Gospel Story Finder

I had been trying hard, and yet I wanted to know: “Isn’t there something more I can do?” And Elder Tuttle told me there was and that I would need the Atonement of Jesus Christ working in my life to go where I wanted to go. Elder Tuttle said he had taken a trip to South America on assignment with Joseph Fielding Smith, then a member of the Council of the Twelve. That was in the days when you went to South America by ship. Elder Smith could have used the time to rest. And he could have let Elder Tuttle rest. But he didn’t. He organized daily scripture study, sitting on the deck in those wooden slat chairs most of you have only seen in old movies. They read their scriptures together, and they discussed them, and they marked them. And so what I have written on this page, in the margins, was written by Elder Tuttle in his Doctrine and Covenants on the ship’s deck as Elder Smith taught it to him. I can only imagine who passed it to Elder Smith. And now I’m passing it on to you.

Our parents hadn’t encouraged us to go. They said it was too early to be climbing in Echo Canyon, that we should “wait until spring was really here.” But the winter had been long and cold, we were 16, and we couldn’t wait any longer. Though it was just mid-March, the invitation from the brilliant sun light and the soaring temperatures could not be turned down.
Glenn, Marvin, John, and I settled into Glenn’s Chevy Bel Air. We didn’t relax much in the car for the ten minutes or so it took us to drive to Echo Canyon.
I climbed out of the back seat, stretched, and looked up at the rock formations surrounding us. The prehistoric waters of Lake Bonneville once covered this area, and the currents had eroded the cliffs and pinnacles into exotic shapes. Now the almost continual wind worked on the job of rock carving. Its blasts had slashed grotesque caves and chutes and chambers into the sandstone and shale walls. Echo Canyon was a place of eerie beauty.
In our years of going to Echo Canyon, we never climbed up any of the “real” cliffs. We didn’t have the equipment or experience for that. But several times each summer we tried our strength against the intermixed “almost” cliffs—they were close enough to being straight up and down to suit us fine.
We settled down to climb one of the major “almost” cliffs that glowered down on the main canyon and spent almost an hour getting to the top. Our ascents—though requiring more endurance than skill—were always marked by caution. Even though nature had already gouged hundreds of hand and foot holds out of the rock, it was a long way to the bottom for a foolhardy climber.
The view from the top, though familiar, was invigorating. From the valley floor, the blue sky seemed to arch overhead. Here on top, we were in the sky, a part of it. Climbing today was more than an adventure—it was a celebration of the radiance of the sun, a celebration of our youth and vitality—a celebration of life.
Going down the “cliff” took longer than climbing it did. Between us and the car, still almost a quarter of a mile below us, was a rock slide. Since we had run down similar slides on earlier trips, we knew that we could throw caution away and rashly blast down the hill without much danger of a twisted ankle or a small avalanche of cascading rock, as long as we ran without stopping.
We scattered out along the top side of the immense slide, littered with tons of shale and sand stone, threw our hands high in the air, whooped and screamed, and started running for the car. We were cheered by our own echoing voices as the sliding rocks and our churning legs started us down the hill.
One of the best parts of these lunatic runs was jumping over any sagebrush we could find. We purposely headed for any of the sparsely-spaced bushes that punctuated the shale for the incredible ecstasy of soaring over them. The momentum of our bodies would carry us over them with hardly any effort. I would feel like a lunar astronaut, bounding into the air against gravity, landing—still running—below the bushes I hurdled.
Halfway down the slide, I headed for a grand sagebrush. It was almost three feet higher than any other I had seen on the slope, and I knew I could jump it with dramatic speed. As I approached it, I calculated how I would maintain my balance—and speed—as I landed on the other side of it.
As I hit my final approach, my energy seemed electrified, yet I was in absolute control. Just before I jumped, a voice in my mind commanded, “Stop! Stop right now!”
There was no time to consider the source of the voice—I just felt impelled to stop. My legs stopped churning and dug into the shale like anchors. I leaned backwards and skidded to a stop in a shower of stones.
As the dust swirled around me, I felt foolish. My friends were still running, oblivious of me in their own descent. I lay there on the sharp rocks on the uphill side of the bush, catching my breath, wondering how long it would be until inevitable scrapes and bruises from the rock would start to sting my currently numbed body.
Some of the retinue of rocks I had loosened as I ran down the hill caught up with me and rocketed through the sagebrush and on down the slope. Then I heard the buzzing—fierce and steady. There was a rattlesnake somewhere close!
My breath stopped momentarily with fear. We all knew that a few rattlesnakes showed up here and there in our area, but not here in Echo Canyon! I wondered what I should do and warily looked around, being careful to not move anything but my eyes. I couldn’t see anything.
I listened intently to the buzzing and determined that it was coming from the downhill side of the bush. I slowly got to my feet and skirted the sage, keeping back from the sound, until I could see the downhill side clearly.
Until interrupted by me and my rocks, a big rattler had been sunning itself in the shale. Now it was coiled to strike—its defiant head was matched by its angry tail. I watched it for several minutes until it uncoiled and slid back into the security of the bush. It was a diamondback, at least three feet long. At its thickest part, its brown and gray body was as big around as a baseball.
I felt no anger for the snake. I had disturbed it; it hadn’t sought me out. The unusual warmth of the last few days had undoubtedly brought it prematurely out of hibernation. Its venom would be a thick concentrate, incredibly potent after not being used for killing prey during the winter months of hibernation. If I had jumped the bush, I would have landed inches away from its fangs. My heart was still beating like primitive drums from my downhill exertion and my astonishment. This rapid heartbeat would have scattered the poison throughout my body in a few seconds. My only chance for survival came in the voice: “Stop! Stop right now!”
I was overwhelmed as I realized, with a startling and clear perspective, that God was aware of me as an individual. He really was a Heavenly Father—and he knew Layne Dearden, one of his sons. He knew what I was doing on that March afternoon. And he knew that my careless exuberance would end my life unless he helped.
That day was more of a celebration of life than I ever imagined it could be, even when I had stood at the top of the cliff. I basked in the warmth of my Father’s love as I slowly walked down the remaining shale slope.

