Gospel Story Finder

Over the last hours I have come to understand other blessings from “always remembering him.” I thought of a family in Albuquerque, New Mexico, I met years ago: a father, mother, and two teenage daughters who belonged to no church but read the Bible together every day. They pondered the Savior’s life and his words. When we found them they had decided that Christ would have a church and that they should find it. They knew that it would have prophets and apostles at its foundation because that is what Christ had left in his church in the meridian of time. They knew that the resurrected Lord had appeared to his Apostles.
And so when we testified that God the Father and his Son, the Savior of the world, came to a boy prophet, Joseph Smith, that seemed right to them. When they heard us testify that Peter, James, and John appeared and restored priesthood, they knew that would have to have happened. And the Holy Spirit, which they also recognized, told them it was true. I realized sometime last night or early this morning that they recognized the truth—that this is the Church of Jesus Christ—in large part because they had always remembered him. Every day they had gathered to read about him and his words, and so they remembered him. And after they were baptized they were ready to follow the living prophet because they knew the Savior always speaks to his prophets to bless his people.

I hated going without showers, eating half-cooked food, and sharing my living quarters with creepy creatures like spiders, yet there I was at girls’ camp. But the truth was I was having the time of my life.
My group was known as the Pink Ladies, and our leader gave each of us bright pink neon shoelaces as our trademark. After enduring five days of rain and cold in the great outdoors, we renamed our group the Pink Penguins.
The rain subsided just long enough to end the week with an evening testimony meeting. My testimony of Christ had been strengthened that week during evening scripture study and gospel discussions with my new friends. During the meeting I thought of my lifestyle at home. I had become friends with girls who were not living up to Church standards. My best friend, Amy, had been telling me how great smoking is and how fun I would be if only I loosened up a bit.
The Spirit had really touched me at camp, and I committed to myself to live a better life when I returned to civilization. I had never borne my testimony before, but I really wanted to this time. As I struggled to muster the courage to stand, I caught a glimpse of the feet of the girls in my group, all of them wearing their pink laces. One by one the girls’ feet carried them to the front where they bore their testimonies.
I looked down at my laces and thought of the love and unity we felt that week and realized I had a terrific support group all around me. With that I stood and headed toward the front. While bearing my testimony, the Spirit was so strong I remember thinking I never wanted to live without it again.

While my mom was expecting my sister Chantel, the whole family tried to guess if she was having a boy or a girl. I was sure it was a boy, since we already had seven girls. We only had three boys, and all of them were older than me. I hoped I was right because it would have been so nice to have a brother who wasn’t big enough to tease me. But when Chantel came to our family, I knew that no one could top this special new girl.
Chantel has Down’s syndrome, which makes it hard for her to learn things quickly. She had to learn sign language because her hearing wasn’t very good. We learned the basics with her and tried to help when we could. We have discovered that Chantel is a peacemaker. When everyone else is fighting or yelling at each other, Chantel is not involved. She is always the one to help us remember that we should be helping, not hurting, each other.
As she grew older, Chan and I became pals. One day I was trying to teach her how to tie her shoelaces. I would show her how to do it and then untie them to let her try. After a while, we both got discouraged. It was hard for Chantel because she couldn’t understand why I didn’t just tie them so she could go play. I lost my patience and began coaxing her with harsh words that were loud and mean. Shocked at my yelling she looked at me with fright in her eyes, and a small tear melted down her cheek. Then she sniffled and pleaded with a soft choked-up voice, “I love you.”
The tables had turned, and now my little sister was teaching me. What I learned that day was something much more important than how to tie a shoe. Even though I was angry and mean, she still loved me. I had tried to teach Chantel something that wasn’t all that important. But in her, I found a Christlike example to follow, an example of forgiveness and kindness.
I can’t think of a more important lesson to learn.

Even on location he is close to his family. In talking about the experience of living with his family during the filming of Cowboy, he said, “We looked like a band of gypsies with everything but the chickens hanging on the side of our truck. We needed mobility, so we modified a motor home to be both production center and living quarters. There is something almost purifying about putting everything of real importance—wife, kids, and cameras (in that order, Honey!)—in a big box with wheels and criss-crossing the heartland of America, pursuing a dream together.
“When I get involved in a project, I become totally consumed with filming, and all my filmmaking equipment and camera gear were right there in the truck. We were totally self-contained, and it was a great feeling of freedom, but only because my family was there. It gave us tremendous perspective of the real values. We have a lovely home in California, and many good friends, and a lot of nice things, but none of them really mattered in comparison.”

