Gospel Story Finder

Young Tommy Monson had always wanted a pony. He often admired his friend Henry’s Shetland pony. Wouldn’t he love to have one too!
One December, right before Christmas, Tommy’s mother took him to the toy department of a store in Salt Lake City. The store was going to give away a Shetland pony! To enter the contest, children had to write a note telling why they wanted the pony for Christmas. Tommy carefully wrote his note and placed it in the large box right next to the live pony in the toy department.
Finally the day came when the winner of the pony was going to be announced. Tommy and his mother waited in the excited crowd. Tommy was sure he would win the pony. He had already made a home for it in his sister’s playhouse in the backyard and stacked a pile of hay nearby. But when the name was chosen out of the box, it wasn’t Tommy’s name. Another child took the pony home, and Tommy was heartbroken.
As they left the store, Tommy and his mother walked past a man ringing a bell beside a small kettle to collect money for the poor. Tommy’s mother stopped and dropped in a big silver coin. Then she asked, “Tommy, do you have any money you would like to give to the poor for Christmas?” Tommy reached in his pocket, pulled out two nickels, and dropped them into the kettle, one after the other. It was all the money he had.
President Monson still remembers that day. “I didn’t win the pony,” he recalls. “But I received a far greater gift, even ‘the smile of God’s approval.’” It was a good Christmas after all.

Six years ago our family was traveling at night just outside the city of Oxford. As is often the case with young children, we needed to stop, so we found a service station with an array of shops and restaurants. With precision, we filed out of the car, visited the services, and filed back in, resuming our journey.
Fifteen minutes later our eldest son asked a significant question: “Where is Jasper?” Jasper sits on his own at the back of the car. We assumed he had fallen asleep or was hiding or playing a trick on us.
As his brother inspected the back of the car more closely, we discovered our five-year-old son was not there. Our hearts filled with dread. As we made our way back to the service station, we pleaded with Heavenly Father that Jasper would be kept safe. We called the police and informed them of the situation.
When we anxiously arrived, more than 40 minutes later, we found two police vehicles in the car park, lights flashing. Inside one of them was Jasper, playing with the buttons. I will never forget the joy we felt in being reunited with him.
As this incident with Jasper has played in my mind over the years, I have reflected on the divine identity and importance of God’s children, the redemptive power of Jesus Christ, and the perfect love of a Father in Heaven, who knows you and me. I hope to bear witness of these truths today.
For the record, Jasper is witty, affectionate, intelligent, and rambunctious. But the key to this story is he is mine. He is my son, and I love him more than he will ever know. If an imperfect, earthly father feels this way about his child, can you imagine how a perfect, glorified, loving Heavenly Father feels about you?

