written by Joseph.
A couple of sentences jumped out at him as he read: Joseph said, “I heard a noise behind me like some one walking toward me. I strove again to pray, but could not; the noise of walking seemed to draw nearer. I sprang upon my feet and looked around, but saw no person or thing that was calculated to produce the noise of walking.” (As quoted in Dean Jesse, “Early Accounts of the First Vision,” BYU Studies, Spring 1969, p. 284.) “I knew instantly,” Dave said, “that this was how I wanted to get into the darkness scene. It was dramatic. It was true.”
But the most difficult scene was that portraying the Father and the Son. Whether to even show the divine vision was a major decision because of its sacred nature. Then one of the General Authorities mentioned to Jesse Stay (director of the Department of Film Production) that he felt that one of the most important messages of the First Vision was the fact that the Father and the Son were separate and distinct beings—contrary to the universal approach of the three-in-one Godhead. The decision was made: the Father and the Son are represented in the film.
Making a Church film such as the First Vision is different from any other filmmaking. Each of the workers involved—sound men, cameramen, actors, director, costume and makeup crew—all are devotedly intent on its success for unique and unselfish reasons. They know of the potential missionary impact and they know of the testimonies it could strengthen if the job is done right. Brother Jacobs said, “They’d laugh at me in ‘the industry’ for saying it, but I believe if a person is moved spiritually by the film, it’s because the Lord has blessed our efforts.”

I had so many questions about the Church growing up, but I never felt like I could voice them out of fear of being judged. And as a young adult, I had even more questions.
When I began attending institute, I was focused more on my unanswered questions than on my faith and the truths I did know. And when the COVID-19 pandemic hit and stress and anxiety consumed me, I struggled to feel the Spirit. Hoping to feel something, I decided to kneel and say a prayer for the first time in months. Before I said a word, tears filled my eyes as I was enveloped in a strong feeling of love. I pleaded with the Lord to answer all my questions, lighten my burden, and bring me peace.
Soon after that prayer, my institute teacher sat with a classmate and me and asked us what young adults need, as he was hoping to create classes that would address the most common struggles and questions. It was comforting to know how much he wanted to help, and I opened up about how I had been feeling. As we talked through the afternoon about our needs as young adults in the Church, I found an answer to my prayer in my classmate’s words.
I realized that I wasn’t the only one with questions and that they weren’t anything to be ashamed of, like I had previously thought.
I felt spiritually uplifted after that conversation, and I was confident for the first time that Heavenly Father cared about my questions and that He would help me find answers in time.

While going through my e-mails one morning, I noticed a name I could not place: Enrique Jorge Dias. The subject line read, “Saludos [greetings] from a golden contact.”
I had no idea what the message might be about, and I considered hitting the delete key. Curiosity got the best of me, however, and I opened it. It was written in Spanish.
As I read, I learned that when Enrique Dias was 18, he was living in Adrogué, Argentina, where I served as a full-time missionary more than 30 years earlier. One morning as he was walking through the center of town, I stopped him and handed him a pamphlet about the First Vision. My companion and I, in accordance with instructions from our mission president, often spent mornings handing out pamphlets on the sidewalks of Adrogué. We probably spoke with hundreds of people, though we seldom got their names. Most of our conversations lasted no more than 30 seconds.
More than three decades later, there was no way I could remember speaking to a young man, but he remembered me. A few weeks before I received his e-mail, I had posted my name on the Argentine Mission Web page, where Brother Dias had found it.
In his e-mail he explained that he took the pamphlet home and showed it to his mother, who encouraged him to learn more about Joseph Smith. By the time he tried to find the missionaries a few months later, I had been transferred to a new area.
Enrique received the discussions and was baptized and confirmed. I labored in Argentina for another 20 months but never heard anything about his baptism.
The brief conversation we had shared in the street that morning long ago had transformed his life and the lives of many others. Two years after his baptism he was called on a mission to northern Argentina. Afterward he married and continued faithful in the Church, serving in a variety of callings, including bishop, counselor to two stake presidents, and high councilor. He added that his oldest son had served a mission in La Paz, Bolivia.
Words cannot express the joy that came to my heart from reading that e-mail message. My mission was filled with many gratifying moments, but this long-delayed news from Enrique Jorge Dias made all of my memories of serving as a missionary even sweeter.

Two weeks after I got my driver’s license, my parents let me take the car for the whole day. I was ecstatic! I couldn’t wait to go driving around town. That morning in my prayers I had a strong feeling to pray for safety and that the Holy Spirit would guide and direct me. I hopped into the car and headed to town to do some shopping with my sister. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt driving. But I was uneasy. I had a feeling that at sometime during the day some sort of obstacle would be in the road and I would have to stop suddenly. I wondered if I was just nervous because it was my first time driving alone. I decided to drive slower than usual. I drove all day without incident but still had that feeling. When we headed home, it was dark out, and we had a 45-minute drive home in the country. I decided to drive about 5–10 miles under the speed limit. Just as I came around a bend, I saw a deer standing in the middle of the road. I had to quickly slam on my brakes to stop. I stopped a couple of feet in front of the deer, which just walked off, leaving us with our hearts pounding. I couldn’t believe how close it was. I know if I had not been warned by the Holy Ghost and had been going faster, I would have hit that deer. I am so grateful to have the Holy Ghost guiding and protecting me.

