Gospel Story Finder

But getting to Palmyra took more money and effort than Lucy had planned. When there were only two cents left she began trading material and household goods and clothing to pay for food and lodging along the way.
“I wish we’d never decided to move to Palmyra!” Sophronia cried. “We’ve had nothing but trouble all the way.”
Young Joseph thought about what his big sister had said. It was true about the trouble. It had been dogging their heels ever since they left Sharon, Vermont. But this was the last day of their journey. Palmyra was almost at hand.
Outside, the sky was overcast. The woods were breathing deeply in the wintry wind. Joseph shivered as a blast whipped his coat and trousers against his body.
When the wagon was reloaded, Joseph noticed his brothers, Alvin and Hyrum, talking to Mr. Gates whose family had been traveling in sleighs along with the Smiths.
Alvin called to Joseph, “I’ll lead out with our wagon. Mother and Sophronia and the littlest children will ride with me. Mr. Gates and his boys will follow with their sleighs. He says you can ride in the last sleigh, Joseph.”
After Joseph climbed into the sleigh, the Gates boy clucked to the team and they pulled off down the road. Joseph was too excited about seeing his father in Palmyra that night to notice the frown on the boy’s face.
Joseph was aware of how much this boy and Mr. Howard had enjoyed tormenting him throughout the trip. However, with Mr. Howard gone, Joseph had hoped the meanness would stop.
“I’m glad to be able to ride. I had an operation on my leg and it’s still a little weak,” Joseph explained.
“I heard about that,” the boy answered, scornfully. “I think you use it for an excuse.”
Joseph gazed steadily at the boy. “It’s the truth.”
The boy threw a long, hard look at his companion, then with a quick glance ahead to make sure no one could see, he knocked Joseph off the moving sleigh into the road.
When Joseph regained consciousness, he raised up on one elbow, and tried to get up, but a sharp pain knifed through his side. He eased back into the snow, red-stained with his blood. What will I do? Joseph wondered, looking up into the branches of a tall maple tree, dried and frayed as a brush broom. It swept the sky and sent a dusting of snowflakes down upon his face. He gulped back the fullness that pained his throat. No tears would drown his hopes of their promised land.
Joseph wasn’t sure how long he lay in the rutted road before help came. But when he opened his eyes again he was looking into a bearded face.
“What happened to you, boy?”
“I fell off a sleigh. Can you take me to Palmyra?”
“That’s just where I’m heading.”
“My father is there … Joseph Smith … and my family.”
“Say, I know him. I can take you right there!”
After checking Joseph over, the man carefully lifted the boy into his wagon and covered him with a quilt.
“After your ma fixes that cut and you have a chance to warm up a bit, you’ll feel good as new.”
He was right. They met Joseph’s mother and father on the road, anxiously looking for him. Then it didn’t matter that the journey had been long and painful or that they had arrived with only two cents in cash. All was forgotten in the joy of reunion with his father.

On 26 October 1964 the city of Kingston, Jamaica, officially recorded the birth of twins. This was the beginning for me. I never knew my parents. I was raised by my grandmother. The first home I knew was a one-room wooden shack in the ghetto.
While growing up in the severe poverty of the ghetto, I realized how hard my grandmother worked for us. She would rise at five o’clock every morning from the tattered old bed she shared with five other family members. After waking us kids, she would take us to search for bricks. With the bricks we collected, Grandma built an oven to bake bread that would be sold to neighbors. Grandma struggled every day, yet she always had a smile on her face and seemed happy.
We didn’t have running water in our shack that combined with many others to form a compound. There was one main pipe. Everyone caught their water there in buckets. We had to take the water on our heads to our homes. The water pipe was surrounded by a green, muddy area; the children used it for a playground. Ghetto children didn’t always wear clothes. Usually they were just covered with mud and dirt. The toilets and bath places were placed in the center of the compound so everyone could use them.
Low self-esteem and lack of money in the neighborhood caused many there to turn to immorality as an escape. This led to higher population and congestion in the ghetto. Most people didn’t work; they depended on the government for food. To obtain nice clothes and other material possessions they would often steal.
My best friend was born outside in the streets. Her mother was only fourteen years old at the time. Following in her mother’s footsteps, my friend had her first child at the age of thirteen, making her mother a grandmother at age twenty-seven. She had her third child by the age of nineteen. After leaving her third boyfriend, she moved in with her mother, adding her three children to her mother’s six. My friend had the responsibility for nine children under the age of seven before she reached her twentieth birthday. As I looked at my friend’s life, I realized that I wanted something better for myself. I wanted a home and a family. I knew I had to leave the ghetto.
My grandma had taught me to pray at night before going to bed. But to whom was I praying? What was he like? Where did he come from? These were questions that couldn’t be answered. I felt as if I were in a dark and dreary world with no hope of light.
Determined to understand more about this mystery, I started attending the church to which we then belonged, because Grandma said God could be found there. But it didn’t do much good. It confused me more. They taught me about Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost, who, I was told, belonged to and were one with God.
I visited many other churches. When we studied the Bible and the life of Christ, I felt a very different feeling.
I discovered that this feeling had something to do with Christ, the Bible, the Holy Ghost, and God, but I was still confused. I started to pray and have trust in the Lord. Still, there was something missing. Although I could have the good feeling while reading the Bible, I couldn’t have that feeling with me all the time.
One teacher told me a way to retain this feeling was by being baptized, so I was baptized. But nothing changed. All churches seemed the same, so I decided to stay home and study on my own. I found myself praying more intensely for the Lord to help me find the true path that led to him. He heard my prayers.
I met a young man, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. When he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, certainty, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting, a calm feeling came over me, and I heard these words in my mind: “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, I see that my life in the ghetto was difficult and that a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances, no matter where we are. He desires above all things that we find true happiness.

