Gospel Story Finder

As part of their ministering, Elder Tune, President Kendall and the missionaries brought a much-needed laptop and monitor to donate to Chevalier Catholic High School on Abemama, where over 500 students from other small islands board.
“It was a humbling experience to see their computer lab. We walked into the building with the ‘computer lab’ sign over the door and there were no computers there. So, when we came with a laptop and a screen, the principal and the students were so excited! Now they have a computer in their lab,” Elder Tune said.

Nanette gazed out the rain-spattered living room window from her perch on the big wooden moving crate. She hugged her knees a little closer and gloomily watched the storm drench her new neighborhood.
“My, this rain is refreshing,” Nanette’s mother exclaimed as she scooped an armful of towels out of one of the packing boxes. Then she paused, put down the towels, and climbed over a box to reach Nanette.
“Honey, I know it isn’t easy to leave your friends and school and the only home you’ve ever known, but it could be a wonderful new beginning for you.”
“But, Mom, I don’t even know anyone here,” Nanette said, tears filling her eyes.
“Nanette, we’ve been here only two days,” her mother said kindly. “It takes time for us to feel at home. Now, would you like to help me put away the linens?”
As they put away the last stack of sheets, Todd woke up from his nap and began calling, “Nan! Nan! Nan!” Nanette lifted him out of bed and held him close for a while. Then she put him in his playpen with some toys. But he was not happy and began to cry. He had been unusually fussy ever since they had arrived at their new home.
Maybe it’s hard for babies to move, too. But not as hard as it is for a ten-year-old girl to start a new school near the end of the year without a single friend! Nanette decided.
“Nan,” her mother called from the kitchen. “Now that the storm has let up would you please run to the store for a loaf of bread?”
“Can I take Todd in the stroller?”
“Oh, he’d love it!” Mother answered. “His warm clothes are in the bottom drawer.”
The store was only a couple of blocks away, but Nanette pushed the stroller slowly so she could look around the neighborhood, hoping to see a boy or girl about her own age. The big evergreen trees lining the street had a spicy smell that made her nose tingle, and everything was green and glistening from the rain.
Nanette was taking a deep breath of the cool and fragrant air when suddenly a furry little black dog came bounding toward them. He slid on the slick grass and landed in a puddle in front of the stroller. Todd squealed with delight as Nanette gathered the dripping ball of fur into her arms and held him for her brother to see.
In another minute a girl wearing a bright-colored raincoat came running down the sidewalk toward them. She was about Nanette’s age and she stopped a few feet from Nanette to gaze at her from under her raincoat hood.
Nanette held the dog out and the girl took it, tucked it under one arm, and muttered shyly, “Thanks.”
“Sure,” answered Nanette, trying to sound casual. Both girls stood for several moments waiting for the other to speak. Finally, the girl in the raincoat turned and ran to a nearby house.
On the way back from the store, Nanette saw the girl sitting on the curb tossing leaves into the water. She slowed the stroller and the girl stood up and turned as though she were going to speak, but they only stood face to face again in awkward silence. Relieved a little when Todd began to fuss, Nanette made him comfortable, bit her lip, and began walking toward her new home.
Why didn’t she talk to me? She certainly knows I’m new in the neighborhood. I wonder why she doesn’t like me! Nanette thought as she turned into their driveway.
“I don’t like this place at all!” Nanette exclaimed as she lifted Todd out of the stroller and carried him into the house. She dropped the bread and sank into the nearest chair and complained, “I want to go back to our old neighborhood.”
“What happened?” questioned her mother.
Nanette related the whole episode, becoming even more upset as she talked about it.
“Perhaps the girl is shy,” her mother suggested. “Why don’t you be a little more friendly when you see her again?”
The next morning Father called to say he would be there that night with Nanette’s two older brothers. After Mother was through talking to Dad, Nanette suggested, “Let’s make some chocolate chip cookies for Dad and the boys.”
“That’s a great idea! You can start them while I finish the vacuuming,” Mother agreed.
It wasn’t long before the aroma of freshly baked cookies began floating through the house. After the last batch of cookies was out of the oven and carefully moved to the cooling rack, Nanette said, “I wish I had at least one friend before Dad and the boys get here tonight.”
“Perhaps you will have one,” her mother answered.
“Maybe,” said Nanette as she munched on a warm cookie. Suddenly her eyes brightened. “I have an idea, but I’ll need a few of these cookies. I’m sure Dad and the boys won’t mind!” She quickly chose some of the larger ones and put them on a covered plate.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she called as she hurried out of the door.
When Nanette stopped running to catch her breath, she was almost at the house where the girl lived who had the little dog. But her courage that had carried her this far began to disappear as she walked up the steps toward the big white door.
What if she still won’t talk to me? Nanette wondered. But she hesitated only a minute and then knocked very lightly, hoping that no one would hear and she could just leave the cookies and slip away quietly. However, the door quickly swung open and there stood the girl, staring wide-eyed in surprise.
“I—I—made something for you,” Nanette’s voice trembled.
The girl took the cookies and then stepped back and said with a warm smile, “Please come in.”
Nanette followed her into a cluttered living room and found a place to sit on the sofa between two big boxes of books.
“My name is Cindy,” the girl began, “and I’m so glad you came. After yesterday I didn’t know if I would ever see you again. You see, we just moved here last week and I don’t know anyone yet.”
“What!” exclaimed Nanette. “We just moved here too.”
Both girls began laughing.
“I brought you some friendship cookies,” Nanette explained.
“I’m glad you did,” said Cindy.
The girls smiled at each other. Then they both began asking questions and talking as fast as they could to learn all about their new-found friendship.

Another sacred family history event also occurred while I served as a missionary. Upon arriving in Peru, I was assigned to Callao, the port of Lima. It was most remarkable because, unbeknownst to me at the time, the tombs of my Swiss ancestors were in that very city. A relative eventually told me about the tombs, but I was unable to find them before being transferred to another city.
However, I believe the Lord wanted me to find my ancestors. While missionaries are seldom assigned to the same branch twice, I was. Almost a year later, I came back to Callao, and this time I discovered there were two adjacent cemeteries, one where my Schlupp ancestors are buried and the other where the records (dating back to 1820) for the family are stored. Searching through the records, I finally came across what I was looking for: “Elizabeth Schlupp, 57 years old, buried September 16, 1875; Ana Maria Schlupp Kruse, 66 years old, buried January 24, 1918.” I had found my Swiss ancestors!
I was ecstatic. I was able to complete four generations of my family history at last. Of all the places I could have been assigned, the Lord had called me not once but twice to Callao—the place where I could locate my Swiss ancestors.