Even without Isabela Quiroga to worry about, that day was every bit as discouraging as all the others I had struggled through in Bolivia. Like every other morning of my week-old mission, the heavy rain of a monsoon squall had quickly beat the dirt until it danced in muddy splashes, and just as quickly had rolled away over the flat horizon. By the time Elder Skye and I started our trudge through the muddy streets of Montero, the sun was milking the moisture out of the ground in a heavy vapor that rolled over our skin. As usual, Elder Skye led the way while I followed behind, wiping the sweat off my face and picking at the shirt plastered to my body.
“Why do we have to go back there?” I asked him. “After all, she said ‘Come by if you can.’ Let’s just go home for lunch and tell her we were busy.”
“You don’t understand,” Elder Skye told me. “We’ve gotta go back. You’ll see how it is after you’ve been here awhile.”
The only thing I understood right then was that I wouldn’t be able to eat anything at Isabela’s house. As I followed Elder Skye’s confidently squared shoulders through streets I didn’t ever expect to be able to tell apart, I longed for the assurance I had felt one short week before.
On the flight down from Miami, I had joked with the other missionaries about the stern warnings we received from our teachers in the Missionary Training Center. Our brash enthusiasm let us laugh at all their talk of strange foods, alien customs, and a way of life that was far less comfortable than the one we’d known. Nothing could intimidate brand-new missionaries with new suits, shiny shoes, and a spiritual high—at least that’s what I thought.
That confidence in my ability to cope began to fade almost as soon as I stepped off the jet into the thick, moist air of the Bolivian lowlands. The first day in mud-bound Montero, my cozy optimism was replaced by shock almost as fast as my shiny new shoes were replaced with knee-high rubber boots. Not one sight, sound, or sensation was familiar. The language everyone spoke bore little resemblance—in either speed or accent—to the Spanish I had been practicing. There was everything to learn from scratch. When I arrived in Montero from the mission home, I couldn’t even hail a taxi, and ended up dragging my suitcases across town to meet my companion.
Sights, sounds, smells. Learning to clap before entering a dooryard, making purchases in a bustling market without checkout stands. The hundreds of new images of that first week kept me awake at night, trying to sort them all out.
That particular morning, however, it was a stateside memory that preoccupied me. As we neared Isabela’s house, I was remembering with recently acquired fear that someone had told me, “Don’t eat in the homes of the poor people.”
For several days before Isabela’s lunch invitation, my maladjustment to Bolivia had reached the point where I couldn’t even eat in our own apartment. My appetite disappeared every time I found myself facing a plate of guiso or a strangely-spiced soup. Even the vaguely American dishes prepared by that kind sister couldn’t overcome the problems of a stomach—and a mind—that had never been south of the border before.
Just when I began to seriously worry that I might not be able to make it in Bolivia, Isabela invited us to come to lunch the next day and doubled my distress. The home where Isabela lived with her five children was the type I had been warned about. The adobe walls of the lot enclosed a mud courtyard, two rooms with only beds and chairs for furniture, and a ceilingless kitchen where the clay tiles showed above the rafters. The money Isabela made selling vegetables in the marketplace couldn’t pay for anything more.
On our previous visits, Elder Skye and I had sat on the only two chairs while Isabela and her children crowded the beds. In their rapt attention to the discussions, they didn’t notice how uncomfortable I was in those meager surroundings. That uneasiness, however, was nothing compared to the alarm I felt when Elder Skye accepted the invitation to actually eat in their home. Twenty-four anxious hours later, as we headed down her street, I was so afraid my stomach hurt.
As we approached the house, the little boy watching the street ran inside to let Isabela know we were coming. At the open gate, we paused and Elder Skye clapped his hands, bringing the boy flying out again to take us both by the hand and laugh, “Pasen, pasen no mas!” “Come in, just come in!” Elder Skye laughed with him as he tugged us across the flat stepping-stones dropped in the mud, and I looked around the courtyard and remembered that the elders in the mission home had said the water in Montero had amoebas.
At the door to the kitchen, we paused to kick the clods from our boots. In the middle of the room Isabela and her sons and daughters stood around a table set with only two places. With a guilty feeling, I realized she had never doubted we would come.
“Pasen, sientense.” “Come in, sit down.”
With simple grace, Isabela offered us her two chairs, her smile showing her pleasure that we had come to eat at her table. Isabela was a short, quiet woman with the harshness of Bolivian widowhood etched in her face, her sinewy arms, and her strong brown hands. Nevertheless, there was beauty in the dignity, strength, and kindness evident in the features inherited from her Inca ancestors.
Once we were seated, the children clustered around the table, their smiles flashing in their dark faces. They joked with Elder Skye and laughed when I didn’t understand the Quechua words they mingled with their Spanish. Coming back from the stove, Isabela shooed them away and set a steaming bowl of gray mush before each of us. With the poetic phrasing of her Kolla people, she told us, “He esperado su buenallegada con trigo.” “I have awaited your good arrival with wheat.” Then, while our sweat dripped onto her table, she asked us to forgive her for not having anything better to offer.
I almost trembled as I looked at that bowl of boiled wheat. But then a strange thing happened. As Elder Skye offered a blessing and I sat with my eyes closed, another voice replaced his in my mind. “I have awaited your good arrival with wheat.” Amidst all the jumbled images of the past seven days, those words were something I finally understood. I realized how much that gruel meant to the family, and that they would wait until we left to share what remained in the pot. When Elder Skye finished, I stared at my bowl for a long time, and then, with a look at Isabela’s smile, I ate the wheat.
In the months that followed that meal, I learned to love Bolivia and its food. I ate chicharrón and picante, and not only survived, but thrived. I also grew to love the people I met, and again and again during my stay there, I experienced through them the joy the gospel brings to those who embrace it. Isabela’s act of Christ-like love helped me to put aside my own cares and serve others, and I never forgot the words that were so sweet and delicious to a lonely and discouraged soul.

