Gospel Story Finder

I always looked forward to Primary activity day because it meant exciting activities, great games, and tasty treats. Sometimes the activities were serious and spiritual, and I liked those too, because I learned so much. But of all the great activities I went to, I remember one more than any other.
At 10:00 on the dot that Saturday, I showed up at church, along with the rest of the Primary-age children in my ward. After an opening prayer, a song, and a few instructions, we split into groups. I followed my group into a classroom and was surprised to find a large piece of green-and-white-checked fabric and a piece of solid green fabric, with a layer of fluffy stuff in between. It was all stretched out and tacked to some boards. Nearby were yarn and big needles. “A quilt,” I thought. “Who would be tying a quilt right in the middle of our Primary activity?”
“We are all going to help tie this quilt for someone in the ward who isn’t feeling well,” one of our Primary leaders explained. “After it’s finished, we’ll give it to her.”
“What a great idea!” I thought. When I’m having a hard time, I enjoy wrapping up in a nice warm blanket. But I wondered how well it would turn out since I had never tied a quilt and was pretty sure the rest of the Primary hadn’t either.
Then the Primary president announced who would receive the quilt—my own lucky mom! I was even more excited to try my hardest so the quilt would look nice.
My mom had been very ill all month. In fact, Grandma had to stay with us for a while because Mom was so sick she couldn’t take care of us. She had to be released from her Primary calling too. Even though Mom’s illness wasn’t easy for our family, something good was going to happen. I would have a baby brother!
With the help of our leaders, we set to work. Even though I wondered if we could really do it, we tied that quilt. Everyone made a stitch or two. Then we each wrote a message, signed our name, or drew a picture in a book that went along with the quilt. I knew what we were doing would mean a lot to Mom because she told me how much she loved and missed all the children in Primary. And the person who bought the fabric must have been inspired, because green is Mom’s favorite color.
Tying the quilt wasn’t hard, but keeping quiet about it sure was. A few weeks later, the secret was finally revealed. On a sunny Sunday morning during singing time, we all walked a block from the church and around the corner to my backyard. We sat on the lawn and waited while one of our leaders knocked on the door.
You can probably guess that when Mom stepped outside and saw all the children gathered, she cried. She cried even more when we sang some of our favorite Primary songs in our best voices. Then the Primary president presented the finished quilt and the book of messages.
“Your singing was beautiful,” Mom said through her tears. “This is one of the nicest things that has ever happened to me.” I knew she meant it. She smiled and cried some more and said that she was going to go inside, wrap up in the quilt, and read every message we had written.
Mom still has that quilt, and I know she always will. It has a few extra long loops of yarn on the back where some of the stitches weren’t pulled all the way through. Mom says that makes it even more special. To this day, when someone in the family is sick or has a bad day, nothing makes us feel better than wrapping up in the memories and warmth of what we affectionately call the “Primary quilt.”

All my life I had been taught that the Church was true. When I decided to gain a testimony of my own, I thought that I needed to approach things from a different angle than that of my teachers and friends. So I asked: What if the gospel is not true? What if my well-meaning friends and parents are misled? What if the Book of Mormon is a work of fiction? What if there is no living prophet today and families aren’t forever?
As such questions filled my mind, darkness clouded my thoughts. I felt as if doors were closing inside me and for a whole day I wandered around in a depressed stupor of thought, thinking and acting unkindly towards others.
The next morning I came to myself and realized that I was obviously getting nowhere. Then I remembered a seminary lesson I’d had on prayer. I knew that in Doctrine and Covenants 9:7–9 there were some guidelines on getting answers. [D&C 9:7–9] As I read these verses, I could see that I had asked the wrong question. When I studied my questions out in my mind and in my heart, I sincerely believed the things I had been taught were true. So I prayed again, this time asking if my beliefs were right: Was I really a child of God? Was there a celestial kingdom? Was the priesthood the power of God?
Light poured into my soul replacing darkness. The Spirit confirmed that my belief was not in vain. I felt as if doors were being flung open and I could see things more clearly.
I gained a desire to serve and share my testimony. The Lord had heard and answered my sincere prayer. Now I knew for myself that what I had believed all along was really true.

I remember when I found information about my great-great-grandmother. While pregnant, she came to Argentina on a ship. During the voyage, she buried her son at sea. She was just a story until I found her name in a record. I became even closer to my grandparents, and I came to know my ancestors as if I had lived with them. I found information about my ancestors, shared the glad tidings of eternal sealing, and helped bless many generations.

