Gospel Story Finder

Dick Richards stood at the kitchen window and listened as the wind howled around the corners of the barn and heaped great mounds of powdery snow. It was March 1939, and southern Alberta, Canada, was having one of the worst spring storms that he could remember.
Dick shivered and pulled back from the window, gazing around the silent room in frustration. His mom and dad were quietly talking in the bedroom, and the younger children were all asleep—except for his sister Jean, who was reading in front of the fire. Dick was thirteen years old—almost a man—and it made him feel restless to be stuck in the house like a chicken in a pen.
He glanced over his sister’s shoulder. She was reading a Superman comic book. He grabbed it from between her fingers and threw it across the room, ignoring her loud screech as she jumped to retrieve it. He wondered why she chose to fill her mind with such nonsense. He had discovered long ago that there were no real heroes in this life, only ordinary people like his dad, who was thin and tanned from working long, backbreaking hours in every kind of weather. And Mr. Meyers down the road, who limped and spit on the ground, and cried when his only daughter married a fellow from Calgary. No, Dick didn’t figure he would ever meet a real hero.
Suddenly the bedroom door opened, and Nephi Richards appeared, helping his wife into a coat. She looked pale and ill, and her belly seemed larger than ever.
Dick asked, "Is it time for the baby to come?"
"We think so," his father replied.
Dick peered out the window. "How will you make it through the snow?"
"We’ll take the Model A. Uncle Rolley is meeting us halfway with his big Chevrolet."
Dick reached for his boots. "I’d like to come, Dad."
"We need you to stay and watch the children."
"Jean is old enough, and she’s much better than I am with the younger ones." His father was silent, so he continued hopefully, "I could help if something went wrong."
"Nothing will go wrong," interrupted Dick’s mother. She looked lost in her husband’s thick plaid coat and gum boots.
"If you’re coming, you’d better hurry up," his father said gruffly. "We haven’t much time."
As they stepped outside, the wind tore at their faces and almost flattened their bodies against the side of the house. It was difficult getting to the car, and for an anxious moment Dick was afraid it wasn’t going to start. Then it sputtered to life, and they were moving slowly through the snow.
"Can you see where we’re going?" Dick asked, squinting out the window into the speckled blackness.
"Well enough," his father answered.
Dick sat beside his mother and listened. He could hear her breathing—sometimes sharp and ragged with pain, sometimes slow and deep. He could hear the wind screaming, feel it pulling at the car as if it was bent on throwing them headlong into the ditch. He took his mother’s arm and held on tightly.
They hadn’t gone more than a mile when the Model A lurched to a stop. "There’s something blocking the road," Dick’s father said. "I’m going out to take a look."
Anxious to help, Dick got out too. The snow was drifted over the road like a giant feather pillow, and Dick saw that it would be impossible to shovel their way through. He stood silently and watched while his father kicked and stomped his way around the drifts.
Nephi Richards returned to the car and took his wife’s small cold hands between his large ones. "Hazel," he said, "we have a choice to make. We can go home and you can have the baby there, or we can walk to where Rolley is waiting. I think it would be easier for you if we went home."
Dick’s mother held her head up bravely. "But if something goes wrong, it would be better for the baby to be born at the hospital. No, I’d rather keep going."
Dick and his father helped her from the car. Dick heard her gasp as the cold wind whipped across her face. "Let’s get this over with," she said.
They stuck close to the barbed wire fence and struggled through the drifts with a certain desperation. Dick could feel his mother’s hand gripping his tightly through his mitten. He gritted his teeth as snow oozed in the top of his boots and made his legs burn with icy pain. Their breaths came in spurts, filling the cold air for an instant, then vanishing in wisps of steam. Dick knew that his mother was in great pain, but he didn’t know how he could help her. It made him feel helpless.
The journey seemed as if it would never end. Dick’s face burned. His lungs ached. His fingers were numb. His feet felt like two lumps of ice on the end of his legs. He kept hoping that the merciless wind would die down, but it returned again and again with new vengeance, shrieking against their bent bodies as if it would lift them from the earth. Finally Dick’s mother went limp in his father’s arms.
"I’ll carry her," his father said. "We’re almost there. I can see the car."
The last few steps seemed to stretch out forever. Finally Dick staggered against the side of the Chevrolet, wrenched open the door, and helped put his mother inside. Uncle Rolley’s anxious face stared at them from the front seat. "Go as fast as you dare," said Dick’s father.
The waiting room was warm and still and smelled of antiseptic soap and floor wax. Dick was too tired to move, so he leaned back on the wooden bench and watched his father pace back and forth across the floor in front of the nurse’s desk. He had been told many times in Primary, and again in his priesthood lessons, how extremely important it was for parents to have children and how the spirit children of Heavenly Father needed bodies to progress. Up until now, he had figured that having children was just a simple process involving a small inconvenience. He closed his eyes and put his weary face between his hands. Tonight he had seen things in a different way.
His thoughts were interrupted by a man with a white uniform and kind blue eyes. "Mr. Richards?"
"Yes!" Dick’s father crossed the room with two swift strides.
The doctor reached out and gripped the other man’s hand. "You have a son," he said.
"How is Hazel?"
"Your wife is a very sick woman, but we feel that with the right amount of rest and care, she’ll be all right."
Dick saw his father relax as the fear and strain of the last few hours left his body.
"May I see her?" asked Dick.
The doctor nodded. "She’s asleep, so be very quiet."
While his father continued to talk to the doctor, Dick slipped into his mother’s room. She looked peaceful lying there under the white blanket, her face all relaxed and free from pain and worry. Her eyes were closed, and her lashes looked dark and long against her pale cheeks. He leaned close to her. He knew that she probably couldn’t hear him, but somehow it was very important to tell her anyway: "You’re a hero, Mom!"

