Gospel Story Finder

There was a time when I felt like my most earnest prayers were going unanswered. I felt like I was lacking direction and pleaded with God for answers and blessings. As time wore on, praying became harder as feelings of frustration and impatience built. It was exhausting.
I couldn’t help but ask, “What’s wrong with me?”
As I searched the scriptures for answers, I found that they teach about a type of waiting that’s different from what I was experiencing. The prophet Isaiah taught, “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint” (Isaiah 40:31).
Was it possible that I was waiting all wrong? I felt there must be more to waiting upon the Lord than just simply waiting.
As I pondered these words, the word “wait” suddenly took on a new meaning. Instead of silence, it sounded like the Spirit was saying, “Stay here with me for a minute.” What I thought was the Lord’s indifference suddenly transformed into an invitation to sit with Him and be renewed by His strength.
I thought of one of my favorite scriptures: “For the Lord shall comfort Zion, he will comfort all her waste places; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord. Joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving and the voice of melody” (2 Nephi 8:3).
Waiting, to me, had always felt like being in a “desert” or a “waste place”—empty and tiring. All I thought I could do while in this “desert” was hope that one day God would finally give me the promised blessings I sought and lead me to a full and beautiful garden.
But these scriptures helped me realize that God has so much more power than I was giving Him credit for. He could make my “desert” a beautiful garden now, while I waited on Him. I started seeing this waiting period as a spiritual refuge as I prepared to receive whatever future blessings the Lord had in store for me.
As I continued to ponder on 2 Nephi 8:3, the last sentence stood out to me: “Joy and gladness shall be found therein.” So where does this joy come from if not from immediately receiving the blessings we seek?
As President Russell M. Nelson recently taught:
“The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.
“When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation … and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives. Joy comes from and because of Him. He is the source of all joy.”
Shifting my focus away from what I felt I lacked and toward the Savior has created a space where joy and gladness feel abundant in my life.
I’ve noticed I feel the Savior’s joy more clearly as I strive to build on the things in my life that uplift me. For me, this looks like creating deeper connections with family members and friends, serving in the temple, learning new skills, and going to my favorite Wednesday-night yoga class.
I also learned that because of Christ, God’s promises to us are assured. That, in and of itself, is a reason to rejoice.
I’ve found that gratitude is essential in transforming my waiting space from a desert into a garden. There is a healing power in being grateful for all the blessings I do have, but I’ve also especially found a deep sense of gratitude for the things that I don’t have yet and the time I’m spending deepening my faith in the Lord as I wait.
Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Patience helps us to use, rather than to protest, these seeming flat periods of life, becoming filled with quiet wonder over the past and with anticipation for that which may lie ahead.”
Waiting gives us the opportunity to sit with God, learn more of Him, see more of His hand, feel more of His love, hear more of His voice, and ultimately receive more of His abundance. As I look back on times I felt like God was making me wait, I see the abundance of spiritual treasures He offered me. I see loving and supportive friends, priceless moments of comfort and revelation, lessons about the security and power of keeping sacred covenants, and a deeper connection to my Savior, Jesus Christ.
As I practice waiting on the Lord rather than just waiting, I know that He will continue to make my life into a garden more beautiful than I can imagine.