One Sunday, seated in front of the television with my cigarettes and usual bottle of wine, I heard the doorbell. Opening the door, I saw two young men in blue suits, with name tags identifying them as missionaries. The room I invited them into was full of smoke and the smell of alcohol, but they were undeterred and began to question me about my beliefs. Did I believe in God?
That made me stop and think. Though I had been baptized as a little boy, I had never been a churchgoer—I thought religion was not worth it. Rather, I believed in my conscience and the need to be honest with my fellowmen. Yet I surprised myself and answered yes to their question. As they continued and began to teach me about Joseph Smith and the Restoration, it seemed as though I had already heard their words. An indescribable feeling began to come over me, and I loved these young men. When they offered a prayer, I began to cry, and my heart began to swell until it would burst.
We made an appointment for the following Tuesday, and during the interval, my life passed before me as in a film. Until the age of twenty, I had abstained from alcohol. But then a business failure and financial difficulties sent me into a deep personal crisis, compounded by my wife’s illness and two-year convalescence in a distant hospital. I sought comfort in alcohol, and before long I began to drink quantities of strong spirits from morning until night. Add to that the 70 to 100 cigarettes I smoked daily and you can understand that my physical condition deteriorated gradually to the point where I was embarrassed about it.
At one point I entered a hospital to be detoxified, but the doctors were unable to help me and I became even more depressed. I had a good job and a wonderful family, but I needed to get out from under these vices. In desperation I abandoned myself even more completely to alcohol, at one point even attempting suicide. I tried to enter a private clinic for help, but could not afford the treatments. It was at this point that Elders Sorensen and Waterman entered my life.
When they returned for our second meeting, the two missionaries spoke to me of many new things that I did not know but felt were true. When they told me about the Word of Wisdom, I felt my heart sink, and I said “Tell me how I, of all persons, can give up alcohol, since I have tried every way I know how, and have had no success.” They asked me if I believed in God and in the things they had taught me and if I felt that I had faith in the Lord. I replied that I did.
“Good,” they said. “If you will listen to us, we’ll help you and the Lord will give you the power to overcome your problem.” “I’ll be infinitely grateful,” I answered. Their exhortations filled me with joy, with hope, and with faith, and I really desired in my heart to follow their guidance. When I prayed I felt more and more self-confidence, and from that morning, with my newborn courage, I imposed the rule that I would never drink cognac again. And I was able to maintain that rule though I suffered greatly. With the help of the elders, and with humility, I was able to gradually reduce the doses of other alcoholic beverages and of cigarettes. It was not easy, but I felt the Lord near to me, helping me. I felt that I had to do my part and that I would not be alone in this trial.
After a month and a half I was able to overcome my vices. Finally free, I felt ready to be baptized, with my wife, on December 28, 1977. I came up out of the baptismal waters renovated in body and spirit, sure that the Lord forgets our sins if we are truly repentant. I can’t explain what a joy it was to abandon the old me and see myself reborn full of trust in myself and love for my fellowman. I had an immense desire to recover all the lost time showing gratitude to the Lord with a commitment to do everything that he commanded me.
Following my baptism, my health improved day by day. At first I continued to arise in the morning full of aches and pains. Getting up was a painful trial. But after prayer, I was able to go about my work serenely until the evening, when the problems returned. But then, one great day, I arose and realized that I was finally free of the pains. From that time forward I have had no problems.
After a year of Church membership, we were able to go to the temple, where my wife and our three daughters were sealed to me. Now we are truly a united family. I have been blessed with a number of challenging callings in the Church and can bear witness that, with humility and faith in the Lord, there is nothing impossible for man. I know, too, that observance of the Word of Wisdom brings health and strength—and the desire to use that strength in the service of the Lord.

It was really hard for me when we moved from Idaho to Utah. After moving all my life, I thought we were finally going to stay put. One day while at our library I happened to pick up the February 1985 New Era. I read “A Small Light in the Darkness.” It hit me hard what I needed to do. I needed to be doing what that boy was doing. I needed to set a good example too. Even though we’ve moved a lot, I’ve always had the New Era as a friend. Thank you for being a friend.
Barbara JacobMagna, Utah