Dr. William Ghormley served as president of the stake in Corpus Christi, Texas. He bought his gasoline at a particular station. Each time he filled his tank he would leave a piece of Church literature with the station owner. It might have been a tract or a Church magazine or the Church News, but he never went there without leaving something. The man who ran the station was converted by the power of the Spirit as he read that literature. When last I checked, he was serving as a bishop.

Until the white man came and explained that he was a collector of fossils, agates, and semiprecious stones for an eastern museum, Black Otter had not realized that these colorful rocks might have value. The man laid out many rock specimens to show the various stones he was seeking. “I have not come to cheat you,” he said. “These samples are not as valuable as diamonds and rubies, but I have brought brass and iron pots, good hunting knives, and metal fishhooks to trade.”

The man looked disappointed when nothing was offered. The tribe was very poor. The people wore many necklaces but they were fashioned of drilled bone, claws, or hard seeds, not colorful stones. The specimen hunter saw how the Indians admired the trade goods when he began to pack up. Their fishhooks were thick bone ones that allowed many fish to escape. Now he selected a large and small metal fishhook for each brave and presented them as gifts.

Black Otter had stayed back in the crowd, timid about approaching the white man. But he had watched his mother’s eyes that kept returning to the largest cooking pot. It was made of black iron with legs and a hook for hanging over a fire. Hesitantly, he stepped forward and laid the smallest of his three rocks near a similar specimen. Black Otter’s rock was clearer and gave off more colors in the sunlight.

The man examined the stone, then he smiled and offered a skinning knife and a small mound of fishhooks in trade. His smile faded and he sighed regretfully when Black Otter pointed to the iron pot. “I’m sorry, but your crystal is not worth that much,” he said. The youth felt that the man was being honest. He obviously wanted the rock.

The white man caught his breath when the Indian boy pulled out the two larger stones. When the deal was finished, Black Otter owned the pot, a razor-sharp hatchet, two fine knives, one for hunting and the other with many blades that folded into the handle, and a mound of fishhooks. Such sudden wealth stunned his parents. They’d never expected to own such things.

Black Otter was disturbed by the envious looks on the faces of his tribesmen. The youth did not want envy to set his family apart from the rest of the tribe. The price of jealousy could mean the loss of their friendship. “If I bring many stones, will you return with tools and utensils for all my people?” Black Otter quietly asked. The man agreed to return with a larger supply of trade goods, and so the youth had set out to search for the beautiful cavern.

Many years ago I attended a stake conference in Star Valley, Wyoming, where the stake presidency was reorganized. The stake president who was being released, E. Francis Winters, had served faithfully for the lengthy term of 23 years. Though modest by nature and circumstance, he had been a perpetual pillar of strength to everyone in the valley. On the day of the stake conference, the building was filled to overflowing. Each heart seemed to be saying a silent thank-you to this noble leader who had given so unselfishly of his life for the benefit of others.

As I stood to speak, I was prompted to do something I had not done before, nor have I done so since. I stated how long Francis Winters had presided in the stake; then I asked all whom he had blessed or confirmed as children to stand and remain standing. Then I asked all those persons whom President Winters had ordained, set apart, personally counseled, or blessed to please stand. The outcome was electrifying. Every person in the audience rose to his or her feet. Tears flowed freely—tears which communicated better than could words the gratitude of tender hearts. I turned to President and Sister Winters and said, “We are witnesses today of the prompting of the Spirit. This vast throng reflects not only individual feelings but also the gratitude of God for a life well lived.” No person who was in the congregation that day will forget how he or she felt when we witnessed the language of the Spirit of the Lord.

Here, in Francis Winters, was “an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity.”