The great messages of our presidency, President Kimball and his counselors, and those of the Twelve and others, have touched me deeply. I have reminisced and remembered at this great historic conference. My mind goes back just a week ago when I was privileged to attend a stake conference in Oregon. Lo and behold, in the audience was my very first bishop, a man of great faith and capacity. (I had never known a bishop until I was fifteen years old and had moved to Hollywood, California.) He stood over six feet tall, weighing well over 200 pounds, with a heart to match—and he has never let go since. I remember under his tutelage memorizing this little verse:
“Remember, Paul,” he said, “there is an odd little voice always speaking within, and it prompts you to duty and warns you from sin. And what is most strange, it makes itself heard, though it gives not a sound and says never a word. You follow it.” And last week he said, “Are you still following it?”
I remember a great, wise teacher who said, “Paul, always keep in mind that a strong man and a waterfall always channel their own paths.” And I remember a dad who said, “I gave you a great name; remember, a good name is better than a girdle of gold.”
I think every boy and girl ought to have in his or her life a great dad, a marvelous bishop, and wonderful teachers. Many do; some don’t. Thank God for a prophet, for leaders of the Church who add that dimension.
I thought of another great man in my life—a coach who has affected my life for eternity. I am pleased to announce that he and I are engaged together in learning more fully the gospel of Jesus Christ in a missionary effort.
I will never forget the day I walked into his office, scared to death as fifteen-year-olds are, trying to sign up for a varsity team. I stood outside his door for the better part of five minutes; and then, when I got the courage, I knocked timidly. The voice said, “Come in!” I opened the door and walked in.
He said, “What can I do for you, son?”
I said, “Where do you sign up for varsity baseball?”
He said, “Let me ask you a question—do you want to play ball or be a champion?”
I said, “I came to play ball.”
He said, “I’m sorry, we’re all filled up.”
With a broken heart, I turned and walked out. That wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear! I stood in the hall for a minute (thank goodness my dad had taught me courage to keep trying), then plucked up my courage and again knocked on the door. The answer came as before, “Come in!” I walked in.
He said, “Oh, it’s you again.”
I said, “Yes, sir, maybe you didn’t understand my earlier question. I asked you where to sign up for varsity baseball.”
He said, “I asked you a question. Do you want to play ball or be a champion?”
Well, I knew the other answer hadn’t worked, so I said, “I want to be a champion.”
“Oh,” he said, “sign here.” And I did. He said, “We build champions.” Then he turned and said, “Have you ever signed a contract before?”
I said, “No, sir, I’m only fifteen.”
He said, “At this institution, we commit ourselves to principles.”
He took from the bottom drawer of his file a contract already typed, and on it were the standards that we have been listening to in this great conference. He said, “You take that home and read it over with your parents. If you can agree to the conditions, you sign it and bring it back tomorrow.” I did. Somehow, I made the team.
In the contractual agreement were promises to be the kind of a Latter-day Saint I knew I ought to be. We went through a great, great season. It ended in a tie with our arch-rival high school. The play-off game was to determine the state championship. As we assembled on the field in the last-minute preparation for the great event, the coach had us around the batting cage. As he was making his little pep talk, he stopped in front of me and said, “Oh, by the way, you will pitch the deciding game.” My heart dropped! He continued his counsel. And then he stopped in front of our excellent second baseman. Most of you would know him because he went on to play for the Chicago White Sox for a number of years. He said, as he looked, “Jimmy, is that a nicotine stain on your finger?” Jimmy, like the rest of us, had made a commitment to keep his body clean.
Jimmy, looking at his finger, quickly hid his hand and said, embarrassed, “Yes, sir.”
The coach said in front of the whole team, “Did you sign a contract with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you broke the contract?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know the penalty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you turn in your uniform? You’re through.”
I wanted to say, “Coach, tomorrow’s the big game. (Jimmy was batting .385 and hadn’t made an error at second base all year.) But the coach was thinking of a boy, not a game. Jimmy turned in his uniform, but the coach kept close to him.
I drew the assignment the next day to pitch against Al Yalian, who later signed with the New York Yankees for a fabulous bonus. Thirteen innings we went, and he beat me in the thirteenth—1–0. The run came when a ground ball was hit to second where Jimmy normally played. The ball got through a nervous substitute’s legs onto the outfield grass and eventually scored an unearned run, which defeated us. And now, years later, I thank God for a great coach who taught me that principles are more important than games.
As I reflect upon these kinds of experiences and the influence that great men have had on my life, I think of the question that young people quite often ask those of us in these positions, “Why do we hold so many meetings in the Church?” The Lord understood and answered, speaking to you and me, young people, through a prophet: “And now, behold, I give unto you a commandment, that when ye are assembled together ye shall instruct and edify each other.” Why? “That ye may know how to act and direct my church.” (D&C 43:8.) And I thank God that in this great conference and others that have preceded it we are taught how to act. “We thank thee, O God, for a prophet to guide us in these latter days.”
Like many of you, I am frequently before those who are not of our faith, and the challenge is great and wonderful. Not long ago I was given a little honor before a great group of non-Latter-day Saint athletes. In the proceedings of the convention, one of my great idols, a Hall of Famer, was to take the rostrum and speak to us. Being the great athlete that he was, respected by many, I was shocked to hear his language as he repeatedly took the name of the Lord in vain. As I sat there, I wondered, “What do you do as a Latter-day Saint in these kinds of social situations?” And then I remembered—again, a great influence in my life—the counsel from a prophet and an experience that he had had one time coming out of surgery. An orderly who was wheeling the prophet back to his hospital room on a little metal cart caught his hand between the door and the cart in the elevator and, not thinking, let go with a few adjectives, taking the name of the Lord in vain in the process. And a prophet, sick as he was physically but very well spiritually, lifted his head and said, “Please don’t talk that way—that’s my best friend.”
Those thoughts went through my mind as I listened to my idol. As he concluded and sat down, I put my hand on his knee and said to him, “You’re terrific! Did you know that when I was growing up I had you on a high pedestal? But, if I might level with you, tonight you fell off that pedestal.”
He said, “Didn’t you like my workshop?”
I said, “I loved it. But every time you opened your mouth, you offended me and a lot of other people out there. I’m going to challenge you tonight, as your friend, to clean up your language.”
I thought of the apostle Paul and Joseph Smith and particularly of a prophet today, Spencer W. Kimball; and I learned on that occasion, as I have on many others, that people really want what you and I have, if we have the courage to give it.
God grant us to have that courage and determination as we go forth, edified and fortified by the influences of great men in our lives, to be an example unto the world. I testify that I know that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that here sits his prophet. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Martin Reynolds, 18, of Sutton Coldfield, has found extra blessings coming from hard work needed for his particular round.

“My mother and I agreed to deliver 2,800 daily papers around our area,” he explains. “These have to be dropped off at 14 pickup points in bundles of 100. We get up at 4.30 A.M. returning home by 6.00 A.M. Not only do I save for my mission and have money for other activities this way, but I also have the chance to talk with my Mum. We get along really well. And it’s been a good time for her to teach me to drive.”