Cathryn stood quite breathless one bitter cold December day, watching Mr. VanDermere fight to steady his team of horses. His wagon, loaded with coal, had slid backward half the length of the arching, ice-covered bridge and was lodged against the support beam at the bridge’s mouth. Caught between the beam and the iced incline, Mr. VanDermere could neither back the horses up nor guide them forward. The bridge groaned as its wooden railing began to give way. The horses were fighting hard, the muscles of their backs, necks, and thighs bunching into knots as they struggled against the slippery ice and relentless wind. Would they break the rail and fall to the icy river below? If they did, they would take Mr. VanDermere with them, and all would be killed!
Cathryn’s mother, her arms laden with Christmas packages, opened the door to their home and went in, but Cathryn stood staring at the massive horses, her eyes glazed with fear. She had been terrified of horses ever since being knocked down and nearly killed five years earlier by Mrs. Johnson’s runaway mare.
“Cathryn, come in here!” Her mother’s voice shook her out of her memories. “Hurry!” Cathryn ran inside and found her mother at the kitchen stove, hurriedly emptying the ash bin into a sack. Soot and ash were wisping through the air, coating everything in her mother’s always spotless kitchen, including her mother! What a sight! “Run this ash to Mr. VanDermere so he can put it on the ice for the horses’ hooves to grip. Hurry! I’ll go to the neighbors for more.”
Cathryn didn’t move. Her mother knew that she was afraid of horses, and Mr. VanDermere’s horses were the largest beasts she had ever seen!
“Cathryn, I said hurry! We haven’t a minute to waste! You won’t have to go near the horses—just take the sack to Mr. VanDermere. Now run!”
As Cathryn stepped outside, the bitter wind caught her clothes and nearly toppled her to the ground. The gusts were so fierce that most people had stayed indoors. As she neared the bridge, she could see that both Mr. VanDermere and his horses were exhausted. When she got near the animals, the smell of sweat and fear hung in the air. Her heart pounded faster. What if the horses should step on her, or, worse, knock her off the bridge into the river? Her mind raced near panic. She knew that the ashes in her hand were Mr. VanDermere’s only hope, yet she stopped, too afraid to go any closer.
“Oh, Cathryn, you’d best not get too close, my dear!” Mr. VanDermere shouted breathlessly over the howling wind.
Cathryn took a few steps forward. “My mother sent me with a sack of ashes. She said that you could put them on the ice.”
“Oh, that would be most helpful!” Mr. VanDermere said. As he spoke, part of the bridge’s railing gave way and plunged to the icy depths below.
This again stopped Cathryn dead in her tracks. Fighting her fear, she tried to give herself reasons for going on. The wagon would already have fallen off the bridge if it hadn’t been lodged against the support beam. The wagon contained a full week’s wages for Mr. VanDermere. Losing it would leave his family without food. And if the wagon fell, so would the horses.
Cathryn thought about how lovely her own home was with Christmas decorations and food aplenty. She thought, too, about the VanDermere children, who had very little as it was. Their father couldn’t afford to lose the wagon or its contents, and he couldn’t replace the horses. And the children might lose not only their food, but their father!
“Cathryn, you’d best get back! The rest of the railing is about to go, and I can’t fight much longer!”
What a brave man he is! Cathryn thought. With a new surge of courage, she ran up the slick incline toward him. It was very slippery, and she fell more than once. Reaching the wagon at last, she tried to hand the sack to Mr. VanDermere.
“I can’t pour it myself, dear. I need to hold onto the team.”
Cathryn stared up at him, stricken with fear. Mr. VanDermere expected her to scatter the ashes! That meant getting close to the feet of the large beasts. They could crush her! But if she didn’t help, they’d all fall off the bridge any minute!
Opening the sack with shaking hands, Cathryn fought the wind as she tossed handfuls of ash under the front feet of the horses. They had a wild, fearful look in their eyes but seemed to sense that she was there to help. She went down the incline a bit and scattered ashes beneath their hind legs. Climbing to the crest of the bridge, she backed down toward the horses, scattering the remaining ash.
Within seconds the broad hooves began to grip the ash. It was working! The horses found sure footing and clambered over the peak of the bridge. Mr. VanDermere cautiously guided the team down the other side, then climbed from the wagon and stood panting heavily.
When he’d caught his breath, he walked back to Cathryn. “You have saved my life and the lives of my horses! Plus my wagon! What a wonderfully brave thing you have done!”
Cathryn started to cry from relief that the nightmare was finally over. She hugged Mr. VanDermere. “Just have a happy Christmas, sir.”
Cathryn’s mother came running up. “Oh, Cathryn, are you all right? I’m sorry it took me so long. I had a hard time finding anyone with ashes to give. I’m afraid this is all I was able to gather.” She handed a small sack to Mr. VanDermere.
“This is a brave little girl you have here, ma’am. She saved my life and the lives of my horses.” He tucked the sack into his oversized coat pocket and patted it. “Thank you. I’ll hang onto this in case I need it.” He tipped his hat to them and went back over the bridge to attend to his still-trembling horses.
Cathryn’s mother hugged her tightly. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, “and so grateful that you’re safe! How about some hot cocoa?”
Cathryn smiled yes. Starting for home, she noticed that her hands were scraped from her falls. She was covered with ash, and her winter coat was torn. But she didn’t care. She felt good. In fact, she had never felt better!

“Traveling without purse or scrip is pretty heavy,” Wilford Woodruff joked to his missionary companion, Henry Brown. Wilford lifted the small suitcase filled with copies of the Book of Mormon to his back and pulled the ropes around his shoulders.
“These valises of books will protect us if Missouri mobbers try to shoot us from behind,” Henry replied.
Crossing Missouri in 1834 was dangerous, but Wilford had faith the Lord would protect them. Besides, it was the quickest way to Tennessee and the other southern states, where Wilford and Henry had been called to serve as missionaries.
“Let’s get on our way,” Wilford said. “So many people in Missouri hate us that it may be a very long walk before we find food or a place to sleep.”
That day Wilford and Henry did not find anyone who would give them food or lodging. They ate what they found at the edges of fields and in the woods and slept on the ground. After several days, they came to a place called Harmony Mission, where a minister and his family lived. “Could you spare food and a bed for fellow ministers?” Henry asked.
“Are you Mormons?” the minister asked.
“Yes,” Wilford said.
“Then there’s nothing,” the minister said.
“Does anyone else live nearby?” Henry asked.
“Jereu the Frenchman keeps a trading post 12 miles down the Osage River,” the minister said. “Maybe he’d feed Mormons. Follow the river.” Then the minister laughed.
Henry and Wilford soon understood why. The river was terribly crooked, and when the sun went down they were left to wallow in muddy water. Late that night they dragged themselves out onto the dry prairie, said their prayers, and lay down on the ground.
Soon they were awakened by someone singing and drumming on a tin pail.
“Someone who sings has food,” Wilford said.
The two men picked up their valises and stumbled toward the singing. Soon they could see the campfires of the Osage Indian village.
Mr. Jereu and his wife gave Henry and Wilford a delicious supper and comfortable beds. Before they fell asleep, the missionaries thanked the Lord for leading them to these kind people.
The next morning they thanked the Jereus for their kindness and headed out again. After walking 30 miles across open plains, they came to a dark wood.
“Is that a man in the trees?” Henry asked.
“Hello!” Wilford called. A large bear came out of the woods and glared at the missionaries.
“Maybe we should go back,” Henry said.
“No,” Wilford said. “If you recall your Bible, the people troubled by bears had mocked the prophet. We are missionaries following the prophet. We shall have no trouble from this bear.”
As the two men approached the woods, the bear sat and watched them. Then it got up and walked away. The two missionaries continued through the woods, rejoicing.
When night fell, Wilford and Henry were still in the woods. They heard something behind them, then to their right and their left.
“Let’s strike a light,” Wilford said. He lit some tinder. There was a low growl. On every side fierce eyes reflected the light. They were surrounded by wolves.
(To be continued next month.)