The nightmare began with a phone call. A tender voice on the line informed me that our 15-year-old son was involved with drugs and alcohol—and had been for quite some time. Shock gripped me.
We took our son to the county health department and had him tested for drug use. His drug levels broke their record for that substance. By the end of the week, we had admitted him to a local rehabilitation program. Six weeks later he was discharged, and I thought the nightmare was over. But it was only just beginning. Two months later he was arrested at school for sale and possession of marijuana. Months became years, and a pattern of drug abuses and arrests developed. In one year alone he was arrested 10 times. Finally he was sentenced to six months in jail.
After visiting our son in jail each Sunday, we would drive to the temple being built in our city at the time and sit there and weep. How could this have happened?
I prayed often for my son. I kept his name on the prayer rolls of the temple. I fasted for him every Sunday, not just on fast days. When he was out of jail and living elsewhere, I invited him to dinner every Monday evening and to every family function we had.
I felt impressed to pray that someone he respected would come into his life. The name of one of his former Primary teachers came to mind, a peace officer whom I saw soon after at stake conference. I told him about my son and the impression I’d had. He said without hesitation that he would go and see him.
Two days later I was sitting at the sewing machine when I saw in my mind the officer standing in a room embracing my son. Tears were flowing down both of their faces. I looked at the clock. It was 2:15 P.M. When he called later that evening, I told him I knew he had been to see my son at 2:15 that afternoon. He confirmed that he had gone where I could not go and be welcomed. My heart overflowed with gratitude.
From that time on, I felt powerful spiritual confidence infuse me. I realized that my prayers were being heard and that deeply spiritual blessings could result if I would continue to be faithful and diligent in my efforts.
One Monday morning as I prayed, I had a strong impression to ask Heavenly Father to give my son a special dream, for it was only when he slept that he was still enough to listen. The specific words to say came gently to my mind. I was startled. I doubted that I had understood the impression correctly. Could I do such a thing? However, after receiving the same prompting two more times, I obeyed. As I knelt in prayer, I was moved to ask specifically for my son to have a bright recollection of all his guilt and to feel the burden of his sins, but also to know immediately that the Savior loved him and wanted him back.
Time passed. Then late one summer night my son came to the house. He stood in the doorway, unsure of his welcome. He told us he had been to visit with the bishop and that he wanted to go on a mission! I ran to him and threw my arms around him, and we both wept. For about two hours he described the pain of what he’d been going through and begged for our forgiveness.
My husband, who had been deeply hurt, was skeptical at first. After many hours of talking, our son reached over and put his hands on his dad’s knees and asked him if he would give him a father’s blessing. I witnessed a second miracle that night as tears came to my husband’s eyes and his heart was immediately softened.
Some time later, my son was asked to speak at a leadership meeting about his return to Church activity. At the meeting he stood and said, “One night I had a dream, and in the dream I had a bright recollection of all my guilt. I felt the burden of my sins but knew immediately that the Savior loved me and wanted me back.”
I was overcome with emotion. I knew then as never before that Heavenly Father had not only responded to my heartfelt fasting and prayer but had also, in his merciful wisdom, graciously taught me what to pray for.
Eighteen months later my son was called to serve a mission. There were nearly 500 people in attendance at sacrament meeting! Friends from Hawaii arrived, bringing with them a braided green lei, which they presented to our son just before the meeting began. This particular lei, they explained, was one villagers placed on triumphant warriors when they returned victorious from battle. They asked him to wear it when he gave his talk.
However, when our son stood to talk, he didn’t have on the lei. I worried that our friends would be hurt. Then, near the end of his talk, he took out the lei and explained the tradition associated with it. He said he felt like a warrior going to battle for the truth but that there was someone else here who was the real warrior, someone who had waged a difficult war and won. He then turned to me and reached for my hand, led me to his side, and lovingly placed the lei around my neck.
I surely know that as parents in Zion we have great power to reach out and bring back our lost children with help from our Father in Heaven. “For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found” (Luke 15:24).

“These aren’t the friends I want.”
Sadly, this wasn’t the first time I’d had this thought. My friends lived differently than I did, and I felt like I was often tempted to stray from the covenant path. I had learned during my teenage years what temptation can do and didn’t want to repeat previous choices.
Being a follower of Christ in today’s world can be hard. With so many lifestyles, it can be confusing to decide who to spend our time with. We can treat everyone with Christlike love, but we can love while maintaining healthy spiritual boundaries too. As President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) taught: “Friends help to determine your future. You will tend to be like them and to be found where they choose to go.”1
You can find friends who can become your spiritual allies—people who understand your faith and help you survive spiritually. These friends, regardless of faith or background, can support you spiritually as you journey through life.
I’ll be honest—it was super hard for me to let go of my friends who weren’t the best influences. I felt so lonely, but I knew I wanted to follow God more. It took me a few years, but I’ve discovered three ways you can find friends who can be your spiritual allies:
Sometimes our circumstances can make it hard to discern who we should be hanging out with.
So what are we to do? How can we know who will be good friends and spiritual allies?
Luckily, Elder Ronald A. Rasband of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has the answer: “To have friends who live high standards, who stand for virtue and goodness, who are faithful and true to their covenants, you must be such a person to them.”2
Instead of worrying about everyone else, we should first focus on becoming better people ourselves.
Why do we need to make sure we’re a good person before we find good friends? Well, the Lord states this truth in Doctrine and Covenants 88:40: “For intelligence cleaveth unto intelligence; wisdom receiveth wisdom; truth embraceth truth; virtue loveth virtue; light cleaveth unto light.”
Spiritual allies share our values and standards, regardless of their religion, race, or background. When you’re nurturing your testimony and doing your best to follow God, you will naturally draw others to you and be drawn to others who have the same standards.
When I was younger, my favorite TV shows involved groups of friends going on adventures with each other. I always wanted a specific group of friends I would grow up with. But that wasn’t always the reality. I had to learn that even though friendships were sometimes short-lived, it was important to choose friends who helped me grow into a better person.
I once had a friend who said offensive things to someone close to me. His words were disappointing, but I decided to approach him and tell him how I felt. The next time we saw each other, he thanked me for reminding him of his goodness, and I learned that he had apologized to my other friend and made amends.
As Elder Marvin J. Ashton (1915–1994) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “It takes courage to be a real friend. … A friend is a person who will suggest and render the best for us regardless of the immediate consequences.”3 It was scary to be honest with my friend, but that’s what spiritual allies and true friends do—they help each other to grow, to become more Christlike, and to progress on the covenant path.
It’s easier to strengthen our faith in the gospel of Jesus Christ when we spend time with those who lift us up and share spiritual insights, rather than those who criticize or demean our faith. Friends have a powerful influence in our lives. Elder Robert D. Hales (1932–2017) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once said, “Friends are people who make it easier to live the gospel of Jesus Christ.”4
We all need friends and spiritual allies. By finding—and being—a spiritual ally, we can help each other keep and make covenants and deepen our devotion to Christ. Together, we can support each other on the covenant path.
Heavenly Father knows the importance of surrounding yourself with spiritually uplifting friends. As you make time for Him each day, He will direct you to those spiritual allies and friendships you are seeking. He has for me.