Eleven-year-old brothers Paul and Phillip Hathaway have been close to each other ever since they were born. In fact, they’ve been close even longer than that! Paul and Phillip, who live in a suburb of Seattle, Washington, are fraternal twins. So they shared space together even while they were waiting to be born!
They also shared an early arrival. “They were born 12 weeks premature [earlier than expected],” explains their mother, Sherri. Sometimes babies born that soon are so small they die.
“They weighed three pounds, one ounce, and three pounds, three ounces,” their father, Wayne, adds. “Each little head was smaller than a baseball. We gave them a priesthood blessing and all we could do was put two fingers on their heads. They were tiny.” The babies spent eight weeks in the hospital. Doctors found their condition was better when they were together than when they were apart, so they kept them close to each other.
But Paul was born with something Phillip didn’t share—a disease called cerebral palsy. Although Phillip soon grew to be healthy, Paul had problems controlling his leg muscles. His brain would send too many signals to his legs, so the legs didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t sit up or walk. He had to have lots of physical therapy.
Then when Paul was five years old, a therapist recommended a new kind of surgery. Fewer than 100 people in the country had ever had such an operation, but doctors said chances were good it would help.
The operation was long. Surgeons cut nerves in Paul’s back and in one leg to reduce the nerve signals to his legs. After the surgery, the recovery was slow and painful, with six more months of therapy. “It was hard for Phillip to watch Paul struggle,” their father says. “They asked to be together, so sometimes we would let Phillip spend the night where Paul was recovering. He just wanted to be with his brother.”
Today the brothers are still together—and still sharing. Paul drags his foot a little, but he walks! That allows him to pass the football back and forth with Phillip. He can also hold the ball while Phillip kicks. They work on Cub Scout pins and badges, and go to their Primary class on Sundays. They earned their Faith in God Awards together. And they practice their trumpets while their older sister Avery, 12, plays clarinet and their younger sister Kaylene, 10, holds the music. All of the children love soccer, and Paul was asked to be the manager for Phillip’s team at school. All of the brothers and sisters read and study together and talk about their school assignments. And all of them play with Avery’s pet hedgehog, Pooka, which she shares with the entire family.
In fact, sharing is what Paul, Phillip, and their family are all about. Join them for family home evening and you’ll see. Every Monday night, the Hathaways share a moment of prayer. They share hymns and scriptures. They share a lesson. They share plans for the coming week, talk about rules they have as a family, and plan chores that must be done. Then they share treats. It’s all well organized, because Dad and Mom share an assignment sheet with the family several days before. That gives everyone time to prepare.
Along with everything else the Hathaways share, they also share a great love for their Heavenly Father. “I know He has blessed me a lot,” Paul says. “I know He has blessed our whole family,” Phillip agrees. That knowledge is called a testimony. And that’s one of the greatest things brothers can share—whether they’re twins or not.

I had a great chance to qualify for the London Olympics in 2012, but in the most important competition, I fell off the apparatus. My chance at the Olympics was gone. I was halfway around the world, and my dreams were shattered.

Shortly after that failure, I decided I wanted to go on a mission. I might not have gone if I had made it into the Olympics, but my mission was one miracle after another. I was so grateful for that opportunity.

The gospel has helped me make right decisions, especially at times when it’s difficult to keep my standards. It shapes who I am and all the values that I have.

For Aaron Curley from Wallsburg, Utah, prayer became a source of comfort and inspiration after he incorporated the prophet’s counsel into his life.

“When President Hinckley gave us the talk for the youth I really did not know for myself that praying has a comforting spirit. I started to think that the only way I would know that prayer works would be by trying it out. Now I know that I have the Spirit with me during my day. On top of that I find that it is easier to resist temptation. For me it has changed my life to the point where I am going on a mission, and before I did not know if I wanted to. By living these simple things I now have a stronger testimony of Christ. I know He lives and will come again.”

This story took place in Nigeria.
Ephraim ran as fast as he could. His heart pounded. Each step sent clouds of dust into the air. He reached his arm out. He was so close!
“You’re it!” Ephraim said as he tagged his brother, Uchenna, on the arm.
“Ephraim! Uchenna!” Mom called from the house. “Time to come in. We still have a lot of work to do.”
“Yes, Mom,” Ephraim said. He and Uchenna went inside.
Today was their younger sister Johanna’s birthday. They were having guests over for her birthday dinner. There was a lot to do.
Ephraim helped Mom make Johanna’s birthday cake. He liked to help Mom cook. Especially when they made cake.
Ephraim looked over at his brother and sister. Uchenna was working hard to clean the house. But Johanna wasn’t helping at all. She was just reading a book.
“Why isn’t Johanna helping?” Ephraim asked as he stirred the cake batter.
“It’s her birthday,” Mom said. “We’ll do all her work for her.”
“But that’s not fair! Johanna wouldn’t help me if it was my birthday.” Ephraim felt a little mad. He stirred the bowl faster, and bits of batter hit his face.
Then Ephraim grinned. He had an idea. He would make Johanna promise to help him on his birthday. If she didn’t promise, then Ephraim wouldn’t help today! Then it would be fair.
He told Mom about his plan. But she didn’t seem very happy about it.
“Remember to think about what Jesus would do,” she said.
Ephraim thought about Jesus. Jesus helped others, but He didn’t ask for anything back. Ephraim knew that Jesus wanted him to serve others, like He did.
“I think Jesus would want me to help Johanna without making her promise me anything,” Ephraim said.
“I think so too,” Mom said. She helped Ephraim pour the cake batter into the pan.
Mom put the cake into the oven. Then Ephraim helped Mom make meat pie for dinner. He was excited to have some.
Ephraim saw that Uchenna wasn’t cleaning anymore. He was playing a game with Johanna.
Ephraim felt mad again. Why was he the only one helping? Maybe he should get two pieces of the meat pie. And Johanna and Uchenna shouldn’t get any! It was only fair.
But Ephraim thought about Jesus again. Jesus would want all of us to have a piece, he thought.
Ephraim helped Mom finish dinner. He even helped set the table without being asked. He felt a lot happier. He knew that the Holy Ghost was telling him he had made the right choice.
When they all sat down to eat, they sang a birthday song to Johanna. Ephraim sang as loud as he could.
Mom cut the meat pie, and Ephraim quickly reached to grab some. But then he stopped.
“You can have the first piece,” he said to Johanna. “Happy birthday!”
Illustrations by Corey Egbert

