Gospel Story Finder

He returned to Ghana after earning his doctorate from Cambridge University in England and took a position as a chemistry professor at the University of Cape Coast. He spent the next ten years in academic pursuits, marrying, and beginning a family—unattached to any religious group. During this time he came in contact with “Reverend” Billy Johnson, who had come across copies of the Book of Mormon and started, without official authority, a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Banyan had attended a church meeting, but couldn’t accept the tribal drumming and dancing that were a part of the services.
Eight years later Billy Johnson gave Brother Dadson copies of the Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, Pearl of Great Price, and Gospel Principles, along with the news that Latter-day Saint missionaries had recently reorganized the local church, this time with a priesthood foundation. Brother Johnson had been baptized and was called to be the first district president.
Banyan decided to give the new religion one more try. This time he attended a standard Latter-day Saint sacrament meeting with the hymns on cassette tapes. As he learned more about the gospel, he soon realized he had finally found the church he had been searching for. He was soon baptized, followed by the four oldest of his six children and, within a few weeks, his wife Henrietta.

Sometimes we go to the cemetery to put flowers on Hans’s grave. I told Mom that it’s kind of like the park where we had our family reunion. She hugged me tightly and told me that when Resurrection Day comes, the good people who have been buried will meet with everybody that they love, and it will be the biggest family reunion that you ever saw. I can hardly wait to hug Hans when he is resurrected. I miss him a lot, but I know that he is happy because he lives with Heavenly Father and Jesus.

As a mother of an autistic four-year-old girl, I have struggled to find answers to how I should help my daughter along the covenant path. Normally simple things like sitting still, observing reverence, or paying attention to the speakers are very hard for her to do. Without these in place, I have struggled to teach her many of the basic rules that lay a foundation to knowing and loving the Savior and the Lord’s purpose for us in this life.
I often wondered how I was to obey the Lord’s commandments to teach our children the gospel. So many of my favorite scriptures in relation to teaching the gospel sometimes became a sad reminder of what I am unable to do.
As time went by, I blamed myself and asked where I went wrong, and if Heavenly Father was unhappy with me.
Because of my daughter’s inability to observe reverence or to stay in a classroom for long, church attendance became a challenge for me. In the beginning, I thought that the days of sacrament meeting attendance were gone for me. I knew I couldn’t leave my child behind as my attendance was not complete without her; I needed her at my side.
I have kept pushing on, each week attending as much of the sacrament meeting as possible. I have prayed on my way to church that I would at least be able to partake of the sacrament before my daughter became too much of a distraction.
I’m grateful for the bishop’s encouragement and belief in my daughter’s ability to be able to settle down in a sacrament meeting. He didn’t judge me for not being able to get my daughter to be reverent all the time. I will never forget the day he assigned me to give a talk on the responsibility of a mother. I felt it was a role I had fallen very short on, but my bishop didn’t. On Mother’s Day, the bishop, knowing that I often had to leave church early, ran after me to ensure that he personally handed me my Mother’s Day card and gift. That deeply touched my heart.
I have come to feel the confirmation from the Holy Ghost that my daughter too, is a unique and loved spiritual daughter of God. I have learnt so much from her uniqueness. I have learnt to put all my trust in God, I have been humbled by her innocence and her zeal to keep learning and trying to do the simple things so many take for granted. She has taught me to be grateful for many small and simple things and to exercise faith in God and most importantly to have an eternal perspective. In more ways than one, she is such a big example of God’s eternal plan of salvation.
I am grateful for the boundless support and positive influence her father has been in her life, helping her walk along this path of the plan of salvation.
I have a testimony that Jesus Christ is the strength of parents, and that He endured all things, so that He may know how to comfort us. My prayer is that we all learn to walk the sometimes-lonely path back to our Heavenly Father while holding on to the iron rod amidst the mocking and laughter from the great and spacious building.

Katie raised her hand. She had a very good question. Feeling OK to stray from the flow of the lesson, the teacher directed the class to a scripture that would help with an answer. Another hand rose with another question. Again, we turned the pages of the Book of Mormon for help with the answer. After the third time in this process, Katie raised her hand again. Almost before the teacher could call on her, she blurted out, “How do you know your scriptures so well? How can you find all that?”
The teacher thought for a moment. He said he was nothing special. He didn’t have a photographic memory, or even a very good one. And then he answered with another scripture: “By small and simple means are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6). The teacher testified that he read his scriptures often. He read them daily. And years of daily scripture study add up.