The Beehives of the Iowa City First Ward were too young to participate in the youth handcart trek, but they were determined to be involved in the commemoration of the handcart pioneers. On a recommendation from one of their leaders, these young women volunteered to be storytellers at the Handcart Festival.
The girls decided to use this experience as a Personal Progress project. Each girl sewed her own bonnet as part of the authentic pioneer costume for the festival. They practiced for hours to memorize the story they had chosen—the story of Fanny Fry, who traveled with the George Rowley handcart company in 1859.
Fanny was separated from her family and endured hardships while crossing the plains. One day she fainted and was run over by her handcart. Thinking she was dead, the sisters began preparing her for burial. The Iowa Beehives love to tell how surprised those good sisters were when Fanny opened her eyes. Despite her injuries, Fanny pressed on and was later reunited with her sister.
“I love to think how brave Fanny was to have left her family and to survive,” says Summer Burch. “She was tough.”
“I admire her because she never had a bad attitude, even when things went wrong,” says Allison Engle.
On the morning of the festival, Summer and Allison, along with their fellow Beehives, Miranda Decker, Kendra Dawson, Lyssa Abel, and Jenna Abel, exhibited those qualities they admire in Fanny Fry. The day was windy, rainy, and cold. But they braved the chill with willing hearts and cheerful smiles. Every girl was at her post, dressed in full pioneer costume, ready to tell Fanny’s story to any and all who wanted to hear.

There will be times, however, when adapting to a sibling’s behavior is not enough. Simply avoiding or ignoring your brother or sister may not work when you feel your basic rights as a person are being overlooked. For Doug and Brent, the TV was a constant source of conflict. Both tended to be possessive of the television, always changing channels without asking. A channel-changing war inevitably ensued every time they sat down to watch the television. The fight would soon be blown out of proportion, and the two brothers were often at each other’s throats—literally—over a TV show.

Since the family owned one television, their behavior affected everyone. Occasionally, the boys made compromises, but they were temporary and soon forgotten. A long-term solution was needed.

This came in the form of a preplanned TV schedule decided on by the entire family at the start of each week. Mom and Dad limited the viewing hours and made sure the “TV menu” was fair for all. Brent and Doug’s fighting eventually stopped because they were often reminded of the schedule and the new compromise.

One day at recess I was bored, so I went over to my teacher. I was surprised when she asked me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She said she went to a Christian church, so I told her about ours. I told her what the sacrament represents. She told me about her church and seemed interested in what I was saying about our church. I felt glad for doing missionary work. I’m glad I had the chance to teach my teacher.

While I was serving as a full-time missionary in Russia, I hurt my knee and had to rest for three weeks. I was not very happy that I could not serve during that time. I also felt bad that I was a burden on others.
For several days, I could not get these thoughts out of my mind. Then my mission president, President Efivov, and his wife brought me the latest issues of the Liahona (Russian). In the article “Brothers” by Sheila Kindred (June 1995), I read the following line: “Brothers can never be burdens.” When I read this, I felt peace and joy.
Thanks for all the work that you do. I also appreciate the wonderful testimonies from all over the world.
Bondarenko Alla Victorovna,Voskresensky Branch, Ukraine Kiev Mission

From the moment my feet hit the floor that morning, I could tell something was off.
Do you ever have one of those days—almost like a beat-yourself-up kind of day? I spent that entire morning criticizing myself for every single decision I had made.
As the morning progressed, I couldn’t seem to shake my feelings of inadequacy and failure. So I prayed to my loving Heavenly Father, begging for a change in attitude, the strength to get through the day, and opportunities to serve.
Afterward, the morning started to pick up pace. Before I knew it, I had completed almost all my duties for the day and was standing in my kitchen, preparing a yummy treat to give to my bosses for “Boss Day.” As I poured melted chocolate over rice cereal, an interesting thought came to my mind:
“You should give Sister Jones (name has been changed) some of your treat!”
I immediately pushed that thought aside. I counted off the people I had already dedicated a treat bag to and determined there wasn’t enough.
“I’ll send her a text and ask her how she’s doing,” I thought. “At least then she will know I was thinking of her!”
Well, as He often does, the Lord wanted me to do something I didn’t necessarily want to do. I finished making my treat and divided it evenly into just enough bags for the people on my list. As I arranged the treats, something made me pause. I counted and recounted the number of treats and was taken aback by what I found.
Somehow I had ended up with one extra bag. I smiled, knowing exactly who that treat bag was for.
But as I looked at my schedule for the rest of the day, I realized I just didn’t have time to deliver the treat.
“It will still be good tomorrow, or even the next day!” I thought. But suddenly, I felt this unexplainable urgency come over me. I knew I needed to go and deliver that treat, right then and there. So even though my hair was a mess, the meat for lunch still wasn’t defrosted, and this sister lived in a different town, I found myself looking up her address.
You know what is amazing? When you are on the Lord’s errand, you can truly feel His hand helping you. My hair never looked so good in so short a time, I was able to make a different meal for lunch, and it just so happened that my dad had filled up my car with gas a few days earlier. The Lord helped prepare the way for me to serve this sister.
But even with all that, as I headed down the highway, I thought of all the reasons this was the wrong idea. What if Sister Jones wasn’t home? What if she was home? What if she didn’t like chocolate? What if she caught me trying to covertly sneak it into her mailbox? What if an animal got it? Endless scenarios came charging through my mind, and honestly the only reason I stuck to the plan was because I was already over halfway there.
I finally pulled up to her house and mustered all my courage to go knock on her door. When there was no answer, I stuck the treat inside her doorway and raced back to my car.
Immediately, an overwhelming sensation of peace and happiness enveloped me. I felt so good! It was such a stark contrast to the dark mood I had woken up in, and I felt joy as the rest of the day sped by.
If you would have told me that adding a 30-minute trip into my crazy schedule would turn out to be a blessing, I would have laughed. However, that is exactly what it turned out to be.
Heavenly Father answered my humble prayer in a way I did not expect. He knew I needed an opportunity to serve so I could gain some perspective by putting someone else first. Honestly, I don’t think Sister Jones needed the treat; I, however, needed to give it to her. I cannot tell you how much peace came from that one simple act.