During the final phases of World War II, I turned eighteen and was ordained an elder—one week before I departed for active duty with the Navy. A member of my ward bishopric was at the train station to bid me farewell. Just before train time, he placed in my hand a book which I hold before you tonight. Its title, the Missionary Handbook. I laughed and commented, “I’m not going on a mission.” He answered, “Take it anyway. It may come in handy.”

It did. During basic training our company commander instructed us concerning how we might best pack our clothing in a large sea bag. He advised, “If you have a hard, rectangular object you can place in the bottom of the bag, your clothes will stay more firm.” I suddenly remembered just the right rectangular object—the Missionary Handbook. Thus it served for twelve weeks.

The night preceding our Christmas leave our thoughts were, as always, on home. The barracks were quiet. Suddenly I became aware that my buddy in the adjoining bunk—a Mormon boy, Leland Merrill—was moaning with pain. I asked, “What’s the matter, Merrill?”

He replied, “I’m sick. I’m really sick.”

I advised him to go to the base dispensary, but he answered knowingly that such a course would prevent him from being home for Christmas.

The hours lengthened; his groans grew louder. Then, in desperation, he whispered, “Monson, Monson, aren’t you an elder?” I acknowledged this to be so; whereupon he asked, “Give me a blessing.”

I became very much aware that I had never given a blessing. I had never received such a blessing; I had never witnessed a blessing being given. My prayer to God was a plea for help. The answer came: “Look in the bottom of the sea bag.” Thus, at 2 a.m. I emptied on the deck the contents of the bag. I then took to the night-light that hard, rectangular object, the Missionary Handbook, and read how one blesses the sick. With about sixty curious sailors looking on, I proceeded with the blessing. Before I could stow my gear, Leland Merrill was sleeping like a child.

The next morning Merrill smilingly turned to me and said, “Monson, I’m glad you hold the priesthood.” His gladness was only surpassed by my gratitude.

Elder Zivic was born on December 19, 1948, to Latter-day Saint parents Sergio Jorge Zivic and Eleonora Zalewski Zivic in Buenos Aires, Argentina. As a 15-year-old runner, he ranked second nationally in his age group in the 800 meters. His greatest desire was to compete in the Olympics, and his coach, a former Olympic decathlete, believed he could do it—if he would only give up his reluctance to compete on Sundays.
“I had to choose,” says Elder Zivic. “In the end I felt competing wasn’t what the Lord wanted for me.”

One day my cousin Jeff came over to play. We played under the back porch. Jeff had a little dump truck and I had a windup tractor. Mom gave us an empty cereal box and we made houses and roads.
I wanted to make another road. Jeff was using the shovel, so I took Woody out of my pocket and started to dig. Woody dug nice roads. I kept making the road longer and longer until I hit a rock and then SNAP! I picked up the piece that had broken off and tried to fix Woody, but it was no use. I felt like crying, but Jeff was there.
“It’s just a dumb stick,” Jeff said. I put Woody’s broken pieces under the porch steps and kept on playing. When Jeff went home, I crawled under the porch and got the pieces.
“I’m sorry, Woody,” I whispered. He didn’t say anything. I put him in the cereal box and carried him down to where we planted the flower and made a hole. Then I put Woody in the hole and covered him up.
He was a good stick and I miss him a lot.

Take 50 eager students, 1,260 empty containers, and 21 tons of wheat, and you have an energy-packed service project that’s still sending tremors through southern California.
Junior college students at Los Angeles Pierce College—many of them enrolled in the Woodland Hills Institute of Religion—took upon themselves one goal: to help families get food storage.
And orders they got! In fact, so many people from throughout the Los Angeles area responded to the service project—even some nonmembers—that they had to arrange for three shipments of wheat to fill orders for 63 tons.
The first step was to investigate food storage requirements—protein and moisture contents as well as best packaging methods. With the tracks laid, the students began the task of crew organization, paper work, and word-of-mouth advertising in preparation for their first shipment of 21 tons of hard winter wheat.
The delivery day was never to be forgotten.
After the wheat arrived the real work began; the wheat was poured into containers, sealed airtight, and loaded during a heavy rain onto pickup trucks for personal delivery to each home.
“I’ve never been so wet and worked so hard in my life,” said Meli Estrada with a laugh. “And I’ve never seen so many kids having so much fun together.”
“Most of the people couldn’t believe we were delivering right to their doorsteps,” commented Claire Smith.
For most of the young people the real satisfaction came with the comments from customers who said, “This is what it took to really motivate us to get our year’s supply.” And, “We don’t have any room, but if kids are going to work this hard to get it to us, we’ll store it in our living room if we have to.” Another said, “I’ve never known a thing about wheat, but I’m going to learn right now how to make bread.”
A free bonus with all orders was a mimeographed sheet of whole wheat recipes and a food storage checklist.
The consensus of everyone involved in the food storage project was summed up by Pat Morley, a nonmember from Canoga Park: “It’s great to be together with your friends doing something fun and at the same time doing something that is so necessary.”

Carly W. from Rexburg, Idaho, USA, is a busy helper. At home Carly helps out by taking care of her family’s cats, dogs, and chickens. Because Carly is one of the best students in her class at school, she helps other children with math and reading. In Primary, Carly’s singing helps other children to feel the Spirit.
Because Carly has done such a good job helping others, some of her friends decided to help her too.
Carly was born with a disease called spina bifida. This disease makes it hard for Carly to use all of her muscles. Doing things like walking on uneven ground and climbing up stairs can be hard for her. At school, Carly wasn’t able to play on the playground because the playground equipment was hard for her to use. There were other children who also couldn’t play on the playground equipment.
“Sometimes I felt bad and frustrated at recess because I couldn’t play on the playground,” Carly says.
One of Carly’s friends, Halli Jo, and Halli Jo’s mom decided to earn money to build a playground that Carly and all the other students at the school could use.
Halli Jo, her mom, and a lot of other people worked to earn money for the new playground. It took a lot of work, but they were able to earn enough money to build a new playground that all the students could play on.
“It was a lot of hard work,” Halli Jo says. “But it never made me sad to do the work—it just made me love Carly more.”
Carly is happy to be able to play on the playground with her friends. She says, “I like walking up the ramps and going down the slides. Me and my friends have fun together.”