I rolled with it when my sweetheart, Casey, went into labor and said, “It’s time,” and I about passed out. I rolled with it when the nurse held our brand-new baby girl in front of me and said, “She’s yours now,” and I gave Isabelle a kiss on the forehead. I rolled with it and shaved my facial hair when my scratchy kisses made her cry. And I even rolled with it when, while I was holding her on my lap, her dirty diaper gave out—fatherhood can be messy.

One of the talks that has had an everlasting impression on me is one given in a Saturday evening session of a stake conference years ago. The talk was given by a young mother. Here’s what she said: “I have been doing the genealogy of my great-grandfather. He and his large family of sons and daughters were members of the Church.
“My great-grandfather,” she said, “left church one Sunday with his family, and they never returned—no indication why.”
She then said, “In my research, I have found that my great-grandfather has over 1,000 descendants.”
And then she said, and this is the part I have not been able to forget, “Of those 1,000 descendants, I am the only one active in the Church today.”
As she said these words, I found myself thinking, “Is it only 1,000, or could it be more?”
The answer is apparent. The spiritual influence that family might have had on their neighbors and friends did not happen. None of his sons nor any of his daughters served as missionaries, and those they would have touched with their testimonies were not baptized, and those who were not baptized did not go on missions. Yes, there are probably many thousands who are not in the Church today, and not in this very meeting, because of that great-grandfather’s decision.
As I heard her talk, I found myself thinking, “What a tragedy! Perhaps if I had been there at that time, I could have said something to the father, to the family, to the priesthood leaders that might have helped to prevent such a calamity to their family and to so many in the future generations that would follow.”
Well, that opportunity of the past is lost. But we can now look to the present and to the future. I would say to those who find themselves in the same position as that great-grandfather: Would you consider what you might be doing to your family and to all those who come after you? Would you ponder the effects of your thoughts and your actions?
If there are any concerns about Church doctrine, consider the counsel given by President Gordon B. Hinckley to a large meeting of over 2,000 members in Paris, France, last year. He said: “I plead with you, my brothers and sisters, that if you have any doubt concerning any doctrine of this Church, that you put it to the test. Try it. Live the principle. Get on your knees and pray about it, and God will bless you with a knowledge of the truth of this work.”
If you feel you have been wronged, be ready to forgive. If there is, for some reason, an unpleasant memory, let it go. Where necessary, talk to your bishop; talk to your stake president.
To all, but especially to those who someday will be great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, your eternal blessings and those of your posterity are far more important than any prideful reason which would deny you and so many others of such important blessings. In the Book of Mormon, King Benjamin reminds us: “And moreover, I would desire that ye should consider on the blessed and happy state of those that keep the commandments of God. For behold, they are blessed in all things, both temporal and spiritual; and if they hold out faithful to the end they are received into heaven, that thereby they may dwell with God in a state of never-ending happiness” (Mosiah 2:41).
To you who are children in the homes of future errant great-grandfathers, you can continue to stand faithful; you can be a good example in the home and to those around you. You can do your part to bring peace and harmony in the home and with your associates. You can be the solution, and not the cause, of problems. Remember in the Book of Mormon when Father Lehi began to murmur, it was his righteous son Nephi who gave encouragement and found solutions to problems. So many times it is the righteous children who are able to steady the boat while sailing in turbulent waters.
To you who are bishops and stake presidents, how I wish you could have been part of the meeting I attended with a handful of regional representatives. We heard Elder L. Tom Perry as he compared those who are prospective elders and those who are not active—the future great-grandfathers—to a thermometer. We were reminded that there are many of those individuals who are more than just warm. They would come back if someone would just encourage and show the way.
I would like to tell you of a stake conference I was assigned to attend. It was a reorganization; the stake president and his counselors would be released, and a new presidency would be called. The stake president was young and had served wonderfully for almost 10 years. He was a spiritual giant, but he was also an administrative giant. In my personal interview with him, he told me how he had delegated much of the responsibility for the stake functions to his counselors and to the high council and had thus freed himself to interview those who needed encouragement. Individuals and couples were invited to come to his office. There he got to know them, counseled with them, and invited them to do better, to put their lives in order, and to receive the blessings available to those who follow the Lord. He helped them by putting them in the care of a capable leader, a teacher who helped them to understand the beauties of the doctrine. Then he told me that in these interviews he would often ask if they would like a blessing. “I have placed my hands on the heads of many members of the stake,” he said.
The next day in the general session of the stake conference, I doubt I have ever seen so many tears—not because they felt the president should not be released, but for the deep love of a young stake president who had blessed their lives. I felt prompted to ask, “How many of you have had the hands of the president on your heads?” I was amazed at the number of people who raised their hands. I thought to myself at the time, “How many of these people will bless the name of this great man, not only now but throughout the eternities?” Yes, these will be the great-grandfathers who will, because of this loving leader, leave a legacy of generations of thousands who will call him blessed.
When we see the effect one person can have on the lives of so many, it perhaps is no wonder that the Lord reminded us, “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God” (D&C 18:10).
I pray we all might consider what we can do individually to assist those who will be the future great-grandparents, whether a little child, a teenager, or an adult, so that each will leave a righteous legacy of those who know and love the Lord. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

In the story of our own people there stands out the example of Brigham Young’s attitude toward the Indians. His declaration that it was “better to feed them than to fight them” evidenced not only the innate mercy of his nature, but the greater wisdom inherent in a compassionate attitude toward the less fortunate.
If I may be pardoned a personal indulgence, I find expression of this attitude in the chronicles of my own family. My grandfather, Ira Nathaniel Hinckley, was called in 1867 by Brigham Young to build a fort at Cove Creek on the road to southern Utah so that travelers might be afforded protection from the Indians. But there was never Indian trouble of any consequence because of the policy of merciful treatment toward them which was followed during the years by my grandfather when he operated that lonely outpost.