My name is Christopher. My feet jump, jump, jump, and run, run, run, and hop, hop hop, so much that Mom calls me Chris-hopper.
On Sunday, Mom said, “Chris-hopper, it’s time to be Christopher. Tell your feet to slow down.
I told them, but they forgot.
On Monday, Mom and I went to the zoo. We saw giraffes, lions, elephants, and monkeys. Best of all, I liked to watch the kangaroos hop. I call them roo-hoppers. Then we saw a giant turtle moving oh … so … slow. I call it a no-hopper. It gave me an idea.
On the next Sunday, I put on my best clothes and my best shoes. Then I taped a little picture of a turtle on the toe of each shoe. “No-hoppers!” I exclaimed and ran to show Mom. She gave me the thumbs-up.
At church, I looked at the turtles on my shoes and said to my feet, “No-hoppers at church.” Now my feet remember to walk in the meetinghouse.
But when I go outside, I’m Chris-hopper again.

When I walked into the house, the first thing I saw was the letter, propped on the narrow table in the front hall, my name typed on the white envelope and the Brigham Young University letterhead in the corner. With trembling fingers I tore it open. I was accepted! And the scholarship my counselor at the University of Wisconsin had recommended I apply for had been granted! I read the words again and again, unable to believe that the dream was really coming true.
I looked up and my mother was standing in the doorway watching me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s inside the letter,” she said. “I can see it in your face.”
“Mother—” I began, but her eyes were blazing and she interrupted me angrily.
“You really think you’re something, don’t you? Cocky and smug and sure of yourself. Just like my sister, Beth. That’s how she was, you know. And she walked out on us, just like you’re going to do.”
“Mother,” I cried desperately, “I’m not walking out on you. I’m just going away to college. Nine months at the university. That’s all.”
“That’s what you think, Michelle. But what if you never come back? Beth never came back.”
“But that was different! She had done something disgraceful. Grandpa Hunter sent her away; he wouldn’t let her come back!”
She stood staring at me, with the strangest look in her eye. “The minute you joined the Mormon church, you turned your back on us and all we stand for. You’re not one of us any more, Michelle. When you go out to Utah, that will break the last tie.”
“Mother, no! Please don’t say such things.” I stepped toward her, but she moved away.
“How could you do this to me?” she cried. “How could you be so selfish and cruel? Beth was my big sister and she turned her back on me. She left me when I needed her the most. You’re just like her, Michelle; you’re just like her!”
I ran past her and through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the quiet yard. I was trembling all over and cold, though the summer night was mild. I had never dreamed that my mother compared me to her lost sister, Beth. I’d always known the old story about the mysterious sister who was disowned by her stern father and who disappeared to live her life in shame and seclusion somewhere. As a child I had thought it a romantic story, sweet and sad. But I had never dreamed of myself as becoming the main character in such a story. How could my own mother think of me that way? Was she ashamed of me? Did she want to disown me, as her father had once disowned the sister she loved?
Later that night when I was alone in my room, my younger brother, Paul, came in. “I just want to tell you what a creep you are,” he said. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“You know what I mean. You upset mother, and she screams and takes it out on all of us, then ends up crying half the night. All you do anymore is cause trouble, Michelle.”
“That’s not true, Paul!” I defended myself. There was a hard knot growing in the middle of my stomach, and I felt humiliated having to apologize for myself every time I turned around. “I never mean to cause trouble.”
“Well, you do. I hope it’s worth it to you, making your whole family miserable just so you can do what you want!”
He stomped out of the room without giving me time to reply. Hot tears began to gather behind my eyes. His words were unkind and unfair. But how could I make him understand what was really happening, what I really felt?
Later, when my little sister, Katy, came in to kiss me goodnight, she looked up with wide, innocent eyes and asked, “Why do you want to go away and leave us, Michelle? Mommy says you don’t really love us anymore or you wouldn’t go away.”
I pulled her into my arms and hugged her fiercely. “That’s not true, princess! I love you dearly! And it will be fun for you when I go away because I’ll write you a letter every week and send surprise packages in the mail.”
She brightened a little, and I hugged and kissed her half a dozen times before I let her go. Finally I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. What was my mother trying to do? Why did she have to punish me for being different from what she thought I ought to be?
After that the days seemed to drag, gray and dull, one after another. Part of the time I felt defensive and angry at my mother, wanting to hurt her back. But at other times I felt small and frightened, like a little girl, longing for her to hold and comfort me and dissolve my fears. She had taken the excitement and anticipation out of the whole thing, and sometimes I weakened and felt that maybe I shouldn’t go after all. But too many of my prayers had been answered, too many signposts pointed that this should be the direction my life ought to take. I kept telling myself that things would work out. Perhaps it would be easier for my family if I went away. If I weren’t so close, such a source of conflict and friction, it might be easier for them to understand, to get a broader, kinder perspective. Perhaps they might even miss me and appreciate me a little.
But I was afraid. And there was no one to understand. Lori could only see that I had the world at my feet, that I was going to Zion, Mecca, where everything would be sunshine and happiness and dreams-come-true. But I had never been to Utah before. I didn’t even know what a mountain looked like in real life. I didn’t know a single person in all of Utah, much less at BYU. What were other Mormons like? Would they laugh at me if I was different, if I did things wrong? Our little branch was so casual, so experimental. What would it be like in a congregation of hundreds of Latter-day Saints? What if they all knew ten times more about the gospel than I knew?
Finally, suddenly, the long days were past, and it was time for me to leave. The day before the bus came that would take me to the airport in Madison, I prayed and fasted all day. I couldn’t bear to leave my mother like this, with her hating me and thinking that I was deserting her, rejecting her as, somehow, her older sister once had done.
That night I had a dream. In the dream I was a little girl again, with long pigtails and a dirty face. Some mean little boys were chasing me down the sidewalk and I fell and scraped my knee. I stumbled back up and ran across the lawn, sobbing for my mother, screaming for her to come. Suddenly she was there, sweeping me into her strong, soft arms. She smoothed back my hair and kissed my cheek, and cleaned my scraped knee, painting it with iodine, then sticking a big, beautiful band-aid on top. I woke suddenly, feeling still her gentle fingers against my skin, seeing the smile of love on her face.
I sat up in bed and it came to me that my mother didn’t know how much I needed her! How long had it been since I’d asked her advice or her help? In her eyes I seemed efficient, self-contained, and sure of myself. Mormonism had excluded her from my life, and I had done nothing to compensate for that—to let her know I still loved and needed and valued her! And all these months I had been thinking it was all her fault, that I, alone, was the wounded party!
The next morning I called her into my room and asked if she would help me pack. She’s very neat and efficient, and I knew she could organize and fit in all my last-minute things in a way I never could. I told her so. I talked with her and I praised her, and soon the look of guarded puzzlement left her face and we both began to enjoy being together. It didn’t work miracles; there wasn’t enough time for that. I still couldn’t tell her how frightened I was, how much I really loved her and would miss her. But the look of cold anger had gone out of her eyes, and she came to the bus station, and when I pushed the note I had written into her hands and reached out to hug her, she reached out, too, and held me close a minute and kissed my cheek. It was all I could do to hold back the tears. I looked through the glass and waved to my family, wishing they knew how very much I loved them.
By the time my plane approached the Salt Lake airport, I felt worn out with the traveling and emotions of the day. The plane had crossed the high Rockies, which in the early sunset presented a fairy world of peaks and crevices, clouds and shadows in changing, shifting patterns before my eyes.
But now, as the plane touched down, as I moved with the press into the crowded terminal, it seemed everyone had someone to meet them and some place to go. I hesitated, uncertain what to do or where to go next. I noticed a woman approaching, an older woman, very attractive, with rich brown hair and a lovely face. As she drew closer, I thought she looked familiar, so I glanced at her again. It looked as though she was coming directly my way. I shifted my feet and stared down at the floor, and when I glanced up again the woman was standing right beside me. She smiled, and the feeling that I had seen her somewhere before grew stronger.
“Michelle?” she said, with a little question at the end of the word. “You are Michelle Briggs, aren’t you?”
“Why … yes …” I stammered.
“I thought so,” she said. “You look very much like your mother, Michelle; you have her beautiful eyes.” She smiled again. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my dear, but I’m your Aunt Beth.”
“I don’t understand,” I cried. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me … or … or that I exist at all?”
“Your mother, Michelle,” she said, and took my hand gently in hers. “All these years I have written to your mother, but not once did she reply.”
“You, you mean, my mother’s known where you’ve been all along?”
“She’s known, but she hasn’t wanted to admit it. Your mother was very young when I went away, and your Grandpa Hunter did a good job of poisoning her mind. By the time she was old enough to understand … well, it was too late.” “Understand? Understand what?”
She paused, and her eyes began to sparkle. “When I was a girl I defied my father and joined the Mormon church. I was young and unwise. I hurt his pride, and he refused to forgive me. When I left and went to Utah, he refused to tell anyone where I had gone or what had really happened to me. He died without knowing that I had married and that he had three grandchildren he had never seen and another one on the way.
“But, you see, Michelle, I kept taking the Franklin City paper and I read about your mother’s wedding, and I wrote to her faithfully, hoping that sometime something would touch her heart and she would respond to me.”
“All these years?” I breathed in amazement.
“All these years. And all these years I have prayed that the Lord would soften her heart; and he has answered my prayers, Michelle, through you.” The sparkle in her eyes was wet now and her hand tightened over mine.
“But what …” I stammered, “how …” I still didn’t understand.
“Your mother wrote to me telling me you had joined the Mormon church, telling me you were coming to BYU and asking me to take care of you.”
“My mother … did that … ?”
My aunt nodded. “She told me what a special girl you were and how much she loved you.”
I couldn’t see too well, for my own eyes were clouded with tears and my throat ached trying to hold them back. My prayers and Aunt Beth’s prayers—and the prayers of a mother whose concern had overcome her pride and prejudice, and who could still teach me something about sacrifice and love! I smiled at the lovely woman who held my hand.
“I’ve got a long way to go,” I said.
“You’ll make it,” she replied, and I felt she understood all the things I was unable to say.
“Yes, yes,” I agreed, “I have to make it. I want to be a real Latter-day Saint. I want to make my mother proud of me.”