“ATTACK!”
The shout shocked Jeffrey as he sat reading the Book of Mormon at his bedroom desk. He didn’t move as thundering feet barreled closer.
Suddenly, the door was flung open and two boys wielding plastic swords and wearing eye patches burst in.
“Play with us or surrender, me hearty!” Jeffrey’s youngest brother, Benjamin, yelled.
Jeffrey rolled his eyes and half-smiled. “Reading scriptures around here is hard,” he thought.
Jeffrey had been trying hard to read his scriptures and pray every morning, even though there were plenty of distractions. Reading and praying made him feel like he had a little extra help being ready to make good choices.
After reading, Jeffrey sat down with his brothers to watch a cartoon. When the cartoon ended, another one started. Jeffrey felt like he should do something else, so he turned off the TV and started to play cars with his little brothers.
Dad walked into the room. “OK, guys, time to turn off the …”
“I already turned it off, Dad,” Jeffrey said.
“You did? Why?”
“I just thought it would be better to do something else,” Jeffrey said.
“Good thinking,” Dad said. “Now come on. Mom’s going to take you to school.”
When lunchtime came, Jeffrey sat with his friends. Mrs. Lewis turned on a CD for the students to listen to as they ate.
Jeffrey liked the first couple of songs. When the third song started playing, he recognized it as the same song Mom turned off when it came on the radio a couple of days earlier. Mom said the song’s message wasn’t good. Jeffrey understood, but he still liked the beat of the music.
Now, Mom wasn’t here. Everyone else seemed to like the song—even the teachers. But Jeffrey didn’t feel right as the music played. He walked toward Mrs. Lewis.
“Can you please change the song?” Jeffrey asked.
Mrs. Lewis tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow.
“Why?” she asked.
“This just isn’t a song I feel good listening to,” he answered.
“OK,” she said. She shrugged her shoulders and pushed the “skip” button.
Jeffrey immediately felt better.
After school, Jeffrey asked Mom if he could have some computer time.
“Yes,” Mom said. “But just until Dad gets home.”
Jeffrey sat at the computer as Mom cleaned nearby. He typed the address for a new website a friend had told him about. Benjamin sat next to him. The site had a lot of different games on it. Jeffrey clicked on a game and started to play.
Then he started to feel the way he did when the song came on earlier at school.
Jeffrey started to pay more attention to the game. Some things weren’t so good. The music definitely didn’t make him feel happy.
Jeffrey moved the mouse to the top of the page and clicked the red “X” to close it. He noticed he started to feel better again.
When Jeffrey knelt to pray that evening, he knew he had made good choices. The Holy Ghost guided his thoughts and feelings. Heavenly Father was helping him.
Jeffrey closed his eyes, knowing that the next day would bring many of the same situations, but also knowing that as long as he continued to read his scriptures and pray for help, he could be ready to make good choices.
Of course, he still wasn’t sure what he was going to do about those pirates.

When Spence McArthur was three years old, his foot and lower leg were mangled in a lawn mower accident. After Spence barely survived the 90-mile drive from his hometown of Lovell, Wyoming, to the hospital in Billings, Montana, Spence’s parents, Susan and Steven, over a period of two years, fasted and prayed often and authorized six surgeries in an effort to save his foot and ankle. But the lower part of Spence’s leg had to be removed.
Missing a foot and ankle, their five-year-old son would have some major obstacles to overcome. They wondered what his future would be. Would he have a normal life? Would he be teased? Would he be able to run? Would he ever walk without crutches? Would he play sports? Would losing his leg ruin his life?
Fast forward. Right now, somewhere in the Argentina Buenos Aires West Mission, Elder McArthur is keeping appointments with investigators, teaching discussions in Spanish, playing basketball with his companions on preparation day, and walking the streets with no sign of a limp, nothing to indicate that one leg is really bright blue fiberglass with stickers all over it.
However, for Spence, serving a mission is only the latest accomplishment in a lifetime of defying the odds and being able to do virtually anything he has tried to do. Before he left on his mission, we talked with Spence.
We talked to Spence’s best friends from high school, his cousin who is the same age and has grown up with him, and his younger sister, Shalane. What are the things Spence cannot do?
Together they tried to create a list. You could see it in their faces. They really were thinking hard. Is there anything Spence cannot do with a prosthetic leg? Finally, Shalane answered for the group. “No,” she said with absolute finality.
In high school Spence excelled at academics. He was valedictorian of his high school graduating class. He never had a B. He was popular with other students and was elected senior class vice president and prom king. He played all the usual sports, plus he was an all-state linebacker on the football team. He was captain of the basketball team, a team that won its first state championship in 10 years.
How about some recreational activities? What about swimming?
“He actually beats me,” said Jake Walker, one of his friends. “He’s fast. And he’s a really good snow skier. Physically he can do anything we can.”
Ashlee Mickelsen, Spence’s cousin and good friend, said, “I can remember when someone once said that Spence was handicapped. I was so shocked. That word just doesn’t apply to Spence.”
Since his friends can’t think of anything he cannot do, we asked Spence and his parents. They also had a hard time thinking of things. After all, this is the guy who danced with his school’s swing choir, worked construction as a summer job, and helped a family move after their home was flooded. Finally, his mother, Susan, remembers that years ago, while in grade school, Spence didn’t jump rope quite as well as the other children. And Spence mentions that he’s not that great on ice skates. Oh, he can skate, but he might need a little more practice.
It’s obvious that no one, not his friends, not his family, not his teachers, not his opponents on sports teams, thinks of Spence as handicapped.
Spence learned determination as a child, racing first on crutches, then on his prosthetic leg, to keep up with his three older brothers and older sister. But, as he grew, he had to face a time when he didn’t want to be different. He didn’t want anyone to know about his leg. He wanted to keep it hidden.
His friends tell a story about something that happened during that time. Jake said, “He lost his leg in a basketball game.”
Steven Hultgren and Stephen Anderson started smiling and began to fill in the details. “Spence used to wear these long socks when we were on the freshman basketball team. We started playing teams from other high schools. No one on the other teams knew he had a prosthetic leg. When Spence was going up for a shot, some kid stepped on his foot right when Spence jumped. He jumped right out of his leg. You should have seen the expression on the other kid’s face. The ref was so surprised he didn’t even blow his whistle.”
Spence continued the story: “Everyone was staring at me. I slipped it back on, and since the referee hadn’t blown his whistle, I took off running down the court. Everyone on my team was rolling with laughter. I was laughing. The kid who was guarding me stepped back, and his eyes were huge. He didn’t know what to think.”
After that, Spence became much less self-conscious. The next time he was fitted for a new leg, his doctor offered him a green one. As Spence explained, “The doctor said that I’ve got something special. I’m like nobody else and I might as well show it off. I don’t think I’ll ever have a skin-colored leg again. Now I like the other colors. I have stickers and everything else on it.”
Even though he seems to have conquered every obstacle in his life, at one time Spence felt his leg would stop him from serving a mission. “I was about 16. I was struggling. I didn’t know if I was going on a mission. I have a fake leg, and I was scared. I thought I’d just rather not go. And I was having trouble with sports. My prosthetic legs were breaking a lot, and things were not good.