Having heard the voice of the Shepherd, they fully committed their lives to living the gospel and following the direction of the Lord’s prophet. Responding to the call to gather to Zion, they left behind their home in England, crossed the Atlantic, and gathered with the Saints in Nauvoo, Illinois.

They embraced the gospel with all their hearts. While trying to get established in their new land, they assisted in the building of the Nauvoo Temple by tithing their labor—spending every 10th day working on the construction of the temple.

They were brokenhearted at the news of the death of their beloved prophet, Joseph Smith, and his brother Hyrum. But they carried on! They stayed true to the faith.

When the Saints were persecuted and driven from Nauvoo, Robert and Maria felt greatly blessed to receive their endowments in the temple shortly before they crossed the Mississippi River and headed west. Although they were uncertain of what their future held, they were certain of their faith and their testimonies.

With six children, they slogged through mud as they crossed Iowa on their way west. They built for themselves a lean-to on the side of the Missouri River at what came to be known as Winter Quarters.

These intrepid pioneers were waiting for apostolic direction on how and when they would be heading further west. Everyone’s plans were altered when Brigham Young, the President of the Quorum of the Twelve, issued a call for men to volunteer to serve in the United States Army in what came to be known as the Mormon Battalion.

Robert Harris Jr. was one of over 500 Mormon pioneer men who responded to that call from Brigham Young. He enlisted, even though it meant he would leave behind his pregnant wife and six little children.

Why would he and the other men do such a thing?

The answer can be given in my great-great-grandfather’s own words. In a letter that he wrote to his wife when the battalion was on its way to Santa Fe, he wrote, “My faith is so strong as ever [and when I think of the things that Brigham Young told us], I believe it about the same as if the Great God had told me.”

In short, he knew he was listening to a prophet of God, as did the other men. That is why they did it! They knew they were led by a prophet of God.

In that same letter, he expressed his tender feelings for his wife and children and told of his constant prayers that she and the children would be blessed.

Later in the letter, he made this powerful statement: “We must not forget the things which you and I heard and [experienced] in the Temple of the Lord.”

Combined with his earlier testimony that “we are led by a Prophet of God,” these two sacred admonitions have become like scripture to me.

Eighteen months after departing with the battalion, Robert Harris was safely reunited with his beloved Maria. They stayed true and faithful to the restored gospel throughout their lives. They had 15 children, 13 of whom lived to maturity. My grandmother Fannye Walker, of Raymond, Alberta, Canada, was one of their 136 grandchildren.

Grandma Walker was proud of the fact that her grandfather had served in the Mormon Battalion, and she wanted all of her grandchildren to know it. Now that I am a grandfather, I understand why it was so important to her. She wanted to turn the hearts of the children to the fathers. She wanted her grandchildren to know of their righteous heritage—because she knew it would bless their lives.

The more connected we feel to our righteous forefathers, the more likely we are to make wise and righteous choices.

And so it is. Each of us will be greatly blessed if we know the stories of faith and sacrifice that led our forefathers to join the Lord’s Church.

From the first time Robert and Maria heard Wilford Woodruff teach and testify of the Restoration of the gospel, they knew the gospel was true.

They also knew that no matter what trials or hardships would come to them, they would be blessed for staying true to the faith. It almost seems that they had heard the words of our prophet today, who said, “No sacrifice is too great … in order to receive [the] blessings [of the temple]” (Thomas S. Monson, “The Holy Temple—a Beacon to the World,” Ensign or Liahona, May 2011, 92).

The two-pound coin of the United Kingdom has inscribed on its side “Standing on the Shoulders of Giants.” When I think of our great pioneer forefathers, I feel that we are all standing on the shoulders of giants.

Although the admonition came from a letter from Robert Harris, I believe that countless forefathers would send the same message to their children and grandchildren: First, we must not forget the experiences we have had in the temple, and we must not forget the promises and the blessings that come to each of us because of the temple. Secondly, we must not forget that we are led by a prophet of God.

I testify that we are led by a prophet of God. The Lord restored His Church in the latter days through the Prophet Joseph Smith, and we must not forget that we have been led by an unbroken chain of prophets of God, from Joseph to Brigham and through each succeeding President of the Church to our prophet today—Thomas S. Monson. I know him, I honor him, and I love him. I testify that he is the Lord’s prophet on the earth today.