Grandpa learned to harness horses by helping his father. By the time he was eight, he could harness a dog to a small cart and ride around his parents’ dairy farm. By the age of twelve he could harness his family’s horse to a two-seater cart. Harnessing requires more, however, than just knowing how to put on the harness. You have to know how to train and handle horses and how to get along well with them. And you have to practice your skills often. You need to learn how horses are likely to behave in certain situations, and you must study each horse’s temperament. It takes patience, a good memory, and love.

How blessed we are to have a living prophet in these last days. What a life-stirring compass is the First Presidency Message by President Gordon B. Hinckley in the May 1999 Liahona (English). This message, “Life’s Obligations,” is so rich and touching. It has strengthened my testimony of the living prophet of God. I spend time every day reading portions of this message.
On one occasion, I went to a restaurant and took this message with me. One of my clients asked to read it. After reading it, he asked for a copy of it. This man confessed that the message is “inspired and really applies to present-day life.”
Attah Frederick,Bauchi Branch, Jos Nigeria District

I started reading the Book of Mormon for the first time when I became a Beehive. I read it from cover to cover and thought that would be the end. But I was so wrong. My life seemed to be missing something. So I decided to start reading it again, this time paying closer attention. As I did, my life was filled with the light that had dimmed since I had finished it. I understood more and came to really love it. Read it all the time, and you are ensuring yourself a life of goodness and light.
Kellie M., age 15, Utah, USA

On a personal level, as a young physician I learned a great lesson about making quick judgments. While I was working a midnight shift in an emergency department, a young man and his wife came in because she was suffering some severe pain. From their dress and hygiene, it was easy to see that theirs had been a rough life. His hair was ill kempt and very long. Their clothing had not been washed for some time, and the effects of a rough life were written on both of their faces.
After an examination, I sat down with him to explain the problem and discuss the treatment. This man looked at me with a deep clarity of love that is rarely experienced and asked with all the love of a caring husband, “Doctor, will my dear wife be all right?” At that moment, I felt the Spirit testify that he was a child of God and saw in his eyes the evidence of the Savior. This man truly projected love for another, and I had misjudged him. It was a lesson that left a lasting impression.