Every time I have the opportunity to direct myself to young people, I have a difficult time to keep from weeping. You see, once I had a boy, and when he had spent one year in college, he went to war. I like to think he went bravely.
When he was interrogated by the sergeant in charge, the sergeant said, “There are these schools.” And he named them—“radio, cooking, foreign language, intelligence, hospital. …” He named about eight of them. The young men were told that they could go to one of these, if they wanted to choose, before they went further into the army. He said, “You can go to one of these schools, or you can take combat.” And my son and one other young man with him said without any hesitation, “We’ll take combat.”
Later I said to him, “Why did you ask for combat?”
And he said, “Someone has to do the fighting.” He said that he did not want to have it on his conscience that he had deliberately dodged so that some other boy might have to take a chance on being killed. He said, “If anyone has to die in this war, I would feel terrible if I didn’t take my share of the risk.”
To me he is still twenty—about your age. And so perhaps you will allow me to speak to you as though I were speaking to him. The advice I would give you, I would give him.

Voices in the front room awoke Sherrie. Through her outside window she could see nothing but blackness. It can’t be morning already, she thought. Listening, she heard Mama say, “Perry, please don’t go. Storm warnings on the news are urging people not to travel today unless absolutely necessary.”
“It is absolutely necessary. If I can pick up this load of freight, it will get us out of a bind.”
“Perry, please. A couple of days won’t make that much difference.”
“I might be able to beat the storm if I go now. It isn’t supposed to hit the Wasatch Front until this evening.”
Sherrie heard Daddy tell Mama goodbye, the front door open and close, and Daddy’s big truck rumble out of the yard. Turning her face to her pillow, she prayed softly, “Dear Heavenly Father, take good care of Daddy, and bring him safely home.” Then she drifted off to sleep.
By early afternoon, the heavy clouds had turned to snow. Sherrie ran home from school through swirling flakes—a rare and exciting thing. It practically never snowed in Hurricane, Utah, for just like nearby St. George, this was “the place where the summer sun spends the winter.”
When Mama turned on the TV to watch the six o’clock news, the newscaster was announcing that the blizzard had arrived hours earlier than expected and that Salt Lake City was snowed in. Pictures showed trucks and cars stalled in the snow.
When it came time for family prayers, Mama said, “Sherrie, I believe that it’s your turn tonight.” Everyone silently knelt and bowed their heads.
“Heavenly Father,” Sherrie began, “thanks for the snow to play in, but we’d like to have not so much of it for the people traveling on the roads. Take good care of Daddy, and bring him home safely. And if Thou would, please send a bright angel to protect him from danger, and help him to return soon. Thanks for taking good care of us and keeping us well. We love Thee, Heavenly Father. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Morning brought the sunshine. The storm was over, and Hurricane’s skift of snow was reduced to tiny white patches in the shade. Good! Daddy will have safe traveling today, Sherrie thought. But when she came home from school, his big truck wasn’t in the yard.
The evening news showed that weather conditions were still bad in northern Utah. Mama looked out the window often as she prepared supper. “Sherrie, please help Annie set the table,” she said.
Sherrie set Daddy’s place first. Then she drew little flowers on a card and wrote, “We love you, Daddy,” and put it by his plate.
Mama was just taking a pan of biscuits from the oven when Daddy’s truck rumbled into the yard. A stampede of children greeted him as he came through the door. It took some doing to hug his way through them before he could greet Mama. Happy faces surrounded the table, and Mama put on the roast and the vegetables. She had even made Daddy’s favorite lemon pudding.
“Dad, did an angel guard you on this trip?” Clay asked. “Sherrie prayed for one for you.”
As Daddy looked up from his plate, Sherrie shyly ducked her head. Daddy regarded her tenderly.
“Yes, Sherrie, an ‘angel’ did guard me. You see, snow and ice aren’t the only dangers on the road. My rig held the road just fine, but something far worse than a breakdown almost happened. On my way home I stopped on the outskirts of Salt Lake to gas up the truck and get a bite to eat. Then I pulled out onto the road. After I had gone a mile or two, a man rose up in the sleeper behind me and jabbed a pistol in my back.
“‘Pull over,’ he demanded. I stopped as soon as I could. Still keeping me covered, the man climbed onto the seat beside me. ‘Do as I say,’ he ordered, ‘and I won’t hurt you. But if you give me any trouble, I’ll shoot you.’ Then he barked, ‘Empty your wallet, and be quick about it.’
“Since I was looking down the barrel of that pistol, I didn’t argue. I dug my wallet from my pocket.
“‘Hand me the money first,’ he ordered, ‘then I’ll look at the credit cards.’
“I handed him the money I got for delivering the freight, about two hundred dollars in bills. Then, as I started to pull the cards from my wallet, Sherrie’s picture fell, faceup, onto the seat beside the man. He gasped. Like a man hypnotized, his gaze was riveted on Sherrie’s picture. The pistol fell from his limp fingers, and the money scattered to the floor. He buried his face in his hands and shook with deep, anguished sobs. Speechless, I watched him. Time seemed to stand still. How long I watched that big, burly man shaking with sobs, I don’t know. It seemed quite a while, but it must have been only minutes. Finally he raised his face, took another look at Sherrie’s picture, and asked hoarsely, ‘Is that your little girl?’
“‘Yes,’ I replied.
“‘She reminds me of my own little girl. I can still feel her arms clinging around my neck, and I can hear her crying and begging me not to leave her and her mommy. I’m no criminal. I’ve never robbed anyone in my life. But today I was desperate. The picture of your little girl has brought me back to my senses. Forgive me, please.’
“Perspiration stood out on the man’s forehead. He wiped his face on his sleeve, opened the door, and got out. ‘Hey, mister, don’t you want your pistol?’ I asked. Reluctantly, he picked it up. ‘Here,’ I said, handing him a couple of twenties. ‘I’m sure that you can use this.’
“He looked at me with disbelief as he took the money, then, swallowing hard, said, ‘Sir, you’re a lifesaver. You can’t possibly know what a difference this makes. God bless you.’
“I watched as he cut across a field toward a cluster of houses, and then I gathered the rest of the money from the floor. Sherrie’s picture still lay on the seat where it had fallen. As I picked it up, her smile danced in front of me through a river of tears. Over and over I whispered, ‘My angel, my darling little angel.’ My heart is so filled with thankfulness for all of you. Surely I am blessed.”
The sweet silence that filled the room seemed too sacred to be broken. At last Sherrie said softly, “Heavenly Father let my picture fall onto the seat by that man, didn’t he, Daddy?”
Stroking her dark curls, he replied, “Yes, Sherrie, my precious, bright angel. I’m sure that He did.”