My best friend was born outside in the streets. Her mother was only fourteen years old at the time. Following in her mother’s footsteps, my friend had her first child at the age of thirteen, making her mother a grandmother at age twenty-seven. She had her third child by the age of nineteen. After leaving her third boyfriend, she moved in with her mother, adding her three children to her mother’s six. My friend had the responsibility for nine children under the age of seven before she reached her twentieth birthday. As I looked at my friend’s life, I realized that I wanted something better for myself. I wanted a home and a family. I knew I had to leave the ghetto.
My grandma had taught me to pray at night before going to bed. But to whom was I praying? What was he like? Where did he come from? These were questions that couldn’t be answered. I felt as if I were in a dark and dreary world with no hope of light.
Determined to understand more about this mystery, I started attending the church to which we then belonged, because Grandma said God could be found there. But it didn’t do much good. It confused me more. They taught me about Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost, who, I was told, belonged to and were one with God.
I visited many other churches. When we studied the Bible and the life of Christ, I felt a very different feeling.
I discovered that this feeling had something to do with Christ, the Bible, the Holy Ghost, and God, but I was still confused. I started to pray and have trust in the Lord. Still, there was something missing. Although I could have the good feeling while reading the Bible, I couldn’t have that feeling with me all the time.
One teacher told me a way to retain this feeling was by being baptized, so I was baptized. But nothing changed. All churches seemed the same, so I decided to stay home and study on my own. I found myself praying more intensely for the Lord to help me find the true path that led to him. He heard my prayers.
I met a young man, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. When he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, certainty, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting, a calm feeling came over me, and I heard these words in my mind: “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, I see that my life in the ghetto was difficult and that a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances, no matter where we are. He desires above all things that we find true happiness.

One cold winter night many years ago in a little village in Spain an old man named Pedro and his wife, Joanna, sat in front of a cozy fire in their home. They owned enough to be very comfortable, but instead of giving thanks to God for the benefits they enjoyed, they spent much of their time wishing for the good things their neighbors had.

“This wretched little house of ours is only fit to house a donkey!” cried Pedro. “I wish we had a fine house and farm like our neighbor, Diego!”

“His house and farm are good enough for them,” answered Joanna. “But I would like a mansion such as the one of Don Juan de la Rosa.”

“Then there’s that old donkey of ours,” went on Pedro sullenly. “Good for nothing—nothing at all. He cannot carry an empty sack! I wish I had Diego’s strong Andalusian mule!”

“O, aye!” said Joanna. “Diego’s mule is better than our donkey, but I’d like a white horse with trappings of scarlet and gold like the one of Doña Isabella. It seems that some people have only to wish in order to get a thing, but I’ve never had such luck. How wonderful it would be if we had but to speak to have our wishes come true!”

Scarcely were the words out of Joanna’s mouth when there on the hearth before the old couple stood a beautiful little lady. She was only eighteen inches tall and her dress was white and filmy and full of opal tints as though made of smoke. A smoky veil floated down from a crown of sparks on her head. In her hand she had a little golden wand and a single spark glowed on the very tip of it.

“I am Fortunata,” said she. “I have heard your complaints and have come to give you what you desire. You may have three wishes, one for each of you, and the third you shall agree upon between you. I will grant that last wish in person when I return at this time tomorrow.”

Then Fortunata sprang through the flames and disappeared. The old couple were delighted at the thought of having three wishes come true. They began to think of what they most wanted in all the world. Wishes came swarming to them as thick as bees to a hive. There were so many that came crowding to the minds of the old couple that they could not agree offhand on just which three to wish for. So they decided to put off their decision until the next day, and they began talking of different things altogether.

“I dropped in at Diego’s this morning,” said Pedro, “and they were making black puddings. Um! but they smelled good! Diego can buy the best of food. He does not have to put up with the poor food we have to eat!”

“True! True!” said Joanna. “I wish I had one of Diego’s puddings this very minute to roast on the ashes for supper!”

The words were hardly out of Joanna’s mouth when suddenly on the hearth appeared a delicious black pudding! The woman’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but Pedro jumped up in a rage. “You foolish woman!” he cried. “You have used up one of our precious wishes to ask for nothing more than one poor little pudding! It makes me so angry that I wish the silly pudding were stuck fast to your nose!”