Two years after his baptism, Patrick was attending a young single adult ward in London when he met Jennifer Hulme, a Brigham Young University student from Saratoga, California. Jennifer had come to London for six months to study art history and English literature. The youngest of eight children, she had been raised in the Church.
Almost immediately, Patrick caught her eye.
“As I watched him interact with people in the ward, I saw the way he treated them,” Jennifer says of Patrick. “Whether it was a new member, a returning member, someone who was having struggles, or someone who was a close friend, he treated everyone with the same kind of genuine love and interest. That quality first and foremost drew me to him. It is a quality I have seen him develop, and that God has put to good use, over the 33 years we have been married.”
Elder and Sister Kearon’s love and respect for each other allows them to work united in faith.
After their courtship, the couple married in the Oakland California Temple in January 1991. They then raised their family in England for 19 years until Elder Kearon was called in 2010 as a General Authority Seventy after serving in several leadership callings, including as a stake president and Area Seventy. He was serving as Senior President of the Seventy when he was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Elder Kearon says his wife is a faithful disciple who knows her true identity. “She lives a happy, positive, constructive, helpful, joyful life, with the Savior at the center of it all. She has been a source of strength and an enormous blessing to me since the moment we met.”
Susannah, the second of the couple’s three daughters, says her mother loves to give of herself: “She is full of life and light and has a passion for the gospel.” And like her father, her mother is an “excellent listener.”
Susannah and her sisters say their parents’ love and respect for each other allows them to work united in faith toward common goals. They listen to one another and respect and appreciate each other’s thoughts and opinions.
Emma, the couple’s youngest daughter, says her parents’ harmonious relationship and overt love for their children “has made for a very happy and secure home environment.”
Lizzie Kearon Staheli, the oldest, says of her father: “Dad sees people with Christlike eyes. He is always anxious to encourage and empower people. He sees the potential in everyone, whatever their circumstances.”
Emma adds: “He is full of faith and loves the joy the gospel brings him. Having found the restored gospel as an adult, he appreciates the difference it makes in one’s life as a source of light and joy.”
Elder Kearon calls his daughters—Lizzie (pictured with husband, Jonathan), Susannah, and Emma—“the most beautiful light in our lives, our greatest treasures.”
Jean B. Bingham, former Relief Society General President, describes Elder Kearon as calm under pressure. She recalls a time when she, Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Elder Kearon, and others found themselves stranded abroad during a political uprising. Under Elder Bednar’s direction, Elder Kearon spent hours on a satellite phone working with local officials and Church representatives to create a path for their removal.
“His calm nature, focused efforts, and inspired insights produced a solution that allowed for our safe departure,” says Sister Bingham.
In December 2021, the family was shocked to learn that Sister Kearon had been diagnosed with breast cancer.
“I never thought cancer was going to hit me or us,” says Sister Kearon. She called the ensuing treatment extremely difficult, but the Savior was her source of strength through it all. “I’m still on oral chemotherapy, but I’m grateful to say that I’m cancer free as far as doctors can tell.”
Elder Kearon says: “Jen has been steadfast and impeccably faithful through it all. We give thanks every day for her health, and we give thanks for the exceptional care she’s been given.”
As with other trials she and her husband have experienced, Sister Kearon says, “Life serves us things we simply don’t want to do. We don’t like them. We didn’t ask for them. But we have to face them anyway. The best way to deal with things that are just plain hard is to turn to the Lord and ask for His strength, putting our faith in Jesus Christ and in His grace and power. A long time ago, I learned a lot about how the Savior succors us at our deepest, darkest times.”
Elder and Sister Kearon acquired that sacred knowledge after the birth of their first child, Sean.
During Sister Kearon’s first pregnancy, the couple learned early on from ultrasound scans that their baby boy had “a difficult heart anomaly, a life-threatening condition,” says Elder Kearon. “We spent the rest of the pregnancy tracking down the best doctors, cardiologists, and cardiac surgeons equipped to address his particular problem. We found a world-class team in London, and they were confident they could fix the problem.”
Surgeons operated on Sean when he was 19 days old. The surgery was long and painstaking. Afterward, says Elder Kearon, “Sean’s little heart could not restart. So, we lost him. His death was exquisitely painful. This was not the result we had fasted for, prayed for, and pled for, but we knew that heaven’s hand was in that experience.”
Sister Kearon says, “God led us through those months of pregnancy and the beautiful, brief life of our son in a way that, at the end of it, we knew we had done everything we could for him. That was a tremendous comfort.”
Healing came from an increased understanding of the Savior’s Atonement and Resurrection that Sister Kearon gained from an in-depth study of 1 Nephi and 2 Nephi. “In the grief of our loss, I felt like I was spinning in a black hole,” she says. “And yet, time after time, that free fall was arrested by the rock of the Atonement of Jesus Christ—because it is true. His grace, His living reality, make even the most painful losses bearable and hopeful.”
Healing came from the birth of the couple’s three daughters. “They brought healing with them,” Elder Kearon says. “They are the most beautiful light in our lives, our greatest treasures.”
Healing came from the words of inspired Church leaders, including a general conference talk by Elder Lance B. Wickman, in which Elder Wickman shared the pain of pacing deserted hospital corridors as his own little boy lay dying of a childhood disease. “Elder Wickman teaches that ‘believing is seeing’ and that faith is trust in the Lord,” says Elder Kearon. “His talk was enormously valuable to me because of his clear understanding of such an experience. This was magnified by the number of times I read it and listened to it.”
And healing came from ministering to others in their loss—be they refugees in Europe, the abused or oppressed, or fellow Church leaders like Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Presidency of the Seventy, who had lost a daughter to cancer two months before joining Elder Kearon in the Europe Area Presidency in 2015.
“He and Sister Kearon were wonderful in helping us in that grieving and healing time,” Elder Johnson says. “They were so sensitive to our situation. I’ve always loved them for that.”
Such is the way of discipleship. We bear one another’s burdens. We mourn with those who mourn. We comfort those in need of comfort. And we stand as witnesses of God—and the eternal promise of joyful reunions made possible through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. (See Mosiah 18:8–9.)
Elder Kearon greets members in the Europe East Area.
Then, when trying times come to us, that healing love and ministering balm are reciprocated. As an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, Elder Kearon is prepared to share with all the world that gospel message of hope, healing, and peace.
As an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, Elder Kearon is prepared to share with all the world the gospel message of hope, healing, and peace.
“Why do difficult trials happen to us?” Elder Kearon asks. “Because we come to earth to learn, to grow, to be sanctified, and to love and trust our Father in Heaven and our Savior. For now, we can’t see Them, and They can’t hold us. But the blessings of the Savior’s Atonement are infinite—infinite!”