My call gives ample evidence to the truthfulness of the Lord’s statement early in this dispensation: “That the fulness of my gospel might be proclaimed by the weak and the simple unto the ends of the world.”1 I am one of those weak and simple. Decades ago, when I was called to be the bishop of a ward in the eastern United States, my brother, slightly older and much wiser than I, called me on the phone. He said, “You need to know that the Lord hasn’t called you because of anything you have done. In your case, it is probably in spite of what you have done. The Lord has called you for what He needs to do through you, and that will happen only if you do it His way.” I recognize that this wisdom from an older brother applies even more today.

Vanderlei Lira of Brazil served for six years as a branch president, helping his branch grow from 18 to 110 active members, while working as a laborer because he lacked education. When PEF was announced, he was able to study occupational safety and find new work, which helped him increase his salary and quickly repay his loan. He continues to serve in the Church today. His stake president describes him as a great leader and father, “a giant liberated by opportunity.”

When Kahn turned 4, we holidayed in our homeland of Samoa, where we reconnected with Kahn’s birth family. They welcomed us with open arms, and Kahn’s birth grandmother wept when she recognised him. “Your son is gorgeous,” she said. “He’s so active, and he looks like he enjoys his food, too.”

It was an emotional reunion. They thanked us for loving and nurturing Kahn—and then they asked if we had room in our lives for another child.

My husband and I were astonished.

We discovered that Kahn’s birth mother had another baby. Naree Alalafaga was 5 months old at the time and, again, her family wanted more for this child than they were able to offer.

My mother’s words echoed softly in my mind: you reap what you sow.

It wasn’t by chance we met our miracle daughter this way. The Lord knows our deepest desires, and what is best for us. So, when our reunion with Kahn’s birth family brought a precious addition—his baby sister—to our home, it just felt right.

Illustration by Craig Stapley
I have a lot of good friends. Some go to church, and some don’t. One day a group of us, including one other LDS young woman, was eating lunch when a few of my friends began to use the Lord’s name in vain. No one else seemed bothered by it, and soon other students at the table started saying the Lord’s name in vain too. At first I thought, “Just let it slide; they don’t know any better.” But then it started to really bother me. They kept saying it, and I felt a pit in my stomach. So I stood up. I said firmly, “It really bothers me when you talk like that. Please stop.”
They laughed and kept going.
I stood up again, but this time my LDS friend stood up with me. We grabbed our lunches and moved somewhere else. It felt good to leave the table when they were doing that. As I walked away, I felt the Spirit.
I’m glad my friend left with me. It reminded me of the song “We’ll Bring the World His Truth” (Children’s Songbook, 172–73) and how “we must do as the Lord commands.” While I may not have had an “army of Helaman,” my friend showed me that I am not the only person trying “to bring the world [H]is truth.”

“Don’t ask me how the science fair went!” Michelle declared, walking into the house after school.
“What happened?” Morgan asked.
“Didn’t you just hear me say don’t ask?” Michelle snapped. She walked right past her little sister and up the stairs. Bang! Her bedroom door slammed shut.
Morgan asked Mom why Michelle was mad. Mom explained that Michelle was hoping her project on hermit crabs would win at the science fair, and that it must not have happened.
“So why won’t she talk to me?” Morgan asked.
“Maybe she will later, honey. For now, we should leave her alone,” Mom said.
“But I want to play with her, like I always do when she comes home from school.”
“I don’t think she wants to play games right now. Maybe you could color or play dolls while I start making dinner,” Mom said.
Morgan went to her bedroom and took out some paper and crayons. She started to draw a picture with flowers. She colored it for a few minutes and then stopped. She quickly jumped up and ran to Mom.
“How long till dinner?” Morgan asked.
“About 45 minutes.”
“Is that enough time to make a happy book for Michelle? I want it to be done by dinner,” Morgan said.
Seeing Mom nod her head yes, Morgan ran back to her room and closed the door.
“Michelle! Morgan! Dinnertime!” Mom called a little while later.
Morgan hurried out of her room and ran to Michelle’s spot at the dinner table. She placed some papers facedown on Michelle’s plate. Then she sat in her own chair.
When Michelle came to the table, she pointed to the papers and grumpily asked, “What’s this?”
“It’s a happy book,” Morgan said softly.
“Oh.” Michelle picked up the papers and turned them over. She studied the first one.
“That’s a picture of a trophy. ‘Cause I liked your hermit crabs the best,” Morgan said. “The next one is a picture of a sad face.”
“Why?” Michelle asked.
“Because I got sad that you were mad and didn’t want to talk to me or play games with me.”
Michelle flipped to the next picture. “I know this one is a heart, right?”
“Yes,” Morgan said. “A heart means I love you.”
Michelle looked at the last picture, then at her sister.
“It’s my favorite. It’s me and you playing a game together.” Morgan looked at her older sister. “Did my book make you happy?”
“Yes, very happy,” said Michelle. “I’m sorry for being angry when I came home from school. I wasn’t mad at you. My project didn’t win anything, and I thought it would, so I was upset.”
“That’s OK. I still love you,” Morgan said.
“I love you too, Morgan,” Michelle said with a smile. “After dinner do you want to play a game?”
“All right!” Morgan cheered.