When I was 14 years old, I began my first job, earning 2 U.S. dollars per hour as a construction laborer. The paycheck for my first week totaled 80 dollars. I wanted to buy an eight-track tape stereo, which was the newest music technology at the time. The full-function model I wanted cost 320 dollars. I excitedly shared with Mom and Dad my intent to purchase the stereo after completing four weeks of work.
My parents wisely taught, “It will take more than four weeks to earn enough money to buy that music player. You should express gratitude to God for His many blessings by paying 10 percent of your income as tithing. You will need to pay the government about 10 percent in taxes. And you should learn while young to obey the counsel of prophets in preparing financially for the future, including your mission; we suggest you set aside 30 percent of your earnings in a savings account.”
My teenage mind quickly calculated that if I did as my parents taught, I would have only 40 dollars each week to spend, which meant I would have to work at least two months to purchase my desired stereo. I found myself at a critical decision point—would obtaining material possessions be my priority, or would I sacrifice to pay tithing and set aside savings?
I decided at age 14 to pay an honest tithing for the remainder of my life. I determined to follow the prophet in saving money for my mission and future education. This experience also taught me to distinguish between wants and needs. I wanted the newest technology, but I did not need it. So I decided to buy a much less expensive model with fewer functions, and it was still performing well when I left on my mission.

While listening to a presentation on family history, stake president David Pickup in Chorley, England, felt an impression that indexing could help the members of his stake increase their desire to worship in the temple. But he wondered, how would something that looked like common data entry lead people to the temple?
He decided to try indexing and found that it brought an added measure of the Spirit of Elijah into his life. For him, indexing has become a “refining” work. “You cannot index without thinking about not only the names being indexed but also your own family names,” he says.
President Pickup challenged the members of his stake to use indexing as a way to participate in family history work. Within a short time, he and other stake leaders noticed a significant increase in temple recommend worthiness and sacrament meeting attendance. They noticed that the members who participated in indexing were developing a desire to take their own family names to the temple.
Indexing helped the members of the Chorley stake by bringing an added measure of the Spirit into their lives and by giving them the tools they needed to take their family names to the temple. “You don’t need to be temple worthy to index,” President Pickup says, “but when you index, it will refine you, and you will want to be temple worthy, and you will want to go to the temple, and you will want to do work for your ancestors. … I know this because it happened to me.”