“One night, after family home evening, I got a feeling that I needed to read something. I didn’t know what. We have a bunch of Church books up on our shelf. I’d never looked at them before. I pulled out a book by Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone. I started reading it. I got to one story when Elder Featherstone was talking to a kid who didn’t have a leg. He wasn’t going on a mission, but then Elder Featherstone talked to him about it. I put myself into what was happening. The kid came back and told Elder Featherstone that he had a mission call and he was going to go. I just stopped. I realized, ‘That’s me. He’s talking straight to me.’ I set the book down. I had found my answer.”
But that moment was just the beginning of the changes in Spence’s life. For the first time in his life, he started praying on his own. He’d been taught to pray, but up until then, he had only prayed when called on in Sunday School or in his family. “Now I pray all the time in everything, in every sporting event, before every test. I pray for help,” says Spence. “My whole life turned around. Church hadn’t been my main priority, sports were. Now the gospel is the main thing. I have gained even more of a testimony of the Atonement. What Jesus Christ did for me is unbelievable.

“These past couple of years, I’ve been a lot happier. Even people at school can see that I’m a lot happier, a lot friendlier. I talk to everybody. If they say hi to me, I’ll talk to them. I hardly ever get mad anymore. That’s what I try to explain to my friends who aren’t members of the Church. It’s not that we’re out to convert you just to have another member of the Church. We want to make you happier.”
In the end, Spence learned what everyone has to learn for themselves—it doesn’t matter what you have to deal with in this life; if you turn to the Lord, He will listen and guide you in your decisions. And that’s why Spence packed his extra leg and made the commitment to serve the Lord for two years on a mission.
Oh, yes, he finally thought of something he can’t do. Being from Wyoming, it’s a little bit bigger deal to Spence than if he were from somewhere else.
He can’t wear cowboy boots.

Clarence stared out the car window as the harbor came into view. Boats floated in the water in front of colorful houses and shops. Copenhagen, Denmark, was a beautiful city filled with palaces, mansions, and parks. It was not at all like Clarence’s hometown in Utah, USA. Clarence could picture the dusty streets where he ran races as a boy. Now he was a member of the United States track team, and tomorrow he would be facing a famous Danish runner in an important race.
The car stopped at a small chapel where a Church meeting had already started.
As Clarence slipped into the back of the meeting, one of the missionaries sitting on the stand recognized him from a news article about tomorrow’s race. The branch president asked Clarence to come up and speak.
After Clarence told why he was visiting, a boy stood up and raised his hand. “Do you think you can beat the Danish champion?” he asked.
Clarence wasn’t sure what to say. The Danish runner did have a better time in the mile that season.
“Of course he can,” said one of the missionaries before Clarence could answer. “Because he lives the Word of Wisdom.” He opened his scriptures to Doctrine and Covenants 89. He read the promise that those who keep the Word of Wisdom “shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint” (verse 20).
What could Clarence say? He knew the Word of Wisdom was true. And as a child he had promised to always keep it. But that alone didn’t mean he could win this race. Winning also required practice and skill. As Clarence left the meeting, he thought, “Well, no one from church will be at the race tomorrow anyway.”
The next evening as Clarence was warming up for his race, he looked up and saw the two missionaries with a group of about 17 boys. They had come!
As they got closer, one of the missionaries whispered to Clarence, “If you’ve ever run in your life, you’d better run tonight.” Many of the boys weren’t members of the Church but had come with their friends to see if the Word of Wisdom was really true.
Clarence was worried. In this race, his best might not be good enough. But he was running for a principle of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He had to win. He had never prayed to win before, but he found an empty room to say a prayer.
He prayed, “Father in Heaven, I know the Word of Wisdom is true, and I have never broken it. Please bless me with victory in this race.” As he walked out to the starting line, he knew Heavenly Father had heard his prayer. He trusted Heavenly Father’s will.
The evening was rainy and muddy. As Clarence began the race, it seemed just like many other mile races he had run. The pace was fast, and the Danish champion was ahead. But as Clarence finished the third lap, suddenly he was not tired anymore. He started running faster, and it didn’t hurt. Going even a little faster still didn’t hurt. He passed the Danish champion and still went faster.
As Clarence came around the turn, his coach yelled, “Slow down! You’ll never make the finish line!” But Clarence knew he could keep running. And when he finished the race, he was more than 50 yards (46 m) ahead of the Danish runner! He knew he had won because Heavenly Father had answered his prayer and because the Word of Wisdom is true.

But, like many of you, I did have a job. My father worked in the construction business, building homes, and he frequently enlisted my three brothers and me to help him. The work was hot and demanding; there were times when I really didn’t want to be working. But we had schedules to keep and projects to complete, so we worked hard each day until the job was done. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, working with my family taught me a number of lessons.
Building homes takes a lot of time, effort, and precision. One area where I thought we didn’t need to be as exacting was in digging the footings for a house. My father thought differently.
To lay the foundation for a home, you first have to dig and pour the footings. Footings are pads of concrete that are wider than the foundation. Once the footings are poured and cured, you pour the foundation on top of the footings. Then you backfill dirt over them.
I often wondered if it really mattered that the footings were perfectly square. After all, with dirt covering them, no one would ever see them, and it wouldn’t weaken the support structure of the home. But my father still wanted the footings square and flat, measured correctly and carefully, and he did this with every home he built.
Looking back, I realize that my father treated everything he did in his work with the same care, even for things the owner would never notice. His careful attention to detail meant that people could trust him to do good work, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that his work was the best quality and that the owners would appreciate it.

