Gospel Story Finder

While at his grandmother’s home, Domingos had developed a desire to serve a full-time mission. “I prayed, and the answer was very certain that I should go when I turned 19. From then on, my mind was made up—I just needed to prepare.”
He found that if he completed his first year of study, the University of the Northern Territory would agree to give him two years off to serve. But he would have to carry an even harder class load for a few months before he left. “My coordinator actually encouraged me and said the mission would be a good experience,” Domingos says. Domingos continued something he had done since high school—telling fellow students about the steps of repentance and the plan of salvation.
He intensified his scripture study, memorizing many passages. “The scriptures brought me peace,” he says. “They reminded me of the things I should be doing.”
He joined the full-time missionaries when they gave discussions. He often bore his testimony. He kept a journal, writing in it every day. His Church leaders interviewed him, found him worthy, and sent in his missionary application.
Then one day, this time when he returned from church, his father ordered him out of the house for the fourth time. “It was pretty final,” Domingos says. “He was not pleased with my plans for a mission. He said if I went, I wouldn’t be his son anymore.”
Domingos’s branch president, Michael Kuhn, invited him to live in his home until the mission call arrived.
Finished with his schoolwork, Domingos filled his days with prayer, uplifting music, Church activities, missionary work, and scripture study. Sometimes he would read the scriptures all day long.
And then the letter came: “You are called to labor in the Hong Kong Mission.” Domingos returned home for a short time to try to make peace with his family before he left. “Mainly because they knew they could not change my mind, they yielded,” he says. Before he left, the family went out to dinner together and took lots of farewell photos.
Letters written from the Missionary Training Center and from the mission field reflect the joy that quickly followed:
—“At the airport I was able to meet one of the missionaries who taught me, Elder (Hoyt) Skabelund, and his wife and baby and parents. I am slowly learning Cantonese. The people in the MTC are wonderful.”
—“I’ve received two letters from my mother. Everything is going well at home. They are being blessed greatly, and they know it! My family and relatives are now happy that I am serving a mission. Surely God is a God of miracles!”
—“I have done my first street display, talking to everyone who goes by. I have taught the six discussions in Cantonese.”
—“Now I have been transferred to Macau, a Portuguese colony neighbouring the coast of China. I am pretty lucky because not many missionaries get to serve here. We are teaching an investigator, and he will be baptized. I know that God called me here to do a special work.”
—“Every inconvenience was worth overcoming to read the Book of Mormon. Every insult was worth swallowing to keep the Sabbath holy. Every moment was worth waiting for to kneel in private prayer, every pain worth enduring to attend church. Every blow was worth taking, every torment worth suffering, every tear worth shedding to come on this mission.”
Today in Macau, Elder Liao looks out the window of his missionary apartment and sees a promised land.
“When I decided to go on a mission,” he says, “I knew there would be strong currents against me. I didn’t really know the dangers lurking in the water, what might try to sting me or to swallow me up. I was thinking only about making it. Now here I am, and I know that it’s worth it.”
And he is eager to build a bridge to help others, including his family, to cross over to the other side.

by Jeanne McInelly
The silent dignity of the Arkansas House of Representatives was pierced with shouts of “Contact! Contact!” A hundred Arkansas seminary students were clamoring for points in the final scripture chase contest of the year.
“Hold it down! Quiet, quiet! Let’s remember where we are,” cautioned the teacher. “Are you ready? Here’s the clue for scripture number seven.”
It all began the month before in seminary officers meeting where plans were being laid for the next Super Saturday.
“Hey, our lesson is on good government next month.”
“Wow, let’s all go to Washington!”
“No, we’ve got roadshow practice that morning.”
“Well, how about having our lesson at the state capitol building at Little Rock?”
“You’ve got to be important to get in there.”
“Well, so who’s more important than LDS seminary students from all over the state—in our Sunday best?”
“It’s worth trying for. At least after we ask they’ll know there are Mormons in Arkansas.”
Within a week officials were approached, permission was received, and the secretary of state had agreed to speak to the group. Bright picture postcards of the capitol building arrived at all 12 seminary classes around the state announcing the news.
“We’ve got the state capitol building for the next month’s Super Saturday! Be sure to dress up. Now we’re the VIPs.”
The morning of the activity, prior to the lesson, the seminary officers met in a plush committee room complete with microphones at each desk and swivel executive chairs.
“Such class! We ought to meet here every month.”
“So this is what my license plate fee pays for!”
For the lesson students climbed the white marble stairs leading to the assembly room where a seminary fife and drum corps brought in the flag. The Arkansas secretary of state, Kelly Bryant, was a special guest speaker. Some visitors touring the building paused to admire the group and to ask, “Are these kids some special committee for the governor?”
As part of the lesson students impersonating prominent Book of Mormon characters gave campaign speeches in an effort to win votes from the group and gain imaginary seats on the Zarahemla City Council. As this was in progress, one of the state representatives, returning with his wife for some papers, paused to listen and chuckle at King Noah as he confused his interrogators with evasive answers and political double talk. “He sounds like one of us at a press conference,” laughed the representative.
After the lesson students were treated to a tour of the governor’s conference room. Their enthusiasm and good deportment won them a rare peek at the chambers of the state supreme court. “Nobody gets to see these rooms except on court day, but for you I’ll make an exception,” said their guide.
Picnic lunches under the sweet Magnolia trees on the capitol grounds rounded out the impressive day. Between crunches of potato chips, conversations were overheard:
“You know, one of our seminary group just might be a state legislator here someday.”
“Yeah, that kid who played King Noah seemed like he had potential.”