Carrie’s older brother tugged one of her thick blond braids. “Hey, Freckles, you ought to have the sheepshearers do you too.”
“Yeah,” chimed in her twin brother, “you have more wool than old Tim Buck.”
Nine-year-old Carrie made a face at her brothers. All three children were perched on top of the strawstack at the far end of the sheep shed. Sheep, waiting to be sheared, milled about below them, blatting nervously. The shearing clippers buzzed, and men shouted orders as they threw the fleeces up into the wool bag.
Tim Buck, the huge lead ram, seemed to be the only calm one amid the confusion. He was penned apart and was munching on hay. Whenever he shook off flies, the large bell around his neck jingled.
“Carrie Helen!” shouted her dad. “Carrie Helen Shultz, please come here.”
Always anxious to please her father, she hollered back, “Coming—on the double!” Scooting off the strawstack, she ran to meet her dad.
“Carrie, I need you to go with Tim Buck to lead the sheep we’ve already sheared over to the south pasture. There are about a hundred ewes or so, plus the lambs. We have to make room for the next ones.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, grinning up at her brothers and throwing her shoulders back proudly.
Dad fastened one end of a stout rope to the lead sheep’s collar and handed the other end to Carrie. “OK, Carrie, Tim Buck’s ready. Remember what his job is.”
Without hesitating, Tim Buck started out of the holding pen. Once an orphan lamb, he showed no fear of Carrie and looked up at her with soft brown eyes, eyes filled with warmth and wisdom.
Confident of her own importance and of Tim Buck’s love, Carrie stepped out in front of the old sheep. She walked through the noisy ewes, which responded immediately to the sound of the lead sheep’s bell. As they followed Carrie and Tim Buck out of the corral gate, she felt their excitement as they rushed forward. They seemed to know that they were free now to go to the south pasture. Sensing their anticipation, and sure of her responsibility, Carrie tugged at the rope fastened to the sheep’s collar, pulling him toward the narrow bridge and her favorite shortcut to the south pasture.
But Tim Buck resisted Carrie’s tugging and headed toward the hill and the longer, usual route. Again Carrie pulled at the rope, trying to head the old sheep toward the bridge. Again Tim Buck resisted.
“Oh, why can’t you do it my way!” Carrie stamped her foot impatiently as Tim Buck firmly planted his feet, refusing to move. Though she pulled hard, her sixty pounds were no match against the weight of the huge sheep. When her arms began to tire, Carrie glared at Tim Buck and grouched, “All right! I’ll do it your way this time. Come on. Let’s go up that long hill. At least we can cut across the hayfield and not have to take the long road around it.”
The ewes, confused at the delay, had begun to push forward, baaing worriedly. As Tim Buck moved forward, his bell started jingling, and the sheep quieted. When Carrie, walking a couple feet in front, quickened her step, Tim Buck quickened his. The hungry ewes also increased their pace. Out of breath, Carrie rushed to the top of the hill. “Now’s my chance,” she said, pulling tightly on Tim Buck’s rope, forcing his head toward the hayfield.
Tim Buck butted Carrie gently, loosening her grip. Then he moved toward the well-used road.
“Why, you ornery critter! Can’t you see how much easier it would be to cut across that field instead of going around it!” She yanked at the rope, trying to drag Tim Buck toward the hayfield. He looked at her questioningly, then shook his head forcefully. The bell jangled, and the ewes pressed forward as Tim Buck pulled away from the hayfield and moved quickly onto the familiar road. The rope started to slip through Carrie’s hands, but she held on tightly.
Half running, Carrie tried to get ahead of Tim Buck. But he only walked faster. The more she tried, the faster he went, and the faster he went, the faster came the ewes and lambs. Soon Carrie was sandwiched between Tim Buck and the rushing sheep, and the rope was slipping out of her grasp. She clutched it desperately, even though it was burning her fingers.
Familiar with the road and quickened by hunger, the sheep hurried toward the open gate to the south pasture, where Tim Buck saw his own shortcut! He swerved suddenly from the road and down a steep slope. The sudden movement sent Carrie sprawling, and the rope was jerked out of her hands. The sheep quickly moved away from her and down the slope, following Tim Buck through the open pasture gate.
Carrie lay bewildered, hurt, and defeated. Sobbing, she struggled to her feet. With skinned knees and stinging hands, she stumbled back toward the sheep shed. With each step, she imagined her brothers’ teasing and her father’s disappointment.
Her dad met her in his truck before Carrie reached the shed. Stopping his truck, he got out and hurried over to her. Then, tilting her tear-stained face up for him to see, and putting one hand on her shoulder, he said, “It looks like you’ve had some troubles, honey.” He looked at her intently, but his voice was gentle and matter-of-fact. Seeing Carrie’s ropeburned hands, he dampened his bandanna in some clean water and gently patted them while she blurted out her story.
“So you wanted the sheep to take the shorter path across the bridge?” her father said when she had finished.
“It would have been much faster.”
“Do you think that all those sheep could have safely crossed that narrow bridge together?”
“Well,” Carrie hesitated. “I—I guess not. But they would have had plenty of room to cross the hayfield.”
“But, Carrie, do you remember how sick the sheep get when they eat too much hay? Do you know that most sheep can’t stop eating fresh hay once they get started?”
“Oh, Dad, I’m sorry,” Carrie sobbed.
“You’re lucky, Carrie, that Tim Buck wouldn’t allow the sheep to take a dangerous path.”
“Yeah, he’s really stubborn,” Carrie said, starting to fume again.
“Perhaps he’s not as stubborn as he is committed to doing what he knows is right. Remember, Carrie, that he’s the lead sheep. He guides the others in the paths that will get them safely to where they want to go, just as Mom and I try to lead you along the right pathways so that you can return to live with Heavenly Father.
Dad and Carrie got into the truck and he looked at her hands again to make sure that they weren’t seriously hurt. Then he drove toward the south pasture and stopped. Carrie was surprised when he got out of the truck and lifted her out too.
“All right, Carrie Helen. Now that you know why Tim Buck behaves as he does, do you think that you can take him back to get another bunch of sheep?”
“Yes, Dad. And this time I’ll let him lead the way.”