About 225 years later, the teens of the Wilmington Delaware Stake returned to Cooch’s Bridge and other Revolutionary War sites for their “Youth Conference 2002: Build upon the Rock.” For the conference, they worked on many different projects such as painting and cleaning historical sites.
The teens helped repaint battle monuments at Cooch’s Bridge, cleared brush away from 300-year-old barns and homes at the Elk River invasion site, and cleaned at nearby Dayette Mills, a commercial center in Delaware’s colonial era.
Dayette historian and curator, Ray Johnson, was thrilled to see hundreds of Latter-day Saint youth arrive to help wash the walls and restore the grounds of the old mill. “These Mormon kids have no idea how much good they’re doing. Not only are they helping fix things up, they are also drawing community attention to all this history we have in the area,” he said.
Kathy Sullican, 16, from Wilmington said it helped to know the history before they started working. “Before the work projects, the groups were given historical information on each work site, which really gave us a greater appreciation of the service we were providing,” she said.
The teens pulled together and worked hard. It was supposed to take them three days to fix up Elk Landing, but it took them only half a day. Some of the teens worked so hard they forgot to eat lunch—at least until the job was done.
In the evenings, they returned to the stake center in Newark for dinner, dances, and special “building block” classes where guest speakers gave classes on local history, the restored gospel, and Book of Mormon prophecies concerning America. The youth were treated to historic reenactments and to testimonies from modern members of the armed forces.
Marcus Strange, 15, from the Rising Sun Branch in Maryland, enjoyed learning about Nephi’s vision of the New World in 1 Nephi 13. “I knew Nephi was a prophet, but learning about his revelations about the American Revolution reinforced my testimony of him,” he said.
The classes helped Leslie Little, 14, from the Cambridge Branch appreciate her freedom more. “I am so grateful for the freedom that we enjoy. I was glad I got to help preserve the past,” she said.
Stake President Gary Hollingshaus reminded the teens that they face similar challenges today. “We’re all part of the same war against evil and temptation,” he said. “In our battle we will use different tools. Instead of cleaning our muskets or sharpening our bayonets, the armor we have is personal righteousness, daily prayers, and reading the scriptures.”
As the conference drew to a close, many of the teens expressed an appreciation for the challenges that confronted the early Americans as they settled the colonies and battled for independence.
Sarah Sturgell, 16, from the Wilmington Ward said, “Whoever thought that pulling trees and weeds in the hot sun with sweaty youth would be one of the most spiritual experiences I’ve had? What I’ve learned about the Revolutionary War has really strengthened me.”
The conference was more than a bunch of teens having a lot of fun fixing things up and pulling weeds. Now the Delaware teens have more courage to fight their own battles against sin. Their memories of youth conference will always remind them that they can be as valiant in their fight for right as the Revolutionary War soldiers were at Cooch’s Bridge.

Kathy and I first met Beatrice Magré in France 30 years ago. Beatrice recently told me of an experience that impacted her spiritual life shortly after her baptism as a teenager. Here are her words:
“The youth of our branch had traveled with their leaders to Lacanau Beach, an hour and a half from Bordeaux.
“Before returning home, one of the leaders decided to take a last swim and dove into the waves with his glasses. When he resurfaced, his glasses had disappeared. … They were lost in the ocean.
“The loss of his glasses would prevent him from driving his car. We would be stranded far from home.
“A sister filled with faith suggested that we pray.
“I murmured that praying would avail us absolutely nothing, and I uneasily joined the group to pray publicly as we stood waist-deep in the murky water.
“Once the prayer was over, I stretched my arms to splash everyone. As I was sweeping the ocean’s surface, his pair of glasses rested in my hand. A powerful feeling pierced my soul that God does actually hear and answer our prayers.”
Forty-five years later, she recalled it as if it had happened yesterday. Beatrice had been blessed, and she knew that God knew that she knew that she had been blessed.