Then before the words were hardly out of his mouth the black pudding flew across the room and fastened itself to Joanna’s nose. The old man shrieked in surprise and Joanna screamed with horror. She shook her head as hard as she could but the pudding clung fast to her nose!

“See what you have done, you foolish man!” she wailed. “I made a poor wish but it hurt only myself. Look what you have done to me!”

Then the dog and cat, sniffing the delicious odor of the pudding, came leaping up, springing and pawing to lick the pudding from Joanna’s nose!

“Down! Down!” shrieked Joanna, as she tried to drive the animals away. “For our third wish we must ask that this miserable pudding be taken off my nose!”

“Don’t ask that!” cried Pedro. “What of the new farm I wanted? Think of the palace you wanted.”

“I don’t care about that anymore,” Joanna insisted.

“Let us wish at least for a fortune,” Pedro pleaded. “Then you can have a golden case set with jewels to cover the pudding on your nose!”

“No,” said Joanna. “All I want is to be rid of this awful nose.”

“Then we shall be left just as we were before!” sighed Pedro.

“And that is all I desire,” Joanna said. “I see now we were well enough off as we were!”

No matter what Pedro said, nothing could change Joanna’s mind. And so at last they agreed.

On the following night little Fortunata rose from the flames and asked them to tell her their third wish. They answered both together, “We wish only to be as we were before.”

And immediately their wish was granted.

Several years ago, after attending professional meetings in Europe, I had the pleasure of being bumped to first class on a flight from Paris to the United States. It was an entirely different world from what I normally experience. As I was enjoying the legroom and reclining in luxury, the flight attendants kept bringing wonderful dishes and offering wine to go along with them.

After I had declined the wine for about the third time, a flight attendant came up behind me, leaned down close to my ear, and teasingly said, “Mr. Hart, no one will ever know.”

Shocked out of my blissful state, and wondering what she knew about me and how, I simply said, “Well, I would know, you would know, and”—pointing overhead—“most important, He would know.”

She said, “Got it,” and brought more fruit juice instead. That was an easy choice to make.

When I was given the assignment to speak in the priesthood session of general conference, I immediately thought of a wonderful Primary teacher. Her great desire was to prepare us to be worthy of receiving the priesthood. She grilled us on the requirements then in place for graduation from Primary—memorize the names of the members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and the Articles of Faith. She also made us a promise—if all of us could recite the thirteen Articles of Faith by memory, we could choose the place and go on an outing for our last class.
We decided on a special spot we liked to hike to on the rocky slopes just above the first dam at the entrance of Logan Canyon, in northern Utah. There was a small, flat space in these rocky cliffs that had a natural fireplace where you could cook hot dogs and roast marshmallows. When we chose the location, however, we did not consider our teacher, who was older and certainly not the athletic type. If we had thought about it more carefully, it might have occurred to us that she would have a difficult time making the hike. Her promise was her bond, however, and she gamely followed us.
First we climbed up the small hill. In our day there were no power lines to prevent access. With some help our teacher made it up the hill. Once over the top we dropped down into a rocky ridge to a place we called “Turtle Back.”
After we arrived, it took our teacher a little while to catch her breath. By the time we prepared to sit down and eat, she had recovered enough to teach us our final lesson. She told us how she had enjoyed teaching us in Primary for the last two years. She complimented us on how we had mastered the Articles of Faith. She could call out the number of any one of them, and we could quote it back to her. Then she said memorizing the Articles of Faith would mean nothing more than a lot of words unless we understood the doctrines and principles contained in them. She encouraged us to study the gospel doctrine taught in each of the Articles of Faith. She explained that the doctrine found in the Articles of Faith was divided into sections.
After my teacher’s wonderful lesson on that mountain in Logan Canyon, we noticed that we had stayed a little longer than we had planned. The evening was drawing to a close, and we realized we had a problem.
My teacher had struggled to arrive at our special spot, but returning presented a major challenge for us. This only compounded the poor selection of a place for our outing. The climb back was difficult for us, but even more so for a person of her age.
As we struggled to help her back up the hill, two policemen appeared. The Primary president had sent them out to find us, fearing we were lost. The drama of the event and the lessons taught made it an unforgettable experience in my life.

Brethren, during my Aaronic Priesthood years I was a swineherd! Way back then, by means of a 4-H Club project involving purebred Duroc pigs, I became familiar with work! As proof that what follows is not merely swollen memory, may I, with Elder Nelson’s help, display very briefly this blanket of nearly 100 ribbons won by my prize pigs at various fairs over several years.
Up near Elder Nelson’s hand is a pink ribbon, won 60 years ago. It was the very first ribbon I ever won. I think the judge had a tender eye, and the pig wasn’t really so choice, but he knew I needed encouragement and hence the fourth prize. The purple ribbons were for champions that were exhibited later on!
Thank you, Elder Nelson.
Brethren, I learned the hard way about the need to watch shifting pork prices at the local meat-packing plant. Careful records of profits and losses were kept with the help of my bookkeeper father. As in all things, my parents, so supportive, even ended up doing some of the perspiring themselves, including a special mother born 95 years ago today. She showed me how to work, and she loved me enough to correct me.
In order to obtain low-cost pig feed, I regularly bought dozens and dozens of three-day-old loaves of bread at a bakery for a mere penny a loaf. Additionally, if present at the right time at a local dairy, I could get about 70 gallons of skim milk free! Now I pay $2.50 a gallon—an amusing irony. By saving in these ways, I could buy the needed grain for the pigs with the little hard cash that I had.