Shannon, a young mother, did not expect that she would teach her children the power of prayer when they piled into their van to drive to their home just 40 minutes away. There was no storm when they left their grandmother’s home, but as they began to drive through the canyon, the light snow turned into a blizzard. The van began sliding on the surface of the road. Soon visibility was near zero. The two youngest children could sense the stress of the situation and began to cry. Shannon said to the older children, Heidi and Thomas, ages 8 and 6, “You need to pray. We need Heavenly Father’s help to get home safely. Pray that we will not get stuck and that we will not slide off the road.” Her hands shook as she steered the car, yet she could hear the whisper of little prayers repeatedly coming from the backseat: “Heavenly Father, please help us get home safely; please help us so we will not slide off the road.”
In time the prayers calmed the two little ones, and they stopped their crying just as they learned that a road closure prevented them from driving any farther. Cautiously, they turned around and found a motel for the night. Once in the motel, they knelt down and thanked Heavenly Father for their safety. That night a mother taught her children the power of holding true to prayer.

On the evening of 4 April, TV Successo in Mozambique aired a show that they had never run before. Instead of the usual lineup of evening television programs, the station aired uplifting musical items and inspiring messages from Church leaders around the globe. For the first time ever, this local TV station aired the Sunday morning session of general conference.
It was close to midnight on the same evening when President Russell M. Nelson addressed members of the Church to end the conference. It was then that he announced that several more temples would be built.
“We want to bring the house of the Lord even closer to our members, that they may have the sacred privilege of attending the temple as often as their circumstances allow,” said the prophet.1
“And then,” says Freeman Dickie, who is currently serving as the Beira Mozambique Stake president, “They announced that we were getting a temple in Beira!”
Despite the late hour, “messages were being sent around on the WhatsApp groups. People were awake and celebrating! First, we were able to watch general conference live on TV for the first time, and then the same night came the temple announcement! You can imagine how exciting it was.”

“This is home,” 18-year-old Marcelle Collins said, crossing her arms and looking over her shoulder. Behind her, across the stubble of a fresh-mowed field, the two-story house, the silos, barns, pens, machinery, even the windmill, all said this was farm country.
But the fields said it even more.
Here in the heart of South Dakota the plains are flat and the sky runs forever. The soil is fertile but the work is hard. Here, as on family farms everywhere, life is land and work—and a clinging hope that maybe there will be enough profit to keep things going one more year.
Marcy’s parents, Al and Tonnie, don’t actually own the farm. They rent it. But they’ve lived here long enough to raise a string of children. Debra, Connie, and Dan live in the area. David, 23, is still on the farm, along with Noah and T.J., Marcy’s four-year-old twin nephews. Al and Tonnie are their legal guardians.
Before the nephews came, Marcy was the youngest. Now they seem like little brothers, some days so noisy and into everything that Marcy thinks she’ll be glad to get away from them when, in a few weeks, she leaves for college.
College. It’s a place of changes, Marcy knows. She’s been thinking a lot lately, wondering exactly what it is she’s leaving behind:
The smallness. Gettysburg (say GET-iss-burg, not get-EES-burg), a hometown more like a cluster of farms. Gettysburg High, with a student body of 198, “if you count the junior high kids on the third floor.” The Gettysburg Branch and its Young Women program, much of which has been—you guessed it—Marcy Collins.
Chores and schedules. “You live on a farm, you work,” Marcy explains. She can drive a tractor, operate machinery, grind feed for the pigs. She helps with planting, calving, cutting, harvesting. She gets up at 5:00 A.M. to be ready for seminary, goes to school, then comes home to work at whatever Dad needs help with. Or whatever Mom needs help with. Oh yes, and there’s homework too. And sleep.
But as Marcy makes her list, it also fills with pleasant things:
An LDS neighbor. Lori Thompson, only a year younger, lives a mile down the dirt road. Lori comes up each summer from Denton, Texas, to farm with her parents. “And what a relief just to be able to talk to another Mormon girl my own age,” about things like standards and testimony and spirituality. Together Marcy and Lori were responsible for their branch’s training for girls’ camp, the two of them in charge of five others. All seven certified.
A non-LDS neighbor. Sarah is learning about the Church.
Prayer. The strength of kneeling with her family.
Privacy. The sanctuary of her room, where on her own she can let off steam or study scriptures. She hangs her picture of the Savior there.
Space. The open freedom of the fields, and the beauty of a South Dakota sunset.
It is one year later. Marcy is standing in a field again. Well, not really. She’s standing in a parking lot.
“This is home,” she says, crossing her arms and looking over her shoulder. Behind her, the Manwaring Center, the library, the dorms, the administration building, all say this is Ricks College, Rexburg, Idaho.
But her classes say it even more.
Go with Marcy to the third floor of the Spori Building and watch her draw. It isn’t just a matter of sketching. It’s two and a half hours of analyzing—structure, form, shading, foreshortening. It is listening, observing, imitating as the teacher shows examples from the masters.
Or go to the ceramics lab in the Kirkham Building, where Marcy takes a lump of clay, kneads it to remove the air, then “throws” it, centering it carefully on a wheel, opening it with her thumbs, smoothing it with her fingers, pulling with equal pressure inward, outward, upward. Then, just as it’s taking the form of a vase, Marcy groans. Her fingers have slipped, and the clay twists, ill-shapen and uneven. She cuts it free, kneads it again, and starts over.
This is learning of a fundamental kind, learning by doing. Successes outweigh failures only after hours, weeks, and months. But it’s a learning Marcy is coming to understand.
A year can make a lot of difference. As Marcy stands in the parking lot she makes a list of what she’s found here:
Growth. An understanding of new places, new people, and roommates from as far away as England. A student body of thousands, but a ward where everyone is about her age, and activities and opportunities abound. “The challenge here,” she says, “is to not take the Church for granted.”
Family. The joy of letters from home. “Noah and T. J. are growing fast,” she says. “I really miss them.”
Chores and schedules. Someone has to shop and clean and cook. Someone has to do the laundry. And the schoolwork! “Some days it seems like I live in the labs,” Marcy says. Some days she does.
But Marcy can’t help but add to her list, this time a list of lessons:
Independence. “I’ve learned to rely on myself,” she says. “In college you have to. There’s a law of the harvest in school, too. You do good work, you get good grades.”
Priorities. No matter where you are, turn your life to things that matter. If you’re not with your family, have prayer with your roommates. If you don’t have the sanctuary of a private room, study your scriptures in the hall.
Friends. People who matter will always matter. Sarah and Marcy are still in touch, Lori’s back in Texas, and Marcy’s found a new friend, fellow art student Diedra Newville from Fort Myers, Florida, whose sense of adventure keeps them both from getting overwhelmed by pressure. What’s more, the people who matter most, Marcy’s parents, her brothers, her sisters, are still in the background cheering.
Not long ago, Marcelle Collins got word from her parents that the farm had been sold. They’ve moved to another small town, Faith, South Dakota, where her dad was born. A lot of people might say Marcy can’t go home now. The home in Gettysburg belongs to someone new.
But Marcy knows how to be at home wherever she is. And that’s a lesson more profound than she may realize. Long before she left South Dakota, she left another place, a place she may have been nervous to leave. But she trusted her Father, and so began her journey.
And someday, if she continues to turn toward the things that matter most—things like faith, obedience, and honesty—she’ll return to hear her Father say, “well done.” Maybe at that moment, she’ll cross her arms, look over her shoulder, and say, “This is home.”