It is the desire of my heart that, along with my children and grandchildren, we will honor the legacy of our righteous forefathers—those faithful Mormon pioneers who were willing to put everything on the altar to sacrifice for and defend their God and their faith. I pray that each of us will live true to the faith that our parents have cherished. In the holy and sacred name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I was young and inexperienced, so the impressions made by this unusual incident were especially deep. I was assigned as a missionary to a little-known island in the South Pacific in 1955. Coming from America, my first impressions were two—the natural beauty of these islands and the apparent poverty of the people.
Slowly I began to learn the native language, adjust to the native food, and fit into the unhurried pace of living. The heat seemed at times unbearable and the mosquitoes vicious, as though they preferred the taste of hinehina (white) blood.
As I became more acquainted with the islanders and their language, food, and customs, I became more fully aware of the real poverty (in relative terms) in which they lived. It seemed irreconcilable. Why should we have so much in America and they have so little here? I could not at that time perceive the great spiritual blessings they had.
One day gave way to another with little change in the village routine. It would rain fiercely, and then the sun would shine just as intensely. The diet of fish and breadfruit was almost unchanged from day to day. The oneness and the unity of the sun and the sea, the lagoon, and the soft laughter of those beautiful brown-skinned people seemed to melt into a covering of quiet and peace.
Then one day excitement and change arrived! A strange boat was working its way into the harbor. Hurrah for something different! The whole island was soon down on the seashore looking at one of the most beautiful sailing yachts I have ever seen.
Quietly, as if in slow motion, a crewman threw an anchor into the waiting lagoon. It did not appear even to make a splash, as though to refrain from disturbing the beauty of the setting. It was nearly dusk. The light from the setting sun silhouetted that sleek shape, its sails furled against the backdrop of deep blue waters and emerald green islands. Golden shafts of color painted all around in unbelievably vivid hues, as though framing the whole picture for eternity.
Silently the crew rolled out deep red carpets on the freshly scrubbed deck, and then the master emerged in his crisp white “tropics” to survey the situation. By now there were canoes all around as curious islanders naturally wanted to be a part of this experience, this change.
My assignment was to a little flock of about 50 Church members, most of whom were caught up in the excitement. They soon brought back reports, and even though I was young and inexperienced, it did not take very long to realize what was happening.
The man was a millionaire from overseas, cruising the world. He wanted to trade for food and water, and he wanted girls. There was liquor on board and a real swinging time for those who would accept his invitation.
I counseled my little flock to stay away. Most did, but some did not. The wealthy adventurer stayed for a few days until he filled his wants. Then he announced he would leave before noon the following day. Some of the faithful members pleaded, “Could we not go out just before he leaves, just to see the boat?” I agreed that at 10:00 the next morning we would briefly look at the yacht.
When we got there, it was even more magnificent than I had pictured. Evidence of the previous night’s activities was still being cleared away, and preparations were being made to raise anchor and take sail. We spent a few moments in wonder and awe, astonished at the beauty of the deep mahogany paneling, the rich bronze fittings, the lustre of the freshly painted surfaces, and the gleaming white of the hull as it lapped quietly at the deep blue lagoon.
The owner, nearly sober, waved good-bye, and we returned to shore. As we pulled the dugout canoe onto the sandy beach, I turned again to see the white form move toward the horizon. I thought of the millionaire in his white “tropics,” having had his fill, comfortable with his well-stocked cupboards and expert crew, with his money and his power. He seemed to have everything he wanted.
Then I looked at the men who had brought me to shore: no shoes, shirts of rags, tattered valas tied with coconut sennit around their waists. I looked past them to the village. I saw the smoke from the morning’s cooking twisting lazily into the air, heard the monotonous sound of tapa being beaten, and felt the heaviness of the overhead sun as it filtered through the palm trees. I watched the men slowly walk to their gardens and heard the laughter of naked children as they chased the scrawny dogs.
Suddenly the oppressiveness of island life with so little opportunity for change struck me as being grossly unfair. I turned again to gaze at the yacht, now receding into the distance. The contrast was so great as to be almost unbelievable. My heart cried out, Unfair! Unfair! These poor people—look at them—and you—look at you!
I returned to the group, and we trudged up the shore to the village. Then one of the older men turned to me and said softly in his native tongue, “I am very sad. I feel very sorry.”
“Well,” I interrupted, “I am very sad, and I feel very sorry too. It just isn’t fair, is it?”
“No,” he continued, “it really isn’t fair. I feel so sorry for him, for he will never be happy.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
“You, you feel sorry for him? He won’t be happy? What are you talking about?”
My mind was groping to come to a sense of reality of what was being said. This man with nothing saying he was sorry for that man with everything! My immature mind was spinning, trying to interpret words, feelings, and relationships.
But he continued: “I feel so sorry for him. He will never be happy for he seeks only for his own pleasure, not to help others. Yet we know that happiness comes from helping others. All he will do is sail around the world seeking happiness, hoping others will bring happiness to him. But they cannot. He will never find it for he has not learned to help others. He has too much money, too many luxuries. Oh, I feel so sorry for him.”
I looked at the wrinkled brown body of the old man. His teeth were gone, his hair was white, and his skin was leather; but his eyes were soft, his voice quiet, and his countenance immaculate.
I can never forget his powerful words: “I feel sorry for him. He will never be happy. He hasn’t learned to help others.”
Years have passed, but occasionally, as I see proud people closed up in their sleek new cars or sense my own temporary unwillingness to help others, I close my eyes and see a beautiful yacht moving toward the horizon and turn and see an old man with a wrinkled brown body, white hair, and skin of leather and listen as his soft eyes penetrate mine and his toothless mouth moves and his spirit explains: “I feel very sorry. He will never be happy. He hasn’t learned to help others.”

Listen to general conference. Once, just before general conference, I was feeling discouraged and prayed to know if anyone understood my situation. That very conference, Elder David S. Baxter of the Seventy said: “There are, of course, some single families where it is the father who is the single parent. Brethren, we also pray for you and pay tribute to you.”3 That helped me understand that the same love and support given to single mothers is available to single fathers too.

Thompson remembered from his boyhood in Norway speeding down mountains on skis. Why can’t mail be delivered this way, he reasoned.

In January of 1856, Thompson set out on his first mail run from Placerville, California, on the western slope of the Sierras, to Carson Valley on the east side, nearly one hundred miles away. To travel on top of the snow, he wore ten-foot-long, twenty-five-pound runners that he had whittled himself. Observers and Thompson both called them Norwegian snowshoes.