Jenny was excited to visit her friend Anne, who had moved to New York, but she was also afraid. What if she missed her airplane? What if Anne wasn’t there to meet her?
Dad helped Jenny find the right place at the airport and hugged her good-bye. “Have a good time,” he said. Jenny felt nervous, but she remembered that in family prayer Mom had prayed for her safety.
On the flight, Jenny read a book and drank juice. After landing, she found Anne’s family waiting with big smiles on their faces. “Welcome to New York!” Anne cried.
During the week they played, hiked, picnicked, and shopped. They even saw the Palmyra Temple and the Sacred Grove. When it was time to fly home, Jenny felt brave. She found her seat—right next to the window!—and put on her seatbelt.
Just as the plane began speeding up, it slowed again. The engines quieted, then stopped. “Is something wrong?” Jenny worried to herself.
“We can’t take off yet because of thunderstorms,” the pilot announced.
Three hours later, the airplane was still sitting on the runway. “I should have been home by now,” Jenny moaned. The grouchy man next to her muttered some bad words, and she felt even worse.
At last, the plane took off. Everyone cheered, except the grouchy man, who scowled. Jenny watched the city lights disappear beneath the clouds, then fell asleep.
A sudden flash awoke her. She blinked out into the darkness. There it was again!—sizzling, crackling lightning. Her stomach turned cold. She had never seen lightning so near. Her hair stood on end, charged with static electricity. She wanted to ask someone what would happen if lightning struck the airplane, but everyone else was asleep. Even the flight attendants were out of sight.
Bam! Another blinding ray of light exploded outside.
“Heavenly Father,” Jenny silently prayed, “I’m scared. Please help me to feel better and get home safely.”
As thunder rumbled and the airplane shook, Jenny remembered her vacation. She had flown to New York without any trouble. She had played, hiked, and ridden in a car. She hadn’t scraped her knees, caught a cold, or gotten lost. She hadn’t even forgotten her toothbrush. Nothing had gone wrong. Suddenly she realized that all of those things were blessings from Heavenly Father.
“If He protected me on the ground,” she thought, “why can’t He protect me in the air?” Peace entered her heart. She knew that no matter where she went, as long as she was faithful, she would be in God’s hands.
She settled back into her chair and fell asleep. When she awoke, the lights of her hometown twinkled up at her. “Prepare for landing,” the pilot said. Jenny offered a prayer of thanks, grateful to be safely home again.

When we finally arrived at the São Paulo Temple thanks to one last ride from a friend we made on the train, the temple lodging was closed. Resigned but happy, we made ourselves comfortable on a couple of benches outside the temple. There it was, just as beautiful as we had dreamed it would be. It was now midnight, and we cried as we hugged, tired and wet from the falling rain. We didn’t feel the dampness, the hunger, or the cold, just an indescribable sense of happiness for being so close to the house of the Lord. We had been obedient, and there was our reward.

While we were basking in that moment, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was one of my former mission companions, who had been sealed in the temple that day and was returning from dinner with his wife. He let us stay in their apartment that night, and the next day he was a witness to our sealing, performed by the temple president himself. How beautiful it was to see my wife in the celestial room, all dressed in white.

With a loan from my missionary friend and help from the temple president, we made the return trip in less than five days, without any delays—and with only $20 dollars to begin a life with my wife, Maria Ondina, as my eternal companion.

One of the most important parts of a successful home teaching visit is preparing and sharing a lesson. Every other month Brandon Stewart gives the lesson. Brandon has learned how to prepare a lesson by watching his senior companion, his father. Thanks to his dad’s good example, giving the lesson is Brandon’s favorite part of home teaching.
To prepare his lesson, Brandon starts by reading the First Presidency Message in the Ensign. He picks the parts he thinks may help the family he will be teaching. He then adds his personal experiences and feelings about the topic and concludes his lesson just as his father does, by bearing his testimony.

I also looked in my filing cabinet for my cheque book, because I wanted to attend tithing settlement on Sunday. I needed to write out a cheque for some extra tithing that I owed. I couldn’t remember the last time that I wrote a cheque for anything, so I had no idea where my cheque book was. When I eventually found it, I looked at the cheque stubs and saw that the last cheque that I had written was four years ago. It’s no wonder that the banks want to “phase” cheques out, because very few people use them anymore. The only thing that I used a cheque for in the past was to pay my tithing every month. Now that I pay my tithing using a standing order from my bank, I have no need to use cheques anymore. Once I had found my cheque book, I wrote out a cheque for the outstanding tithing that I owed this year and put it into my handbag.
Isn’t Heavenly Father kind to us? On the day that I wrote out a cheque for extra tithing, I found money and was given furniture equal to the exact amount that I had written out my tithing cheque for. I had read about these types of stories in the Ensign before, but it had never happened to me, until that day.

Wouldn’t you get a little nervous if your high school counselor suddenly and unexpectedly called you into the office?
You’d especially be nervous if you were Richard Aballay, a senior at a Catholic seminary in New York City. Richard had seen the LDS commercials on TV, had contacted the missionaries, and was baptized. He hadn’t yet mentioned it to anyone at the school, where boys are preparing to become Catholic priests.
“How are you doing in your subjects?” the counselor began politely on that fateful day in late October.
“Fine,” said Richard, cautiously.
Then the counselor jumped to his real concern. “Are you affiliated with another church?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Why?”
“I have come to know the Savior better in this church. I know this church is doing more for me. It is the church of God.”
As the counselor began to lecture, warning Richard that being a member of a different church was grounds for dismissal, Richard thought how easy it would be to say he’d made it all up. Then he could finish his senior year in peace.
“But I couldn’t do that,” Richard said later. “You can’t deny the truth when you have it.”
By the next day it was official: Richard had to leave.
The following week was torment, Richard said. But with much prayer, his family was able to find space for him in another good school.
“From that experience,” Richard says, “I have learned that the Lord will never abandon me.”
In fact, it gave Richard the chance to tell more people about the gospel, since his classmates wanted to know why he would leave school for his new beliefs.