It happened in the aftermath of a disaster. A dam in Idaho broke on a June day. A wall of water struck the communities below it. Thousands of people, mostly Latter-day Saints, fled their homes to go to safety.
I was there as the people faced the terrible task of recovery. I saw the stake president gather his bishops to lead the people. We were cut off in those first days from any supervision from outside. I was in the meeting of local leaders when a director from the federal disaster agency arrived.
He tried to take over the meeting. With great force he began to list the things that he said needed to be done. As he read aloud each item, the stake president, who was sitting near him, said quietly, “We’ve already done that.” After that went on for five or ten minutes, the federal official grew silent and sat down. He listened quietly as the stake president took reports from the bishops and gave directions.
For the meeting the next day, the federal disaster official arrived early. He sat toward the back. The stake president began the meeting. He took more reports, and he gave instructions. After a few minutes, the federal official, who had come with all the authority and resources of his great agency, said, “President Ricks, what would you like us to do?”
He recognized power. I saw more. I recognized the evidence of keys and the faith that unlocks their power.

One man who had committed himself to do everything he could to share the gospel with others walked out of his office one day and saw a man running down the hall. He learned this man had stapled his finger. He reached into his big pocket, pulled out Merthiolate and a Band-Aid, and dressed the wound. The shocked individual asked in amazement why he did this. He responded: “I am a Mormon, and Mormons do these things.” This man was prepared to help another whenever possible.