In the April conference of 1951, the same year that he and Emma Ray celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary, David Oman McKay stood in the Tabernacle on Temple Square and spoke to those assembled. At the age of seventy-eight, he was unanimously sustained by the Saints as the prophet, seer, and revelator—and President of the Church.
“Brethren and sisters, brethren of the General Authorities,” he began, “God keep us as one, overlooking weaknesses we see, keeping an eye single to the glory of God and the advancement of his work.
“And now to the members of the Church. We all need your help, your faith and prayers, not your adverse criticism, but your help. You can do that in prayer if you cannot reach us in person. The potency of these prayers throughout the Church came to me yesterday when I received a letter from a neighbor in my old home town. He was milking his cows when the word came over the radio which he had in his barn, that President Smith had passed. He sensed what that would mean to his former fellow-townsman, and he left his barn and went to the house and told his wife. Immediately they called their little children, and there in that humble home, suspending their activities, they knelt down as a family and offered prayer. The significance of that prayer I leave for you to understand. Multiply that by a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, half a million homes, and see the power in the unity and prayers, and in the sustaining influence in the body of the Church.”
President McKay’s administration, like his life before, was filled with remarkable accomplishment. He and Sister McKay went to nation after nation to visit and bless both members and nonmembers. Temple building commenced in many countries, missionary activities expanded, Church population grew. A great spirit of progress seemed to captivate everyone, and goodwill developed toward the Latter-day Saints.
But it was his commitment to love every person that thrilled Church members. One day a Sunday School class of youth came several miles to see him, by appointment, but he had just rushed off to the hospital where his brother, Thomas E. McKay, lay near death. The following Sunday, miles away from his office, there was a knock on the door of the Sunday School classroom. When the teacher opened the door, there stood President McKay. He had come to meet the class and apologize for being gone the day they had come to see him.
After explaining why he was not in his office that day, he shook hands with the teacher and with each of the children. “I want you to know,” he said, “that the President of the Church keeps his appointments if at all possible.”
This great caring about how we behave toward everyone around us was one of the great lessons President McKay taught. On the trip to Europe to dedicate the temple sites in Switzerland and England, President McKay was surrounded by eager English youth seeking autographs from him. The first in line was a young girl about nine years old. She asked the President’s son, who was accompanying him, “May I have President McKay’s autograph?” The son, who thought his father was too tired, began to dissuade her. But President McKay, overhearing the conversation, turned to her and asked jokingly, “Do you think I can write plainly enough so you can read it?” The girl wasn’t sure whether he was in earnest, and she became flustered. At that moment, an aide interrupted with a pressing question, and several minutes of conversation ensued. When the President turned back to speak again to the girl, she had disappeared.
“I have never seen father more upset,” said his son. “Please find that girl in the blue dress,” President McKay directed. “I’m sure she has the impression that I didn’t want to sign her book. She misinterpreted my remarks. You must find her.” Before long, branch presidents and mission presidents were looking for a little girl in blue. But the search was in vain. Finally, a missionary thought he knew who the girl was. He telephoned the President later that night and then received these instructions: “Tell the girl that I am sorry I missed her, and that I have asked the branch president to send her book to me by mail to Salt Lake City; I will sign my autograph and mail it directly back to her.” And he did!
The worth of a soul! President McKay felt that every living thing deserves our respect and thoughtful care. He felt this way even about animals and birds, and he liked to return often to his Huntsville farm to ride his horses and to visit. Once, someone broke into the farm and stole the President’s saddles. When the saddles were replaced with new ones, they were kept in the saddle house under lock and key. One day President McKay’s sisters stopped to check on things at the farm, and seeing one of the windows on the saddle house open, they closed it to avert a second theft. Hearing from his sisters what they had done, the President gently said, “I left that window open purposely because there is a bird’s nest inside, and that is the only entrance the parent birds have to carry food to their babies. I think I shall just have time to run over.” He went and opened the window and, returning, said in a gracious way, “It was just as I expected—one little bird was outside trying to get in, and the mother bird was inside attempting to get out.”
While serving as a member of the Council of the Twelve, Elder McKay owned a big boar named Caesar. One Sunday morning Caesar broke out of his enclosure. Not having time to repair the fence before boarding a train, Elder McKay put him in the chicken coop. But he forgot to tell any of his boys about it. That night at 2 A.M., the McKay household was awakened by the incessant ringing of the telephone. Answering it, and fearful that a tragic message was involved, they received a telegram over the phone: “Caesar in chicken coop. Water him!”
President McKay’s bearing, nobility, and dignity and his love of the Savior he served were evidenced in every word he spoke and in everything he did. But what he had become through his commitment to the Savior was evident even when he sat peacefully and said nothing. The following incident is told by a man who met President McKay on his return from one of his visits to Europe:
“I remember being in New York when President McKay returned from Europe. Arrangements had been made for pictures to be taken, but the regular photographer was unable to go, so in desperation the United Press picked their crime photographer—a man accustomed to the toughest type of work in New York. He went to the airport, stayed there two hours, and returned later from the dark room with a tremendous sheaf of pictures. He was supposed to take only two. His boss immediately chided him: ‘What in the world are you wasting your time and all those photographic supplies for?’
“The photographer replied very curtly, saying he would gladly pay for the extra materials, and they could even dock him for the extra time he took. It was obvious that he was very touchy about it. Several hours later the vice-president called him to his office, wanting to learn what had happened. The crime photographer said, ‘When I was a little boy, my mother used to read to me out of the Old Testament, and all my life I have wondered what a prophet of God must really look like. Well, today I found one.’”
David O. McKay was a prophet who saw good in everyone and who truly cared for people.