After winning a silver medal in the 1960 Olympic 400-meter hurdles in Rome, Cliff Sushman fell in the 1964 Olympic trials and missed a chance for Tokyo. Several fans in his hometown wrote to Cliff expressing sympathy. His reply:
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for some of you.
“In a split second all the many years of training, pain, sweat, blisters, and agony of running were simply and irrevocably wiped out. But I tried. I would much rather fall knowing I had put forth an honest effort than never to have tried at all. … Each of you is capable of trying to make your own personal Olympic team, whether it be a high school football team, the glee club, the honor roll, or whatever your role may be. Unless your reach exceeds your grasp, how can you be sure what you can attain?
“… Certainly I was disappointed in falling flat on my face. However, there is nothing I can do about it now but get up, pick the cinders from my wounds, and take one more step, followed by one more and one more, until the steps turn into miles and the miles into success.
“I know that I may never make it. The odds are against me, but I have something in my favor—desire and faith.
“Some of you have never known the satisfaction of doing your best in sports, the joy of excelling in class, the wonderful feeling of completing the job and looking back on it knowing you have done your best.
“… There is plenty of room at the top, but no room for anyone to sit down.”

Hi, Stephanie! I’m Lule, Aleksander’s niece. He told me that you and I are about the same age.
Hey, Lule. I remember hearing about you. Aleksander said you live in Albania. That’s so cool!
That’s funny—to me, living in America sounds cool! Hahaha. What are you doing this weekend?
I have a basketball game on Saturday morning, then I’m going to a Latter-day Saint temple. On Sunday I’m going to go to church. What are you doing?
Not much. I saw a picture of the Salt Lake Temple on the Internet. It is beautiful! My uncle told me that you are a Mormon, just like he is. I’ve been to church with him a few times. I really liked it! I would love to go every week, but I usually have things to do with my family on Sundays.
If you want, I can take notes at church each week and send them to you. That way you can learn more about what we believe in.
Oh, thank you! I would love to hear what you talk about there.
Hey, Lule! I hope you had a good week. Church was great yesterday. Here are some notes I took. We talked a lot about service and prayer.
When we serve other people, we are serving God (read Mosiah 2:17 at scriptures.lds.org).
Check out “Dayton’s Legs” on YouTube. It is about a boy who helped his friend, who has cerebral palsy, compete in a triathlon.
God is there for you and will listen to you when you pray. I found this article that talks about how to pray: lds.org/youth/article/how-to-pray.
Stephanie, thanks so much! That video was so inspiring! I pray a lot, and I want to do the right thing, … but how can I know if what I’m doing is right?
Stephanie is still teaching Lule about the gospel by sending her notes and answering her questions. Stephanie says that when she takes notes on Sundays, “the lessons stay with me more.” And by answering Lule’s questions, Stephanie gets to have meaningful discussions about the gospel with her parents. This experience has also taught Stephanie about missionary work. “I can still be a missionary even though I’m young,” she says.