The Filipino lawyer’s residence at 23–24 Higashicho, 2-Chome, Kichijoji, Musashimoshi, 25-minutes away by commuter train from Shibuya station in Tokyo, could have been merely one of many typical Japanese bungalows in the area were it not for some aspects.
His was the only Filipino family in the area. What made it more interesting was the proximity of his home to an institution for Catholic nuns and its sprawling grounds across the street (where his three daughters and a son played after school), to a Protestant minister’s residence at the rear, and to a Mormon chapel a block away where, two years before, his children were invited to front row seats in the cultural hall of the meetinghouse for a live performance of the Osmond Brothers.
With these religious influences in the immediate vicinity of his home, the Filipino was determined to celebrate Christmas Eve, which then fell on a Sunday, in a Christian manner he had not observed for a long time. He was going to erect a big Christmas tree with multicolored lights inside the living room, which could be seen from the outside through huge picture windows facing the street.
That particular Sunday, the lawyer feverishly worked on his indoor Christmas tree, at intervals playing indoor golf practice, drinking, smoking and listening to stereo music. His wife, Alice, had gone to market for the week-end specials she loved to prepare for the family. By lunchtime the “masterpiece” was completed.
As darkness fell, he switched on the colored lights and went outside to assess his handiwork. It was beautiful! His Christmas tree was a spectacular display all the passersby admired. It was like a huge beacon that brightened the entire neighborhood, and his face beamed with pride over the thought that his masterpiece would be the focal point of his best Christmas ever, over a period of eight years living in different places in a foreign country with a different culture.
Later in the evening, as they were about to partake of the traditional Filipino noche buena, his children (Jacqueline, Janette, Jonathan and Jean-Marie) excitedly announced the presence of persons outside. “They are only admiring my Christmas tree!” their father proudly explained.
Suddenly, a superb blending of voices singing in English a hymn unfamiliar to them filled the air like angelic voices in the night. They all rushed to the door. This was the first time in their lives to hear such a beautiful song—harmonizing from the lips of about 16 people, six of whom were American young men. The group had seen the Christmas tree. They were Mormons from the chapel a block away! It was a heart-warming scene as the Filipino family listened to the group, enraptured by a hymn that expressed words of “love at home”.
Suddenly, in the lawyer’s mind, his masterpiece of a Christmas tree had paled in comparison with the heavenly voices of the Mormon group. Suddenly, Christmas Eve for the family was the best ever, as angelic voices were heard in Kichijoji!—Posidio Ocampo, Jr.
Notes: If they get the chance to read this piece, the Japanese members of the group and the six American missionaries who had long returned to the U.S. will fondly recall that, on December 24, 1972, a Filipino family living near the Mormon chapel in Kichijoji opened their home and their hearts to them, and that through their song they planted the seed of the true Church in their hearts.
The Filipino family returned to the Philippines 4 years later and on September 3, 1977 husband and wife (Bro. Adaucto P. Ocampo and Sis. Alice Reyes Ocampo) were baptized in the Marikina chapel.

Louis ran shouting down the hall. “Mommy! Mommy! Guess what!”
“What?” Mommy bent down and hugged him.
“I’m supposed to give a talk next week in Primary. Just like the big boys and girls!”
“Your very first talk!” Mommy said. “You certainly are growing up!”
“Let’s work on it today, OK?” Louis asked.
“OK.”
When lunch was over and the dishes were washed, Mommy and Louis sat down at the table.
“What do you want to talk about?” Mommy asked.
Louis thought hard. He remembered some of the things that he learned in Primary. He remembered some of the stories that Mommy told him. “I know!” he said. “I’ll talk about the prophet Abinadi warning the people and about wicked King Noah.”
“That would be a good story to tell the other Primary children,” Mommy said. “Let’s read the story again, and maybe we can draw a picture for you to show the children while you tell the story.”
“Yes! Let’s do,” Louis said happily.
After they read the story in Mosiah in the Book of Mormon, Mommy got a large piece of paper and the crayons. She and Louis drew a picture of the brave prophet Abinadi standing before King Noah. Louis used lots of red and blue, his favorite colors.
“There!” he said when he had finished.
“That’s a good picture,” Mommy told him. She propped it up on the windowsill, where Louis could see it every day.
Louis practiced telling the story of Abinadi all week long. On Saturday he stood straight and tall in the living room and held up the picture, as if he were already giving his talk in Primary. Mommy sat in front of him on a chair, pretending to be all the Primary children.
Louis used a good, loud voice. He held the picture high. He told the whole story, and he remembered to say “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen” when he finished.
Mommy kissed him. “That was wonderful!”
On Sunday Louis sat up in front in Primary because he was giving a talk. He held his picture carefully. Mommy sat in the back row. She had come to Primary especially to hear him.
Finally it was his turn. Louis got off his chair and stood up. He held up his picture, just as he’d practiced at home. He looked at all the boys and girls. They all looked back at him. Louis looked at the picture. Then he looked at the boys and girls again. He opened his mouth but couldn’t remember how the story began.
“Louis!” someone whispered. It was Mommy. She gave him a big smile. Louis smiled back. He held the picture up again so that everyone could see it, and he talked in a loud voice so that everyone could hear him. He told the whole story exactly right.
When he finished and sat down, the Primary president stood up and said, “Thank you, Louis. That was an excellent talk.”