Each Wednesday, we welcomed between 400 and 600 new missionaries. On the following Sunday evening, we invited the new missionaries to come into one of the large chapels for an evening with the president. Microphones were placed throughout the group. President Wirthlin asked the missionaries a question: How have you changed in the past 4 days since you entered the MTC. I expected them to say, "Give me a break, I'm exhausted." " I'm still trying to find my way around the campus." "I can't sit for 8 hours a day in class." "I don't like my companion." But that was not what I heard. I was so taken back by what I did hear, that I wrote down their responses:

"I have learned the power of personal prayer. Before I came to the MTC, I prayed only at night, now I pray all the time."
"My love for the Savior and my testimony have grown in a huge way."
"I have been active all my life, but I have never been so touched by the spirit."
"I am learning Chinese, my mind is clear, I can't believe how much I'm learning."
"My life has always been about me, and now I put my companions success ahead of my own. "
"I have been amazed at the love I feel. I have never felt such brotherhood."
"I have felt an increase in my capacity for knowledge. It is like a waterfall pouring upon us and we're absorbing it all."

Through the power of the Spirit, a miracle change had come over the missionaries in just 4 days. It is reminiscent of King Benjamin's counsel to his people to ‘ yield to the enticings of the Holy Spirit and put off the natural man [and woman] . . . and become as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love'.[5] As the missionaries yielded to the Spirit, they forgot themselves and they found they were magnified in their abilities to love and to learn and to feel a closeness to the Savior.

Like a lot of kids in Ireland, Annie went to a Catholic school. She was the only member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in her class.
Annie had a nice teacher who taught about lots of things. She even taught about Jesus. Annie loved listening to stories about Jesus. They were the same stories she learned about in Primary and at home.
One day Annie’s teacher told her class about when Jesus walked on water. Annie smiled. That was her favourite story!
Annie had learned the song “The Miracle” in Primary. That song told about Jesus walking on the water. Annie always felt warm inside when she sang it. She thought about the words in the song.
“Jesus walked upon the water. He stilled the storm and calmed the angry sea.”
Annie wanted her class to know the song too! She raised her hand and said, “I know a song about that!”
Her teacher smiled. She asked Annie to share it the next day in class.
Annie was excited when she got home. Mummy helped her find the song on the computer so Annie’s teacher could play the song for her class.
The next day Annie and her whole class listened to the song. Annie felt the warm feeling she always felt in Primary. She was glad she shared this special song about Jesus.

Sister Josivini in Fiji had difficulty seeing her way forward on the covenant path—literally. Her friend saw that Josivini struggled to see the scriptures well enough to read. She provided Josivini with new reading glasses and a bright yellow pencil to highlight every mention of Jesus Christ in the Book of Mormon. What started as a simple desire to minister and to help with scripture study has resulted in Josivini attending the temple for the first time 28 years after she was baptized.