Let me tell you the story of one man who sacrificed greatly to maintain his own financial integrity and honor.

In the 1930s Fred Snowberger opened the doors of a new pharmacy in northeastern Oregon. It had been his dream to own his own business, but the economic turnaround he had hoped for never materialized. Eight months later, Fred closed the doors of his pharmacy for the last time.

Even though his business had failed, Fred was determined to repay the loan he had secured. Some wondered why he insisted on repaying the debt. Why didn’t he simply declare bankruptcy and have the debt legally forgiven?

But Fred did not listen. He had said he would repay the loan, and he was determined to honor his word. His family made many of their own clothes, grew much of their food in their garden, and used everything they had until it was thoroughly worn out or used up. Rain or shine, Fred walked to and from his work each day. And every month, Fred paid what he could on the loan.

Years passed, and finally the wonderful day arrived when Fred made the last payment. He delivered it in person. The man who had loaned him the money wept, and with tears streaming down his face he said, “You not only paid back every penny, but you taught me what a man of character and honesty is.”

To this day, nearly 70 years after Fred signed his name to that note, descendants of Fred and Erma Snowberger still tell this story with pride. This act of honor and nobility has lived through the decades as a cherished example of family integrity.

While serving as a mission leader in Japan some years ago, I conducted an interview with a man who had joined the Church a year earlier and was seeking to receive a temple recommend.

During our conversation, this new member described how deeply grateful he was for the blessings he had received in the year since his baptism. To me, he showed a covenant confidence resulting from his gospel understanding, which was deeply rooted in him. He was a converted disciple of Jesus Christ who had experienced a mighty change of heart (see Mosiah 5:2).

Following the interview, I told the district president how impressed I was that the missionaries and members had found, and spiritually nurtured, such an outstanding man with such potential.

I was stunned to learn that when this man began meeting with the missionaries and attending church, he was homeless and in nearly hopeless circumstances. This brother’s study of the gospel and his conversion over a period of months led to his miraculous change, putting him on a path of spiritual and temporal self-reliance and joy.

The gospel gave this brother a clear picture of the purpose of his life. Plain and precious gospel truths brought him answers to important questions of mortality. Such blessings are equally available to you and all God’s children through the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The joyful recent convert I met in Japan years ago found the restored gospel of Jesus Christ through his diligence and that of missionaries and members. He discovered his purpose and expanded his vision of the great plan of happiness, which brought him blessings and joy that lifted him temporally and spiritually.

What about the kindness we show to our own family members? The most important and sometimes the most difficult place to show kindness is in our own homes, to our parents and to our brothers and sisters. When our son Mitch was 10 years old, he wanted to help our family, especially if he could make it fun. When no one was looking, he put a bell on a string around his neck and pretended to be a bellboy as he helped with family jobs. When family members noticed things were done, he would just say, “It must be the bellboy.” Mitch was a great help to us and also brought fun and delight to our family.

My grandparents run an orphanage in Guatemala. My family was going to visit them, so I put a service project together for my birthday. We fixed up dolls to give to the children. I also bought them cars, bubbles, and lollipops with my birthday money. When we handed out the toys, I felt peace and happiness. I knew God was proud of me. I can’t wait to serve others again!
Katie S., age 11, Connecticut, USA

I learned a lot about my identity as a child of God while I was on my mission. But after I came home, I realized I still had a lot to learn about the importance of remembering that other people are also children of God.
Soon after I returned home, I was thrown into a difficult calling and put in charge of an important event. I was overwhelmed, and I couldn’t get ahold of the people who were supposed to be helping me. I sent an email that was, truthfully, pretty strongly worded.
I was right that the calling was important and that I needed more support, but I quickly realized that maybe this wasn’t the best way to motivate people. I needed humility; I needed to remember that other people probably had their own things they were stressed about.
As Elder Steven E. Snow taught when he was a member of the Seventy, “If we humble ourselves, our prayers are answered; we enjoy peace of mind; we serve more effectively in our callings; and, if we continue to be faithful, we will ultimately return to the presence of our Heavenly Father.”
Truly, I have felt more joy in my calling and in my life as I’ve learned to be more humble.