One of grandfather’s finest qualities, and the one that I’d like to make the focus of this article, was his ability to forgive. Examples from his journal are many. Reading them has not only built up our love and respect for him, but it has given my family a greater desire and determination to live this same principle.
In grandfather’s journal dated September 28, 1906, we find the following: “As I piled my hay and did my work, I took twelve piles and stuck over the fence to my neighbor, as they had no hay for the horse and cows; and we could see a little gone from our area the night before.” He declared, “I would rather give them a little than have them steal.”
The Savior taught us this principle of forgiving and how important it is in our lives. He said: “Wherefore, I say unto you, that ye ought to forgive one another; for he that forgiveth not his brother his trespasses standeth condemned before the Lord; for there remaineth in him the greater sin.
“I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.
“And ye ought to say in your hearts—Let God judge between me and thee, and reward thee according to thy deeds.” (D&C 64:9–11.)
When we forgive men in our hearts and let the Lord judge the acts of men, we create a condition whereby men can live in peace with one another. Forgiving others frees us of ill feelings toward them. It lifts the burden of grudges from our heads, and it puts us in a position of seeking forgiveness from the Lord for our own sins. A spirit of forgiveness enables us to remain in control of our thoughts, words, and actions. An attitude of forgiveness generates a feeling of peace and optimism about life. Being forgiving helps us to keep from being easily offended, and we are less likely to judge the intentions of others in a negative way. We are also ready to accept correction and criticism ourselves. In times when we may be wronged or mistreated, we can, in the spirit of love and peace, work out solutions to the problems. We can determine a positive course of action. If an honorable agreement cannot be reached, the attitude of forgiveness provides us the strength to turn the other cheek in the spirit of love.
On one occasion some men were constructing a watering gate in a canal on grandfather’s farm. He noticed that they were placing the gate in the wrong location. He tried to persuade them to put the gate in a location that they had originally agreed upon. The foreman became angry. He said, “Johansen, that will be enough from you. We’re going to do just as we please.” Grandfather replied, “And so will all robbers.” Then he began to sing the words of a Danish song that begins, “Be careful what you say.” These words were a reminder to him to remain forgiving. The men continued to build the watering gate, but the gate did grandfather very little good. He never mentioned the wrong that these men had done to him, but he often recorded how he had to pray for rain because he could get so little water from the canal. He also records that the rain came.
Yes, prayer is a very important part of the spirit of forgiveness. We must ask the Lord to forgive those who offend us and soften our hearts toward them. Through prayer we may find the strength to forgive others and leave their judging in the hands of the Lord. We also receive comfort and direction for our own lives. Grandfather Johansen’s life has demonstrated the value of living the principles of forgiveness and obedience. His faith in the Lord enabled him to live a full and happy life, a life which has left his posterity a rich spiritual heritage. I am grateful to him and to my Heavenly Father that my family are the beneficiaries of that righteous man.

The lump in my throat continued to grow as I slowly walked to the front of the room. I was a senior in high school, and this was my last Young Women in Excellence presentation. As I faced the audience of young women, parents, and leaders, I realized that my years of theater and speech experience were not going to help that night.
What I was about to repeat was different from some script or prepared speech. This was when I had to demonstrate that I had completed the challenge that was more difficult than I could have ever imagined.
The challenge began about six months earlier on a Wednesday night as the young women in my ward sat in the gym at our building and focused on Personal Progress. The excitement I had about Personal Progress as a Beehive had faded, and as a 17-year-old Laurel, I had adopted the belief that I had better things to do. I just wasn’t interested in picking my last two value projects, but that didn’t stop my Young Women president, Sister Widener, from trying to motivate me to get them done.
As I flipped through the Personal Progress book just to make Sister Widener happy, I came to the suggested projects under Faith. I read the suggestion to memorize “The Living Christ” and explained to Sister Widener that I could easily do that. I had memorized plenty of lines to plays in my life, so memorizing “The Living Christ” would be easy. It would never take 10 whole hours. My dedicated Young Women president took this as an opportunity to challenge me. She told me that it might not be as easy as I thought it would be. I would do it, she would do it too, and we could make it into a challenge to see who could finish first.
I may have thought that Personal Progress was below my maturity level, but I was never too old for a good challenge. I agreed to the challenge and memorized the first paragraph by the end of Mutual that night.
Though I never forgot the challenge, I got distracted during the summer months and put memorizing at the bottom of my list. Sister Widener stayed focused and completed the challenge in a just a few months. Sister Widener promised me that if I would commit myself again to finishing the challenge, it would change my life. I didn’t really believe her, but I didn’t want to be viewed as a loser either. So I decided that reciting “The Living Christ” would be my final Young Women in Excellence presentation.
As I stood before the audience that night, I was confident that I knew the words well enough to recite them. It had taken many more hours than I had expected, and I was happy that I would finally be able to prove that I could do it. As I got to the third paragraph, I began to realize that this was not going to be as easy as I had expected. Tears filled my eyes as I repeated the words: “He was arrested and condemned on spurious charges, convicted to satisfy a mob, and sentenced to die on Calvary’s cross. He gave His life to atone for the sins of all mankind. His was a great vicarious gift in behalf of all who would ever live upon the earth.”
The tears began to fall, and though I knew the words, in front of the audience that night I stopped and couldn’t say a thing. Those words truly meant something to me. I wasn’t just reciting lines to complete a challenge—I was testifying of Jesus Christ. I was testifying of His life, love, and sacrifice for me and for everyone else in that room. And I knew it was true, because I could feel the Spirit stronger than I ever had before as I bore that testimony.
I looked at Sister Widener, who smiled as she wiped away her own tears. I finally understood what she meant when she told me that if I would just finish the challenge, my life would be changed. I took a deep breath and completed my presentation. The tears didn’t stop falling until I had finished speaking and was back in my seat.
The simple challenge extended to me by a loving Young Women president had changed my life. That night I gained a testimony of Personal Progress. I realized that the challenges presented to me as a young woman could provide me with experiences to learn and grow through the Spirit. I had felt the Spirit in a way that I had never experienced as I recited the testimony of Jesus Christ given to us by our prophet and Apostles. That testimony became my own. I had gained a real and true testimony of my Savior Jesus Christ. I better knew and loved Him, and I knew that He knows and loves me.
Sister Widener gave me a framed copy of “The Living Christ” that night. Six years later it still hangs on my wall and reminds me of the night that I came to better know my Savior and the love He has for me. And I still know, just as surely as I did when I repeated the words that night, that “He is the light, the life, and the hope of the world. His way is the path that leads to happiness in this life and eternal life in the world to come.”