My parents have had a lot of financial problems, and that led to a lot of family problems. My brothers and I didn’t realize how much they were struggling until our father told us. We set a family goal to all help pay off our debts and found jobs during the summer to help out. My father even let us pay the bills one month so we could see where the money went.

When we realized how much our parents were sacrificing for us, we gained a lot of respect for them; and when they saw that we were willing to help, they gained respect for us. Now we are all happier.

He was leaving. His meager belongings tucked into his school backpack, Makoto slipped out of his room and down the hall. The morning sun was creeping silently into the house. Shadows lingered in the living room like quiet storm clouds after a summer rain. He would soon be free.
“Good morning, Makoto.”
Makoto stopped, hoping the shadows would swallow him whole.
“I said, ‘Good morning.’”
It was Grandfather, of course. No one else would have been up this early. Sometimes he wondered if the old man ever slept. “Good morning,” he answered meekly. It sounded like a surrender.
“You’re up early,” remarked Grandfather. “I usually don’t have company at this time of the day. Come sit with me for a moment.”
Makoto sighed and crossed the room. Grandfather sat on the floor, a book leaning against his chest. It occurred to Makoto that it was still too dark to read. He crouched on the floor, expecting the old man to ask him where he was going so early in the day. But Grandfather sat motionless, making Makoto feel very uncomfortable.
“I’m—I’m leaving,” Makoto stammered in confusion.
“Ahhh,” Grandfather acknowledged.
“Leaving. Yes, yes, Makoto, so you are. But it’s not enough that one leaves. One must have somewhere to go. Where are you going, Makoto?”
“It’s boring here in Kyoto,” Makoto blurted out. “I’ve seen everything, done everything. Now I want to see the world.” He wondered if this sounded as silly to Grandfather as it did to him right then—an eleven-year-old boy wanting to see the world.
“Good,” Grandfather replied. “It’s good to see the world. But have you any money with which to see it?”
“A little.”
“Well, it’s expensive to see the world. You’ll need money for trains, food, and places to stay. I could lend you some money.”
Makoto hadn’t expected this. Was Grandfather actually going to assist his escape? “I could use a little more,” he admitted.
“Well then, you shall have it,” Grandfather said, “just as soon as you answer a very simple question for me.”
Makoto winced. He felt as if he were being cleverly pulled into a bargain he could not win. Nevertheless, he did need the money. “All right.”
“It’s about the garden in the center of the house. You know the one I mean?”
Of course he knew. There were small palms and other trees, bamboo, many flowers, massive rocks tucked into corners, and a stone lantern near a pond topped with yellow and purple lotus flowers beneath which swam silver and white carp.
“Well, in the east corner of the garden is a chrysanthemum in a pot. Tell me, what insect makes its home in the leaves but does not consume them?”
Makoto knew the plant. At least he thought he did. He had seen it hundreds of times. “I’m not sure,” he finally admitted. “I mean … I guess I don’t know.”
“Too bad. We can try again tomorrow if you wish. It will be our arrangement.”
The light of day was beginning to scatter the shadows, and Makoto thought he saw Grandfather smile.
He would not be fooled again. For the rest of the day, Makoto scoured the garden, searching for the answers to the questions Grandfather might pose. He memorized every bush and tree, every rock formation, and the location of as many insects as he could find. When dusk ended his day-long study, he confidently left the garden and collapsed into his bed.
It was a new day. Makoto arose silently and dressed. His arms and legs ached, though he wasn’t sure why. Had yesterday’s expedition to the garden done this to him, he wondered. It didn’t matter. He would answer Grandfather’s question, get the money, and leave. The arrangement would come to a very quick end.
“A black beetle,” he stated matter-of-factly a few minutes later.
Grandfather nodded. “Yes, it is the black beetle that makes his home in the chrysanthemum. But that was yesterday’s question. Here is today’s. There is moss on the cherry tree. On which side of the trunk does it grow?”
Moss! He hadn’t noticed any moss. He had been looking at trees and bushes and insects. Was this a trick? Maybe there wasn’t any moss. Maybe there was moss but on a different tree. “I … I’m not sure,” he finally managed. “To tell the truth, I didn’t notice any moss at all.”
He could have guessed, of course. If there really was moss, it would have to be on the east, west, south, or north side. But somehow Makoto didn’t want to risk being wrong.
Grandfather chuckled softly and motioned for him to leave. He kept chuckling as Makoto steered his sore legs in the direction of the garden.
And so the arrangement continued. Makoto, on his hands and knees, scurried through the ferns and aspidistra—studying and memorizing every inch of the terrain. Each morning he had the answer to the previous day’s question. And each morning he would slink away, confounded by his grandfather’s latest query.
Weeks passed. And though it was difficult to pinpoint exactly when it had happened, Makoto found that he began looking forward to the daily quest.
Until one day. Makoto was propped on his elbows, watching two ladybugs wind their way lazily up the stem of a beautiful plantain lily, when the thought struck him like a peal of thunder. He had forgotten to present himself to Grandfather for a question!
That morning Makoto had dressed, quickly consumed some rice cakes, then headed to the tiny garden. He had completely forgotten about the arrangement.
Uneasy, he got to his feet. Feelings of embarrassment, anger, and dismay flooded over him.
Grandfather was sitting nearby on the porch, softly playing a bamboo flute. His eyes were closed.
Makoto quietly approached his mentor. “Are you awake?” he asked, realizing just how ridiculous the question was after he had asked it.
“Very awake,” Grandfather quietly remarked. “And waiting.”
Makoto wanted to ask what his grandfather was waiting for but thought better of it. Our arrangement, he reminded himself.
“I’m here for my question,” he announced finally.
“Hmmm, yes, our arrangement. I’d thought maybe you’d forgotten.”
Makoto shifted uneasily. At least Grandfather wasn’t smiling.
The old man hesitated. “The question is: What insect makes its home in the chrysanthemum but doesn’t eat the leaves?”
Makoto stepped back and almost stumbled. What kind of nonsense was this? Grandfather was asking a question to which he had the answer, a question he had asked before, the very first question he had asked. His heart beat wildly. He could answer the question, get the money, and leave Kyoto to see the world. It was as simple as that. That was the arrangement.
But something prevented him from speaking. His mind spun silken images of the garden before his eyes—the red plum blossoms, the persimmon and mulberry trees, the green waterfalls of moss on the rocks. Why hadn’t Grandfather asked about any of these?
A whole world was in the garden. His world. An exciting, ever-changing world, one he had only just begun to explore. “I—I’m not really sure,” he stammered, not looking at Grandfather. “I mean … I don’t know, Grandfather.”
“No? Well, perhaps the matter requires a bit more study, hmm?”
Makoto glanced at Grandfather, who winked at him. He couldn’t remember his grandfather ever winking at him before. The old man unfolded his legs, rose from the porch, and draped one of his arms over Makoto’s shoulders. “Let’s go to the garden,” he said softly. “There may be a few things that this old man can show you yet.”
Makoto smiled. He was sure that there would be.