It was Christmastime, and the three young Rogers girls, LeOla, Ruby, and Alice, were excited. Not because of any special gift they were expecting to receive, but because of the one gift they were planning to give.
Christmastime was always exciting in Snowflake, Arizona, but this year needed some extra cheer. Grandma Rogers had died a short time earlier, and Grandpa Locy—we all called Grandpa Rogers by his middle name—was sad and lonely.
A kind and gentle man, he loved every child in the town, and they loved him in return. He always had an encouraging word to give, or a piece of candy to share with any child who asked for one. In fact, he was affectionately known as “Candy Man.” Whenever the neighborhood children saw him, they ran to him. He was always cheerful—until this year, anyway.
Grandpa’s sadness settled on everyone. Something had to be done! How could anyone be cheerful when Grandpa Locy was so unhappy? A family council was called. For several nights the girls and their parents discussed the problem. Finally they came up with an exciting plan.
“Let’s not have any gifts this year!” LeOla exclaimed. “Instead, let’s give something extra special to Grandpa to make him happy.”
“What if we helped him do something nice for the children in town with the money we save?” Ruby suggested. “We could make a Santa suit for him, and on Christmas Eve, he could pass out the candy and toys we’ll buy for him to give to the children.”
Alice, the youngest of the three girls, added, “I want to help pick out all the toys and candy!”
LeOla, Ruby, and Alice spent the next few days poring over the Sears and Roebuck catalog, ordering lots of candy, and sorting through every small toy that the children might enjoy. They made one list for the girls and another for the boys. Their mother’s job was to make the Santa suit for Grandpa. She was an excellent seamstress, and it was soon ready. Father’s part was to put an ad in the Snowflake Herald: “Attention all children eight years old and under: Come to the Rogers’s place on Christmas Eve to see Santa and receive a gift.”
The day the gifts arrived was the day the work really began. The Rogers girls and their best friends became a squad of gift wrappers. Paper and ribbons flew as each gift was adorned in bright Christmas array, and candy bags were filled. What fun it was! Best of all, the family could see that their plan was working—Grandpa was pleased that he had been asked to dress as Santa and pass out gifts.
Each year, the Rogers family festooned a huge blue spruce with hundreds of colored lights. The festive tree was on one side of the front yard and across the street from the Social Hall. The three girls particularly enjoyed lighting it each night. All the Christmas programs and dances in the area were held in the hall, and the family hoped that their lighted tree added to everyone’s Christmas spirit.
Long evenings were spent making decorations for the old tree. Mother popped corn, and the girls strung it into long strands. They also made great chains of colored paper. These were hung carefully around the tree’s boughs after the lights had been put on. LeOla, Ruby, and Alice took turns decorating and then redecorating the tree until it was just right. They made sure each limb was trimmed perfectly before Father turned on the lights.
At last Christmas Eve day arrived. A feathery snow began to fall, blanketing everything in fresh, bright white. The Rogers girls thought the tree looked even more beautiful than before as its colored lights reflected in the snow.
After supper, LeOla looked out the window. It was only five o’clock, and the street was filled with people! There was a line of fathers with children on their shoulders, and mothers with their arms filled with toddlers, all waiting for a chance to see Santa. Others milled around, just enjoying the sights. It stopped snowing, and the stars began to peep out from behind the clouds. Upstairs, behind the snow-topped rails of an uncovered porch, carolers began to sing. Below them, Leon and Thalia Kartchnew were strumming along on their guitars.
At last Grandpa, dressed in his bright red suit, came out of the house and stood behind the snow-laden picket fence under the tree. The soft strains of the Christmas carols drifted down over the crowd, and a feeling of peace and quiet sifted among the people.
As each child came up to Santa, he handed him or her a gift. There were bracelets, lockets, or dolls for the girls. For the boys, a top or some marbles. Each child was also given a sack of candy and nuts.
LeOla could not recall seeing so many smiling faces before. All the children were happy—except one.
A young boy burst into tears of great disappointment when he saw his gift. “But Santa,” he sobbed, “I wrote you for a pocketknife!”
“Santa” knew that the young lad’s father had died several years before and that his mother was quite poor and probably couldn’t afford the gift he wanted so badly. Putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, he whispered, “I will leave it in your stocking tonight!”
Although it was quite late when the last visitor left, Grandpa Locy changed his clothes, put on his heavy winter coat, and trudged out into the now-bitter night air. He crunched a path through the snow to the town’s only general store. By the time he arrived, the storekeeper and his family were already in bed.
Grandpa Locy knocked on the door until the sleepy-eyed storekeeper opened the door and let him in to make his purchase. Then he headed for the boy’s home on the far side of town. Though he had smiled many times in the past few days, his biggest smile came as he thought of the little boy’s happiness upon finding the pocketknife in his stocking.
The next morning, there were no gifts waiting under the tree for LeOla, Ruby, or Alice. There were no new dolls, no tea sets, and no frilly new dresses. There was, however, one gift for the entire family—Grandpa Locy’s smile! And many, many years later, when the Rogers girls were grandmas, they would remember and tell their own grandchildren about the very best Christmas that they ever had!