My great-great-grandfather Israel Stoddard accepted an invitation to join the Church in 1842. Then he accepted another invitation to join the Saints, and the family moved from New Jersey to Nauvoo. When President Brigham Young extended an invitation to follow him west, they accepted.

As the family crossed the Mississippi River, they looked back and watched as their home was burned. Because of exposure to harsh elements and hardships their mother died, five weeks later the infant baby died, and shortly thereafter the father passed away. As my grandmother wrote, “This left five Stoddard children homeless and almost penniless but not friendless as the Saints were good to them.”

This invitation took the lives of the parents and their small child; however, it bound them together eternally.

It was unlike any other commencement or baccalaureate exercise I had ever attended or in which I had ever participated. There were 44 graduates, all male. They did not have traditional academic robes or caps or gowns. Each man wore a light blue denim shirt and dark blue denim trousers.
The ceremony was not held in a field house or a stadium or even a lovely auditorium. It was held in a modest interdenominational chapel at the Utah State Prison. The graduating class had successfully completed a year’s course of Bible study, which was sponsored by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints but open to all who cared to participate.
The opening prayer was given by a young man who looked more like a mere boy. He was frightened to death, but he gave a prayer from his heart. He was in prison for 10 years to life on an armed robbery charge. The closing prayer was given by a man who was 45 or 50 years old and who looked as if he could have been somebody’s uncle. He was in for a life term on second-degree murder.
A young man who had been released from prison had come back to get his certificate and to encourage his colleagues. He said, “Guys, the perspective in prison is really bad. It really looks better on the outside. Try to remember that.” Then he turned to the outsiders, to the friends and families who had come, and said, “You people are a light in a dark place. If it were not for love like yours, we would not be able to get from where we are to where we need to be.”
When the service was over, the inmate who conducted said, with some emotion in his voice and a little mist in his eyes, “This is the most auspicious occasion of our year. It’s better than Christmas. It’s better than Thanksgiving. It’s even better than Mother’s Day. It’s better because we’re enlightened, and that’s as close as we come to being free.”
Then the gates clanged shut behind my wife and me. That night we went home, and I confess I couldn’t sleep. That experience haunted me. In the early hours of that morning, I had feelings and thoughts and a response to imprisonment and freedom (and their relationship to enlightenment and love) that I never had before.