Emilie looked out her window at the Arizona desert. Even the spiky plants and shrubs seemed gray and cold this Christmas. It was the end of 1908, a hard year for Emilie’s family. Her father was serving a three-year mission in Samoa, a faraway island in the Pacific Ocean.
Emilie knew they would not have presents under the tree this year. Her little sister, Faith, was too young to understand that there was no money for presents. Any extra money Mama earned from selling eggs went to help Papa on his mission.
Emilie turned to Mama. Mama’s eyes looked sad and worried. Was she thinking about Christmas too?
“It’s all right, Mama,” Emilie said. “I don’t need any presents.”
Mama smiled, but just a little.
“We won’t have presents,” Mama said. “But we have each other. And we are blessed because Papa is serving Heavenly Father.”
Emilie wrapped her arms around Mama’s waist. “That’s enough for me,” she said.
The day before Christmas, Mama baked cookies using some extra sugar she had bought with egg money. Emilie and Faith decorated the cookies with raisins and peppermint pieces. They would be delicious Christmas treats! But Emilie knew Faith would still be sad to not have any real presents this year.
As Emilie got ready for bed that night, she picked up her doll, Sarah. Sarah had a beautiful dress and a real china face with painted eyes, nose, and mouth. While Emilie held Sarah, she suddenly had an idea. She loved Sarah. But she loved someone else even more.
Early Christmas morning, Emilie and Faith ran into the front room. Beneath the tree were two plates of cookies, two oranges—and one wrapped package!
Mama picked up the brown paper package. She turned it over in her hands.
“Faith, it has your name on it.”
Faith’s eyes grew wide. Eagerly, she tore open the paper. She stared at the doll, then at Emilie.
“It’s Sarah,” Faith said. “But you love her more than anything.”
Faith started to hand the doll back to Emilie. But Emilie shook her head and hugged her sister instead.
“I love you more.”
Emilie saw Mama wipe tears from her eyes.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything to give you, Mama,” Emilie said in a small voice.
Mama smiled, and this time her smile was a big one.
“Your gift to Faith is the best present you could have ever given me,” she said, pulling them both into a hug.
Emilie, Faith, and Mama sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy their Christmas treats. Emilie bit into a cookie. She loved the sweet taste, but the warmth that filled her heart was even sweeter.

Before his mission had ended, Elder Spori had received word from an almost inconsolable wife, still in Switzerland, that their eldest daughter, Katherine, had died from injuries received in a fall from a swing. Jacob, knowing well of the gospel’s ability to heal spiritual wounds, wrote his wife of the doctrines of the Church. She was touched by these new truths and became convinced the gospel was true.
Mrs. Spori applied for baptism and was reunited with her husband when he arrived in Switzerland following his missionary labors. She later bore fervent testimony and gave thanks for the eternal truths the gospel brought into her life.

Illustration by Ben Savage
Last February, one of our Sunday lessons was about the importance of making wise choices. My class discussed the value of deciding now what we will and will not do in several situations. We learned that by making our choices before the moments of decision arrive, we’ll have a stronger commitment to do what’s right.
At the end of the lesson, our teacher invited us to go home and make a list of things we will do and a list of things we will never do. I completed the assignment and made two simple lists. As I continued pondering, however, I felt the Spirit prompting me to add to my list by setting personal guidelines for dating. I want to get married in the temple someday—it’s something I’ll never be willing to sacrifice. So with that goal in mind, I added to my two lists, including that I’ll date only people with high standards.
Soon after, one of my great friends asked me to go to prom with him. Even though he wasn’t a Church member, I knew he had high standards and would help me keep my standards. So I said yes. We went as friends and enjoyed a fun night together. Since we both had high standards, I wasn’t tempted to do anything I’d decided I would never do.
Because I followed the Spirit and set these standards for myself, I’m able to look back on prom and be happy about the choices I made. I’m so grateful for my teacher’s invitation, because it’s helped me keep the temple as my focus.

The young women in the Paradise Ward, Adelaide Australia Modbury Stake, found a great way to combine service and fun when they organized a Wake-a-thon.
The girls wanted to earn money for John Stevens, a member of their ward who had recently become a paraplegic, and his wife and children. Sixteen girls and six leaders committed friends, relatives, and neighbors to pledging money for every hour they stayed awake during a "sleep-over."
Then they designed activities through the night to focus on the seven different Young Women values. These activities included ironing clothes for busy mothers, writing to missionaries serving from their ward, preparing a Young Women sacrament program, and making toys for patients at a local children’s hospital. They also watched a movie about the true story of a paraplegic woman.
When the sun came up, the girls discovered they had stayed awake long enough to earn over $550, which was almost half the cost of a wheelchair. And they discovered that it is possible to serve and have fun at the same time.