Frequently the need of the widow is not one of food or shelter but of feeling a part of ongoing events. Elder H. Bryan Richards of the Seventy once brought to my office a sweet widow whose husband had passed away during a full-time mission they were serving. Elder Richards explained that her financial resources were adequate and that she desired to contribute to the Church’s General Missionary Fund the proceeds of two insurance policies on the life of her departed husband. I could not restrain my tears when she meekly advised me, “This is what I wish to do. It is what my missionary-minded husband would like.”
The gift was received and entered as a most substantial donation to missionary service. I saw the receipt made in her name, but I believe in my heart it was also recorded in heaven. I invited her and Elder Richards to follow me to the unoccupied First Presidency council room in the Church Administration Building. The room is beautiful and peaceful. I asked this sweet widow to sit in the chair usually occupied by our Church President. I felt he would not mind, for I knew his heart.
As she sat ever so humbly in the large leather chair, she gripped each armrest with a hand and declared, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.” It was also such for Elder Richards and for me.

Photograph courtesy of the author
In September 2021, our youngest son, Joey, passed away after living for only about two months. Despite prayers, fasting, priesthood blessings, and the monumental efforts of some of the best doctors in the world, little Joey’s body would not allow him to live.
During Joey’s last moments of life, my wife and I held him. As I watched him take his last breath, everything inside me broke. In desperation and deep anguish, I cried out to the Lord. In His mercy, He responded.
Immediately my anguish was replaced with an intense feeling of gratitude that is hard for me to describe with words. I felt overwhelmed with thanks that the Lord had given me a wonderful wife, four beautiful children, and covenants that bound them to me forever. I felt like Alma the Younger when he experienced joy as exquisite as the pain he had previously felt (see Alma 36:20).
As I basked in gratitude to the Lord, I received a profound spiritual impression. The anguish I felt for the death of my son helped me appreciate the anguish Heavenly Father must have felt when His Son died for me, and for the rest of God’s children, two thousand years ago. Because Jesus Christ died for us, I know I will see my son again.
In a small way, I better understood the sacrifice that Heavenly Father and His Son had made. Again, I felt grateful for the deep love of God.
During the time that has passed since our son’s death, I have often contemplated what I felt that day. The anguish, the gratitude, and the powerful spiritual impressions have changed me forever. I can truly testify that the trials of life give us experience and will be for our good (see Doctrine and Covenants 122:7) if we allow the Lord to be involved in our lives and hold on to our faith in the Savior and His Atonement.

One preparatory event happened when I was in an auto accident while visiting France. Moments after I was strongly prompted to fasten my seat belt, the car skidded and plummeted down a 20-foot (6-m) embankment. Because of the warning voice and because I regained use of my feet and legs while others with similar injuries are often left permanently paralyzed, I began to understand that a divine power much greater than I was in control.

One cold winter morning when I was about eleven years old, I woke up with the strongest feeling that something was wrong. I went upstairs to see my parents, but they weren’t there. In about five or ten minutes the phone rang, and it was my mother calling from the hospital. She told me that my father had been in a car accident.
My father worked late hours at a dairy that was an hour’s drive from home. That night he had had to stay past his usual quitting time. As he was driving home, he fell asleep and his car rolled about five times. My father was severely injured when he was thrown through the windshield. He landed in a puddle of mud and snow. The cold helped stop the bleeding, but when he was taken to the hospital, the doctors who examined him didn’t expect him to live.
I’ll never forget the bishop and his two counselors coming to our home that afternoon. They gathered our family together, and the bishop offered a prayer that my father’s life would be spared and that he would return to his normal health. As I listened to the prayer, I had a very warm, strong feeling that my father wouldn’t pass away.
He was in a coma for three weeks, but the bishop’s prayer was answered. In fact, a highway patrolman, a friend of my bishop’s, wrote a book in which he talked about the worst accident he had ever seen, in which the man’s life was spared. That man was my father.