A true story from the USA.
“Why don’t we go to church anymore?”
Sadie had asked her parents this question several times. Usually her mom just shook her head and looked almost as sad as Sadie felt. “There are a lot of reasons,” she would say at last. Sadie didn’t understand.
Just before her family had stopped going to church, her parents had let her be baptized. Sadie was happy about that, but she wished her parents would take her to church even if they didn’t want to stay. She really missed going to Primary.
Her family still did fun things together. In the fall, they hiked in the mountains. They had picnics at the park and played frisbee. They went to the play her older brother was in.
In December she and her family took plates of treats to friends and neighbors. They decorated the Christmas tree together. They spent a Saturday sledding in the snow and came home for hot chocolate and homemade donuts.
Sadie liked doing these things, but she missed going to church more than ever. She missed singing Christmas hymns and listening to talks about the birth of Jesus Christ.
This year Christmas was on Sunday. Her friend told her that the Primary was singing in sacrament meeting on Christmas morning. Sadie loved to sing.
“Can we go to church just this Sunday?” Sadie asked her parents. “Please? The Primary is singing, and I want to be there.”
Her parents looked at each other, then back at Sadie. “I’m sorry,” Dad said, “but we can’t. Not this year.”
Sadie held onto the hope that her family might go back to church someday, but that didn’t help her this Christmas.
On Christmas morning, Sadie felt the familiar excitement of gathering around the Christmas tree and opening presents with her family. She thought about how much she loved her parents and big brother and knew that they loved her.
Mom made their favorite breakfast—chocolate-chip pancakes piled high with whipped cream. "Best breakfast ever," her brother said after having two full plates. Everyone agreed.
After she helped clean up, Sadie went to her room. She thought about the Primary children singing in church and did her best not to be sad that she wasn’t there.
Sadie looked around her room for something to do. Her eyes landed on a box of colored pencils. Suddenly she had an idea. Even if she couldn’t go to church right now, maybe she could still bring Jesus into her day.
She found a piece of paper and started drawing a picture of the Nativity scene—baby Jesus in the manger, Mary and Joseph watching over him, and shepherds gathered around them all. She sang “Away in a Manger” to herself as she drew.
When she finished her picture, she took it to the kitchen and used a magnet to put it on the refrigerator door. Her parents and older brother didn’t say anything, but they did smile.
Sadie felt good. She couldn’t change how her family felt about going to church. But she could still keep Christ and Christmas in her heart.

When Noah moved here, his new friends helped him adjust to life on the island. Now, as the oldest in the group, he’s helping them get used to life in Young Men. “I was worried about being accepted and getting to know the others,” Noah said about starting Young Men. “Going to the activities really helped.” Noah’s favorite Primary song is about the army of Helaman, and that’s how he sees the priesthood quorum—as being together, united.
His advice? “Be yourself.”

Wong Yun Tai has no problem remembering the warm September evening in 1984. Two missionaries were tracting in the Wu Yuet House, a government housing project in the Tuen Mun area of Hong Kong’s New Territories where the Wong family lived. On the 21st floor, 15-year-old Wong Yun Tai, who goes by the English name of Belle, was eating dinner when a knock came at her door. Two strangers wearing ties, white shirts, and curious black name tags were talking to her through the metal gate that remained locked even though the door was open.
Belle was busy eating, so she told her two visitors to come back in an hour. “I was interested in religion, and I really wanted to know what was true. I just didn’t know which church was true. It was just like Joseph Smith. I really wanted to know which church was God’s true church,” recalls Belle.
When the missionaries returned, she listened politely to their message. Afterward, they gave her a Book of Mormon to read, closed with prayer, and then left. It was a simple meeting with powerful results. “When I prayed, I had a very unique, good feeling in my heart,” she says.
A month later, Belle was baptized. Then the real work began. Belle, the second oldest child of Wong Hong Tsuen and Wong Leung Nan Ho, wanted her parents and brothers and sisters to experience the same gospel joy that had become such an important part of her life. Belle began sharing what she had learned. And now, 11 years later, she’s still sharing.