“Wow, did you see that?” my seven-year-old son, Weslon, exclaimed in delight as he watched the football players in action .He wished aloud, “I’d sure like to meet some of the team.”
We frequently found ourselves at the Round Valley High School football games in Eager, Arizona. Besides Weslon, my husband and I had become involved in the games because of our daughter Mitzi, who was a student at the school. As the season progressed, football heroes had blossomed in young Weslon’s impressionable mind.
Battling my own shyness, I determined to help this stargazing, bashful boy meet some of his heroes. “We’ll go talk to some of the team,” I told him after the game. I then led my son onto the field into the crowd. We approached one of his heroes and tried to offer congratulations. The young man walked past us, aware only of himself and two chattering girls who had cut in front of us to reach him. The next player mumbled “thanks” without stopping as I told him “good game” and tried to tell him he had an admirer in my son.
Reluctantly, we approached the last player. As I told him what a good job he had done, Ty Workman stopped, gave a big smile and said, “Thank you very much!”
Encouraged by his response, I started telling him of Weslon’s admiration. Ty’s black hair and handsome face dripped with sweat from his efforts on the playing field as he listened. He extended his hand to shake Weslon’s and said, “Thanks buddy. What’s your name?”
My son quietly said, “Weslon,” and shyly looked down at the ground.
I told Ty, “Weslon likes the way you play.” Ty smiled at him and said, “Thanks a lot. I’m really glad to meet you, Weslon, buddy.”
Mitzi went to school the next day and told Ty, “My little brother thinks you’re a special person.” From then on she relayed messages between Ty and Weslon. Soon the two boys became real buddies. After each football game they could be found together with Ty’s arm draped around Weslon, chatting about the game. We attended every football game, even those out of town.
As we became acquainted with Ty, we found he was popular with everyone—young and old. He didn’t drink, smoke, or take drugs, and he had good moral values. He encouraged Weslon to avoid harmful things and often repeated his favorite phrase, “Stay close to the Lord.”
Several weeks into this friendship, Mitzi came home from school with some disturbing news. Her face a mask of disbelief, she said, “This is so sad. Ty has multiple sclerosis. They said he might not live longer than a year.” Weslon’s face fell as we told him what multiple sclerosis was. A heavy silence came over us as we realized the seriousness of Ty’s illness.
In the next few months Ty had several attacks requiring hospitalization. He lost weight but forced himself to do well on the football field. Ty, along with Mitzi, was also a member of a school singing and dancing group. He made it to many difficult practices and performances between hospital stays.
Late one evening we received a telephone call from Ty’s father. “Ty is pretty sick. I think it would help him if Weslon could visit him at the hospital tomorrow. He’s blind and he’s paralyzed from the waist down.”
After the telephone call, Weslon disappeared into his room. He came out a little later, green eyes glittering with tears, and said, “I said a prayer for Ty.”
The next morning we visited the hospital, carrying gifts bought with Weslon’s savings. Ty greeted Weslon with a cheery, “Hi, buddy! How are you doing? I can’t see anything clearly; you look like shadows to me.”
“We brought you a few things, Ty,” I told him, trying not to let him hear the fear in my voice.
“Thanks a lot,” Ty said, his dark eyes looking our way but not focusing. During our visit my words were cheerful, but my heart ached as I watched the two buddies talking.
We were amazed when the hospital released Ty a few days later. He went home with his eyesight and with the feeling in his legs gradually returning. Soon he was back in school.
Our family spent a lot of time with Ty through the next few months. Laughter and friendship raised our spirits during Ty’s visits. He would talk with Weslon about lots of things, always reinforcing his slogan, “Stay close to the Lord.”
Soon after Christmas, Ty was flown to a hospital in the city of Phoenix, Arizona, for treatment. While he was there, he went into a coma. Just when we decided we should take Weslon on the long trip to Phoenix because the doctors didn’t expect Ty to live, we received a telephone call. Ty had come out of the coma!
Following his release from the hospital, Ty’s parents took him to a specialist in California. After many tests the doctors ruled out multiple sclerosis. Numerous additional tests found Ty to be suffering from a virus that attacked the nervous system during times of stress or exhaustion. We were joyfully relieved at the news. Ty was still a sick young man, but now he knew how to avoid the debilitating attacks, and, best of all, the possibility of an early death no longer faced him.
In spite of his many absences from school, Ty was well enough to graduate with his classmates in May. During the summer Ty had a job and practiced for the Arizona state high school all-star football game. He was one of four young men chosen from our region to play on the state team. Weslon was invited to practices, and we made the long trip to Prescott, Arizona, for the all-star game. As a result of his illness, Ty was the smallest player in weight on the field, but his effort helped bring his team to victory.
After the game, he came jogging off the field, covered in sweat, but beaming that wide, white smile. Ty got his buddy by the shoulders and they chatted about the game as I took pictures. He told Weslon, “Stay right here. I have to go get something.” A little later he came dashing back. In his hand was his all-star cap awarded him for playing in the game. He told Weslon, “I want you to have this. Thank you for coming to my game, buddy.”
Ty has been an inspiration to many. He was awarded the first “Ty Workman Award” at Round Valley High School. This award is presented each year now to a student conquering adversity.
December 1987 came and with it Ty’s call to the North Carolina Charlotte Mission. In his talk he mentioned, “I have a little friend here who is really special to me. He is Weslon Whiting.” It was a very emotional meeting for us all.
Ty has filled an honorable mission. He continued to remember his little buddy, writing letters in the same spirit as he used to talk to Weslon. Instead of thinking of the joy he has brought to a small boy he turns the situation around. For example, one sentence will stay in my memory for a long time: “Weslon,” Ty wrote, “you’ve been a big help in my life, more than you’ll ever know.” With each letter he sent to his little buddy he enclosed a coin or two for Weslon’s missionary fund.
Three years have passed since Ty was not expected to live. I thank this exceptional young man for giving me faith in a younger generation. And I thank him for providing my young son with a shining example of a true hero.