A few weeks ago, it was my privilege to dedicate a monument to the memory of Ellen Pucell Unthank. It stands on the campus of Southern Utah University in Cedar City, Utah. It is a bronze figure, beautiful and engaging. It is of a little nine-year-old girl, standing with one foot tiptoe, her hair blowing back in the wind, a smile on her face, eagerly looking forward.
Ellen Pucell, as she was named, was born in a beautiful area of England where the hills are soft and rolling and the grass is forever green. Her parents, Margaret and William Pucell, were converts to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. From the time of their baptism in 1837 until the spring of 1856, they had scrimped and saved to go to the Zion of their people in the valleys of the Rocky Mountains of America. Now that was possible if they were willing to pull a handcart one thousand miles across a wilderness. They accepted that challenge, as did hundreds of their fellow converts.
Margaret and William took with them their two daughters, Maggie, fourteen, and Ellen, nine. They said good-bye to loved ones they would never again see in mortality. Near the end of May they set sail from Liverpool with 852 of their convert associates. My wife’s grandmother, thirteen-year-old Mary Goble, was a part of that company and, I like to think, played with those little girls aboard ship.
After six weeks at sea, they landed at Boston and took the steam train to Iowa City. They had expected their handcarts and wagons would be ready. They were not. There was a serious and disastrous delay. It was not until late in July that they began the long march, first to Winter Quarters on the Missouri and from there to the Rocky Mountains.
The Pucells were assigned to the Martin Handcart Company. The Goble family, my wife’s forebears, became a part of the Cluff Wagon Company, which followed the handcarts to give help if needed.
With high expectation they began their journey. Through sunlight and storm, through dust and mud, they trudged beside the Platte River through all of the month of September and most of October. On October 19, they reached the last crossing of the Platte, a little west of the present city of Casper, Wyoming. The river was wide, the current strong, and chunks of ice were floating in the water. They were now traveling without sufficient food. Bravely they waded through the icy stream. A terrible storm arose with fierce winds bringing drifting sand, hail, and snow. When they climbed the far bank of the river, their wet clothing froze to their bodies. Exhausted, freezing, and without strength to go on, some quietly sat down, and while they sat, they died.
Ellen’s mother, Margaret, became sick. Her husband lifted her onto the cart. They were now climbing in elevation toward the Continental Divide, and it was uphill all the way. Can you see this family in your imagination?—the mother too sick and weak to walk, the father thin and emaciated, struggling to pull the cart as the two little girls push from behind with swirling, cold winds about them, and around them are hundreds of others similarly struggling.
They came to a stream of freezing water. The father, while crossing, slipped on a rock and fell. Struggling to his feet, he reached the shore, wet and chilled. Sometime later he sat down to rest. He quietly died, his senses numbed by the cold. His wife died five days later. I do not know how or where their frozen bodies were buried in that desolate, white wilderness. I do know that the ground was frozen and that the snow was piled in drifts and that the two little girls were now orphans.
Between 135 and 150 of the Martin company alone perished along that trail of suffering and death. It was in these desperate and terrible circumstances—hungry, exhausted, their clothes thin and ragged—that they were found by the rescue party. As the rescuers appeared on the western horizon breaking a trail through the snow, they seemed as angels of mercy. And indeed they were. The beleaguered emigrants shouted for joy, some of them. Others, too weak to shout, simply wept and wept and wept.
There was now food to eat and some warmer clothing. But the suffering was not over, nor would it ever end in mortality. Limbs had been frozen, and the gangrenous flesh sloughed off from the bones.
The carts were abandoned, and the survivors were crowded into the wagons of the rescuers. The long rough journey of three hundred, four hundred, even five hundred miles between them and this valley was especially slow and tedious because of the storms. On November 30, 104 wagons, loaded with suffering human cargo, came into the Salt Lake Valley. Word of their expected arrival had preceded them. It was Sunday, and again the Saints were gathered in the Tabernacle. Brigham Young stood before the congregation and said:
“As soon as this meeting is dismissed I want the brethren and sisters to repair to their homes. …
“The afternoon meeting will be omitted, for I wish the sisters to … prepare to give those who have just arrived a mouthful of something to eat, and to wash them and nurse them. …
“Some you will find with their feet frozen to their ankles; some are frozen to their knees and some have their hands frosted … we want you to receive them as your own children, and to have the same feeling for them” (quoted in Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, p. 139).
The two orphan girls, Maggie and Ellen, were among those with frozen limbs. Ellen’s were the most serious. The doctor in the valley, doing the best he could, amputated her legs just below the knees. The surgical tools were crude. There was no anesthesia. The stumps never healed. She grew to womanhood, married William Unthank, and bore and reared an honorable family of six children. Moving about on those stumps, she served her family, her neighbors, and the Church with faith and good cheer and without complaint, though she was never without pain. Her posterity are numerous, and among them are educated and capable men and women who love the Lord whom she loved and who love the cause for which she suffered.

When I was a little boy, my mother became concerned one early December by the amount of time I was spending perusing the JCPenney Christmas catalog and the lengthy wish list I had amassed for Santa. To help me catch the true meaning of the season and to overcome these selfish tendencies, my mom decided that for the 12 days prior to Christmas each evening I should visit the home of the 9 or 10 widows who lived within our ward boundaries and deliver a small Christmas gift. Plainly put, I was not happy about being compelled to sacrifice my time and interests for these older ladies. But every evening, I reluctantly walked to the door of each widow and hand-delivered goodies and other hand-crafted presents prepared by my mother. When Christmas Eve rolled around, my mother thought it would be special if I were to sing "Silent Night" solo on each doorstep. To say that I was less than excited would be an understatement, but somehow, she got me to do it. The first home I went to was a woman who lived a secluded life and didn’t participate in church. As I sang, this woman was visibly moved to tears. (To this day, I’m not sure whether she was crying because of the Spirit she felt or how poorly I sounded.) But as the song concluded, she gave me a huge embrace. That evening, a similar experience occurred at each of the other homes. Only, after that first door, being there was no longer a "burden" but a privilege. Each year thereafter, I looked forward to visiting my widows the 12 days before Christmas. I thank my mother for having given me that special privilege. Now that my mother herself is a widow, that childhood experience has all the more meaning.