I witnessed the righteousness and power of God in great glory, received through faithfulness to covenants and ordinances, in the life of a Church member who experienced the heartache of divorce. This sister’s spiritual and emotional distress was heightened by a sense of unfairness associated with her spouse’s violation of covenants and the breakup of their marriage. She wanted justice and accountability.

As this faithful woman was struggling with all that had happened to her, she studied and pondered the Savior’s Atonement more intently and intensely than ever before in her life. Gradually, a deeper understanding of Christ’s redemptive mission distilled upon her soul—His suffering for our sins and also for our pains, weaknesses, disappointments, and anguish. And she was inspired to ask herself a penetrating question: since the price already has been paid for those sins, would you demand that the price be paid twice? She realized that such a requirement would be neither just nor merciful.

This woman learned that binding herself to the Savior through covenants and ordinances can heal the wounds caused by another person’s unrighteous exercise of moral agency and enabled her to find the capacity to forgive and receive peace, mercy, and love.

Once when I was chosen to be in a play, I had one of the lead roles. I was very excited because it was my first chance to be a lead. One day before one of our performances, I got extremely sick to the point I couldn’t even stand. I managed to go with my mother to see my director, and my mom explained my situation to her. The director told my mother to take me home with my costume and makeup and, if I felt better, to bring me back dressed and ready to go. Meanwhile, the director would try to find a replacement.
After I got home, I asked my father to give me a priesthood blessing. Even though I didn’t feel better immediately, I did 20 minutes later after a good nap, and I was able to go on and perform. After that experience I always ask my dad for a blessing when I need help, and through the years my testimony of priesthood blessings has become stronger.

Some households, of course, did not have enough girls to do all the spinning and sewing that was necessary for the members of the household, or perhaps the mother was dead, or perhaps she was ill for an extended period. In that event, the custom was to invite a neighbor girl to join the household. Some experienced girls, who were 14, 15, or 16, earned some income by spending time at households—helping with the sewing task. Louisa Chamberlain, who lived in Cedar City in the 1860s, was an example of these. Her mother had fallen in love with another man and left her, an only child, to care for her aged father when she was seven. She fed him, kept him clean, and cheered him when he was downcast—the epitome of the “poor little match girl.” Her father died when she was 13, and from that age, to use her words, she “just lived … wherever I could find work.” A slight, quick-moving girl, she took her spinning wheel with her. When her spinning hours were over, she helped in the kitchen.

Margaret Judd Clawson (pictured at age 18)

“The night before we left, … Henry Ridgeley, came to bid me farewell,” wrote Margaret. “Under our trysting tree we each vowed eternal constancy—for four years, at least.”

Eternal constancy gets hard when there are several nice young men in your company. Soon Margaret, who was 17, was eying another boy.

“He used to say such lovely things to me—told me that I was beautiful and intelligent, and even went so far as to say that I was amiable, something I had never been accused of before. He told me that I was the only woman he ever loved and that we were just suited to each other. I began to believe him, and when he proposed, what could I say but ‘yes.’ Well, the course of true love did run smooth, at least until we got into the Valley. Then we had the usual lovers’ quarrel but not the usual making up. In a short time he let me know that another girl appreciated him, if I did not.”1

September 23, 1846—on the western bank of the Mississippi RiverTremendous thundershower today. The rain came down in torrents, drenching everything. We have only a tent to shelter us. We left Nauvoo in haste a few days ago. Our carefully packed belongings were scattered by the mobs looking for firearms. We have little left. It was not hard to leave the deserted city, but it breaks my heart to see our beloved temple just across the river—so near, yet unreachable. Papa is still grieving. As Brother Joseph’s bodyguard, he feels he should have somehow prevented the martyrdom. If he would just make music again on his fife, I am sure my heart would not be so heavy.