“Guess what!” Ben shouted as he burst into the kitchen. “I get to go on the fifth-grade field trip to Chicago. It’s going to be three days. We get to stay in a hotel and ride the train and everything!”
Alex trudged in behind his big brother and dropped his books on the counter. He wanted to be happy for Ben. He really did. But Alex and Ben had never been apart. Not even for one night.
Every day they rode the bus to and from school together. They played football together. They went to church together. Ben wasn’t just Alex’s big brother; he was also his best friend.
Alex had a jittery feeling in his stomach. How would he get along without his brother for three whole days and nights?
“Can I call Dad at work to tell him about the field trip?” Ben asked.
Mom nodded. “Go ahead. He’ll be excited for you.”
After Ben ran to get the phone, Mom saw Alex’s sad face. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Why does Ben have to go away?” Alex grumbled. “Why can’t his class just stay at school?”
“Are you worried about missing him?” Mom asked.
Alex nodded. “What am I going to do without him?”
“It will be pretty tough to have Ben gone,” Mom said and ruffled Alex’s hair. “But Dad and I will be here. We’re not so bad, are we?” She made a funny face, and Alex smiled, just a little.
“Not so bad,” he agreed.
But the next morning, Alex felt nervous again.
“When Ben leaves I’ll have to go to school on my own,” Alex said. “He hasn’t even left, and I already miss him!”
“You know, I bet Ben feels the same. What if you did something special for his trip?” Mom asked.
“I guess …” Alex thought about what he could do for Ben. That night he decided to pray about it.
“Heavenly Father, Ben is going away on a school trip. He’ll probably miss me too. I want to do something special to help him not be lonely.” Alex kept thinking, and soon he had a great idea. He would make a going-away bag for Ben. Ben was going to love it!
Over the next week, Alex did extra chores to earn money to buy a few little surprises to put in the bag. He put in a fun comic book, Ben’s favorite candy bars, a picture of Jesus, and a little stuffed dog that looked like their own dog, Whiskers. Finally Alex wrote a letter to Ben telling him how much he loved him.
The morning of the trip, everyone got up early. Dad gave Ben a father’s blessing. Then the family knelt and had a prayer. They asked Heavenly Father to help Ben be safe on his trip.
After the prayer Alex gave the going-away bag to Ben. “This is for you. You can’t open it until you’re on the bus.”
Ben hugged Alex. “Thanks! This is the best surprise ever.”
When Ben left, Alex wasn’t so sad anymore. He was excited thinking about Ben opening up his special bag. They would have lots to tell each other when Ben got back.

I just finished reading the September New Era. It was the first Church magazine I have had the pleasure of reading. Thanks. It helps me. I am presently in the U.S. Coast Guard, stationed at the San Francisco Airport.
I was baptized into the Church a little over two years ago. It marked a turning point in my life and helped me to find peace of mind. Shortly thereafter I enlisted in the coast guard. I went through a tough boot camp and spent some great Sundays with other guys in the Church. I can remember someone saying that there was a reason for us to be there and that our Heavenly Father had a purpose for us.
After two trips to the Antarctic and one to the Arctic on the Glacier, the biggest coast guard icebreaker, I enrolled in aviation school for six months. Then it happened—Millington, Tennessee, and the greatest little branch you’ll ever see. I can’t begin to express my love for those people back there. I had been there less than a month when the branch president called me as a Sunday School teacher. I loved it. My students helped me to gain a testimony of my own. I was living off the joy that everyone else poured into me, when suddenly I found out for myself the sweet, honest, joyful truth of the gospel.
My testimony got me started into many Church activities, such as our roadshow, which took first place. Then there was the branch sweet potato project. I can remember the men and boys working in the field early one morning and then coming back to a good hot breakfast prepared by the sisters of the branch, while the girls watched the little children. Fantastic! I was later appointed teacher of the Blazers in Primary. Just think! I played a part in preparing those boys for the Aaronic Priesthood! You should drop out to Millington, Tennessee, sometime and be filled with the Spirit.
Thanks again for the joy your magazine brings.
Kurt CattonLos Altos Hills, California

Many years ago, our 15-year-old son Eric suffered a serious head injury. Seeing him in a coma for over a week broke our hearts. The doctors told us they were uncertain about what would happen next. Obviously, we were thrilled when he began to regain consciousness. We thought now everything was going to be fine, but we were mistaken.

When he awoke, he could not walk or talk or feed himself. Worst of all, he had no short-term memory. He could remember most everything before the accident, but he had no ability to remember events after, even things which had happened only minutes earlier.

For a time, we worried we would have a son locked in the mind of a 15-year-old. Things had come very easily to our son before the accident. He was athletic, popular, and did very well in school. Before, his future seemed bright; now we worried he may not have much of a future, at least one he could remember. He now struggled to relearn very, very basic skills. This was a very humbling time for him. It was also a very humbling time for his parents.

Honestly, we wondered how such a thing could happen. We had always strived to do the right things. Living the gospel had been a high priority for our family. We couldn’t understand how something so painful could happen to us. We were driven to our knees as it soon became apparent his rehabilitation would take months, even years. More difficult still was the gradual realization he would not be as he was before.

During this time, many tears were shed and our prayers became even more heartfelt and sincere. Through the eyes of humility, we gradually began to see the small miracles which our son experienced during this painful time. He began making gradual improvement. His attitude and outlook were very positive.

Today, our son Eric is married to a wonderful companion, and they have five beautiful children. He is a passionate educator and contributor to his community, as well as the Church. Most important, he continues to live in the same spirit of humility he gained long ago.