His first winter trip might have been Thompson’s last, because at one point he mistakenly trusted a snowbridge across a chasm. It had seemed firm and solidly frozen, but when he reached the center, it began to pull away from the cliff behind him. Fortunately, he managed to grab a tough pine root on the cliff ahead just as the bridge collapsed and fell into the rocky abyss below. He thanked God and vowed he would never make that mistake again.

As he went on, he had to judge correctly the safety of the icy crust of fifty-foot drifts. He kept his bearings by observing trees, wind direction, rock and mountain formations. When nighttime came, he stayed on course by observing the stars. He slept warmly at night by setting a stump afire, hollowing a cave in a snowdrift facing the fire, and lining the cave with pine boughs.

It took three days’ travel for the longer, steeper climbs of the eastward crossing and two days to return to California. When the citizens of Placerville, California, heard Thompson’s High Sierra whoops as he skimmed down the last slope carrying mail from Carson Valley, they cheered. “Snowshoe Thompson!” they shouted, and the name “Snowshoe” was born.

Lakhran Surjdeen, known as Michael, moved to Barbados at age 21, just before the COVID-19 pandemic. Spending an extended period indoors during the pandemic prompted him to embark on a cruise. Each day when he awoke, the thought came to him, “When you go back to Barbados, get baptized.”
Upon his return, Michael turned to Facebook to search for a church where he could be baptized. The church he decided to call was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Soon, missionaries reached out to him to arrange an appointment, but before he met with them, he decided to walk to the church to see what it was like. While standing outside the property’s fence and looking at the building, Michael felt the quiet peace that he had been searching for.
The missionaries asked Michael to meet them at the church for his first lesson. He was so eager to be baptized that he asked if he could have that done right away. However, the missionaries helped him understand that he needed to have a few more lessons to strengthen his faith in and commitment to Jesus Christ before he could be baptized. Finally, the day came that he had been waiting for: Michael was going to be baptized. Even though this was his wish, he was very nervous; he could feel his heart beating quickly. He walked to the font, all dressed in white, and as soon as his toe touched the water, Michael felt completely calm; he felt as light as a white feather.
When Michael returned home, he felt happy inside. He felt like he was glowing, but as soon as he walked into his home, his tears began flowing. Michael knew that his Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were happy for the big decision he had made on his own.
These days, Michael looks forward to church each week to renew the covenant with Jesus Christ he made at baptism. He knows that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints has the restored and living gospel. He still finds peace when he attends church and loves to share the message of the gospel so that others can feel the love that he feels.

“Prairie gum!” exclaimed Roxanna. “Would you like to go out and get some prairie gum?” “Oh, yes,” Rachel said. She had just walked the few kilometers between her soddy—a home built of grass, or sod—and Roxanna’s, but her six-year-old legs were eager to go on if the reward was prairie gum, a sticky substance that gathered on the broken tops of the tall rosinweeds dotting the land.
In the spring, the weed blossomed like a little yellow sunflower, but today it was fall, and the rosinweed, like everything on the prairie, was brown and dry. The little wildflowers, which had once added splashes of red, orange, and purple to the sea of grass, were all gone.
The girls walked hand in hand through the dry grass. They felt lucky to live so close to each other; most families on the prairie did not have neighbors nearby. The golden land was vast, and homes were spread out. As Rachel and Roxanna walked, they could not even see another soddy.
They trotted from weed to weed, their long braids dancing behind them. Picking off a bit of the colorless gum here and a bit there, they tried to gather enough of it to make a chewy lump. They were so focused on spotting the next rosinweed and scraping off its gum they didn’t realize they had walked another kilometer. When a faint cry rang out, the two best friends froze.
“Listen! What is that?” Rachel’s brown eyes widened with fear. Both girls strained to make out the sound. Then in the distance they saw Roxanna’s father running toward them. “It’s your father! He wants us to do something. What is it, Roxanna? Can you hear?” Rachel asked, frightened.
“Run! Run! Run!” Roxanna’s father was yelling frantically. “Run to the breaking!” Roxanna quickly spotted the place where her father had turned over the prairie sod with the breaking-up plow. Land on the prairie could not be cultivated the first year; it had to be broken up, then left to lie and rot. During the fall and winter, the tough grass roots rotted away so a common plow could get through them. Roxanna grabbed Rachel’s hand and began running the half kilometer to the breaking. They stumbled through the tall, dry prairie grass.
“Run to the breaking! Run! Run!” Roxanna and Rachel could see the blur of a blue shirt as Roxanna’s father waved his arms desperately. “Run! Run!” His frantic voice was still faint, but the words were distinct.
“Roxanna, what is it? What’s the matter?” Rachel asked between frenzied breaths.
“I don’t know,” Roxanna gasped. Neither girl stopped running. Their parents had taught them to obey immediately, so they stumbled on as fast as their little legs could carry them.
The prairie grass felt like claws snatching at them again and again, trying to trip them. Roxanna stepped into a gopher hole, but Rachel pulled her up. Rachel’s lungs ached, and she felt she did not have another breath in her, but she kept going.
At last they reached the edge of the breaking. Roxanna’s father came running up from the opposite direction. Seizing both girls in his arms, he dragged them into the middle of the bare black clearing.
“Get down!” he gasped, throwing his body over theirs as protection. The black soil was hard and scratched the girls’ faces.
“What is it?” Rachel panted.
A crisp, crackling sound was her answer. She turned her head to see large flames sweeping across the prairie. The orange fire swiftly swallowed up the dry grass and weeds in its path, including where Rachel and Roxanna had stood just minutes before! The flames shot high into the sky, sizzling like wicked laughter. The air over them grew thick with gray smoke and flying red cinders. Roxanna’s eyes and lungs burned from the smoke. Rachel thought her skin would melt from the intense heat that enveloped them.
“Hold on, girls,” Roxanna’s father urged.
And then the danger was over. The fire moved swiftly down the prairie, leaving Rachel, Roxanna, and Roxanna’s father untouched because there was no grass around them to burn. They sat up and stared at the moving fire. Rachel wiped the sweat and dirt from her face with the back of her hand. Roxanna let out a big sigh of relief.
“That was close,” Roxanna’s father gasped, “but we made it!” He looked back to see a stretch of black extending down the prairie, marking the fire’s path. The ground around the breaking was black and still sizzling. He inhaled deeply. “We made it because you quickly obeyed my shouts.” Then he bowed his head and gave thanks to Heavenly Father that the girls had been obedient and that none of them had been hurt by the fire.