David discovered an interesting person sitting behind the main character in one of his cartoons.
The guy didn’t have a name, but he was just the sort of person David was looking for. In learning to be a cartoonist, David had been fiddling with different drawing styles. Then when he was drawing the background people in a cartoon, suddenly he found he had drawn a guy with just the right look. He had a pudgy nose, no forehead, his mouth in danger of sliding down his neck, and a soft slouching body. And the expression on his face was one of being slightly amused at life’s absurdities. He was the perfect model for the character in David’s new cartoon strip called Larger Than Life.
“I liked him more than the main guy,” said David Gallagher, a young cartoonist whose low-key sense of humor comes out in his cartoon strip. His characters, who find themselves caught in some odd moments, usually have a slightly dumbfounded look. “The emotions and expressions are always toned down,” said David. “I thought it would be funnier just to be subtle about things in my cartoons.”

In these canyons, Mosiah, Lao Moy, and many other faithful Saints worked tirelessly to divide the boulders with hand drills, wedges, and low-power explosives. The rough blocks were then transported by oxteam—four yoke required for each block—and every trip was a difficult three- or four-day journey to the temple site some twenty miles away.
Mosiah touched Lao Moy’s shoulder and brought him out of his reverie. “I’m going to set off the blast, Lao Moy,” he cautioned, and then shouted a warning to the nearby workers. Mosiah lit the fuse and sprinted with Lao Moy for cover.
Two other workmen held a team of oxen. One of them was fourteen-year-old Corey Atwood. Corey, a tough, stout boy, had long taken pleasure in cruelly funning Lao Moy because of his broken English, his long queue (braid), and his quiet and obedient ways. It was often Corey who kept Lao Moy’s bitterness alive, but the Chinese boy had held it all inside, even when the troublesome Corey had once grabbed Lao Moy’s queue and threatened to cut it off with a knife.
The blast erupted like the sound of cannon fire over a Virginia cottonfield, and the big piece of granite split in two. Cheers went up, and Mosiah scrambled up the rocks to view his accomplishment. Lao Moy started up, too, but was soon held fast by Corey, who held onto his queue.
“What’s the matter, Lao Moy,” he chuckled, “somebody got your tail?”
Suddenly something exploded inside Lao Moy with no less force than Mosiah’s dynamite blast. He turned and struck Corey in the face so hard that the big boy was lifted off his feet and thrown backward in front of the team of oxen. The wide-eyed Atwood looked as surprised as Lao Moy. He wiped at the blood on his mouth and started to lift himself up when a clap of thunder suddenly boomed. As the already spooked oxen lurched forward, Lao Moy sprang for Corey and rolled him out of the path of pounding hooves and grinding wheels.
For a long moment the two boys just lay there, staring at each other. Finally, a smile broke across Corey’s dusty, blood-smeared face. Lao Moy smiled back, and all the old bitterness in his heart seemed to melt away like ice in a summer sun. A new peaceful feeling assured him it would not return.
Lao Moy was forty-five years old when the Salt Lake Temple was finally dedicated on April 6, 1893; Mosiah, seventy-six; and Corey Atwood, forty-seven. Corey sat close beside Lao Moy as President Wilford Woodruff offered the dedicatory prayer. A friendship had grown between them, a friendship as strong as the temple granite they had helped to cut. And like that granite, it would last forever.

As walls in Europe break down, two LDS girls are doing their best to extend international understanding. Samantha Broadribb of the Norwich Ward, Norwich England Stake, and Geertje Bauerfeind, of the Leipzig Second Ward, Leipzig Germany Stake, have started their own exchange program.
Samantha, a 16-year-old studying German, decided to contact a fellow seminary student in what was then the German Democratic republic. Geertje invited Samantha to stay with her for several weeks to get a taste of life in East Germany. Then Geertje visited Samantha and her family in England for ten days. Geertje loved London’s lights at night.