Beth Lancaster, a Mia Maid, had been going to church for years with her member friends before she was baptized. One day, when Beth was 13, she asked her friend, Megan Rasmussen, if she could take the discussions. Beth says, “I wouldn’t have asked her if it hadn’t been for all my friends’ examples and the joy they had in their lives.”
“I saw the examples of the Rasmussen family and the Bromley family and how happy they were and how much love they had in their lives,” Beth says. “I decided I wanted some of that.”
Sixteen-year-old Jake Bromley, one of Beth’s good friends, says, “You never know when somebody will be looking at you, wondering why members of the Church are so good and what makes them so happy. Be a good example 100 percent of the time.”

About halfway through my third year at college, I realized that the money I had saved to pay for rent and utilities would not be sufficient to get me through the summer. It was that time of year when I could work to pay for the next semester. I found a part-time job as a shop assistant.
All went well until my work schedule changed to include Sundays. During the job interview, I hadn’t said anything about not working on Sundays because at the time the store was closed that day. Nevertheless, the job was important to me, and I liked what I was doing. I worked with a friend, and between us we could be free on two Sundays and work the other two. This let me attend some Church meetings and attend to my calling.
However, soon I found that I could not keep up with this schedule. I actually had a feeling that I wasn’t able to fulfill my Sunday responsibilities even if I didn’t work every Sunday. I started asking myself what I could do to change this situation. After I had prayed to ask for a way to soften the heart of my supervisors, I read 1 Nephi 7. I remembered reading verse 19, where, after Nephi had prayed, the hearts of his brethren were softened. Finally, I was able to speak to my employers about not working on Sundays.
I told my superiors that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and they asked me about what Latter-day Saints believed. When I asked them if I could have Sundays off, the response was no. They pointed out that during my first interview, I had said I was available to work any day of the week and had never mentioned any religious needs.
The months passed without any change until one Sunday I rushed out of Church meetings to hurry to work. I asked myself, “What is most important to you?” The response was immediate and impossible to miss: the Church, the gospel, service in my calling, participation with all my heart in Sunday meetings, and discipleship in word and deed.
I decided that I would ask again not to work on Sundays, but this time I would do it with a letter of resignation in my hands, in case they told me no a second time.
I had prayed, fasted, and received supportive text messages from friends.
At the moment of my interview, even though my heart was fluttering, I was calm because I knew I was doing the right thing. This time my supervisor said yes. My prayer had been answered. I tore up my resignation letter as soon as I got home.
I received many blessings from this experience, but the most immediate and tangible blessing was that I was able to keep my job and still keep the Sabbath day holy. For that I am truly grateful to the Lord.

For youth conference one year, we went on a pioneer trek reenactment. I was terrified. It wasn’t that I minded walking for miles and miles a day—I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to hear anything.
I lost my hearing to meningitis when I was three years old. With technology now, I can hear with a cochlear implant. But just before trek, I broke my good implant playing basketball and had to use a backup processor. It had only one battery, which lasted about 6 hours.
I didn’t know what to do—I just wanted to feel peace and comfort. So I asked my dad for a blessing. He blessed me that Heavenly Father would take care of me if I showed faith.
All during trek, I took my implant on and off to preserve battery life. One day we were heading up into a cove, and I felt strongly that I should take off my implant. I was reluctant because my trek pa was sharing a spiritual message and I wanted to hear it. But I remembered my dad’s blessing and put the implant in my pocket.
As we walked a little further, I heard a voice in my head. It was so clear. I looked up and realized that the words in my head were the same words my trek pa was saying. I could hear every word of his testimony!
I know that Heavenly Father loves us and cares about our worries. He wants to bless us; He just asks that we show a little faith in Him.
Brody S., Wyoming, USA

In 2015 Jacques Niambé, a clerk in the Abobo Côte d’Ivoire Stake, began having spiritual impressions that he needed to move his family to Dakar to help build the Church there. As young converts to the Church in 2006, Jacques and his brother had both wanted to serve missions. Family opposition, however, led Jacques to stay home while his brother served. “I told myself that even though I did not go on a mission,” he recalled, “I could serve the Lord in the way I could and where I was called.” Now, he felt the Lord was calling him to Dakar. At first, Jacques’s wife, Marie, did not think that the move was right for their family. Jacques asked her to pray about the decision and within a week, she had a dream that confirmed that the Lord needed them in Senegal.
Jacques went to Dakar first, planning to arrange for Marie to come later. At the time of the move, he knew of no Church members in Senegal. Alone, he studied the Book of Mormon, fasted three days a week, and prayed for the Lord’s guidance. Eventually, members in Côte d’Ivoire gave Jacques the phone number of Alphonse and Patricia Samadé, an Ivorian member couple living in Dakar. Jacques called the Samadés to arrange a time when they could meet. Meanwhile, Patricia asked friends in Côte d’Ivoire if they knew of a Church group in Dakar. She was given the phone number of James Chen.
Chen invited them to attend weekly meetings, and the following Sunday, Niambé and the Samadés met with the group for the first time. They worked together with other group members to share the gospel, inviting friends to be taught by missionaries outside the country via online video chat. They also began making arrangements for a missionary couple to come to Senegal.
On May 1, 2016, the Dakar Branch was organized with Jacques Niambé as president. Under his leadership and with the help of Elder Gary and Sister Helen Parke, the branch grew steadily. In February 2018, eight members of the branch traveled to Accra, Ghana, to attend the temple. In April, less than two years after the Dakar Branch was organized, it was divided, and Alphonse Samadé was called as president of the newly organized Parcelles Branch. Just weeks later, during a visit to Dakar, Elder Ulisses Soares of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles marveled at the potential he saw in the branches in Senegal. “The little branch I attended [in Brazil as a boy] became three stakes,” Elder Soares said after his visit. “I can see a similar future in Senegal.”

Elder Anderson returned from the mission field in May 1914. It didn’t take long for him to find a new companion. Norma Ettie Peterson was the daughter of Hugo D. E. Peterson, editor of a Salt Lake newspaper for Swedish immigrants, the Utah Posten. “She was blonde and I was dark, and I thought she was the prettiest girl in the city,” says Elder Anderson, who courted her, swimming and dancing, at the old Saltair resort near the Great Salt Lake. They were married 11 November 1915, in the Salt Lake Temple. Salt Lakers were impressed by the striking couple: Norma Anderson, with her brilliant platinum-blond hair and dark eyes; and Joseph, his handsome black mustache reminding people, much to his delight, of British movie star Ronald Colman.