My senior year in high school was filled with student body responsibilities, classes, activities, and planning for next year at BYU. I felt my senior year was a time for me to evaluate and take stock, to plan for big changes in my life. And all my friends were getting contact lenses.
“It’s a whole new world!” Cheryl confided as we huddled in our band uniforms at the opening football game. “I can see things I never saw before!” I had to admit she looked much prettier, too. Her small Japanese features no longer hid behind the thick glasses she had worn for years.
I pushed my own glasses back up on my nose and considered the possibilities. If Cheryl and Carolyn and Ron and Celia could make the change, why couldn’t I? It couldn’t be all that big a deal.
Or could it? I pondered some more as my regular checkup with the ophthalmologist approached.
“Of course!” he reassured me. He could fit me with contacts. I would have them within two weeks, for a mere $200, including eye exam and fittings during the breaking-in period.
That, of course, was another problem. Two hundred dollars was a lot of money for my family in 1970. I didn’t want to waste it. What if I couldn’t get used to the contacts?
I thought some more as I bicycled home. Daddy’s business hadn’t been going well. On the other hand, I had a good part-time job. Maybe I could offer to pay part of the bill. Maybe I would have to pay for the whole thing. Would it be worth it? I decided it would.
“Absolutely not,” said Daddy. “No daughter of mine is going to wear contact lenses.” I argued that everyone was getting them. I argued that I would pay part of the cost. I argued that I would pay all of it. I argued that I had $200, and more, sitting in the bank at that very minute. I argued that the doctor thought he could correct my vision more accurately with contacts. I argued that my glasses pinched behind my ears. I argued that contacts would give me better grades in school. Daddy was adamant, totally unreasonable. He finally put his foot down and refused to listen any more. “I don’t want you to go through all that,” he said flatly. “No. Don’t ask again.”
I stormed to my room in tears. The fight had bolstered my resolve. Anger had replaced any squeamish fears I had entertained. I would show him! I was 17 years old. I had my own life to live! Nobody was going to have control over me, not while I had $200 of my own money in the bank. I fantasized that I would be beautiful, independent. I would even lose weight, maybe streak my hair. Boys would take me out. I would show that mean, old-fashioned man a thing or two!
The next day I made an appointment for another eye examination.
I felt very shy and embarrassed the day I returned home wearing my new contacts. My eyes seemed different and foreign. The feeling was not unlike the strange tingle I had in my fingertips on the rare occasions when I used nail polish. I felt naked without my glasses, but I was astounded at the clarity of my vision. And in my heart a lurking fear was beginning to grow.
My father was more surprised and curious than shocked and angry. “Please let me see them,” he said. I held out the tiny green disk on the tip of a finger. He stared at it almost reverently. “Is this all there is to it? It’s so tiny. Are you sure you can see with it?”
I felt smug, superior, vindicated.
His next question surprised me. “Didn’t it hurt your eyes when they poured the latex in?” What on earth was he talking about? Nothing of that sort had gone on at all.
“I want to show you something,” he said, beckoning. I followed him upstairs to his room. From the back of his sock drawer, he pulled out a hinged leather case and opened it. On the white velvet lining were two glass balls. No, not balls. I picked one up. Doll teacups, of clear glass, an inch in diameter and an eighth inch thick.
“These are my contact lenses,” Daddy said sadly.
I was horrified. “How could anyone wear those? Why they must cover the whole eyeball!”
“That’s right,” he replied. “I wore them three times.”
My mother peered over my shoulder. “One of the times was on his second date with me,” she said. “His poor eyes watered so much and he was so miserable I made him take them off.”
“They made them by propping my eyelids open with a metal brace and pouring liquid latex over my eyes,” he explained. “The molds were then used for the glass lenses, which fit tightly over the entire eye. It took all my courage to put them in. I didn’t want that to happen to my little girl,” he finished lamely.
Remorse filled my heart. Daddy had only been trying to protect me from the pain he had suffered himself, while I had thought he was being mean and unreasonable. I shuddered as I remembered my misery when the orthodontist had made latex molds of my teeth. Then I thought of the young man, 20 years earlier, who had endured incredible agony for the hope of being freed from the burden of thick, heavy glasses.
Daddy hadn’t realized that times had changed. His actions toward me had been motivated by memories of his earlier experiences. I understood better now the reasons for other restrictions he imposed upon his children. He had once been a young man. Events during those years had shaped his relationship with his family; and the family rules, fair or unfair, were influenced by those experiences.
I knew the remaining months I would spend in Daddy’s household were limited. I would soon begin a new life that would lead me away from home. Very shortly, my parents would not be responsible for my welfare, and I was sorry my new understanding of them had come so late. I wished I had been more considerate and teachable.

I would like to tell you about some of the miracles that occurred in Andre’s quorum in Mochudi. As I share this example, watch for principles that strengthen every priesthood quorum that applies them.
After Andre was baptized, he accompanied the missionaries as they taught four other young men, who were also baptized. Now there were five young men. They began strengthening each other and the branch.
A sixth young man, Thuso, was baptized. Thuso shared the gospel with three of his friends, and soon there were nine.
In Mochudi, a 10th young man soon joined the Church. The missionaries found the 11th. And the 12th young man was baptized after seeing the gospel’s effect on his friends.
Members of the Mochudi Branch were thrilled. These young men “were converted unto the Lord, and … united unto the church.”12
The Book of Mormon played a significant role in their conversion.13 Thuso remembers, “I began reading the Book of Mormon … every time I was free, at home, at school, everywhere.”14
Oratile was drawn to the gospel because of the example of his friends. He explains: “[They] seemed to change in the snap of a finger. … I thought it had … to do with the little … book they started carrying around … school. I could see what good men they had become. … [I] wanted to change too.”15
All 12 young men were gathered and baptized within two years of each other. Each was the only member of the Church in his family. But they were supported by their Church family, including President Rakwela,16 their branch president; Elder and Sister Taylor,17 a senior missionary couple; and other branch members.
Brother Junior,18 a quorum leader, invited the young men to his home on Sunday afternoons and mentored them. The young men studied the scriptures together and held regular home evenings.
Brother Junior took them to visit members, people being taught by the missionaries, and anyone else who needed a visit. All 12 young men piled into the back of Brother Junior’s truck. He dropped them off at homes in companionships of two or three and picked them up later.
Even though the young men were just learning about the gospel and didn’t feel they knew much, Brother Junior told them to share one or two things they did know with the people they visited. These young priesthood holders taught, prayed, and helped watch over the Church.19 They fulfilled their priesthood responsibilities and experienced the joy of serving.
Andre said, “We played together, laughed together, cried together, and became a brotherhood.”20 In fact, they call themselves “the Band of Brothers.”
Together they set a goal that they would all serve missions. Since they were the only Church members in their families, they had many obstacles to overcome, but they helped each other through them.
One by one, the young men received mission calls. Those who left first wrote letters home to those still preparing, sharing experiences and encouraging them to serve. Eleven of the young men served missions.
These young men shared the gospel with their families. Mothers, sisters, brothers, friends, as well as people they taught on their missions, were converted and baptized. Miracles occurred and countless lives were blessed.
It has been almost 10 years since the Mochudi Band of Brothers started their journey together, and they are still a band of brothers.
Katlego said, “We may be separated by distance but we are still there for each other.”22