The gospel is about changing lives. Joining the Church is a big change for some people. Repentance and forgiveness require change. Crossing the plains was a huge change for the pioneers. Changes can also take other, more mundane forms—but that doesn’t mean that they’ll be any easier to make.
“The first time they announced they were splitting our stake, I was a little upset because I had good friends in our stake. I sort of felt like I would never see some of those people again,” says Debbie Byrd, a Laurel in the newly formed Ames Iowa Stake.
But Debbie soon changed her attitude, realizing that a new stake not only meant a shorter driving distance to activities and a smaller, more intimate group of people, but was also an opportunity to build fun new traditions and become better friends with people close to home.
“We’re not so spread out anymore,” says Jerad Hintz, a priest. “Before I didn’t always know who was in the stake. Now we know each other a lot better.”

“The rector’s not too pleased,” Mr. Crofton added and smiled. “It seems this preacher is baptizing just about everybody in these parts.”
“You don’t say.”
“Rector sent a constable to arrest the preacher right there at the Benbows’. When Mr. Woodruff stood up to preach, the constable stopped him. Told him he was under arrest for preaching.”
Mr. Weston leaned forward to hear the rest.
“Woodruff looked him calmly in the eye and said that he had a license to preach, same as the rector. But he promised to talk to the constable about it after he’d finished his sermon.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Father said and nodded.
“The constable sat down beside him. Then Mr. Woodruff began to preach a sermon like I’ve never heard before. He taught about Jesus Christ like he really knew him. He taught faith, repentance, and baptism. He taught about the Holy Ghost and laying on of hands to receive that gift. It was powerful!”
Father shifted in his chair and studied his friend. “You sound like you believed this preacher.”
“Let me finish my story,” Mr. Crofton replied, “and you’ll see. Well, at the end of the meeting, he invited anyone who desired it to come and be baptized, and four United Brethren preachers walked up and asked to be baptized. Then the constable stood up and everyone quieted down.
“‘Mr. Woodruff,’ he said, ‘I would like to be baptized.’ Well, you could have heard a pin drop! Now, Mr. Woodruff wasted no time. He took the constable down to a pond right then and there at the Benbows’ and baptized him with the others. He baptized seven people that night.”
Charity counted up in her head. If there were four preachers and the constable, then who else had joined this new religion?
Her father stood up and poked the fire. Then he turned to his friend and softly asked, “You were one of those seven, weren’t you?”
Mr. Weston nodded. “I surely was. I want you to come hear him, Benjamin. He preaches a good sermon, and I could just feel the spirit of truth testifying to what he said.”

“Do you think Moroni was lonely, Daddy?” Roslyn asked as her family finished the Book of Mormon in their scripture reading session for the day.
“What do you think?” her father asked, then commented, “Moroni was alone for many years after the big war destroyed his people.”
“He was probably lonely,” Roslyn said, as she thought of her own loneliness over the past several weeks.
“What do you think Moroni did that might have helped him feel less lonely?” her mother asked.
Roslyn thought about Moroni for a few minutes. “Well, he wrote a lot.”
Her mother responded, “Moroni wrote some wonderful messages from the Lord to us, didn’t he, honey? It probably did help him in his loneliness.”
Later, as she brushed her teeth and changed into her nightgown, Roslyn thought about their conversation. She opened her desk drawer and lifted out the journal that had been there since the last time she’d written in it, more than three months before. She used to write in her journal on Sundays, and sometimes in between, but after her sister Shelly was killed in a bicycle accident, Roslyn had not felt like writing in it or doing the things they used to do together.
Roslyn looked again at the empty bed in her room. She had other brothers and sisters, but Shelly had been the one closest to her age, and they had shared many interests. She believed that Shelly was now in a wonderful place and happy among others who loved her—Roslyn was glad about that—but she missed her sister very, very much.
Opening her journal, she began to read some of the things she had written. One Sunday’s entry said, “Our family went to Steve’s Cub Scout pack meeting Thursday evening. It was fun. After they gave out the awards, all the families went Christmas caroling and then went back to the meetinghouse for hot chocolate and cookies.”
On another Sunday, Roslyn had written, “Yesterday when Shelly and I finished our morning chores, we fixed sack lunches and went exploring on the cliff by our house. Chips went with us. It was kind of scary because Chips kept running between us and the cliff. He’s a very protective dog. I said a silent prayer that we would be safe—I didn’t want to fall into all those spiky trees and bushes below us! My prayer was answered, and Chips helped Shelly and me eat our picnic lunch as we sat on our hillside ’thrones’ (the big ‘chairs’ we carved in the dirt).”
As Roslyn read, it was as if Shelly was with her again. What a sweet feeling it gave her! She turned to the last entry she had recorded. It was mostly about her brothers, Steve and Wesley: “Today Steve cut a hole in the bottom of one of his old sweatsuits. He stood Wesley behind a little table with a blanket over it. Wesley had the sweatsuit on, but the legs of the pants were on the table. Steve put his arms through the pants legs and put shoes on his hands so that it looked like Wesley’s legs were sitting on the table. He hid behind Wesley and made the legs dance from side to side, up around his face, and all over. We all laughed and laughed.”
The picture of six-year-old Wesley and those funny, dancing “legs” came clearly into Roslyn’s memory, and she began to laugh again, even harder than she had then. It felt good to laugh.
Then she found a pen in her drawer and began to write. She wrote about Shelly’s accident—about losing her best friend, her dear sister. She wrote about how hard it was to still sleep in the same room and to do alone or with someone else some of the things they used to like most to do together. She ended by referring to Moroni and saying that he must have felt even lonelier than she did. “But Moroni is very happy now,” she wrote, “and writing in my journal makes me feel less lonely too.”