Paul, 11, was exhausted. He was almost too tired to look up from the river in which he was wading to the cliffs that surrounded him.
The red sandstone walls loomed high over the riverbed, spanning it like a pair of giant legs, 2,400 feet straight up, or twice the height of the Empire State Building. They seemed so close to each other that Paul felt like Jason about to steer the Argonauts between the monolithic Cyanean rocks, which crashed together and squashed ships that dared to pass through.
Moving his 80 pounds against the swift current while he looked, Paul suddenly slipped, but an older, bony hand grabbed his and held him up.
“Once when I was walking through here with some other fellows, I fell right in,” Paul’s 74-year-old grandfather, Otto Fife, said to him. “That was the first time I knew you could hear sounds underwater; I could hear all the other birds laughing at me!”
Paul giggled, and the two continued to ford the Virgin River, now hand-in-hand.
It was one of many experiences during an exhilarating two-day hike through the Narrows of Zion National Park in southwestern Utah. The trip, a family get-together in one of nature’s most supreme wonders, was one that Otto and his seven grandchildren would always remember.
For Otto, too, it was historic.
Years ago, when only a few men had tried the tramp through the huge, long defile in the Markagunt Plateau known as the Zion Narrows, he had ventured down its course. It had a lure that pulled him into its depths as surely as a cactus plant sucks up moisture in desert sand. “There’s something about the Narrows I can’t get away from,” Otto tells his grandchildren. He has hiked the Alps, the Matterhorn, the Sierra Nevadas, across the Grand Canyon, and “all over America,” but nothing compares to Zion Canyon, with its awe-inspiring combination of narrowness and depth.
Otto has hiked it 49 times—far more than any other man—and planned his 50th trip as a gala event. He invited his two daughters’ families to join him. From Beaverton, Oregon, came his son-in-law, Don Woodlief, and the Woodlief children—Donna, 15; Bruce, 13; and Graydon, 12. The Jones family arrived from Tustin, California, including Nadine, 22; Chris, 18; Richard, 14; and Paul. Only Nadine and Chris had been through the Narrows before.
On a sunny Saturday morning, early, Otto and 16 others met on a private ranch at the top of the Virgin River’s North Fork to begin the rugged, 15-mile hike. Grassy meadows and sandy flats greeted the adventurers’ first steps as they followed the meandering stream.
Paul announced enthusiastically that he would carry anyone’s pack if they got tired, but he soon relinquished his own load to his father.
The panoramic backdrop that unfolded as Otto’s companions on his 50th trip rounded the first of a thousand bends and twists in the river was stunning. “It is impossible to describe adequately the grandeur,” wrote Grove K. Gilbert in his 1873 diary of the first recorded trek down the Narrows.
Only ten years before, young Joseph Black, a Mormon pioneer, had sung the canyon’s poetic beauty from its clifftops and been laughed at by his friends. They called the place, deridingly, “Joseph’s Glory,” just as those who heard John Colter’s eulogy of Yellowstone named that park “Colter’s Hell.”
Nadine, a self-described artist, was awed by Joseph’s rainbow canyon of color through which she was walking—even though she’d been through it before. “I wonder if it could be painted,” she paused once and mused.
Not even Van Gogh, though, might have attempted to capture Zion’s picture … of brilliant-colored rocks in shades of chocolate, vermilion, lilac, maroon, blue and yellow … of white alpine fir trees, maple hardwood, ponderosa pines, or golf-course green Aspen trees, shimmering in the breeze … of the canyon’s traffic: wrens, chattering squirrels, orange and black butterflies, and water ouzels …
“Gosh!” That’s all 12-year-old Graydon could say about it, and maybe that said it all.
After about two hours out, the whole group halted in a grove of pines as the younger members began calling for lunch. The perspiring hikers made a rite of the midday meal—salami, oranges, crackers, fruit punch, and sandwiches of all sizes and fillings. Richard finished early and poked his walking stick in the riverbank mud. “Anyone for golf?” he shouted, as he took a swing at the water and doused Donna. She hastened back to the safety of more peaceful picnickers, and Richard went off by himself to drill in the mud for oil.
“How many more miles do we have to go?” Paul asked, a little tuckered-out.
Grandfather Fife looked at him, and winked. “About 100 miles!”
With a second wind, the group pushed out again, this time wading in the water. Marching through the Narrows is one excursion where everybody gets their feet wet. There’s no way to avoid baptizing those walking appendages—eventually. In places the water is knee-high, and waist-high in others. To wee-er ones, that translates to neck-high, and a little swimming or piggyback is required.
Once, when Otto was leading a San Fernando, California, LDS Boy Scout Troop, he gave a small, laughed-at lad the important task of notching his stick with a nail each time they crossed the river. Faithful to the task, the boy scratched 252 marks on the stick by the trip’s end. (Brother Fife, now choir president of the Cedar City [Utah] 5th Ward, has led 1,060 LDS Scouts through the Narrows in all.)
“My feet feel like squeegees,” Paul piped, as he sloshed along a riverbank and up on a little pine-cone strewn plateau.
Many obstacles appeared before the hikers along the path—upturned redwood trees spanning the canyon and huge, wedgelike rocks, some so square they looked like massive beef bullion cubes. Potholes and brief caves offered extra enticement to those with spunk and spirit. Bruce was off into a series of caves that burrowed through one sandstone wall like an anthill before anyone could call him back.
About mid-afternoon the 17 hikers found an obstacle that stymied them—a 20-foot rocky waterfall. When it appeared there was no other way down, Otto asked for a volunteer, while veteran Nadine quietly smiled over this trick she’d seen on her last Narrows trek. Graydon stepped forward and, imitating the beginning of a leap, was held back by the all-knowing Otto: “There’s another way.”
He took the group through some trees and bushes on the left bank to a small crack in the rock, barely three feet wide. As they descended the hidden, natural cleft staircase, Otto was laughing with his arm around Graydon. “I did have to jump that the first time I went through,” he explained. “But the next trip I saw deer tracks leading up here. I followed them, and found this crevice.”
By this time it was late afternoon, and the distance between the weary hikers, whose packs had grown heavier and heavier, began to widen. Bruce, deacon’s quorum president in his home ward, surged in the lead. “This is what they mean by getting away from it all,” he told Richard, when the hikers reassembled. “I like to be where no one else is—to see everything before everyone else.”
The hikers had gathered at the Y-shaped confluence of the North Fork and Deep Creek—known locally as Crystal Creek because of its sparkling-clear water, as compared to the muddy Virgin. The area was a natural, red-and-white temple set off by emerald-green cottonwood and the bright, yellow beams of the sun, which were slanting on the tall walls. From this waterstop on, it was a race to the campsite for the night. Caution was always required, as the marchers felt around on the riverbottom with their walking staffs for safe footing or took care to avoid soggy sand along the bank.