Caregiving has been one of the most difficult experiences we have ever had, but also one of the most rewarding. We have seen so many miracles. There were moments when the right resources and people seemed to come out of nowhere exactly when we needed them. Moments when certain medications suddenly became available. Moments when, after an unbearable day, unexpected peace would wash over us. And one of the most beautiful miracles I (Stephen) experienced was watching tender tears fall down Kay’s cheeks as she departed from this world, finally at peace, and seemingly recalling things she hadn’t remembered in years.

I grew up in Idaho Falls, Idaho, on the edge of town. Across the street were fields where pheasants flew and where we played in the snow. Later our new chapel was built there. I went over every night after school to help build the chapel, handing bricks to bricklayers and cleaning up the construction site. I remember that I took great pride in that chapel. I wanted to take good care of it because I had helped build it.
My mom has been a Relief Society president and a Young Women president. Dad was not active in the Church, but he was a very good man.
My testimony has always been a part of me. I have always had a gift of faith. I remember saying my prayers every night, even when I didn’t feel like it.
I also knew that I felt at peace with myself when I did what was right. I learned when I was in the third or fourth grade how it felt to make a wrong choice. The rules at school were that we could not throw snowballs and that we could not go off the school grounds. One day I got in a snowball fight and crossed the street to get the advantage in the fight. Afterward I felt bad because I knew I had done something wrong.
I remember going to the Idaho Falls Temple when I was twelve to do baptisms for the dead. I felt really good about doing that. I encourage you to do that when you have the opportunity.
As we were growing up, my younger brother and sister and I had lots of fun. We didn’t play video games or watch TV. We played active games—red rover, kick the can, and cowboys—and we floated in inner tubes down the irrigation canal where Mom had taught me to swim.
We always had work to do. When I was eight or nine, we picked potatoes for farmers. We earned seven and a half cents for each half sack we picked. At eleven, I got a paper route. I remember coming home after delivering papers in weather twenty degrees below zero and sitting on my hands to try to warm them up. Later on I hoed beets, moved sprinkler pipe, and hauled hay. And when I was a little older, I paid for braces for my teeth with money I earned working at a grocery store.
My parents always felt that it was important for me to get an education. When I was a junior in high school, I wanted to buy a car. It was the prettiest car I’d ever seen, a white 1950 Oldsmobile convertible, and its price was four hundred dollars. I had just four hundred dollars in my bank account. This is going to work out great, I thought.
When I told my mom about my plan, she asked, “How will you get to college?” Then she said, “I believe that if you will save your money and go to college, you will be able to buy an even nicer car.” I thought and prayed about it and decided that she was right. I saved my money and went on to college. Then, when I had finished the “twenty-second grade” and had my bachelor’s, master’s, and doctoral degrees, I bought an old classic convertible. I still drive this car. It reminds me that if you are patient, follow good counsel, and follow the Spirit’s guidance to do what’s right, there will be all kinds of rewards.
Buying and acquiring things when you are young is unwise. Invest in yourself with education. And the kind of education we will need most through the eternities is spiritual.
Dad was very keen on my going to school, and he had told me that I had better not go on a mission. But one night I talked with my friend Harry about missions until 2:00 A.M. He told me, “You have the opportunity to go on a mission now. You might not always have that opportunity.”
I didn’t know if Dad would support me, but I asked my mother to ask him. When I finished my first year of college, I went home. We were doing the dishes one night, when my dad said, “Stephen, if you want to go on a mission, that will be all right.”
I was called to serve my mission in France. After serving twenty-eight months, I got a telegram telling me that my dad had died of a heart attack. I went home to attend the funeral and to help Mom, and Harry’s words came back to me: “You might not always have the opportunity to go on a mission.” If I had put off serving my mission, my widowed mother could not have afforded to send me.
Many of you children today feel unsettled and worried. You hear about serious problems and dangers in the world. But you do not need to be fearful. There is a way to be guided away from what’s bad for you. Your parents and the Holy Ghost will help you if you will just ask what is good and right for you.

“I am so excited to see my friend again,” one young woman kept telling her parents as she prepared for the special reunion. She had recently returned home after having lived far away. She had looked forward to this moment for a long time.

When the two friends saw each other, they were all smiles. They hugged and laughed as they left together to enjoy becoming reacquainted. However, the parents were surprised when their daughter returned home much earlier than expected.

“What’s wrong?” they asked.

“I was so excited to talk the way we used to, but she just spent the whole time text messaging her other friends.” Her hurt and disappointment were apparent as she declared, “I wish texting had never been invented.”

“At first, I never knew how to share the gospel with anyone or how to introduce the missionaries to my friends,” Eduarda explains. Eduarda is from Brazil and, while she isn’t surrounded by many members of the Church, she knows that “the Lord always prepares a way for His children to know the truth.”