It was ten-year-old Joshua’s turn to teach the family home evening lesson. It was on faith. When he finished, he told his family, “If you have faith, you can do anything.”
His mother replied, “Well, almost anything.”
“No, Mom.” Joshua said. “You can do anything.”
Little did the Dennis family know that within days, their faith would be tested. On Friday, 22 September 1989, Joshua went with his dad and other leaders and members of a Boy Scout troop from Kearns, Utah, to explore an abandoned mine. After looking around inside the mine for some time, Joshua and some of the Scouts decided to turn back. They met Joshua’s dad and some other Scouts heading out of the mine, and Joshua gave his flashlight to his dad, who was leaving the tunnel with a visually handicapped boy.
Then Joshua decided to follow some older Scouts back into the mine tunnel, but they did not know that Joshua was behind them. They began to run. Joshua couldn’t keep up with them and was soon left behind in total darkness. He couldn’t even see his hand in from of his face.
He turned around and tried to feel his way back to the entrance, but he made a wrong turn and slid down a slope. He climbed back up but went too far and ended up in an ore stope—a cavity where ore has been mined out—about two meters wide and seven meters deep. The stope was almost impossible to see from the main tunnel below because of rocks.
“I tried to find my way out for a long time,” Joshua recalled. He yelled, but his cries were muffled and no one heard him. By this time, he was tired and cold and his feet were wet. “I knew I was lost, and I realized I had better just sit down and wait,” he said.
Joshua slept a lot. Sometimes he would stand up and stretch or just sit and think. For five days Joshua had no food or water and only his coat to keep him warm in the 10° C temperature.
But he wasn’t afraid. “I prayed a lot that Heavenly Father would help me,” he said, and his prayers were answered with a feeling of comfort and with faith that he would be found. “I felt that I was being watched over by Heavenly Father.”
While Joshua was praying, friends and family were also fasting and praying that he would be found in safety. His parents waited anxiously for reports on the search for their son.
Many volunteers helped search the surrounding foothills, which are full of abandoned mines and air shafts. At least seven times some of them passed within forty meters of Joshua.
The longer the search continued, the more certain many people became that Joshua was not in the mine but had wandered away from it. Search dogs, helicopters, and people on horseback and on foot searched the cliff-lined hills of nearby Dry Canyon. There was no trace of the boy.
Inside the mine, Joshua waited calmly for someone to find him. To help pass the time, he sang “I Am a Child of God” and other songs that he had learned in Primary.
As each day passed, the chance of finding Joshua alive grew less, but members of the rescue team were determined to not give up.
When the search party came out of the mine after another unsuccessful rescue attempt on the afternoon of the fifth day, a Church member, John Skinner, persuaded the men in charge to let him go in with the other searchers for a final attempt. “I just had a feeling that he was still in the mine and that he was still alive,” he explained.
John Skinner had explored the Hidden Treasure Mine 120 times and was very familiar with the dozens of passages that wind through the eight levels. He could picture in his mind at least three places where Joshua might be. One of those places was the ore stope.
As the other searchers made another sweep through the mine, he, Ray Guymon, and Gary Christensen separated from the group, and John Skinner led them to the sections of the mine where he thought the boy might be. When they finally came to the ore cavity, they heard a faint cry for help but were not sure what it was. They remained still until they heard it again. The excitement grew as they and Joshua yelled back and forth, trying to find each other in the darkness.
“My heart just started pumping and pounding,” recalled Gary Christensen, the first to reach Joshua. “I wrapped my arms around him, and he wrapped his arms around me.”
“I felt like we were led there by the Lord,” Ray Guymon said.
All three men said it was very difficult to describe the feelings they had when they found Joshua, whom they had never seen before.
“I felt like he was my own,” Gary Christensen said. “I was just really happy inside.”
“It was an overwhelming feeling when we found him,” John Skinner said.
As Joshua was brought out of the mine, there were tears of joy and relief on the faces of many. Joshua, although excited, remained calm—he had not doubted that he would be found.
Because there was no light inside the mine, Joshua had lost track of time. He was surprised when he found out that he had been lost for so long. Dehydrated from going so long without water, and suffering mild frostbite on his feet, he was flown to a hospital, where he rested and doctors examined him.
At first the doctors thought they would have to amputate his little toes. But all he lost was some skin from his feet. He had to be in a wheelchair for about a week. Physical therapy strengthened his leg and foot muscles, and before long he was walking, running, and even riding his skateboard again.
Joshua received more than a thousand letters, many from other school children who wanted to know more about him and his experience. While he was lost, the students at Fox Hills Elementary School, where he was in the fifth grade, tied yellow ribbons on the fences all around their school to show that they were thinking about him and hoping that he would be back soon. It really made Joshua feel good to know that so many people cared about him. He tells everyone, “Heavenly Father does answer your prayers. Have faith and don’t give up.”

Sister Katy Key, school teacher and Young Women President from the St Helier Ward in Jersey, works very closely with the Church of England Reverend Helen Gunton of the Grouville Parish Church.
Leading up to Remembrance Sunday, Katy got the pupils from the school and their parents involved to help make poppies that would convert a local meadow into a poppy meadow that the Grouville Remembrance Service Parade would pass by. A teaching assistant at the school made the silhouette of the soldier that was standing guard over the meadow.
The parish news and social media has been very positive about the installation of the poppies saying, “the praise for the poppy installation has been wide and generous”. The Connétable (Constable) and the Seigneur of the local manor have also highly praised the installation.
Katy said “It was lovely and quite moving to help a new generation understand the sacrifice that soldiers made in the First World War in such a practical way.”
On Armistice Day, Katy’s school class went to the poppy meadow where they took part in the two-minute silence. Every class from the school has spent time visiting the poppy meadow since the poppy meadow was created.