The summer I turned 12 our Scout troop undertook a 50-mile backpacking trip in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. For years I had heard about the exploits of my older brothers and their friends on previous outings, so I was excited to experience this great adventure for myself. And now I was finally old enough to go.
To my dismay, my father decided he hadn’t been spending enough time with his middle child (me), so he announced he would join us on this trip. I had been looking forward to a sense of independence by being out in the wilderness without the usual parental oversight. These plans were now ruined, but I didn’t let my dad know I was disappointed he was coming.
My dad insisted on hiking with me and giving me pointers and advice along the way. We shared a tent together, and he taught me the proper way to set up a campsite. While the other boys were off enjoying themselves by throwing rocks in the creek or poking sticks in the fire, my dad was showing me how to clear an area of rocks and debris and how to level the ground. He showed me how to lay a tent out and stake it in place, how to tie a taut line so we could properly put up a secure rain fly. And then, just when I was about to burst from the boredom of learning all these details, we had to dig a trench around the tent so if it rained, the water would flow away from the tent and not under it.
When it was my turn to cook the dinner, I was again paired with my dad. We, of course, had to make sure the camp stoves were working properly and were cleaned and serviced. We had to make sure to read, understand, and closely follow all the directions on the freeze-dried dinner packages. Again I watched my friends running out into the woods to play. However, this was the first meal I had on that trip that was properly mixed, prepared, and sufficiently cooked.
After a few days we arrived at Hamilton Lake, where we would spend an extra day to rest. I talked with my dad about how I wanted to try camping on my own at this campsite, and he agreed. I was very excited to finally do things my own way. Upon arriving at the campsite, each Scout quickly scrambled to find a prime location for his tent. I found a place with soft dirt among a few trees to set up my tube tent—a sheet of plastic made into a tube, requiring only that I put a rope through it and tie the rope to two trees. No stakes, no rain fly, no trench, no sweat. I threw my sleeping bag and backpack into the tent and in no time was off throwing rocks into the lake with my friends.
Later I stopped by my father’s tent. He had set up his tent on the smooth and slightly rounded top of a very large boulder bordering the lake. His tent stakes had been hammered into crevices in the rock. Even the rain fly was staked and very taut. I felt a little sorry for him having to sleep on a rock, except that it was his own fault. While everybody else was dashing about claiming all the choice spots, he just stood there and waited until all the good ones were taken.
That night, as I excitedly lay for the first time in my very own tent, it began to rain. At first my tube tent kept me dry, but after a while the rainwater began to build up. I learned that my campsite was so soft and cozy because the rain would regularly wash all the silt, dirt, and sand from the area down into the little gully where I was trying to sleep. Soon there was a small river flowing through my tent. I looked up at the top of the boulder where my dad’s tent stood. The taut rain fly was repelling the rain off the tent. All the water was draining away from the tent and down the sides of the boulder.
After trying to endure awhile longer, I called to my dad, and he invited me to come up and stay in his tent. I grabbed my sleeping bag and foam pad and tried to keep them dry under my jacket as I ran up to the tent. My dad lay inside dry and warm. I tried valiantly to get into the tent without getting anything wet. My dad scooted his sleeping bag over and held my sleeping bag while I got in. He seemed genuinely pleased to have me join him. There were no comments or lectures about my poor campsite decision or lack of preparation. We just talked, and I listened to another of his famous “shaggy dog” stories before falling asleep (a very long story with a very corny punch line). I happily camped and hiked with my dad the rest of that trip and still had plenty of time for fun with my friends.
When I think back on my growing-up years, I can no longer recall many of the things my parents specifically said to me. But when I sometimes feel far away from my Heavenly Father, when I wonder if He is still listening, if He is still there, and if He will accept me back, I remember the tent built upon a rock, prevailing against the rains and the floods and the wind (see Matthew 7:25). I remember the warmth and comfort I felt inside. I remember the love and acceptance I felt then from a kind and forgiving father. And I know my kind and forgiving Heavenly Father loves me too.

Faith is thriving among the Saints of Guatemala. Following are just a few examples:

Carlos Santíz, president of the Mazatenango Guatemala Stake, refers to notes made on a whiteboard during a meeting with bishops, explaining how they followed the direction of Church leaders to meet in council and plan to serve the needs of less-active members. “I’m grateful to the Lord for putting me in this stake presidency because it is a challenge—but a challenge I needed—and it has brought growth,” he says.
Nery Eduardo Marroquín, a counselor in the bishopric of a ward in the Retalhuleu Guatemala Stake, was an evangelical Christian before joining the Church five years ago through the influence of his wife, Ada. He grew up in a home where he learned the importance of personal prayer, the Bible, and worship of Jesus Christ as the Savior, but he felt there was something more. He found it in gospel ordinances that could allow him and his wife to have an eternal family. “Christ said no one will come to the Father ‘but by me’ [John 14:6],” he explains. “And the ordinances are through Him. That’s why it’s such a blessing to have a temple in Guatemala.”
Hector González of the Villa Nueva Guatemala Stake says the gospel has given him strength to face the cancer that cost him a leg and nearly took his life. At one point, he wondered why this should happen to him. His wife brought his patriarchal blessing to him in the hospital, and he found hope in its promise of a long life of service. When it became obvious that he would lose his right leg, he received a spiritual witness that all would be well. After the surgery, he recalls, “It was incredible the support I found in reading the Book of Mormon. It gave me the strength to go on.” Now back at work, he says, “I know the Lord has been watching over me. I know He has cared for me through all of this.”
Jorge Popá, a member of the Quetzaltenango Guatemala Stake, originally invited the sister missionaries to his home to help his wife understand the English instructions that came with the bread maker he had bought her. The sisters agreed—if they could also share the gospel message with the family. After the missionary lessons, Jorge and his wife, Mirna, told the missionaries they weren’t interested in baptism. But that night neither Jorge nor Mirna could sleep. At the same time, each felt moved to get out of bed and pray about what they had been taught, and each received the same manifestation of the truth. They sought out the sister missionaries at church on Sunday and asked to be baptized. After their baptism, the Popás faced the problem many converts face: how to tell their family they had broken with the traditional religion. Their four-year-old son (who is now a deacon) solved that problem at a family gathering. When someone served tea, he stood and announced, “We don’t drink that! We’re Mormons.”
Udine Falabella was president of the first stake organized in Guatemala, in 1967. In 1965, as district president in Guatemala City, he organized the first temple trip from the area, by bus across México to Mesa, Arizona, in the United States. It was a great blessing to Guatemala when the temple was dedicated in Guatemala City in 1984, he says. It was a blessing for him to serve later as its president; he was released in 2000 after more than four years in that position.
He recalls that, in dedicating the temple, President Gordon B. Hinckley pronounced a blessing of peace on the country. Not long afterward, the country’s long period of civil strife came to an end. Perhaps more important, though, was the fact that Guatemalan members could now enjoy the peace of the temple without having to travel so far from home.
Brother Falabella’s granddaughter Evelyn was married in that temple in December 2000. She says many young Guatemalans who see unhappy or failing marriages around them have lost faith in the institution of marriage and may feel it is better to put time into developing their careers, marrying later if at all. “I believe if I didn’t have the gospel in my life, I wouldn’t have dared get married right now,” she says. But through the gospel, she continues, there is peace in facing the challenges because we can know the eternal reasons for marriage and the everlasting blessings it can bring.
And that, says Brother Falabella, is indicative of the change that has come to the Church in Guatemala in his lifetime: thousands of strong Latter-day Saints now have all the means to implement full gospel programs and enjoy their blessings.
José Sazo agrees that the gospel blessings available in his country and his generation are rich—for those who strive to receive them. José, who was not yet born when that first stake was created in Guatemala, is now president of the Guatemala City Guatemala Florida Stake.
It takes constant, consistent effort to maintain strong families and marriages, President Sazo says. He and his wife, Claudia, both served missions in their country, and they agree that much of the secret to maintaining strong marriages can be found in two good habits learned by missionaries: frequent, loving companionship evaluations (conversations about how their marriage is going) and regular gospel study. “If I had a prescription for happiness,” President Sazo says, “it would be to study the scriptures together always.”
President Sazo adds that he and his wife “are agreed on this: we want to do everything we can for our children so they will become strong leaders and the Lord will be able to call them to do whatever He wants, without reservation.”
So it was with those strong Church members in this country more than half a century ago who were willing to persevere in the gospel no matter what challenges they faced. And so it is now with the heirs of this spiritual legacy: the future of the Church in Guatemala will be in the hands of those ready to answer the call of the Lord without reservation.

In high school I had many opportunities to drink and smoke and do a lot of other unwholesome things. It just didn’t make sense to me to participate. In fact, it seemed destructive. So I got very good at saying, “No thanks.” Sometimes I would even challenge my friends to give it up. Also, I could see the misery that immorality caused, and I wanted no part of it. I made a personal commitment to save sexual intimacy for marriage. It seemed the only right way. At times I felt pretty alone, but I held on to my personal beliefs.
My family was not religious, so I didn’t belong to a church. It was through evangelists on television that I first learned about prayer. It made sense to pray, so I did and it felt good to be able to talk to my Heavenly Father. I felt I had a friend I could talk to who understood how I felt.