“I was fortunate when I was a boy to have an outstanding Sunday School teacher. When she talked about the apostle Paul, we could almost hear him preaching. She made every character in the scriptures come alive. She was an unusually kind woman and let us boys know that she expected us to be gentlemen.

“In our class we had collected some money to use for a big party. One Sunday morning our teacher came to class and told us that one of our classmates would be absent—his mother had passed away. We were all very unhappy. The subject of the lesson that morning was that it is better to give than to receive. After she had presented the lesson, she talked about the hard times ahead for the absent boy’s family. ‘How would you students like to follow the Lord’s teachings?” she asked. ‘How would you feel about taking our party fund and giving it to this boy’s family as an expression of love?”

“The decision was unanimous. I remember that I was the treasurer of the class, and the teacher said to the boy’s father, ‘Brother Devenport, the class would like to make an expression of their feelings.’ Then she called on me to make an expression, and afterward I handed our party fund to him. I think that was one of the first times I saw a grown man weep. This simple act of kindness welded our class together. We learned through our own experience that it truly is more blessed to give than to receive.

He started with a short story about Arturo Toscanini, the late, famous conductor of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, who received a letter from a lonely sheepherder in a remote mountain area of Wyoming. It included these words: “‘Mr. Conductor: I have only two possessions—a radio and an old violin. The batteries in my radio are getting low and will soon die. My violin is so out of tune I can’t use it. Please help me. Next Sunday when you begin your concert, sound a loud “A” so I can tune my “A” string; then I can tune the other strings. When my radio batteries are dead, I’ll have my violin.’
“At the beginning of his next nationwide radio concert from Carnegie Hall, Toscanini announced: ‘For a dear friend and listener back in the mountains of Wyoming, the orchestra will now sound an “A.”’ The musicians all joined together in a perfect ‘A.’
“The lonely sheepherder only needed one note, just a little help to get back in tune; he could go on from there. He needed someone who cared to assist him with one string; the others would be easy. Then, with all strings in tune—in harmony—the lonely sheepherder would have a source of companionship and joy and could play uplifting strains.

This morning, you decide, is an omelet morning. You hop out of bed and chop the veggies. You heat the frying pan. You crack the egg … and your little brother cackles with laughter.
“You did it again!” you groan. Yes, he boiled some eggs in their shells and then snuck them back in with the fresh eggs. It’s his favorite trick. If only there were a way to tell the difference between fresh eggs and hard-boiled ones. Why, that’d be almost as useful as being able to discern between “real” and “fake” information.