Eduarda shared a Church video with a friend, who loved what he saw. When her friend grew more interested in the Church, Eduarda invited him to meet with the missionaries and used the missionary referral feature on the Church’s website. Eduarda added a comment saying that she wanted to participate in her friend’s gospel learning progress. The missionaries happily agreed. Eduarda even participated in the baptism.

Eduarda says she felt God’s love for His children in that moment. She also explains, “We all have someone who sees the Light of Christ in us. We just need to invite them to see what that light is!”

“Tell me a story about the old country, Grandpa. Please?” she used to plead.

“All right, but you know you’ve heard them all before.” His eyes would twinkle as the tale would unfold. “When I was a young lad, my family took care of sheep in the fields surrounding the town. The country was lush and green in the daytime, but at night everything was veiled in shadows. I had the evening watch alone. Sometimes the sheep were restless, so I always took along my old mandolin. I’d sing a quiet song, and it would settle them down. It would ease my mind a bit too. Tending sheep can be mighty lonely. My mandolin has always been a comfort to me, Manda. I’m glad you have learned to play it. Someday I want you to have it.”

A sharp nudge from her older brother brought Amanda back to the present. Bishop Madsen stepped up to the tall box that served as a pulpit and announced the opening song and prayer. Then Amanda’s mind wandered again as the service began. She could see herself bumping around in the back of the covered wagon, gazing longingly behind them as the trail disappeared into dust. She’d missed her home and the friends she’d left behind. Grandpa hadn’t seemed to, though. He’d sat in front, constantly looking ahead.

“Let’s sing a song,” he’d suggest. Amanda would be the first to join in.

Their voices had been carried by the warm Nebraska wind, and soon all the settlers in their company had began to sing along.

The most precious moments had been at night around the campfire. The wagons had been pulled together into a circle, and the moon had looked large in the prairie sky, softly shining on tired, sunbaked faces.

The trek to Utah was long and hard, Amanda thought. Grandpa had made it then. Why did he have to die now?

The bishop had finished speaking, and he turned toward Amanda.

“Amanda, we all know how much you and your great-grandfather loved to sing together. Do you think you could come up here and sing one of his favorite songs for us?”

Amanda froze in her seat. I could never sing without Grandpa, she thought. She looked at the mandolin lying among the flowers. It had helped Grandpa while he tended sheep. Maybe it would help her now.

She rose slowly and walked over to the casket. Her hands trembled as she lifted the mandolin from its bed of flowers. Several people in the crowd nodded encouragement. Amanda cleared her throat, placed her fingers on the strings, and began: “Come, come, ye Saints, …”

The song went beautifully until she came to the last verse. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her voice started to quaver.

Bishop Madsen stepped quickly to Amanda’s side, beckoning the congregation to join in. Instantly the little log church was filled with music.

And should we die before our journey’s through,
Happy day! all is well!
We then are free from toil and sorrow, too;
With the just we shall dwell! …

Amanda sat down, still holding the mandolin. Mother put her arm around Amanda’s shoulder and said, “Grandpa’s mandolin can become as much a part of you as it was a part of him. Take good care of it.”

Amanda smiled. It was already a great comfort to her.