As we come to the close of another conference, our spirits have been lifted, our minds inspired, and our souls filled.
The messages delivered at this pulpit have provided words of counsel and guidance for our journey through mortality. The prayers have been offered with humility, and their petitions reflect the feelings of our hearts. The angelic music provided by the choirs at each session has confirmed the Lord’s words that “the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads” (D&C 25:12).
We sincerely regret that President Ezra Taft Benson has been unable to be with us here in the Tabernacle. Nonetheless, we have felt his spirit throughout the proceedings. His love of the Lord, for the membership of the Church, and for God’s children everywhere is legendary. His many acts of kindness have blessed the lives of those with whom he has met everywhere he has gone.
One Friday, he and Sister Benson followed their usual practice of attending a session at the Jordan River Temple. While there, President Benson was approached by a young man who greeted him with joy in his heart and announced that he had been called to fill a full-time mission. President Benson took the newly called missionary by the hand and, with a smile on his lips, declared, “Take me with you! Take me with you!” That missionary testified that, in a way, he took President Benson with him on his mission, since this greeting demonstrated President Benson’s abiding love, his devotion to missionary work, and his desire to ever be found in the service of the Lord.
With the rapidly developing changes on the face of Europe, we remember President Benson’s great service to the hungry and to the homeless on that continent at the close of World War II. In attendance today is one who was the recipient of such service. She recently wrote to President Benson: “This is the first time in my life that I am here in Salt Lake City to attend general conference. I hope you will remember our first acquaintance in the autumn of 1946 in Langen, Germany. You and I will never forget the remarkable days following the Second World War. We will never forget your help for the refugees in those sad days. Now, forty-four years have gone, and we have both grown older. I wish you happiness and the blessings of the Lord all the days of your life and send you all my love.”
If President Benson were here at the pulpit at this, the conclusion of the final session of this glorious conference, he would extend to you his love, his admonitions, and his blessing. May I, with President Benson’s own words, provide you his counsel:
“Let us be valiant in our testimony of Jesus all the days of our lives” (Come unto Christ [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1983], p. 16).
“His word is one of the most valuable gifts He has given us. I urge you to recommit yourselves to a study of the scriptures. Immerse yourselves in them daily so you will have the power of the Spirit to attend you. … Read them in your families and teach your children to love and treasure them” (“The Power of the Word,” Ensign, May 1986, p. 82).
“It is soul-satisfying to know that God is mindful of us and ready to respond when we place our trust in Him and do that which is right. There is no place for fear among men and women who place their trust in the Almighty and who do not hesitate to humble themselves in seeking divine guidance through prayer. Though persecutions arise, though reverses come, in prayer we can find reassurance, for God will speak peace to the soul. That peace, that spirit of serenity, is life’s greatest blessing” (“Pray Always,” Ensign, Feb. 1990, p. 5).
He continues: “I am getting older and less vigorous and am so grateful for your prayers and for the support of my younger Brethren. I thank the Lord for renewing my body from time to time so that I can still help build His kingdom. … God willing, I intend to spend all my remaining days in that glorious effort” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1988, p. 5; or Ensign, Nov. 1988, p. 6).
President Benson is a man of love, and this love he would have me extend to you in his behalf. He has a beautiful voice and has often sung the melodic strains of a favorite hymn:
God be with you till we meet again;
By his counsels guide, uphold you;
With his sheep securely fold you.
God be with you till we meet again.
God be with you till we meet again;
When life’s perils thick confound you,
Put his arms unfailing round you.
God be with you till we meet again.
[Hymns, 1985, no. 152]
To the membership of the Church and to God’s children everywhere, our prophet, President Ezra Taft Benson, conveys to you the tender feelings of his heart, his gratitude for your prayers, and his abiding love. God be with you, brothers and sisters, till we meet again, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Teenagers in Taiwan have to get up at 5:00 a.m. to go to seminary at 5:30. This is a very big challenge for me because I have a lot of exams and homework. So I have often been late for seminary. Originally, I blamed the Church for making me get up so early. But my parents advised me to pray and ask Heavenly Father for help.
At first, I thought Heavenly Father couldn’t help me. But one night I knelt down by the bed and prayed, asking God to help me find the reason I couldn’t sleep enough. After that, I reviewed my routine. I saw that I wasted a lot of time before bed.
Now I try to go to bed earlier. I pray before bed, thanking God for giving me happiness and peace and for the guidance of the Holy Spirit.
I pray before bed, thanking God for giving me happiness and peace and for the guidance of the Holy Spirit.

Inside the locker room, you could hear the fans cheering. The Iowa, USA, women’s high school varsity basketball championship game was about to begin. The team in black jerseys—who’d clawed their way into the finals—were ready.
Sixteen girls listened attentively to an inspiring pump-up speech from team manager Hailey B., 16.
In her pregame speech, Hailey told them, “We’ve worked hard for this the entire season, and now it’s our chance to prove we can be champions.” Then they stormed the court as the crowd roared.
Oh, and by the way, Hailey’s team won the state title, 46-42.