Every year since he was three years old, Tommy Tipana had gone into the wilderness with his grandfather, Utak, for a short period of time to learn the old ways of his people. Tommy’s father, however, was a modern Eskimo who lived in a sturdy wooden house and had a snowmobile. He did not approve of the old ways, but he allowed Tommy to learn what he could from Utak.
The year Tommy was ten, Grandfather Utak invited him to go on a trip through Anaktuvuk Pass by dogsled. So, early one morning Tommy waved good-bye to his parents, then snuggled down under a bearskin robe on his grandfather’s sled. Utak cracked the long whip that sent the dogs bounding toward the snowbound tundra, and the journey began.
At the end of the day, Utak and Tommy stopped the team and fed them strips of caribou meat. Afterward Utak tapped on the snow with his ayoutak (long stick used for probing), and they listened for a deep, resounding squeak. “A good spot,” Tommy said, pointing.
His grandfather smiled and nodded. “Yes, the snowdrift is firm and deep here, Grandson. It will make a good igloo. You learn well.”
Together they cut out blocks of snow and stacked them. Then they packed the joints and cracks with loose snow, leaving only a small doorway for them to enter. They built a fire, and all was warm and cozy for the night. Next they cut a hole in the ice and fished for arctic charr. As Tommy and Utak ate their meal, Utak smiled in the light of the fire, for he was pleased with his grandson. “It is good that you learn the ways of our people,” Utak said encouragingly. “Soon there will be few who remember, and the new ways are wrong.”
“Father lives the new ways,” Tommy said, bewildered. “How can they be wrong?”
“Your parents go to the store to buy their food and clothes. They have forgotten how to fish and hunt and tan hides and sew. They have no dogsled, but ride on a snowmobile. All that we need is outside our igloo, Tommy, if we know how to use it.”
Utak slept, and Tommy sat curled in his bearskin, watching the fire. Outside, he could hear the whistling snow as it covered everything with a white blanket. He wondered which way was best—the old way or the new way. Tommy liked them both.
Early in the morning, Tommy and Utak ate and dressed quickly, for the fire was low. Tommy coiled thongs of caribou skin around his boots to make them skid proof. Pulling the hood of his fur coat closely around his face, he crawled out into the blazing whiteness of the new day. The dogs, shaking the snow from their coats, barked and strained at their tethers while Tommy threw them strips of frozen blubber. When they were through eating, Tommy helped them into their traces and waited for Utak. But Utak did not come out of the igloo.
“Grandfather!” Tommy called, kneeling at the doorway. “The dogs are ready.”
“Tommy, come here, Son,” came his grandfather’s faint answer.
Tommy crawled back into the igloo. His grandfather sat leaning against the wall amid their belongings. His hand was massaging his chest.
“Grandfather,” Tommy whispered, “are you ill?”
Utak motioned for Tommy to come closer. “You must leave me here, Tommy. I am a sick old man, and it is the old way to deal with my sickness.”
“I cannot leave you!” Tommy cried. “You are my grandfather.”
“Adjornarmat (that is life),” Grandfather said, shaking his head slowly. “Now do as I say! Leave me here. Take the sled and return to your parents … but do not forget the old ways.”
“I will not leave you, Grandfather,” Tommy replied. “There is much I do not know yet, and you are the only one who can teach me.”
Tommy hurried outside to get a wide strip of baleen (whalebone) from the sled and bring it into the igloo.
“Here, Grandfather, let me help you.” Tommy helped Utak onto the baleen, then pulled his grandfather to the sled. Slowly Utak climbed onto the sled, and Tommy wrapped him in bearskins. Then Tommy packed their few belongings and turned the dogs toward home. His grandfather slept.
The dogs knew Utak was not driving them, and they growled, refusing to pull. Finally, Tommy lifted the heavy whip and commanded them as his grandfather had done so many times before. The whip cracked sharply in the frozen morning air; the lead dog growled one more time, then began to pull. They had a new master now, but he had learned much from their old master.
Back along the frozen tundra the sled raced, mile after mile, without Grandfather to guide it. Nevertheless, the boy remembered all he had learned and drove the sled in a straight line. Late that night, they arrived home.
The next morning Utak awoke in a hospital bed with white sheets. There were curtains at the windows. A nurse was leaning over him.
“Your grandson saved your life, Mr. Tipana,” she said, smiling. “Would you like to see him?”
Utak nodded, and Tommy walked into the hospital room, followed by his parents. He bent and hugged his grandfather gently. “Thank you, Grandfather,” he whispered.
“You saved my life and yet you thank me?” Utak was puzzled.
“For the old ways,” Tommy said and smiled. “If I had not known them, I would not have been able to bring you to the new ways that have saved your life.”
Tommy’s father frowned. “Utak! You must give up the old ways—the new ways are better and safer.”
Tommy simply smiled to himself as his father and grandfather argued about the old and new ways. He wondered why they did not understand as he did that both ways were good. Tommy knew he would live somewhere between them, for he had learned to love them both.