Despite these actions, the event that precipitated the Saints’ eviction from Missouri occurred four years later on election day, 6 August 1838, in Gallatin, county seat of Daviess County. A scuffle arose when the Saints were not allowed to vote. No one was killed, and although Joseph had not been present at the scene of trouble, rumors accusing him of having killed seven men at the polls soon spread.
A few days later, Joseph was at his parents’ home when a company of armed men stopped at the house. Eight officers entered and, while speaking with Joseph’s mother, assured her that they would kill “Joe Smith and all the Mormons.” She denied that Joseph was in the county when the men were allegedly killed. “Furthermore,” she said, “if you should see him, you would not want to kill him.”
“‘Gentlemen,’” her narrative continues, “‘suffer me to make you acquainted with Joseph Smith, the Prophet.’ They stared at him as if he were a spectre. He smiled, and stepping towards them, gave each of them his hand, in a manner which convinced them that he was neither a guilty criminal nor yet a hypocrite.
“Joseph then sat down and explained to them the views … of the Church, and what their course had been; besides the treatment which they had received from their enemies since the first. He also argued, that if any of the brethren had broken the law, they ought to be tried by the law, before anyone else was molested. After talking with them some time in this way, he said, ‘Mother, I believe I will go home now—Emma will be expecting me.’ At this two of the men sprang to their feet, and declared that he should not go alone, as it would be unsafe—that they would go with him, in order to protect him. Accordingly the three left together, and during their absence, I overheard the following conversation among the officers, who remained at the door:
“lst Officer. ‘Did you not feel strangely when Smith took you by the hand? I never felt so in my life.’
“2nd Officer. ‘I could not move. I would not harm a hair of that man’s head for the whole world.’
“3rd Officer. ‘This is the last time you will catch me coming to kill Joe Smith, or the “Mormons” either.’
“lst Officer. ‘I guess this is about my last expedition against this place. I never saw a more harmless, innocent appearing man than the “Mormon” Prophet.’
“2nd Officer. ‘That story about his killing them men is all a … lie—there is no doubt of it; and we have had all this trouble for nothing; but they will never fool me in this way again; I’ll warrant them.’
“The men who went home with my son promised to disband the militia under them and go home, which they accordingly did.”5

Last year the children in Clara’s grade-four class were assigned to give four-to-five-minute speeches. Clara chose to give a speech on the Holocaust, which she presented as if she were a girl in a concentration camp. When she first rehearsed her speech, it took eight minutes and 40 seconds to give because many of the words were hard to say. She practiced it over and over. The speech slowly grew shorter as she learned to say the words fluently. She finally presented the speech in four minutes and 40 seconds, and her classmates chose her to represent them in front of the whole school. When she did, the entire student body broke into wild applause. Many of them had known Clara since grade one, and her progress seemed miraculous. “The principal was crying,” Clara’s mom recalls. “Clara’s grade-two teacher was crying. Her grade-four teacher was cheering. It was such a victory—one of the greatest moments of my life!”
What did Clara learn from the experience? “Keep trying,” she counsels children everywhere. “Never give up.”
Of course, prayer was also a vital part of Clara’s triumph. She has great faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Primary, home evenings, scripture study, and her parents’ teachings have helped. Her older sisters have made a difference too, both through their good examples and their reading materials. As soon as Carly, 18, and Josie, 15, turned 12 in their turn, they began putting New Era Posters on their mirrors. Clara has also memorized seminary scripture mastery scriptures and learned President Hinckley’s six B’s with her sisters.

From the day I was baptized until I graduated from high school, I was the only member of the Church in my school. My classmates would say, “You don’t smoke? You don’t drink? You aren’t a man; you’re a sissy!”
At the end of the school year when I was in 11th or 12th grade, some of my classmates brought alcohol to a party. They grabbed me, held me down, and tried to pour champagne in my mouth. They didn’t want to hurt me; they just wanted to make fun of me. Luckily, I was able to get away. I never regretted keeping the Word of Wisdom. Some of my classmates have since passed away, but I’m thankful to still be alive, healthy, and trying to serve the Lord.

“But the teacher I remember best was Sister Call. She was just a jewel. I remember how impressed I was that she was willing to go on hikes with the Trail Builders. She’d plan scavenger hunts, but they were not just the regular kind. Each one would have a connection with some part of the lesson. As we would find each thing, it would teach us another part of the lesson. Then there was always a nice reward—some special treat at the end. I can’t believe the creative ways she used to keep our attention as young boys.
“Sister Call is a person who keeps on giving. Recently I received a phone call from her son. He wanted to bring a gift Sister Call had just completed for me. He brought to my office a beautiful quilt she had made. Thousands of careful stitches prepared in a beautiful pattern. She is ninety-one years young. I could not hold back a tear as I thought of the kindness of this great teacher.”

In 1945 the President of the Church, George Albert Smith, called Elder Kimball into his office. “I want you to look after the Indians,” he said. “They are neglected. Take charge and watch after the Indians in all the world.”
Elder Kimball traveled thousands of miles to visit the Indians, to teach them, and to bless them. Discovering they needed and wanted more schools, he tried to help. Finding them sick or sad, he blessed them and taught them how important they were to their Father in Heaven. Finding them cold and hungry, he went to those who could help.
In 1947 the Navajo Indians on the reservation needed help desperately. Many had little to eat and nothing warm to wear. Elder Kimball spoke to the Church Welfare Committee, and truckloads of food and warm clothing were sent. Then he called a newspaper. A reporter and a photographer were sent to check the situation. When the article they wrote was printed, an Indian Aid Caravan was organized. Elder Kimball wrote to a senator in Washington, D.C., as well. He wrote to service clubs and mailed out pamphlets asking for aid.
His friends were helped, and they were grateful. One said, “Thank you. I will not freeze now.”
Traveling throughout the world to help these people he loved, Elder Kimball also spent weeks and months visiting Lehi’s children in Central and South America and in the Pacific Islands. He taught them about the Savior, Jesus Christ, and helped them with their problems. No matter how tired he was, he was never too tired to help.
“By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples,” said Jesus, “if ye have love one to another” (John 13:35).
Through his actions President Spencer W. Kimball has shown his love for his brothers and sisters. To follow him is to always be “doing the right thing.”