In 1846 at Council Bluffs, Iowa, the United States government made an appeal to President Brigham Young for 500 able-bodied men to form a battalion and travel to California to offer protection in the Mexican War. John Borrowman accepted the call and enlisted as a private in Company B. At a farewell devotional, President Young prophesied that the men of the Mormon Battalion would never have to face the enemy in battle—a prophecy that proved true, in spite of the odds against it. Still, the men had many struggles. Perhaps the greatest challenges of all were the mountain deserts that yielded little water and food. Yet, in spite of harsh conditions, they followed their leaders faithfully and with valor. As prophesied, they never faced a human enemy in battle, although they did encounter a herd of rampaging wild bulls and dubbed the conflict “the Battle of the Bulls.”
Their supplies grossly inadequate, the suffering and thirsty men cut a narrow passage (sometimes just an inch wider than the wagons) as they ascended the tortuous ravines of the barren Southwestern mountains. It was a thrilling day when they at last found their way onto the gentle slopes that led to their first view of the Pacific Ocean.
Then something unfortunate happened to John Borrowman—because of exhaustion, he fell asleep on guard duty. He drifted off for just a few moments, but a watchful sergeant reported him. In time of war this was an offense punishable by death. The Mormon soldiers were subject to their army commanders and military law, and John was immediately imprisoned. During the next few weeks, he read a friend’s copy of the Book of Mormon, which brought him a great deal of comfort.
After he was set free, it was determined that his release had been an error, and John reluctantly returned to jail. He wrote in his journal that he was lonely and uncomfortable, for “I have no bedding … but my blanket and a cold damp brick floor to lie on” (Journal of John Borrowman, 1846–1860, Church Historical Department, microfilm, 22). When his case was heard, he was sentenced to three additional days in guard quarters and three hours each day in the cells; three dollars of his pay were also withheld. Though grateful that his life was spared, he felt this was a great burden and prayed to the Lord to be relieved of it. His deliverance came in an unusual fashion. When the regular army colonel was informed of the sentence of the court, he was disgusted at its leniency. Yet he didn’t have the power to overturn it. So he set it aside, saying it was better to have no punishment than one that was so light. John accepted this as an answer to his earnest prayers.
Upon his honorable discharge from the Mormon Battalion, John sold his horse and bought passage on a ship to San Francisco, California. Arriving there, he found a small community of Saints who helped him find work as a laborer for two dollars per day. After several months, John started east to join the main body of the Saints in the Salt Lake Valley. Near Sacramento he learned that some of the other members of the battalion were working at a place called Sutter’s Mill when gold was discovered there. Thus John became a prospector. He recorded in his journal that he was washing between $25 and $60 of gold each day—a real fortune compared to his wage as a laborer.
Yet, when the call came from Brigham Young for battalion members to proceed directly to Salt Lake City, John and his partners immediately abandoned their lucrative careers as prospectors and started the arduous trek through the Sierra Nevada mountain range to the Salt Lake Valley. Once there, John was given a piece of land outside the city, which he energetically began to improve into a beautiful irrigated farm.
John writes matter-of-factly of his marriage in a journal entry dated 22 January 1849: “I have not thought proper to write any since the second of this month … since that day I have been engaged in getting things for house keeping [O]n the evening of the ninth I got married and moved into a little adobie house belonging to [B]rother Turbit where I reside at present with my wife” (Journal of John Borrowman).
In time, John and his wife, Agnes Park, were blessed with five children. In 1853 the Borrowmans left their prosperous farm in Salt Lake City when they were called on a colonization mission to Nephi, Utah (about 130 kilometers to the south). According to an article published in the local newspaper, John became a respected and honored citizen of that small community, serving first as prosecuting attorney, then as municipal judge. In 1869 he was called on a second proselyting mission to Canada and left his home and family for two years. Records indicate that over the course of his lifetime, John Borrowman assisted in more than 1,100 convert baptisms.
William Borrowman never forgave his son for joining the Church. He made sure that the family members never referred to John as brother or uncle. However, John’s stepmother, Helen, corresponded with John through the years. In 1857 she wrote to tell him that his father had died and that he had directed that John be given—as his total inheritance—one halfpenny (the equivalent of a nickel in American coin).
Over the course of his lifetime, John abandoned his claim to a prosperous farm in Canada, gave up the sure profits of the goldfields of California, and left a developed farm in the Salt Lake Valley—all seemingly without regret. Whenever and wherever the Lord called, John Borrowman, like so many Saints, answered the call without hesitation.
In studying the life of my great-great-grandfather, I have wondered what he thought about receiving his inheritance. I believe the following scripture best describes his willingness to unite with the people of the Lord:
“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls:
“Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it” (Matt. 13:45–46).
And so, for an inheritance, John Borrowman received the pearl of great price—and a halfpenny too!
Information in this article is based on the journal of John Borrowman, who lived from 13 May 1816 to 28 March 1898.

One day I saw my oldest son, Wilford, preparing a tithing envelope. He was probably around five years old at the time. Wilford didn’t earn any money, so I wondered why he was paying tithing. When I asked him, he told me he was actually paying a fast offering.
Wilford didn’t have much money of his own. But he was still excited to pay a fast offering.
I was impressed by this act of kindness. I asked him why he had decided to do this.
Wilford answered, “I don’t need anything. But I know others do.” He knew his money would help people. He was very happy about that.
This simple experience taught me a good lesson: children are really in tune with the Spirit and have a natural Christlike love. Wilford had something he didn’t need and knew it would be helpful to other people. He was willing to make the sacrifice.
Saving money is good. But my young son taught me another lesson through his example. By listening to the Spirit, we can bless the lives of others when we share what we have.