It must be my destiny to be a loner. I was walking to an assembly with Melinda and Denise, who are on the basketball team too. We passed a girl just standing there, looking lost. She also looked like a total nerd. Besides her clothes being all wrong, her hair was like my grandma’s. She was obviously new, and my heart ached for her. I knew just how she felt.
I said, “Are you going to the assembly?” When she nodded, I said, “It’s this way.” Melinda and Denise looked at me like, “You know her?”
She began following us, and Melinda muttered, “Get rid of her.”
But I couldn’t. She needed a friend. She followed us up the bleachers and sat down next to me. Melinda and Denise gave me a disgusted look and moved over to the next section.
Good-bye, Melinda and Denise.

Derek Fagan, age 17, has excelled in both school and seminary, and he credits an experience he had just before he received his patriarchal blessing: “We had been talking about patriarchal blessings in seminary. I prayed and asked if I should get mine. Our stake did not have a patriarch at that time, but three days later, our new patriarch was called. I felt it was my answer. That’s when I decided for myself that the Church is true and that I would try harder to do well and choose the right. My patriarchal blessing was amazing. I carry it with me everywhere. Since early-morning seminary started, everything has been clearer. Even in school, I learn very quickly now.”
Derek became the first seminary student in Ireland to memorize all the scripture mastery scriptures. As an extra challenge, he memorized the account of the First Vision as found in Joseph Smith—History.

Let’s consider some examples. I was an inexperienced priest in a large ward. My bishop called me on the phone one Sunday afternoon. When I answered, he said, “Do you have time to go with me? I need your help.” He explained only that he wanted me to go as his companion to visit a woman I did not know, who was without food and who needed to learn how to manage her finances better.

Now, I knew that he had two seasoned counselors in his bishopric. Both were mature men of great experience. One counselor was the owner of a large business, who later became a mission president and a General Authority. The other counselor was a prominent judge in the city.

I was the bishop’s newly called first assistant in the priests quorum. He knew that I understood little about welfare principles. I knew even less about financial management. I had not yet written a check; I had no bank account; I hadn’t even seen a personal budget. Yet, despite my inexperience, I sensed that he was deadly serious when he said, “I need your help.”

I have come to understand what that inspired bishop meant. He saw in me a golden opportunity to prepare a priesthood holder. I am sure that he did not foresee in that untrained boy a future member of the Presiding Bishopric. But he treated me that day, and all the days I knew him over the years, as a preparation project of great promise.

He seemed to enjoy it, but it was work for him. On our return to my home after we visited the widow in need, he parked the car. He opened his well-worn and heavily marked scriptures. And he gave me kindly correction. He told me that I needed to study the scriptures and learn more. But he must have seen that I was weak and simple enough to be teachable. To this day I remember what he taught that afternoon. But even more, I remember how confident he was that I could learn and be better—and that I would.

He saw beyond the reality of who I was to the possibilities that lie inside someone who feels weak and simple enough to want the Lord’s help and to believe that it will come.