At one point, Graydon and Donna, who had been bringing up the rear with their father, stepped into some quicksand—more accurately, water-saturated sand. Graydon quickly leaped free, but Donna struggled too hard and was soon in the bog up to her waist. Graydon and his father couldn’t pull her out, and the others were too far ahead. But Chris Jones, who had arrived later in the day and started the hike with a friend, caught up to them from behind like the Cavalry. Between the four men, a branch, and stepping stones that kept sinking in the mud, she was extricated, a little shaken after the half-hour ordeal. “Guess I don’t have to find those scissors to cut your legs off,” Chris laughed, trying to cheer her up.
Fires were lit and sleeping bags set up at the Grotto, a sandy, flat alcove in the canyon wall. Boots and sneakers were propped up on sticks next to the fires, wet clothes tossed over tree branches, and some of the cousins took off to find some drinking water—after a change into dryer clothes.
Following a meal of hot dogs roasted over the flames, the group sat on logs and viewed the hasty Zion Canyon sunset, too tired to move. Walls turned the shades of sunset, becoming ghostly cliffs of greenish-white sandstone as the moon shone on them, “The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.” Thoughts like the 19th psalm came easily there.
Donna was whispering to her cousin, “It’s so beautiful, all of it. It makes me appreciate what God has given us.”
A spoonful of fruit cocktail in his mouth, Otto overheard.
Women had spoken this way in this place before. An adventurous group of University of Utah coeds in 1920 had made international headlines by exploring the entire Zion Park in pants-and-boots fashion. One of their group had noted in her diary: “Zion Park is a beautiful world of its own, a good world. For when one looks upon the gigantic grandeur of it all, it makes one wonder if anything vile or criminal could ever happen in its surroundings. One can only think beautiful thoughts amid such splendor.”
None of these latter-day adventurers could disagree as they bedded down for the night, tucked in by the rush of the river, the whispering leaves. A blaze of stars shining down into the canyon insured peaceful dreams.
Richard was the fastest riser the next day. Others tumbled out, sleepily, behind him.
None but Otto seemed to look forward to a plunge in the cold stream again, since sunrise doesn’t warm the Virgin River until after 10 A.M. when the sun is more directly overhead and can get into the canyon. Breakfast quickly vanished, though, and packs were donned to begin the tramp again, this time more quietly.
The Narrows hike can be made in a day—only weeks before, Otto had done just that. But it’s an arduous hike and should be taken slowly, unless expediency requires it. One early pioneer reported that he was out of the canyon by sunset “after spotting fresh cougar and bear tracks along the way. I didn’t want any of them critters for sleeping companions.”
It wasn’t long before the hikers entered one of several sets of Narrows. The defile was more than 2,000 feet high and demanded the walkers stare up at the faraway clifftops nearly straight above the base of the river. “To all the aches and pains that must be endured on this walk, you have to add a kinked neck from looking up,” Otto said.
At one spot, Otto encouraged his family to toss rocks into a pothole scooped out of the sheer wall, about 12 feet above and across the river. Only a few could keep the stones inside the hole. That accomplished, they continued to amble along the winding walls that are the hallmark of the park—and as impressive as vaulted Medieval cathedrals like London’s Westminster Abbey.
When the dark, narrow canyon opened out again, Otto’s family was again stunned by an array of colors and sheer beauty that make even adjectives about it sit up and take notice. Even though Otto has been through the Narrows far more than any other person in the world, it is always new to him, he said. “It always surprises me. Something different about it every time.”
The real Narrows were reached by noon. Because of potential flash floods, those who attempt these must check weather reports and go after the cloudburst season is over, in September or October. Inside the Narrows, which extend several hundred winding yards, the tall walls stand shoulder to shoulder. In places they are only 20 feet apart and give an Alice-in-Wonderland sensation—something like a flea would feel on the scrimmage line between the Dallas Cowboys and the Washington Redskins.
Paul clasped his grandfather’s reassuring hand tighter as the group unconsciously sped faster into the dim and echoing corridor.
Throughout the Narrows, it was wall-to-wall water they hiked in, except for a few gravel beds. The powerful Virgin River has alone cut this deep, knife-gash gorge into the park. For ages the grit-bearing water has eaten its way like acid through the sandstone. Even now it carries out millions of tons of silt a year, at the rate of 80 railroad boxcar-loads a day.
Once past the Narrows, the family who came on Otto’s Golden Anniversary trek began to meet packless hikers walking upstream on short outings. Yet even toward the end of this trip, Otto’s grandchildren still saw sights that were new. They saw the “hanging gardens” of Zion—bright, green moss growing out of the water seepage that wetted and blackened the river’s awesome perpendicular partitions.
A closer look revealed Rhysa Zionis, little pinhead-size, freshwater snails, peculiar to this canyon only, that cling to their vertical homes and look like so many black dots.
As they sloshed out of the water for the last time at the beginning of a paved tourist trail leading to the parking lot (CARS! No more walking!), the hikers heaved their soggy packs onto the wet sand. Both mothers were there to meet, and hail, their hardy children, soon to whisk them back to comfortable homes and beds in California and Oregon.
Otto set his pack down somewhat reluctantly.
He wondered if his tired grandchildren had learned what there was to learn in this land of Zion he could not leave. Like Antaeus, the mythological giant who drew his strength by touching the earth, Otto somehow pulls philosophy and poetry from that canyon.
Had they understood what one pioneer felt in his very veins? He was a Mormon who had written about his turn-of-the-century trek:
“I was now thankful for every condition which had combined to bring me into this mighty thought-inspiring solitude, this place called Zion, where the stars shine by day and brighter by night. Where earthly achievements and thoughtless, indefinite desires appear as things not worth while, if they are to be charged to our eternal account; where simple, silent thought comes to be regarded as the highest and most perfect expression of prayer; where man learns to fear God, to pray to God, to rely on God. Where man can stand without the support of his fellow men when he feels that he is right; where hope and faith in the universal scheme of things is inspired; where man is made to feel that if he is anything, he is the humble servant of God.”
Perhaps it was too much to understand, Otto thought, and said his goodbyes. But in later letters came the verdict: “When can we go back again? When can we?”
“Zion Canyon is a great symphony I want to hear over and over again,” Otto had said. “When I can’t go down it anymore, I’d better be six feet underground!”
And the family was with him.