I came to a significant awareness of the power of my mother’s faith and prayers when I was 11 years old. During Christmas vacation our family took a trip to a nearby winter resort for a day of ice skating, tubing, and sleigh riding. Friends were included, and the group expanded to fill two cars. My father led the way, driving one car with his father, my older sister, and several of her girlfriends. My mother followed in our smaller car with my younger brother, Ron, and sister Gini in the front. Our Lamanite foster-sister, a girlfriend of mine, and I were in the back.
The road leading to our destination followed an icy and fairly rapid river. We were almost there and spirits were high in our car with lots of laughing and singing when an urgent, “Oh, no!” from my mother diverted our attention. Suddenly we were tumbled about and submerged in the freezing river. An important part of the steering mechanism of the car had broken, and the car had slid down the embankment and turned upside down in the river. The car landed on a big boulder and was not completely submerged, but only the wheels and parts of the underside were above water. Mother, Ron, and Gini were all thrown into the backseat. Several of the windows had been shattered, and water filled the car except for an occasional pocket of air that had risen into the floor wells and become trapped as we were beneath the water.
Meanwhile, on the road above, traffic stopped in both directions and people poured out of their cars. A man was first to get to the edge of the embankment, and as two more men came running up he observed, “It was clear full of people and they’re gone. They’re gone.” Not waiting to hear any more the second pair plunged down the bank and began struggling with the car doors. When they realized the doors on the shore side were jammed fast, they found a broken window, kicked away the broken glass, and reaching through found what must have seemed like countless floundering legs and arms.
Inside the car, on the opposite side, Mother managed to find an air pocket and gasped quickly, “Push against me.” Ron was the only one that heard and comprehended. He tried to help as she struggled to push the door open against the current. She got one leg and one arm through and then managed to pull herself and Ron out and push him on the top (which was actually the bottom) of the car. The pressure of the water pushing against the door left her leg and arm bruised black as coal for many days after.
By the time Mother got Ron and herself out of the car, Dad realized, up ahead, that something was wrong. Never dreaming it was his own family but knowing if there was trouble Mom would stop to help, he pulled over and ran back to see if he could help also. You can imagine the shock he felt when he saw his daughters being tossed from the river to the bank by the two men who had pulled us through the window of the back door. Ron was sitting on the bottom of the car and Mother was still clinging to the side in the middle of the river. Dad crashed down the bank to the river, and, ignoring a warning that it was deep, tossed Ron to the men on the bank and pulled Mother from the water. I remember seeing them standing on the bottom of the car with water churning around them counting us over and over as the people on the bank kindly wrapped us in blankets.
Miraculously we were all safe and no one was seriously hurt. It was a miracle and an answer to prayer. After we got home and the full realization of what had happened came, I walked into my parents’ room and found my mom crying quietly in Dad’s arms. One of the things she said that I will never forget was that when she realized she had absolutely no control of the car and we were slipping down the bank toward the water she only had time to pray silently, “O Father in Heaven,” before we hit the water. I had no doubt then, and have none now, that Heavenly Father heard the desperate beginnings of my mother’s prayer and answered the yet unspoken plea of a daughter who had been faithful and prayerful all her life.

Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks (1948–2020), the former chief rabbi of the United Kingdom, once spoke of attending a football match at Highbury Stadium (home to Arsenal) with the archbishop of Canterbury. Arsenal was playing Manchester United. After the public address announcer noted the religious leaders’ presence, Rabbi Sacks said, “You could hear the buzz go around the ground that whichever way you played this particular theological wager, one way or another, that night, Arsenal had friends in high places. They couldn’t possibly lose.

“That night,” he added, “Arsenal went down to their worst home defeat in sixty-three years.”

The next day a British newspaper ran an article that said, no doubt in jest, that if the presence of these two prominent religious leaders couldn’t bring about a victory for Arsenal, then “does this not finally prove that God does not exist?” To which Rabbi Sacks rejoined, “It proves that God exists. It’s just that he supports Manchester United.”

Rabbi Sacks said this amusing story contains seeds of serious insight about the importance of interfaith and global harmony. “What if God is not only on my side, but also on the other side?” he asked. “What if God cares about the game, not just the team? … Our common humanity precedes our religious differences.”2