The day starts early. Everyone meets in the parking lot of a conveniently located, no-longer-in-business shopping center. The on-timers chastise the late-comers, the leaders gather everyone together for prayer, they all debate about who’s riding in which car, and pretty soon the parking lot is vacant once more.
Next stop is the commercial fishing dock at Port St. Joe where Brother Davis ties up the Randy F. And of course, before anyone heads out to sea, he’ll lecture them—just a little—about safety, good conduct, and the fine arts of clamming and scalloping.
“Ya’ll reach down there with your toes in the mud,” he says, his hands outstretched and his fingers wriggling ecstatically. “Nudge around till you feel somethin’ solid. Then catch yourself a good lung full o’ air, dive down and snatch it.”
“How do you tell if it’s a rock or a scallop?” inquires Dan Stone, second counselor in the Marianna Florida Stake presidency, who is not a Florida native.
“There are no rocks in Florida,” chimes one of the youth, and everyone laughs. It’s nearly true. Miles inland or miles out to sea, everything is sand, mud, or pebbles. Roads are paved with red clay from Georgia.
Brother Davis mixes humor and instruction well. Every person present is a strong swimmer, but there are still reminders about using the buddy system. “When one of you is under, one of you stays up. Then if there’s trouble you can holler.” There are reminders about staying with the group, staying close to the boat, about remembering that everybody has to help catch the food. “You don’t work, you don’t eat.”
And, of course, a mild reminder about appropriate conduct. “Ah ketch any of y’all misbehavin’, and ah’ll rip your limbs off.”
By the time other precautions (like making sure to wear T-shirts and to use sun screen to keep from burning) are issued, and farewells are said to a stray dog on the pier, a horn is blasting to warn that the drawbridge is being raised, and the good ship Randy F. is chugging out into the bay. “Can’t you go faster?” someone yells.
“Cain’t do,” Brother Davis replies. “It’s full throttle now, and we got 47 younguns aboard.”
Past a paper mill on the near side of Cape San Blas, past fishermen casting from the shallows, past a pelican perched on a piling, the boat lumbers through still, smooth water toward an obscure little lump of palm trees known as Black’s Island.
The constant throbbing of the engine stops. The boat staggers, like an out-of-shape runner stumbling over the finish line. Something whirs, chains clank, and the anchor splashes into the sea.
“The water’s deep here, so be careful,” Brother Davis says. “You can dive off the boat, but then make for the shallows over there. That’s where the clams are.” The bishop watches from a small four-man boat nearby, just to make sure everyone gets there safely.
It isn’t long before the whole group makes it out of the deep water into the chest-deep water covering a sandy shelf. It’s warm, like a swimming pool. Clear, like a swimming pool. Ripple-free, like a swimming pool. But boy is it salty!
“It tastes nasty,” says Kathy Shuler, 13. “And it stings your eyes.”
Soon there are buckets full of clams, and everyone moves on to the waist-deep water, where scallops hide in the sea grass.
“If you don’t have a mask or a snorkel, then you feel with your feet or watch to see them clapping their shells together,” Robert explains. “I only caught three by watching for them. Feet are more reliable.”
Troy Davis, 18, who has worked on fishing boats for about six summers, agrees. “Clamming is the same way. You bump something with your foot, then dig around and catch it before it tunnels any deeper. Clams won’t bite you. Every once in a while a scallop will give your toe a pinch, but it doesn’t hurt.”
Troy says he’s glad he came, that it’s fun to teach the younger kids about shellfishing. He’s graduated from Mosley High and from four years of seminary, and will soon be leaving on a mission. It isn’t hard to get him to talk about it, even standing out in the water.
A few at a time, the fishermen return to the Randy F. They take a few minutes to recuperate, then the clams and scallops have to be shucked; stoves heated up; cake, beans, soda, and salads unpacked and set out; seafood cooked; hushpuppies fried, and a heartfelt blessing said.
And then, of course, it’s time to eat.
Jeff Clark, 17, watches the hush puppies bobbing up and down in the hot oil, the corn meal turning from pale yellow to golden brown. “I usually go scalloping about twice a year,” he says. “But this is my first time to go clamming, and my legs are sore! I’m not used to digging holes with my feet.”
He and Troy talk a little about working on the seine boats, catching mullet and bluefish, sardines and herring. Then they talk a bit about Troy’s mission and wonder when his call might come. They remember the fun they’ve had on other youth outings, like the canoe trip on the Blackwater River.
“That’s legendary,” Jeff says.
“You know,” Troy says, “these other kids, these younger kids, they need to realize that the years they’re living now can be some of the best years of their life. They need to get the most out of these years that they can.”
Austin Davis, talking with someone else on the other side of the boat, is saying much the same thing.
“Six or seven years ago we went out and had a day like this on a shrimp boat,” he says. “Those kids are married now and have families of their own, but they still remember things like this. I’ve talked to kids who’ve served missions and come back, and they still remember doing things like this.
“It’s the same way for these kids. For some of them it’s their first time on the water. A lot of things in life they won’t remember, but these sorts of things, being out with their friends doing good things, that’s something they won’t ever forget.
“And I like these kids. I’d do whatever I could to help them. We’ve really got some jam-up kids.”
The conversations are interrupted for a short awards ceremony. Prizes are given for the worst sunburn, smallest scallop, biggest scallop, most scallops, biggest clam, smallest clam, and most clams. Winners receive sunburn lotion, lollipops, and leftover bottles of soft drinks. And everybody’s a winner, because everybody shares.
On the way home, it’s impossible to resist making one more stop. Not too far from Black’s Island, there’s an island so small it doesn’t even have a name. It’s more like a pile of sand. You can walk around it completely in five minutes.
Again the sand is white. It’s hot on your feet, but not hot enough to burn. An abandoned boat rests like a black skeleton on the beach. Horseshoe crabs scrabble for cover among the shells and sand dollars that nature has spread out like an exhibit in a design gallery. Sea oats, tall and green with golden tassles, bend in the wind as if waving in greeting—or in farewell.
Not everyone comes to this island. Some spend a few final moments diving off the boat again. Others, tired, rest eyes that are weary of salt water and sea spray. It isn’t long before the leaders are calling the adventurers back on board. It’s time to go home.
The next morning, in the foyer before priesthood meeting starts, three 12-year-old deacons are talking. They’ve already had their presidency meeting, made their assignments for passing the sacrament, even had a reminder from their adviser about being reverent and remembering the sacredness of helping people renew their covenants.
But now, for a minute, they remember yesterday.
Dale Estey brags about the sea urchin he caught in a net.
“But somebody threw it back in,” he says.
Wesley Davis says the favorite thing for him was diving off the boat, and seeing the leaders do the same.
Richard Stemphoski says that now if he’s ever lost, he at least knows how to find clams and scallops. “And I already know how to make a fire without matches, so I could cook them,” he says.
Over in another hallway, outside the room where the Young Women meet, Lacrisa Laster, Angela Pierce, and Karen Davis, all 16, and Michelle Laster, 14, complain—just a little—about how stiff their sunburn makes them feel. And they laugh—just a little—about how funny one of the leaders looked trying to breathe through a snorkel tube.
“We really had a great time,” Michelle says. “When can we go again?”
Austin Davis was right. The memories are already starting to build.

In 1838 the Saints in Missouri were ordered to leave the state or be killed. In October of that year, while meeting with the state militia (army) to resolve some problems, many Church leaders, including the Prophet Joseph Smith, were arrested for crimes they had not committed.
Towards evening I was waited upon by Colonel Hinkle, who stated that the officers of the militia desired to have an interview with me and some others. … I immediately complied. … Instead of being treated with … respect … , we were taken as prisoners of war, and treated with the utmost contempt.
Myself and fellow prisoners were taken to [Far West]. … I found my wife and children in tears, who feared we had been shot. … I was then obliged to take my departure. … My [wife] wept, my children clung to me, until they were thrust from me by the swords of the guards.
The prisoners were taken first to Independence, Missouri, then to Richmond, Missouri, where they were jailed while awaiting trial.
[We] were brought … for trial, charged with … high treason … , murder, burglary, arson [setting fires], robbery, and larceny [a kind of stealing]. …
Those of us who had been sentenced thereto, were [moved] to Liberty jail. …
After we were cast into prison, we heard nothing but threatenings, that, if any judge or jury, or court of any kind, should clear any of us, we should never get out of the state alive. …
Those who have not been enclosed in the walls of prison without cause … , can have but little idea how sweet the voice of a friend is; … and when the heart is sufficiently contrite, then the voice of inspiration steals along and whispers,
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment. …
“If thou art called to pass through tribulation; …
“If thou art accused with all manner of false accusations … and thou be dragged to prison, and thine enemies prowl around thee like wolves for the blood of the lamb;
“And if thou shouldst be cast into the pit, or into the hands of murderers, and the sentence of death passed upon thee; … and above all, if the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.
“The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?
“… Thy days are known, and thy years shall not be numbered less; therefore, fear not what man can do, for God shall be with you forever and ever.” (D&C 121:7; D&C 122:5–9.)
In April 1839, after being in prison for about five months, the prisoners at Liberty jail were transferred to Boone County, Missouri, for another trial. They escaped with the assistance of the sheriff and the guards and fled to Illinois to join the other Saints who had been driven from Missouri.
(See History of the Church, vol. 3, pages 188–189, 193, 209, 215, 242–243, 293.)