When my baptism and confirmation was only a day or two away, I had a fever and was not feeling very well. I did not want to postpone my baptism. I felt I should go ahead on the appointed day. Many relatives and friends, some of whom are not members of the Church, came to my baptism. When I was baptized, my fever went down right away, and I felt a lot better. That day I felt the Holy Ghost very strongly. I am grateful that I could be baptized and receive the Holy Ghost.
Sara M., age 8, Spain

Years ago, an elderly stake patriarch with two failing heart valves pleaded for then-Dr. Russell M. Nelson to intervene, although at that time there was not a surgical solution for the damaged second valve. Dr. Nelson finally agreed to do the surgery. Here are President Nelson’s words:
“After relieving the obstruction of the first valve, we exposed the second valve. We found it to be intact but so badly dilated that it could no longer function as it should. While examining this valve, a message was distinctly impressed upon my mind: Reduce the circumference of the ring. I announced that message to my assistant. ‘The valve tissue will be sufficient if we can effectively reduce the ring toward its normal size.’
“But how? … A picture came vividly to my mind, showing how stitches could be placed—to make a pleat here and a tuck there. … I still remember that mental image—complete with dotted lines where sutures should be placed. The repair was completed as diagrammed in my mind. We tested the valve and found the leak to be reduced remarkably. My assistant said, ‘It’s a miracle.’” The patriarch lived for many years.
Dr. Nelson had been directed. And he knew that God knew that he knew he had been directed.