The light flickered, blinked, flickered once more, and then the room went dark. Marta blinked and rubbed her eyes, but there was no seeing through the blackness.
“Now what?” Lisa asked in a shaky voice.
Outside, the wind sang and whistled as it rattled the windows of the old house the family had recently bought. It was the family’s goal to restore the old place to its original splendor, but so far not much had been done with it.
“Methinks ’tis winter,” Marta said, trying to make her words sound Old English and funny. But no one laughed. “Where has your sense of humor gone?” Marta asked.
“It went with Daddy,” replied seven-year-old Peter, his voice choked with fear.
“I wish Mom and Dad had fixed those old windows,” Lisa said nervously. “That rattling is scary.”
“I wish Mom and Dad were home,” Peter whimpered.
For a moment no one moved or spoke. The wind heaved and buffeted the house, died mischievously to a tickle on the window-panes, then rushed again with horrendous screams as though it was demanding to be let inside.
For as long as Marta could remember, there had been terrible windstorms in the valley—at least two or three times a year. Once, in their old home down the street, a winter wind had exploded through a window, shattering glass on the carpet and making its icy way into every corner of the house. Most of the time the wind wasn’t so violent, and Marta, though she didn’t exactly know why, had come to enjoy the storms. Maybe it was the eerie darkness that resulted when the electric circuits were shorted out. Or maybe it was because she remembered enjoying the stormy-night fires her father started in the fireplace and the way the family huddled around the blaze, wrapped in blankets and holding cups of hot chocolate. Her father always seemed to make an adventure out of storms.
Tonight, however, her parents had gone across town on an errand. A little while ago they’d called to say that they would have to wait until the snowplows cleared a path for them to get home.
The wind gasped, beat viciously against the house, then moaned pitifully.
Marta chuckled to herself, but Lisa shuddered and Peter began to cry. Marta never remembered her older sister being frightened of storms before.
“Isn’t anyone going to get some candles?” Marta asked.
“I—I will,” Lisa stammered, but she didn’t move.
“That’s all right; I’ll get them,” Marta said. She started feeling her way through the darkness. It was like playing blindman’s buff. First she felt the piano bench, then the banister, the hall wallpaper, and the buffet; then she groped her way through the doorway into the kitchen. Finally she found the right cupboard. It seemed strange not to be able to see even her hands in front of her. Opening the cupboard door, Marta’s fingers groped through its contents—paper napkins in a noisy cellophane package, rattly boxes of cold cereal, two long, smooth candles and their holders.
“Now for the matches,” Marta muttered, reaching farther back into the cupboard. “I know they’re in here.” Way back in the corner she felt the raspy side of the matchbox. Marta quickly shut the cupboard door, struck a match, and lit the candles. Slowly she walked back to the living room.
“Marta, Marta, is that you?” Peter called out.
“Of course, Peter,” Marta said cheerfully.
“This house is all ghosty,” Peter whispered.
“It’s all right, Peter.”
Marta heard Lisa trying to comfort their brother, but the words were not convincing. It seemed strange to be enjoying something that frightened her brother and sister. What can I do when even my big sister is scared? she asked herself. Quickly Marta placed the candles on the mantle.
“There, Peter. See, it isn’t so bad,” Lisa said.
As if to prove her wrong, the wind knocked viciously against the house. The candles flickered, then burned brightly again. Marta looked at Lisa’s face. Usually it was a happy, princesslike face, but now it only mirrored fear.
“Shall I start a fire?” Marta asked.
“No!” Lisa answered abruptly. “This wind is worse than most. It could blow down through the chimney and start the house on fire.”
Marta had never heard of such a thing. “What?” she asked.
“Last year in a storm like this, two homes burned,” Lisa explained. “The newspaper account said that it had something to do with downdrafts. I’m not exactly sure how the fires started, but we’d better not light one.”
Marta felt helpless. Why can’t Peter and Lisa feel like I do about storms? she wondered. Why can’t they relax and laugh at the weird sounds of the wind and makebelieve fun things about the dancing shadows the candles make on the wall? Aloud she said, “I’ll get some blankets then. At least we can keep warm until the heat comes back on.”
Marta walked out of the dim candlelight and felt her way down the hall to the linen closet. The blankets were stored on the top shelf, so she had to jump to get them down. When she managed to get three, she returned to the living room. “Lisa, you can curl up on the couch,” she said, “and Peter and I will lie down on the floor.”
“No,” Peter said.
“Why not?” Marta asked. “It will be like a slumber party.”
“No, it won’t.” Peter started to cry again.
“It’s all right,” Lisa said, hugging Peter to her. “Come on. Let’s have a slumber party.” She tried to sound excited, but the words came out stilted.
“Or we can pretend we’re pioneers,” Marta said, “It’s a game, Peter. We’re pioneers, and it’s nighttime, so we have to go to bed.”
“Pioneers didn’t have windstorms like this.”
“Yes, they did!” Marta countered. “I’ve read about them. And they were outside in the storms, not inside like we are.”
Lisa climbed onto the couch, and Peter reluctantly lay down on the braided rug. Shadows from the candles danced on the walls and ceiling of the tall, drafty room.
“Well, what did the pioneers do?” Peter asked.
That’s it! Marta realized. That’s how I can help Lisa and Peter. Aloud, she told Peter. “They prayed and did things to keep their minds off the storm.”
“That’s a good idea,” Lisa said. “Let’s say a prayer for us—and for Mom and Dad too.”
“After we’re through, I’ll tell you a story,” Marta added.
Peter prayed with them, but he stopped to look around every time another rush of wind rattled the house.
“This storm may last five more minutes or all night,” Marta said after they finished their prayer, “but we’ll have fun telling stories.”
“I hope it’s only five more minutes,” Lisa said.
Marta’s mind was racing. What story can I tell that will help Peter and Lisa? First she thought of some fairy tales, then of some stories she’d heard in school. But none of them seemed to be the kind that would give comfort … That’s it! She remembered the scripture story she’d heard in Primary last week that had filled her with a secure and comforting feeling.
Marta smiled at Lisa and Peter, then began: “One time Jesus and His Apostles were traveling in a boat when a fierce storm started tossing and turning their boat about. The Apostles became frightened, but Jesus slept through the whole noisy, scary storm.”
Outside, the wind whistled and screamed and rattled the windows and doors, while inside, Marta told the story of how Jesus had awakened and commanded the storm to stop. Marta tried to make her voice sound reassuring and comforting, but even if her voice wasn’t, she knew that the story would ease their fears.
When Marta finished, she looked over at Peter. In the dim candlelight she could see that he was already asleep.
“I’m glad you’re here, Marta,” Lisa whispered. “You’re a lot like Dad.”
Surprised by her sister’s remark, Marta didn’t say anything.
Soon Lisa went on, “It’s not that either of you really likes storms or that you wish they would come to hurt us or to do damage; but when they do come, you both manage to make the most of the situation. I wish I had such a gift.”
Marta was surprised. How often she had wished for Lisa’s long, thick hair instead of her own thin, wispy hair. Marta had never imagined that Lisa would ever be wishing for something that her younger sister had.
Lisa snuggled down on the couch, and Marta pulled her own blanket up to her chin and thought once more about the scripture story. “Peace, be still. …” Marta thought of the words from the story, the words Jesus had used to still the stormy waters. As she listened to the noises around her, Marta smiled.
Marta’s thoughts drifted to Lisa and what her sister had just said. It felt so good to comfort and to be comforted. She smiled again and then let herself relax and listen to the music of the wind as it accompanied the dancing shadows on the wall.

These two virtues, love and service, are required of us if we are to be good neighbors and find peace in our lives. Surely they were in the heart of Elder Willard Richards. While in Carthage Jail on the afternoon of the martyrdom of Joseph and Hyrum, the jailer suggested that they would be safer in the cells. Joseph turned to Elder Richards and asked, “If we go into the cell will you go with us?”