Jared carefully recorded the last bit of information for his sixth-grade science project—comparing the differences between plants watered with tap water and those watered with distilled water.
“There,” he said in satisfaction. “All done.”
He ran into the laundry room. “Mom, I finished the experiment. Do you want to see it?”
Mom finished folding a towel and smiled. “Of course.”
Jared led her into the kitchen, where the two sets of plants occupied a shelf by the big glass door. When he saw the plants, he stopped in his tracks. “Oh, no!” he cried.
Kaitlyn, Jared’s three-year-old sister, looked up and smiled, her hands covered with dirt. Potting soil and crushed plants were strewn across the floor.
“You ruined my project!” Jared wiped angry tears from his eyes. “You wreck everything I have.”
“Jared, your sister didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” Mom said quietly.
“Sure,” Jared said bitterly. “Just like she didn’t mean to write all over my geography homework last week. Just like she didn’t mean to spill milk on my book report. Just like she—”
“That’s enough,” Mom said.
Jared recognized the tone in his mother’s voice and knew he’d said too much.
“Tell Jared you’re sorry,” Mom said to Kaitlyn.
Kaitlyn’s bottom lip trembled. “I’m sorry.”
Normally, Jared couldn’t stay angry at his little sister for very long, but this was different. He had spent a whole month caring for the plants and recording the differences between the two sets for the sixth-grade science fair. Now they were destroyed. He wouldn’t have anything to show in the fair next week.
He cleaned up the mess as well as he could, but he couldn’t save the plants. He dumped them into the big trash can in the garage. In his room, he slammed his fist into his baseball mitt. All his work had been for nothing.
A few minutes later, he heard a knock at his door.
“Jared, can I come in?” Mom called.
Reluctantly, he got up and opened the door.
Mom wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “I know you’re disappointed. Is there anything I can do?”
He shook his head.
“I’m sorry about the experiment.” she said.
“Me, too,” he said, still slamming the ball into his mitt.
“Kaitlyn made a mistake. Can you forgive her?” When Jared didn’t answer, his mother turned and quietly left the room.
When another knock sounded at his door, Jared ignored it. The door inched open, and Kaitlyn stood there. “I’m sorry.”
Jared looked at his sister’s red eyes. For a moment, his heart softened. Then he remembered how hard he’d worked on the experiment. He had hoped to win a prize with it. “Go away.”
Kaitlyn sniffled and rubbed her eyes before closing the door behind her.
Jared asked to be excused from dinner. He knew his parents were disappointed in him, but he didn’t care. He tried to do his homework but couldn’t concentrate. After staring at the same page of his history book for five minutes, he gave up. He got ready for bed, then knelt down, intending to say his prayers as he did every night. The words refused to come.
He didn’t sleep very well. He kept tossing and turning, remembering the hurt in Kaitlyn’s eyes when he’d refused to speak to her. He tried to push away the image. Kaitlyn had wrecked his experiment. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive her.
He thought about the word forgive and recalled part of the blessing his father had given him after his baptism and confirmation. “There will be times in your life when you need to seek forgiveness. I bless you with the meekness of heart to do so. There will also be times when you must forgive others. Remember the example of the Savior when you are faced with such times. Forgiveness is a gift. Use it and you will be blessed.”
The following morning, Jared trudged to school, his heart heavy. But it wasn’t the ruined experiment that filled his thoughts—it was Kaitlyn. He told himself he had nothing to feel guilty about, but he couldn’t erase the picture of Kaitlyn’s unhappy face from his mind.
At school, he explained to his science teacher what had happened. Mr. MacKade laid a hand on Jared’s shoulder. “I know you’re disappointed. You put a lot of work into your experiment.” His teacher tapped a finger against the notebook he always carried. “Did you take photos of it?”
Jared nodded. He’d asked his father if he could use his camera to take photos of the plants at different stages.
“We’ll show the photos instead,” Mr. MacKade said. “It won’t be the same as displaying the plants themselves, but it’ll be the next best thing.”
“Thanks, Mr. MacKade. I’ll do that.”
Jared slipped into his seat. He should have felt better, but the ache in his heart remained. He couldn’t concentrate on his math problems or his spelling test. He could not even choke down the sandwich and cupcake his mother had packed in his lunch. All he could see was Kaitlyn’s face, her quivering lips and tear-reddened eyes. No science experiment was worth the pain he’d caused his little sister.
By the end of school, Jared knew what he had to do. Kaitlyn had been wrong to ruin his plants, but that did not excuse how he had treated her. He hurried home from school.
“Mom, I’m home. Where’s Kaitlyn?” he called, slamming the door behind him.
Mom looked up from the Primary manual she was studying. “She’s in her room.” His mother looked like she wanted to say something else.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Jared said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Jared raced up the stairs and knocked on Kaitlyn’s door. “Kaitlyn, it’s me.” He heard a muffled “Come in.” He pushed open the door.
Kaitlyn was sitting on her bed, her arms looped around her knees. “Are you still mad at me?” she asked in a small voice.
Jared crossed the room to sit beside her. “No, Kaitlyn. I’m not angry anymore. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I know you only wanted to help.” He hugged her and asked, “How would you like to go to the park with me?”
Kaitlyn nodded and gave him a big smile.
That evening Jared labeled the pictures he had taken of the plants. Kaitlyn played with her dolls beside him. A quiet feeling of peace enveloped him. And when he knelt by his bed that night to say his prayers, he didn’t have any trouble finding the words.

My brother, Yerko, was 19 when he was hit by a drunk driver. Fortunately, Yerko’s friend had taken a first aid course two weeks before. He kept my brother alive until emergency crews could take him to the hospital.
Most local hospitals have only one neurologist on duty, but when Yerko arrived, a group of neurologists had gathered for a special conference. They all immediately attended to him.
Yerko spent six months in the hospital, three of those months in a coma. While he was there, my mother stayed with him from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. every day. Ward and stake members prayed and fasted for Yerko and gave him priesthood blessings. Our prayers were answered on January 1, 2011, when he woke up. Members continued to visit Yerko and helped us care for him while he recovered in the hospital. They were like ministering angels during this difficult time.
Today, Yerko still has some physical problems, including short-term memory loss. But he walks, and he can carry on a normal conversation. Doctors can’t believe it.
I was in Young Women when Yerko suffered his accident. Every week I recited, “We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us,” but I didn’t really understand the significance of the words. After the accident, I came to know that I really do have a Father who loves me.
The temple is a manifestation of that love. Yerko and I were sealed to our parents, so I knew that if I lost my brother, I would be with him again. This was a tremendous comfort for my family and me.
Immediately after the accident, when doctors told us that Yerko had only a few hours to live, I earnestly prayed for Heavenly Father to save him. When Yerko survived, I wanted to serve a mission to share with others the miracles we had experienced.
The story of my brother’s recovery was a blessing for many people I taught as a missionary in Peru. As I shared our experiences, especially with people facing difficult situations, their hearts were touched.