When Liphapang Monesa from Maseru, Lesotho joined the Church as a child, his choice to enter the waters of baptism came largely as a desire to follow the example of his parents. “I was only nine years old at the time, so I was following my parents more than a clear reliance on a new-found testimony,” he said.
As Brother Monesa became a teenager, he began to question many of the tenets of his faith. “The real question is not what made me join the Church, but what made me stay in the Church,” he said. The answer, largely, was a personal testimony borne of scripture study.
“Through seminary, the scriptures came alive for me and I eventually had a serious study of the Book of Mormon,” he said. As Brother Monesa found that “the word [was] good,” and that it began to “to enlarge [his] soul . . . and beginneth to be delicious to [him] (Alma 32:28), so his desire to share the gospel with others took root in his soul.
“My testimony of The Book of Mormon solidified my resolve to serve a mission,” he said.
He was called to serve in the Zimbabwe Harare Mission between 2005 and 2007.
The experience was a sort of fast-tracked course in life lessons.
“They say the growth you experience can only be apparent when you finally return home,” he said. “I believe this is very true. In the two years I spent on mission I believe I gained the experience of life it would take me a lot of years to have through other avenues of life.”
Serving his mission set the tone for his future in terms of leadership, hard work and ambition to succeed both spiritually and temporally.
“I learnt that leadership is not a question of a position, but the ability to influence others through integrity, consistency and a display of genuine care for other people,” said Brother Monesa. His ability to lead and support others has been amplified since his two years in the field. The growth he experienced was a game-changer, he said.
And perhaps most importantly, those two years of full-time service created a foundation for a commitment to the Lord for the rest of his life.
“My commitment to serve the Lord has been resolute since I served a mission,” he said. “I live by the code that as you take care of the Lord’s business, He takes care of yours. I have seen the Lord take care of my business for the past almost three decades and I have no doubt He will continue to do so as I keep my end of the promise,” he said.