Elder Richards’ reply was one of love: “Brother Joseph, you did not ask me to cross the river with you—you did not ask me to come to Carthage—you did not ask me to come to jail with you—and do you think I would forsake you now? But I will tell you what I will do; if you are condemned to be hung for ‘treason,’ I will be hung in your stead, and you shall go free.”

It must have been with considerable emotion and feeling that Joseph replied, “But you cannot.”

To which Elder Richards firmly answered, “I will” (see B. H. Roberts, A Comprehensive History of the Church, 2:283).

Elder Richards’ test was perhaps greater than most of us will face: the test of fire rather than of the touchstone. But if we were asked to do so, could we lay down our lives for our families? our friends? our neighbors?

I had prepared long and hard for the entrance exams for a special school in my city of Chiclayo, Peru. I hoped to enter the elementary education program and learn to use my musical and dancing abilities to teach children. In fact, I was so determined, that I had spent my three-month vacation after high school graduation preparing for the exams.
Like all the best schools in Chiclayo, the school I was interested in was affiliated with the Catholic church. But this school, which offers courses from kindergarten through university age, had earlier accepted my five-year-old brother. So my mother and I assumed that I wouldn’t have a problem being accepted, even though I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Finally, the day of the entrance exams arrived, and I took the talent portion of the exam—in which we sang, played, and danced with children.
Later, when the time came for my personal interview with a panel of judges, I prayed before going into the room. The three judges began asking about my talents and background. I told them that I belonged to the Municipal Ballet of Chiclayo, that I had finished twelve cycles on the piano, and that I had placed first in the Marinera and Huayno—folkloric dances.
Then they asked me what church I belonged to. I answered, “I am a Mormon.” The judges looked very surprised, but I felt peaceful inside. They asked me if I knew that no one outside of the Catholic religion could be admitted. I replied that I knew God and Jesus Christ lived—therefore, I was a Christian. I concluded by saying that I believed in free agency and knew that I had chosen the truth.
Looking me in the eyes, they told me that I could definitely not be admitted because of my religion, and they asked me if I wasn’t embarrassed for what I had said. Words of the Apostle Paul came into my mind: “I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ” (Rom. 1:16). Then they told me that I could leave the room.
All my dreams seemed to have shattered in front of me. I thought of how long I had waited for this opportunity and of all that my mother had sacrificed to help me achieve it. But still, my testimony of the Church was strong. I knew that it was worth far more than my entrance into a school.
When I arrived home and told my mother what had happened, she left for the school. There, she asked the assistant director why I was disqualified when my little brother had been allowed to enroll. The woman replied that five-year-old Luis Enrique wasn’t responsible for what he believed, but that I, a sixteen-year-old, was.
My mother then spoke to the judges. She told them about the Church and about our beliefs in God and in his Son, Jesus Christ. She told them some of our experiences since becoming members in 1983—and about the changes that had occurred in our home as a result. The judges told her, “Don’t worry. We will follow up on this.” Then my mother returned home.
She told me that we should trust in the Lord and that everything would be fine. She also suggested that we both begin a fast.
Later that afternoon, we discovered that I had passed the talent portion of the exams! Now I needed to pass the knowledge test the next day.
I stayed up all night studying. Before starting the test early the next morning, I prayed with great faith. The exam seemed easy. I was one of the first students to finish it, and I quickly went home to be with my mother and aunt. We waited all afternoon for the hours to pass—and for the results to be posted.
That evening, I left for school to see the results, praying all the way there. When I got to the office, I read through the acceptance list. My name was on it! The Lord had answered our fasting and prayers.
Now busy at my new school, I carry my scriptures with me all the time. One of my favorite verses is Matthew 5:16: “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” [Matt. 5:16]
I know more than ever that I must never hide my testimony. I must always be proud to say “I am a Mormon.”

Some time ago, Sister Haycock and I accompanied President and Sister Kimball, President and Sister Tanner, and others on a visit to the Holy Land for the dedication of the Orson Hyde Memorial Gardens. While there, we visited a number of places held sacred in the memory of Christians, and particularly Latter-day Saints, because we were walking where Jesus walked.
We visited the Garden Tomb, and after sitting with President and Sister Kimball inside the tomb, we came out into the sunshine and beauty of the garden. The cameramen who recorded the trip were anxious to get pictures of President Kimball walking in the garden, but I was concerned because the path was paved with flagstones, making it rough and uneven underfoot. I cautioned President Kimball to be careful and not fall. He responded quietly and with dignity: “Don’t worry, Arthur. I am used to walking on holy ground.”

I used to hear the story, when I first came under President Harold B. Lee’s influence in the welfare program, about a man whom they could not get to work. He wanted to be taken care of. The Church or government, so he thought, owed him a living because he had paid his tithing and taxes. He did not have anything to eat and refused to labor to care for himself. Out of desperation and disgust they decided they might as well take him to the cemetery.

On the way, one man said, “We can’t do this. I have some corn I will give to him.”

So they explained this to the man, and he said, “Is it husked?”

They said, “No.”

He said, “Well, then, drive on.”

This would not be humorous if it were not so close to the truth. You cannot save a man who has such an attitude, and a nation made up of men and women with similar attitudes is vulnerable to the problems which led to the fall of Rome. The saddest day of a person’s life is when he sits down to work out a means whereby he can live thereafter without his own effort. One of the most demeaning things a government can do is to teach people that the government owes them a living.