A wise leader recently counseled a man who was trying to overcome years of destructive choices. The man felt ashamed, doubting that he was worthy of anyone’s love.
His leader said to him, “The Lord knows you, loves you, and is pleased [with] you and the courageous steps you are taking.” But then he added, “[You] need to hear the commandment to love yourself so you can feel [God’s] love and love others.”
When this brother heard that counsel, he saw life with new eyes. He later said, “I have spent my whole life trying to find peace and acceptance. I have looked for those things in many wrong places. Only in the love of Heavenly Father and the Savior can I find comfort. I know They want me to love myself; it really is the only way I can feel Their love for me.”

One night I watched a scary movie and then went to bed. After I was asleep, I started having bad dreams. I got scared and woke up. It was the middle of the night. My bedroom was very dark. I got out of bed and knelt and prayed. It made me feel better, and I was able to go to sleep with no bad dreams. I know that Heavenly Father answers prayers and that He loves me.
Matthew Voelkel, age 8Lakeview, Oregon

Growing up, I was raised in a non-denominational Christian home, which I loved. I was, and always will be, incredibly grateful for my family and the things they taught me about God and Jesus Christ. But when I graduated high school, Southern Virginia University reached out to me to play lacrosse on a scholarship. I was hesitant because this school was affiliated with the “Mormon” Church, which I had always been told was crazy.
But for some reason, I knew this was the school I needed to attend.
The first thing I noticed about my classmates who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was that they had genuine intentions to do good. I knew from the Bible that I could assess others’ character by their fruits (see Matthew 7:15–20). And the only “fruit” I saw from these Church members was goodness.
Curious, I started asking questions, particularly to a classmate named Coleman, who talked with me for hours about the gospel. When he began preparing to serve a mission, I joined him in reading scriptures every morning. At first, I was cynical about The Book of Mormon. But I started pondering what we read, and I could see the light in the words. I knew I needed to seek the truth for myself.
That April, I watched general conference for the first time and heard President Russell M. Nelson give a talk on faith. He spoke about tiny mustard seeds, saying:
“The mustard seed represents a small but growing faith.
“The Lord does not require perfect faith for us to have access to His perfect power. But He does ask us to believe.”1
With my growing and curious faith in mind, I developed a desire to deepen the roots of my faith in the true gospel. So, I started going to church with my roommates. I fasted and prayed to really know if the Book of Mormon is true.
When I prayed, I felt the Spirit so strongly. It felt like the Savior and Heavenly Father were sitting with me, Their hands on my shoulders. I knew I had found the truth. And I believe They were comforting me because They knew I had a hard decision to make.
I called my mom and told her I had something important to tell her. She jokingly asked if I was joining the “Mormon cult.” When I told her I was indeed going to be baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we both cried. It was a difficult conversation, but I knew I couldn’t deny the truth I had received.
Coleman was able to baptize and confirm me. His family and all my friends from school came to support me. I felt so much love, especially from Heavenly Father.
But my decision to be baptized really strained my relationship with my family. My parents believe I worship a different God now and am bound to go to hell. My 12 siblings all have their own opinions about me joining another Church too. Sometimes it feels like I’m walking on eggshells in our relationships, so I continue to pray their hearts will be softened. I feel the support of the Holy Ghost, and while my family is still adjusting, we make sure we know that we love each other.
Coleman is serving a mission now, but he, his family, and my other ward friends still support me daily. I don’t think I could have made it through this past year without them. And I recently received my temple endowment. The temple has been so helpful to me when I need peace and guidance.
Though not having support from my family has been incredibly hard, God has blessed me beyond what I expected and has given me many mercies as I move forward with faith.
Like Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described, “The Lord’s tender mercies are the very personal and individualized blessings, strength, protection, assurances, guidance, loving-kindnesses, consolation, support, and spiritual gifts which we receive from and because of and through the Lord Jesus Christ.”2
It’s been a long journey, but through my struggles, I’ve turned to Jesus Christ and strengthened my foundation of faith in Him. If you are in a situation where your family doesn’t support your faith in the gospel, you can still have peace and hope in the Savior. I know that as we focus on the daily blessings and tender mercies of the Lord, we will continually become more confident in our testimonies and in His grace. He will always lead us to wonderful blessings like good friends and peace and joy in our hearts. Even in difficult trials, He will always provide us with goodness!

President Kimball was a loving parent. His son Edward said: “My father was always very affectionate. I knew he loved me.” Edward remembered an occasion when both he and his father were in attendance at a solemn assembly in the Salt Lake Temple: “There were thousands of men there. As the meeting ended, [my father] spotted me where I was singing in a chorus. On his way out, he came over, embraced and kissed me.”24