The Hunk. That’s what his friends called him. His muscles rippled beneath his shirt; his blonde, naturally wavy hair curled back from his tanned, intelligent forehead; and his teeth dazzled when he turned to smile. When he walked by, girls oohed and whispered in admiration and the guys backed up in awe.
Today would be the Hunk’s day of glory. Single-handedly he would sweep the state track tournament, bringing in dozens of trophies for Riverview High, along with numerous offers of scholarships to prestigious colleges for him. Then, on to the Olympics where he’d have gold medals draped over his muscular chest and crowds cheering and calling his name.
“Dexter! Dexter!” called his mother. “Pay attention or you’ll be late for seminary. Julie is out honking for you, and I need you to bring in some more sugar from the storeroom before you go.”
Dexter looked up at his mother, who was canning pears, and pushed a straight, dark lock of hair away from his glasses. He grabbed a sack of sugar, but it was too heavy to carry, so he set it on the floor, then scooted it across to where his mother stood by the stove. He grabbed his books, then ran out to where Julie, a classmate and neighbor, was waiting in her family’s beat-up station wagon.
Elder Hunk was the talk of the mission. Never had a missionary swept an area as he had. There had been talk of closing that area, but single-handedly Elder Hunk had swelled convert baptisms until conservative estimates ran in the thousands. His picture was on the cover of the Church News under the caption “Wonder Missionary,” and he was being compared to missionaries in the early days of the Church.
“How do you do it?” asked his mission president.
“Dexter. Dexter. How do you do it?” questioned his seminary teacher, Brother Larsen.
A classmate poked Dexter in his ribs, “Hey, wake up.” Brother Larsen patiently repeated his question. “How can we be member missionaries?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he said.
The youth genealogy class had started. Sister Barton had handed out pedigree charts. The Hunk walked in, arms loaded with notebooks and files.He dropped them before her and stated, “This is my genealogy research. I have recently added 15,000 names after having mastered 12 foreign languages. Notice the coat of arms and the royal lines that run throughout. And I have revolutionized data gathering using my new program. This computer disk now contains four million new names I’ve researched.”
As he drew the disk from his briefcase and casually dropped it before the instructor, the class gasped in amazement, and Sister Barton, hands to her face, stared in awe and reverence.
“Dexter, Dexter,” Sister Barton’s voice pierced his mind. “Here’s your family group sheet. Now put down what you can.”
Dexter replied, “I don’t even know where my grandfather was born,” as he pushed the sheet away.
“Scouter Hunk,” said the country’s president, “I want to pin this medal on you in appreciation for your courage and leadership skills. Bravely you rescued 400 tourists when their boat swamped. Your Eagle Scout project has revitalized your town, along with the entire country. And single-handedly you reformed 200 delinquent children by getting them involved in Scouting.
“Dexter,” called out Scoutmaster Simmons at the Scout meeting. “When can you help us collect food for the homeless?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he replied.
“Brother Hunk,” the stake leader said, “the youth conference you planned and supervised was the most impressive activity I’ve seen. As the youth representative you single-handedly organized and carried off a wholesome activity that will be recorded in this stake’s history. Every house has been painted, disaster plans and emergency supplies are present in every household, wickedness is banished, corruption and litter are gone. And the youth say they’ve never had so much fun. You are magnificent!”
The youth surrounding the stake leader cheered the Hunk.
“Dexter! Dexter!”
The voice of his priesthood adviser, brother Magnuson, broke through.
“Dexter, will you help set up tables for the youth conference next month?” asked brother Magnuson.
Dexter looked up, realized he was at a ward youth meeting, and replied, “I dunno.”
There’s no glory in that, thought Dexter. I want to be chairman or nothing. Fat chance of being chairman so I’ll be nothing. He sat silent for the rest of the meeting.
Afterwards Julie hurried to catch him as he started to climb into the family car.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You’ve been so distracted and distant lately, like you’re in a different world. You always used to help out with youth conferences. What’s bothering you?”
“It’s nothing,” said Dexter. “It’s just that I’m tired of being ordinary—just average, with no honor or recognition. Look at us Julie. We’re the average kids. No one notices us. We are never head of anything, never applauded, just the average ones who are always there. If the school paper did an article about us do you know what it would say?”
Dexter picked up a school book, cleared his throat, and in a deep voice intoned, “Dexter and Julie are two average students at Riverview High. They have never been president of any organization. They did not win a scholarship. They haven’t won a race or a trophy. They have not won honors for any talent. They are average.”
“Now,” said Dexter, putting down the book. “Do you see what I mean?”
“But we try.”
“Name one thing you do really well Julie.”
“I like to paint.”
“Have you won any awards?”
“Well, no.”
“Don’t you see what I mean. You’re an average painter. So why paint?”
“Maybe I’m not a Michelangelo or even a Grandma Moses. But painting makes me so aware of the world. How many colors do you see in that tree?”
“One—it’s green. Trees are all the same. All green.”
“But I see maybe ten shades and colors—some darker with touches of brown, other parts lighter with splashes of yellow.”
“They’re still trees in an average painting. For me it’s going to be the top or nothing. I want to be a winner. I want recognition!”
His voice had gotten louder and classmates turned to stare.
“You’re getting recognition,” giggled Julie.
He lowered his voice. “I want to be the best, the greatest.”
“Well,” replied Julie, “it wasn’t some famous person that touched our family when we were investigating the Church. It was my three-year-old niece singing ‘I Am a Child of God.’ Sometimes the common can achieve the uncommon.”
“Not for me. I want to be the greatest. I want recognition. I want honors.”
Dexter climbed into the car and drove off.
Member Missionary Hunk was assigned to coordinate the open house for the public at the newly completed temple. He planned on being stationed in the celestial room, where he would quietly nod acknowledgments to community dignitaries. Afterwards there would be cookies and punch with guest speakers at the stake center to honor him. Honors to the Hunk.
“Dexter, you’ll be serving here. You’ll help put booties on the shoes of the visitors before they enter the temple for the tour,” the tour leader said.
Filled with disappointment, Dexter sat on the ground and assisted visitors with shoe coverings. No honor in this he thought. In fact it was uncomfortable and embarrassing. But there was something familiar about it. What was it?
He looked up at the temple spires and remembered the words carved on the side: “Holiness to the Lord.”
Holiness to the Lord. Again there was that nagging feeling of familiarity.
Suddenly, a scene came to his mind of a painting that hung at home. He who was greatest was washing the feet of the disciples.
Across the walkway of the temple two visitors were conversing.
“Say, who’s that kid with the glasses, the one who is putting on foot coverings. Is he someone special?”
“No, that’s just Dexter. He’s a nice, average kid.”
“But look at the way he’s treating visitors. It’s as though each person he helps is the most important person he’ll meet.”
On Saturday Dexter wrote a letter to his great-aunt requesting information on his grandfather’s birthplace. He gathered food, took it by an immigrant family’s home, and told them he’d be back the next day with two young men and a special book written in their own language. Later he wrapped up a clean Scout shirt and Scout handbook and quietly laid it on the doorstep of a widow’s home whose son hadn’t much money. He knocked and ran. The widow and son found the bag along with a note: From your friend.
Brother Magnuson was surprised that Saturday to get a call from Dexter. He volunteered to set up tables for the youth conference and offered to help with cleanup also.
Then Dexter called Julie and invited her to walk down to the park with him. She’d paint trees while he took photographs of the ducks.