Now I knew. My older brother, Jim, didn’t like me! I had overheard him on the telephone telling Brother Busbie, our Scout leader, that he didn’t want to be in the same patrol with me at the Camporee on Saturday. He said that I always did things wrong and that if I was in his patrol, they’d lose the competition for sure.
After I heard what he said, I went up to my bedroom and closed the door. I lay on my bed and put my face in my pillow. I stayed there a long time and thought it over.
This Camporee was to be one of the biggest Scouting competitions ever held in California. Patrol would be matched against patrol and troop against troop, and I knew that my brother really wanted his patrol to win. He just didn’t seem to remember that when you’ve just turned twelve, you want to do everything right but sometimes you don’t know how.
“Stanford!” That was my mother calling me for dinner.
I sighed and rolled off the bed. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a skinny boy with messy, blond hair, sad eyes, and a mouth that drooped at the corners. I didn’t look at the boy very long, because the more I looked, the sadder he became.
The morning of the competition, we met at the church and rode out to the Camporee together. I was new in Scouts, so Brother Busbie had to put me in one of the three existing patrols—the Bears, the Trail Hogs, or the Screaming Eagles. Jim’s patrol was the Screaming Eagles. Brother Busbie looked at Jim and at me and back at Jim, then said, “Stanford, you go with the Screaming Eagles.” My brother didn’t talk to me much after that.
An important event came early in the morning. Each patrol had to clear an area, build a proper fire with flint and steel, mix up some batter, cook a pancake, then give it to their Scoutmaster to eat. The first patrol to finish was the winner. It was meant to be a team effort, so every member of the patrol had to do something.
My brother was the leader of the Screaming Eagles, and I could tell that he was trying to figure out what job he could give me that I wouldn’t mess up. Finally he assigned me to add water to the pancake mix and stir it up.
The whistle sounded, and we rushed to our places. One boy cleared the area with a rake, and another made a circle of rocks. Another gathered bark and kindling. It was Jim’s job to start the fire with flint and steel, and I watched in admiration as he worked. He could usually get a fire started in about six seconds.
Our fire was going! More boys added larger pieces of wood. Someone placed the frying pan over the flames. Then it was my turn.
I always get nervous when I’m under pressure, and this was the most important thing I’d ever done. My hands shook as I poured water into the pancake mix. My heart pounded, and my throat went dry. The smoke from the fire filled my eyes with tears. Suddenly I became horribly aware that I had poured too much water into the bowl. I hadn’t made pancake batter—I had made pancake soup!
Jim stared at me. All the other boys stared at me. Brother Busbie sat farther away on a log near the other leaders, but they all saw what I had done, and they stopped talking to see what I was going to do next.
I looked at Jim and saw the disappointment in his eyes, and I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t let him down. I couldn’t let the Screaming Eagles down. I looked desperately around. Then I saw the clods of dirt.
This wasn’t dirty dirt, the kind that you drag in from the yard and that clings to your shoes and smears itself all over your mother’s kitchen floor. This was clean dirt. It was in nice, tidy clumps that you could pick up in your hand. I grabbed a clump and threw it into the batter. I grabbed another one, an especially large one, and tossed it in too. I stirred until the batter was smooth and thick, then handed it over to the next boy.
The pancake fried up beautifully, and we were still ahead of the other patrols. Everyone was cheering wildly. Brother Busbie was a good sport—he just smothered his pancake with butter and drowned it with syrup, then took a bite.
He chewed. He choked. He gulped down half a glass of milk. Then he took another bite.
I looked over at Jim. He had turned all red and was doubled over, clutching at his stomach. Tears poured down his cheeks, and he was making loud gagging noises as if he couldn’t get enough air. It took me a second to realize what was happening: My brother was laughing harder than I’d ever seen him laugh in my whole life.
We won the contest. Brother Busbie managed to choke down the last bite of pancake a few moments ahead of the next Scout leader. I figured that he deserved a medal and so did all the other leaders who had seen what he had done. When it was all over, I walked up to Jim. I looked straight at him and said, “We won.”
He didn’t get mad or make fun of me, like I thought he would. He just put his arm around my shoulders. “Yes, we did,” he said. “But you know, I just realized something. Winning is great, but, well, working together is important too.” Then he paused and added, kind of under his breath so that no one else could hear: “You’re not such a bad kid, Stanford.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I answered, right out loud.

I’d like to see Geri again. I need to apologize.
Geri was one of the LDS students I used to hang around with at lunch time when I was a senior in high school. She and several of her friends would sit on the lawn behind the administration building where my buddies and I would often join them for some friendly banter.
Geri was almost always there, but it was almost as if she weren’t. She was so painfully shy, that even with conversation bouncing all around her, she wouldn’t join in. I never knew why, but Geri lived with her grandmother. There probably wasn’t much money to go around in her home because she didn’t have many clothes. Although what she wore was clean and neat, it was not the style of the day.
My personality was much the opposite of Geri’s. I was the group clown—seeking to milk laughter from every situation while masking my teenage insecurities in humor.
One day I noticed that Geri was wearing a rather heavy dose of perfume.
“Nice perfume, Geri,” I commented.
She smiled, clearly pleased at the compliment.
“Did you bathe in it?” I asked.
The moment those words left my lips, I wanted them back. I wanted that embarrassed, betrayed expression on Geri’s face to disappear. I longed to see the smile again. But the damage caused by that thoughtless comment was not so easily erased.
“Do you think it’s too strong?” she asked.
I mumbled and shrugged.
“Is it too strong?” she pressed.
“A little,” I conceded.
Geri looked away, and the incident was history. But the consequences of that event haunt me still. I was poorer that day because of my actions, and an innocent human being was hurt.
Life, for the most part, is made up of little things. Small acts of kindness or selfishness determine the depth of our commitment to the Savior and the quality of our lives. Some seemingly small acts can cause us considerable regret for a long time.
I have often wished during the years since that incident that I could find Geri and apologize for my thoughtlessness. I hope I would find that the years have been rich and full for her. I hope the light of the gospel has brightened her life and eased her burdens.