When they reached the starting point on the Moose River, Sister Lamb, the activity specialist, showed the girls how to load the canoes and took her place in the first one. As the canoe began floating away, she called to Kim Barclay still standing on shore, “Kim, throw me a paddle.” At the same instant that Kim tossed her one, Sister Lamb added, “Make sure it’s one that floats.” It was too late to check. As the paddle slapped the water, it floated.
The six canoes started drifting down the river towards Nina-Moose Lake, and it was time to check the maps. Each boat had one in a waterproof bag. Quickly the girls learned that portages are measured in rods and that there are 320 rods to the mile. They scanned the map, mentally figuring the length of the portages that lay ahead—“25 rods, how far would that be? Oh no, here’s one that’s 120 rods.” At the end of the first day, after having made seven portages, ranging from 24 to 96 rods, the numbers on the map started to take on new meaning as the distances were measured in shaky legs and sore shoulders.
Soon the girls started taking on the same attitude that the original French voyageurs had about making portages. They were willing to carry incredible amounts, often carrying nearly their own weight in packs and equipment, rather than make two trips across the portage with lighter loads. Sitting on a rock waiting for the others to make it across one of the longer portages, Sarah Crompton said, “I thought I couldn’t make it until I got to the end. Then it didn’t seem so bad.”
In the evening, camp was set up in designated campsites, and the girls showed off their outdoor cooking skills. Instant pudding was prepared with red-tinged but safe-to-drink lake water. It was hard to mix smooth with just a spoon, but hunger makes for nonfussy eaters. Lumps were okay with everyone.
The girls could make a pan of boiling water into mashed potatoes and creamed chicken or spaghetti enough to serve ten. But there are limits to what a campfire can do. As Brenda Crepeau was reading the recipe from the back of the box of skillet lasagna, she asked, tongue in cheek, “How do I turn the oven to 400 degrees? I don’t see any knobs on this fire!”
Evening camp was a time to swim in the pure water of the lakes and just relax tired arms from paddling and tired legs from hiking. The sunsets made the water shimmer as it turned the surrounding forested hills into silhouetted sentinels. The loons, with their haunting cries, floated low in the water, their white speckled backs catching the last rays of light. As soon as the last blush of sunset faded from the sky, an annoying buzz rose like a cloud from the damp grass. The mosquitoes were better than any clock to indicate that it was bedtime. It was time to suspend all the food packs high between two trees out of the reach of marauding bears.
One morning, as soon as all six canoes were loaded and launched, the group met in the middle of the lake. The girls held on to the gunnels of neighboring canoes as maps were unfolded and the course for the day discussed. According to the map there seemed to be two choices. Either they could paddle across the lake, unload, and hike across a 120-rod portage, or they could stay in their canoes and attempt to paddle up a small stream to the neighboring lake.
To the girls there seemed to be no question—anything to get out of unloading the canoes and portaging. Stake President Hennebry, who along with his counselors were accompanying the girls as priesthood advisers, pointed out some potential problems. Nobody in the group had been this way before. No one was absolutely sure that the stream on the map would be wide enough to handle a canoe. The portage was steep and difficult, but it was a sure thing. It was the group’s decision. They would take a vote.
The thought of missing a long, hard portage was enticing. The majority was willing to take a chance on what seemed to be the easier route, the stream.
When the first canoe reached the mouth of the stream, it was blocked by a beaver dam. “No problem,” said Andrea Miles, Karen Johnson, and Ganine Conner, “we’ll pull our canoe over the dam and scout on ahead and see what the stream looks like.”
It was deceiving. Because of the beaver dam, the stream widened into a pond and looked at first like it was going to be the easy route everyone hoped it would be. All six canoes were lured in, and they followed the twisting, curving stream. Another beaver dam was crossed, then another. The stream was getting so narrow that the canoeists could hardly fit a paddle between the edge of the canoe and the bank.
The stream became shallow, and the girls had to get out and walk. At first, everyone tried to keep her shoes dry, but as one by one they slipped off of dry footing and into the sticky mud, they gave up and tried to wade. The mud was waist deep, and they had to tow the canoes behind them. The sucking, gooey mud pulled at each leg with every step. They abandoned any hope of staying clean and dry. But where was the next lake? Wouldn’t it be around the next curve, or the next? Finally their leaders said that it was hopeless. The stream was becoming nothing more than a swamp, and still the lake was nowhere in sight.
Tired, muddy, and discouraged, the girls turned their canoes around and started back the way they came. Only it was harder getting out than it had been getting in. They had broken the beaver dams during their entrance, and the water had drained out of the ponds leaving them high, but certainly not dry.
After slogging through a mile or so of mud, the last canoe was again back at the starting point. After rinsing off and climbing back in their canoes, the group gathered for a moment of thought. They had wasted the whole morning in a useless attempt to find an easy way. Now they would have to turn around and take the long portage, the trail so clearly marked that would take them to the next lake. The comparisons to life were only too obvious. As the girls tried to clean up a bit, rest, and eat lunch, they were subdued as they thought about their experience. Slowly, they began to draw analogies to their own lives.
Sister Rice, the Young Women president said, “Much of the time we think we can gamble and take the easy way, but it often gives us nothing but grief. We became mired down so we could hardly move, but we repented of our decision and turned around. It was hard just getting back to where we had started from. If we had been wise, we would have taken the ‘straight and narrow’ way, the portage, and been ahead.”
Later at the last night fireside, President Hennebry again reminded the girls of their experience. “You’ve experienced something you can relate to life. But on this trip you can remember the experience without remembering the pain. Satan has a map which marks what seems to be the easy way that will still get you where you want to go. It’s an attractive lie. Just like our experience in the swamp. At first the barriers were easy to cross, but it made it so much harder to come out. In life if you find that you have chosen the wrong stream, no matter how hard it is, repent and come back.”
The lesson on making decisions was a valuable one. The girls learned from it and remembered. Throughout the rest of the trip, if anyone jokingly asked, “Hey, there’s a stream on this map. Do you think we ought to try it?” they would be shouted down with a loud, “No, thanks.”
The trip of nearly 50 miles and 8 lakes was tough, but there were few complaints. Karen Chase noticed this especially, “It’s amazing to see people’s talents. It’s been great to be together, and I didn’t hear a single complaint.”
The trip was a confidence builder for Michelle and Brenda Schroeder. “I didn’t realize what we were getting into, but it’s beautiful,” said Michelle. Then with an arm around her sister, Brenda, she said, “And I’ve been glad to be with my sister before she goes away to college.”
Brenda had her own thoughts on the trip. “I thought I would die. I didn’t think I could carry any of that stuff, but I did. Then I knew I could do it again.”
On the last day as the group was heading back to the parking lot to meet the van and truck that were to pick them up, Sonda Donley, loaded with two heavy packs, one in front and the other on her back, was smiling but walking slowly uphill on the final portage. She said, “I feel fine. I just wish I could pick up my feet.”
After returning the canoes to the outfitter, washing their faces in the luxury of hot running water out of a tap, and combing their hair in front of a real mirror, the Summiteers spread out a map and mentally retraced their route.
When their fingers stopped at Gebeonequet Lake and the stream that went nowhere, they made a resolve. On future canoe trips and in their own lives, they would follow the correct paths. And because of their associations with fine leaders and advisers and by relying on their Heavenly Father, they knew that their feet would be guided as was promised in the scriptures.
“I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things I will do unto them, and not forsake them” (Isa. 42:16).