New Era: Speaking of losses, when you have a real setback, like an interception, how do you keep from losing concentration or becoming discouraged?
Gifford: You’ve got to develop emotional stability. I went through some adverse situations in my high school career, and I would leave the field kicking my helmet and making an idiot of myself. At that time I decided that if I was going to participate in athletics, I would have to control my emotions. I couldn’t let athletics control me, and at that time athletics were controlling me. I said to myself, “Look, the main goal in this life is to gain eternal life, and nothing else is really vital. Having those kinds of eternal feelings really helps. I had an interview down in Florida, and one guy said, “I don’t see how your church helps you in athletics.” I said, “Well, I’ll tell you something. It just gives me a purpose in life. The most important thing in my life is to prove myself and return to my Father in heaven. The Church gives me an eternal perspective of the reason why I’m playing football. Football is a very big part of my life, but it’s not the most important thing in my life.” I think if you look at sports in that light, it will really help you in adverse situations.

Suluya Racule, three weeks older than Vani, faces her own challenges. Suluya didn’t grow up in the Church, although it seemed like she did. She began attending Primary when she was nine because her aunt, a Church member, was a Primary teacher. She spent the first 15 years of her life as a nonmember, even though she knew a lot about the gospel. And she kept going to church even when her aunt and uncle moved to Tonga. But her membership status changed from nonmember to member in December 1995 when she was finally able to be baptized.

Even now, almost four years later, Suluya is still the only member of the Church in her immediate family.

“My parents were against my getting baptized. They thought I was too young to know the truth, and they thought I should go around to other churches and see what they were like before I decided,” she remembers. “But I had this strong feeling inside of me that this was the true church. I couldn’t think of any other church to go to.”

Maybe it takes a little adversity—or even a lot of it—to truly appreciate what you have. Vani admits it’s been difficult at times not having her mom and dad around. Suluya, meanwhile, would like nothing better than to have her family join her on Sundays. For now, she goes to church alone.

When Suluya is asked about her conversion, she gladly shares the details of her Christmas Eve baptism. She fairly beams as she remembers that day. Suluya then mentions the death of her father two years ago. “Heart failure.” He was 47. The conversation switches gears.

“Although I’ve always wanted my family to join the Church, his death has encouraged me even more to help my mom and my sister get baptized. I’m trying so hard to get them to come to church with me,” she says. When Suluya was baptized, her family didn’t attend the service. “But they understand that the Church is a commitment to me, and they respect my decision and support me. Still, it’s hard to see families sitting together at church, and my family isn’t there. When you have something this good, you want to share it with your family.”

Suluya admits she was closer to her father than to her mother, but accepts that maybe in some ways his death was a blessing. “It’s brought my sister and me closer to our mom. We’ve really gotten to know our mom better,” she explains.