“Blast that girl!” said Arnie to himself. “Blast me, too! And blast everything that has to do with that stupid art show.”
He glanced upward towards heaven. “Why?” he asked. “Why on the day before the biggest art show of my life does she have to come to my school? What did I do wrong? What did I do to deserve this?”
Not receiving any answer, Arnie looked down at the pad he held in his hand. The beginnings of a little boy playing in the sand were sketched lightly in blue. Oh, yes, the picture would be a good one, one of his best. It would make a nice finale to his entry in the contest. But it was nothing compared to Jana Lee Smithy’s paintings in oil!
Arnie grimaced. If only she had arrived two days later! Then the judging would have been over and the art student-of-the-year award would have been his. After that Miss Jana Lee could have been the best art student in the school; it wouldn’t have mattered. But no. There she was. And she was brilliant.
Arnie threw down his pencil and groaned audibly. He glanced around the small park where he drew many of his sketches and collected ideas. What a waste of a beautiful day! But how could he be content to turn in just four drawings? Jana Lee Smithy was going to show four completed oil paintings, each a vision of color and light. When her paintings were unveiled in the morning and the school compared hers to his slight “sketches,” Arnie knew how his classmates would react. “Well,” they would say, “Arnie’s not quite as good as he makes out to be, is he?” And people would nod in assent and then never stop talking about what a genius Jana Lee was.
Arnie looked at the small boy who was unknowingly modeling for his sketch. Hurriedly and quietly the boy was building himself a castle. Tiny hands moved quickly and knowingly through the granules of yellow dirt. Wary of sand too dry or sand too wet, the boy’s small fingers gathered piles of sand together and molded them into turrets and walls. Broken twigs served as posts and pillars and flags for the castle.
Arnie wasn’t sure what everything the boy made was, but it was certainly immense. When Arnie began his drawing, the little fellow had just begun the main building. Now stables, dogs’ houses, an armory, and finally a great wall had been formed. The child was amazing. Or, thought Arnie, he would be until something better came along. Then the castle would be merely a trifle, something to be forgotten—like Arnie would be after tomorrow.
Arnie frowned and looked at his drawing. Despite its unfinished quality, he felt tempted to just leave it as it was. Nothing could help him now. Numbers of drawings couldn’t change the quality of Jana Lee’s work. Finally, discipline got the better of him. He picked up the blue pencil and finished the final details of the picture.
After another 45 minutes the picture was finished. Arnie smiled at the little figure in the drawing. The contentment on the child’s face was contagious, and Arnie grinned. It was a futile effort, he knew, like the sand castle whose immortality would lie in the little boy’s heart rather than in the park. But, like the child, Arnie felt a glow at having done a good job. The glow wasn’t big enough to fill the emptiness he felt at being a failure, but it was nice nonetheless. He gathered up his pencils and put them in their case. Carefully, he stood and, with a nod to the little boy, headed for home.
By the time Arnie reached his street, the slight high that finishing the drawing had given him was gone. Even the coziness of the familiar, flower-lined path that led to his front door had no effect. There’s not much that can make a failure happy, he reflected. The sounds of family that echoed in the air didn’t help, either. In fact, the thought of seeing his hopeful mother, proud father, and admiring sister made him want to hide. They’d all had such high hopes for him. And now he was letting them down. Arnie stood on the doorstep for a second trying to decide whether or not to tell them that he’d seen the winning entries, halfway hidden behind Mr. Olsen’s desk, and they weren’t his. Arnie shook his head. He didn’t want their sympathy. He opened the door.
“I’m home,” he called.
Sheryll, his sister, bounded past him on her way to the kitchen. “You don’t say?” she laughed over her shoulder. “I never would have guessed.”
Arnie grimaced at her. Sisters. Freshmen. Two deadly ingredients when combined. He put his supplies down on the floor and headed for the stairs. His mother’s voice caught him two steps up.
“You’re not going to leave your things here in the hall, are you?” He turned around and looked into his mother’s warning brown eyes. Arnie grinned sheepishly.
“Me?”
She nodded. “My visiting teachers are coming over tonight.” Arnie looked knowingly at her. “Not,” she said, raising her voice as well as her eyebrows, “that that should make any difference.”
“Of course not, Mom,” Arnie replied. He gathered his things up and took them with him to his room. Carefully, he put the drawing on his desk and his kit on the floor. Shutting his door carefully behind him, he made his way to the bathroom where he washed his hands. As he did so, he tried to smile in the mirror. It didn’t do any good. His brown hair looked unruly, his eyes dim, and his face ruddy. What a depressing sight! If my eyes looked any redder … He shrugged off the thought. What had he to complain about? He wasn’t hoping to make a living with his face, just his hands.
“Which,” he said to the face in the mirror, “are proving to be betraying assets.” Arnie went down to dinner.
As the family took their places after the prayer, Arnie’s father looked over the mashed potatoes at his son.
“So, are you ready for tomorrow, Arnie?” he asked. Arnie choked on a pea.
When his coughing had subsided he replied, “About as ready as I’m going to get, Dad.”
“Then you should be plenty ready,” said his mother.
“What were you doing this afternoon?” asked Sheryll.
“I was drawing at the park.” Arnie looked down at his plate. “I thought one more piece might help me in the contest.”
“That smacks of overkill,” said his father.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Arnie.
“Besides,” said Sheryll, “everybody in school knows how good he is. All my friends like his stuff. One more drawing will be …”
“One more drawing,” interrupted Arnie. “Enough. Isn’t there anything else to talk about?”
His mother looked at him with concern. “Are you feeling all right, Arnie?”
“Just nerves, dear,” said his father. But still, even as he spoke, Mr. Wells looked at his son with a searching look.
Arnie ducked his father’s gaze and stuck his fork into his mouth. Oops, he thought as his father’s look changed to one of amazement. I should have put something on the fork first.
“Arnie, if there’s anything …”
Frustrated, Arnie stood up. “May I be excused? I’m finished. And I’ve got to mount this last drawing.”
He could see by the surprised looks on the faces of his family that they were amazed by the sudden outburst. He continued, “I’ll be in my room.” Arnie backed out of the room and fled up the stairs.
“Well, at least they only doubted my sanity,” Arnie said to himself as he shut and locked the door behind him. “They don’t have to doubt my abilities until tomorrow.”
He looked forlornly at the drawing on his desk. “Ah, friend, if you only knew what humiliation you will face tomorrow, you wouldn’t smile so much.”
The little boy grinned at him happily. The scripture in 2 Nephi flashed into Arnie’s mind. “And men are, that they might have joy” (2 Ne. 2:25). Arnie frowned. Well, he thought, joy certainly hasn’t been my cellmate these last few hours! What’s there to be joyful about? Instead of a talent made out of silk, I get one made of a sow’s ear. And I’m supposed to be happy! He shrugged and set about making the results of his poor talent presentable.
When he finished, Arnie put his five entries on his bed and looked at them one at a time. Each of them was pleasant to look at. The laughter and light in them was enough to make any viewer smile. Each drawing represented a lot of effort. It was a pity that they would go to waste. Arnie shook his head and readied himself for bed.
After placing the five drawings and his books near the door, Arnie knelt to say his nightly prayer. “Heavenly Father,” he began. But his mind went numb. Arnie had always trusted his Father in Heaven, but this night he found it difficult to bare his soul. Before, he’d always known of his worth as a child of God. He’d never had any reason to doubt. But now, Arnie wasn’t everything that he thought he was. It was a little difficult to explain to Heavenly Father that things were different and that Arnie wasn’t quite the person he thought he had been.
Finally, after many minutes of silence, only one thing came to his mind. “I don’t understand,” he said softly, “why I am what I am. But I must be of some importance, despite my faults. Help me be happy.”
Arnie paused, then closed his prayer. He climbed slowly into bed, and after tossing and turning for a long while, drifted into sleep.
The next morning dawned much too early for Arnie’s likes. I’m not any happier, he thought, than I was last night. But he did feel a little more distanced from the despair than he had felt the night before. His drawings, as he looked at them one more time before leaving the house, didn’t look quite as inelegant as they had seemed. Still, they weren’t going to win any awards. Arnie still wasn’t quite good enough to be what was expected.
Despite Sheryll’s chatter in the car, Arnie maintained a stony silence on the way to school. Luckily, his lively sister was so excited about the competition, the weather, and her best friend’s new boyfriend, that it would have been impossible for him to have said anything had he wanted to. Finally, the ride was over. He said good-bye to his father and sister and escaped down the hall to the art department.
Voices could be heard behind the wood door as Arnie approached. He really didn’t want to see anybody just yet and was about to turn away when the door opened.
“Ah, Arnie,” said Mr. Olsen. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Arnie smiled weakly.
Mr. Olsen beamed at him. “I was just going to take Jana Lee down to where she’ll be hanging her paintings. But maybe you can show her.”
Great, thought Arnie, now I’m a glorified hall monitor.
Mr. Olsen continued. “Since you and Jana will be hanging your works next to each other, that should I make things easier for all of us. That’ll be all right, won’t it?”
Arnie nodded.
“Good.”
Arnie sighed and turned around. He heard the sound of Jana Lee’s feet behind him.
“Wait a second, Arnie,” she said as she reached his side. Arnie turned to give her one of his pained looks. But when he saw her he stopped.
Jana Lee smiled and adjusted the paintings which had started to slip. But that wasn’t what stopped him. It wasn’t the paintings either, though they were as magnificent as ever. It was something that he saw in her eye, something that he recognized. Her eyes were as red-rimmed as his own.
Why? he thought. What had she to worry about? When she was ready, they headed towards the library. Neither said another word, though Arnie saw her looking at him once as he glanced at her.
As Arnie thought about what he had seen and what it meant, something occurred to him that he had never thought of before. In the parable of the talents, different talents were given to the servants: five talents, two talents, and one talent. Arnie had always just assumed that some people were five-talent people and some people were two-talent people. But what he knew when the image of Jana Lee’s overworked eyes sank deep into his heart was that most people started out with both talents and potential for talents. Just because you didn’t have five talents the first day didn’t mean you couldn’t have them—if you worked. Didn’t the Lord say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant” to the man who began with two talents? He had started with two and had come away with four. He had done good work.
Arnie was also a worker. Perhaps, today, Arnie had two talents. But, as he thought back, he’d only begun with one. Perhaps next time, at the next competition, Arnie would have a five-talent art like Jana Lee. She, as he saw in her eyes, had worked for hers. He, as he knew in his heart, could work for his. And with that revelation, being pleased with his own work, Arnie was, for the first time in a long time, content.
He and Jana Lee reached the wall where they would hang up their works. After he helped her with the paintings, Jana Lee helped him with his drawings. When they reached the last one, that of the boy in the sand, Jana Lee smiled.
“This one’s really good,” she said. “Who was the model? He’s got such a knowing look on his face.”
“I don’t know who he was,” replied Arnie. “But he was a smart kid. And he built a great sand castle.”