We knelt and had our family prayer. It was times like that that I wished Pa was around. Even though I couldn’t remember him, I thought it would be right nice to have my own Pa like the other kids. I was just a baby when he died. His wagon broke through the ice on the Mississippi when the Saints were leaving Nauvoo, and he fell into the river. Ma said he was all blue when the men pulled him out, and he got real sick and died a few weeks later.
“Why do we pray so much?” I asked Ma as we started eating our lumpydick. “We say family prayers in the morning and at night. We say our own prayers morning and night, and we pray a lot in between. That’s a lot of praying.”
“We have a lot to be thankful for, Son.”
“We do?” I asked, looking around at our one bed, two chairs and table, and the two boxes we used for a dresser and a cupboard. It seemed to me that we didn’t have much of anything. Ma had to wash people’s clothes and sew and clean, and I had to work for Brother Jeffers and Brother Simms. We didn’t get any money for it, either—just flour and sugar and stuff like that.
“We have a lot,” Ma said. “We have a house. We always manage to find something to eat. We have each other. We have the gospel, and we know that someday we’ll be with your pa. Doesn’t that sound like a lot?”
I nodded my head but kept eating my lumpydick and thinking about my bare feet.
“The Lord has blessed us, George, and when we need His help, all we have to do is ask Him in faith, just like the Prophet Joseph did. Heavenly Father wants to help us, but we have to ask.”
That gave me an idea. If the Lord wanted me to have shoes, then maybe He would help me get some.
“You mean we can ask the Lord for anything?”
“Anything that’s right,” she said. “We do have to remember that it’s still up to the Lord and that sometimes His answer is no. We let His will be done.”
I knew Ma was telling the truth, because she doesn’t ever lie. Once she said that if we had enough faith, it would rain. And it rained the very next day. Another time I was very sick, and everybody thought I was going to die, but Ma asked Brother Abott and Brother Beecher to come and give me a blessing. I was better after a couple of hours.
Before I went to bed that night, I said a special prayer to Heavenly Father. I told Him about my bare feet and how I felt bad about going to church without shoes. I said I’d go anyway, even without shoes, but if He felt I should have some shoes, I’d sure appreciate it. When I finished my prayer, I felt good all over. It was just like Heavenly Father was telling me that somehow I’d have a pair of shoes for church the next day.
I woke up just as the sun was peeking over the mountains. I hurried and got dressed and started outside because I knew my new shoes would be there.
“Where are you off to?” Ma asked as I opened the door. “It’s Sunday, you know.”
“I’m just going out to get my shoes,” I called back as I ran down the path to the old wooden gate. Right on top of the gatepost were my shoes, just as I knew they’d be. They were brand-new, and they were just my size.
I was so excited that I could hardly stand still. I wanted to shout and run, but about all I could do was cry a little bit because I was so happy. I knelt down right there by the gate and said a little prayer and thanked Heavenly Father for sending me those shoes.
I didn’t understand how it happened or who Heavenly Father inspired to put the shoes there, but I put them on and ran into the house. “Look, Ma!” I shouted. “Look at my new shoes!”
Ma didn’t know what to say. She just stood there with her mouth open. Finally she asked, “Where did they come from?”
“They’re mine. They’re the ones I prayed for. They were on the gatepost, just waiting for me. You were right. The Lord does answer our prayers.”
Ma looked worried. “George, those are brand-new shoes. You can’t keep them. They belong to someone else.”
“Oh, no, Ma. They’re mine. Heavenly Father helped someone decide to give them to me. I know He did.”
“Take them off,” Ma said.
I knew it was no use to argue with her.
“We’ll take them to church with us and ask President Young to find the owner. I’m sure the owner will be anxious to have them back.”
President Young held the shoes up and asked the owner to come up and get them after the meeting, but nobody did. I would have gone, but Ma wouldn’t let me, even though I knew they were mine.
The next Sunday I went barefoot, and the next Sunday too. It had warmed up a bit, so I wasn’t cold, but I sure was anxious to get my shoes back. Before I went to church that third Sunday, I said a prayer and told Heavenly Father that if He wanted to give those shoes to someone who needed them more than I did, it was all right with me.
President Young held up the shoes after meeting again and asked the owner to claim them. But he still had them in his hand when he came over to Ma and me. “Well, Sister Little,” he said, “it doesn’t look like anyone’s going to claim these shoes. Do you think they’ll fit George?”
“Sure they will,” I said. “The Lord wouldn’t make it possible for me to get a pair of shoes and then have them too big or too little.”
“What’s this?” President Young asked with a twinkle in his eye.
I told him what I’d done—how I’d prayed and had just known that the Lord was going to help me and how I’d found my shoes on the gatepost.
President Young nodded his head, and his eyes got real smiley when he said, “And all this time we’ve been trying to give your shoes away?” I nodded my head. “No wonder no one claimed them. They were yours all along. Well, Sister Little, I think we’d better let George keep his shoes. After the Lord went to all that trouble, I don’t think He would want us giving George’s shoes to someone else.”
I smiled and sat down right there to put on my shoes, and as I pulled them on, I said another little prayer and thanked Heavenly Father for helping me get my shoes back.

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

When he became an Apostle, President Monson was assigned to watch over the Church in Eastern Europe. The members there had very little money, and it was hard for them to buy new clothing. While visiting East Germany, President Monson noticed a man at church whose suit was very worn. The man’s name was Brother Adler.
After the meeting President Monson changed into a pair of pants and a shirt he had packed in his suitcase. He then handed his almost-new suit to Brother Adler and said, “I think this will fit you.”
Brother Adler was surprised. Before he could say anything, President Monson offered his shoes as well. The shoes were too big for Brother Adler, but a man standing nearby said the shoes would fit his son. President Monson handed his shoes to the man and wore an old pair from his bag.
For the next 20 years, President Monson took extra clothes every time he visited East Germany. His generosity blessed many people. Before one Church meeting began, he looked at a young man sitting in the congregation and said, “That’s a fine suit you have on.”
The young man replied, “It should be. It’s yours!”
President Monson’s example teaches us to show love for others as we serve them.

It was about that time Bob began talking again about going on his mission. We hadn’t mentioned it much, but then one day he said, “Well, I guess when we get home I’ll start getting ready for my mission.” From then on, he talked about a mission more and more. One night, about 1:00 A.M., after a long, hard day, he rolled over in his sleeping bag and said, “Dad, tell me about eternal life.” We talked for about two hours. Then, with his last effort, he said, “That’s what I want” and fell asleep. For me that made the whole trip worthwhile.
We slowly regained our lost time, and by the end of the trip, arrived in the small Eskimo village at the mouth of the river right on schedule. We had one half of a meal left. Our canoe was so badly damaged we had to abandon it (after notifying Canadian officials). We had sailed over every set of rapids on the river but one (whether we were tired or afraid of the one we carried our equipment around I’m not sure), so we didn’t claim any records. But Bob had been lost and now was found. The day after we returned home, he went to see the bishop and expressed his desire to serve the Lord. He is now serving in the Illinois Chicago Mission.