Bathsheba’s early life was filled with excitement as she witnessed the beginnings of the restored Church. Born May 3, 1822, in Shinnston, Virginia, to Mark and Susannah (Ogden) Bigler, Bathsheba was a cheerful child, and she loved to spin, weave, and do embroidery with her mother and to go horseback riding with her father on their three-hundred-acre plantation. Religiously inclined, she was careful to say her secret prayers.
She wrote in her autobiography about joining the Church at age fifteen: “Some Latter-day Saint Elders visited our neighborhood. I heard them preach and believed what they taught. I believed the Book of Mormon to be a divine record, and that Joseph Smith was a Prophet of God. I knew by the spirit of the Lord which I received in answer to prayer, that these things were true.” Bathsheba’s immediate family and her uncle and his family were baptized.
One of her first experiences as a member of the Church was ridicule by her young acquaintances, and when the family decided to join with other Saints in Far West, Missouri, Bathsheba was disappointed that she couldn’t leave immediately with her married sister, Nancy. While pondering this disappointment, she seemed to hear a voice say, “Weep not. You will go this fall.” And her family did leave for Missouri that autumn.
During their journey, they were stopped by men who gathered around their wagon and tried to prevent them from going any farther. But after talking among themselves, the men said, “As you are Virginians, we will let you go on, but we believe you soon will return for you will quickly become convinced of your folly.” But Bathsheba and her family never thought of the gospel as “folly,” and events such as this only caused them to cling more strongly to their beliefs.

On Sunday morning, December 9, 1849, at eight o’clock, about 30 children between the ages of 8 and 13 arrived in a small classroom that had been built in a home. They stamped their feet on the threshold, shook the snow off their coats and hats, then took their places on simple benches. They waited expectantly for the class to begin. It was a cold, snowy day outside, but the fireplace radiated a warm and friendly glow. Richard Ballantyne’s eyes shone brightly as he called the Sunday School to order. He led the boys and girls in a song, and then he gave a quiet but fervent prayer, dedicating this room in his home for teaching children the gospel of Jesus Christ. His voice was rich, and his words rolled forth as words do under the spell of reverence and emotion. Thus we have the founding of the first Sunday School in the Salt Lake Valley.
Organizing a Sunday School was not foreign to him. In his native Scotland he had organized a Sunday School in the Relief Presbyterian Church, of which he was an active member. It was natural for him to have a great desire to educate young people in the knowledge of the gospel. He had been reared in a home where his father was fond of repeating from memory whole chapters of the Bible and then reciting them to his children. It was a home where they would not even take a sip of water without first taking off their hats and saying grace, as was also the custom before they would eat a meal.
Rumors were spreading around the Scottish home that a new prophet had been raised up in America. At first Richard paid little attention to these rumors, but as his religious questions became more perplexing, he openly sought further light and knowledge. It was in 1841 that Elder Orson Pratt appeared in Edinburgh. Richard listened to his message and investigated the Church for a year. Finally he was converted and was baptized in the North Sea. He said, “I was so convinced that Joseph Smith was a prophet and the Book of Mormon was the word of God, and that if I did not accept it I would be damned.” As was the case of many of those early converts to the Church, he sold his business and emigrated to America, taking with him his mother and some of his brothers and sisters. They arrived in Nauvoo on November 11, 1843, at a time when there was great turmoil in the city. They eventually left Illinois and made the trek to Winter Quarters. There he was married and soon made preparation for the long journey west. They arrived in the Salt Lake Valley in September of 1848 and immediately commenced building a home. It was in this home that the first Sunday School in the valley was held. When the chapel—the old 14th Ward—was completed, the Sunday School moved to the new meetinghouse.
Brother Ballantyne had a fervent desire to teach young people the gospel of our Lord and Savior throughout his entire life. Thanks be to the late Conway Ballantyne Sonne, a cousin of mine, for this history of the first Sunday School (see Conway B. Sonne, Knight of the Kingdom: The Story of Richard Ballantyne [1949], 8–49).

In the 1970s and 1980s, the international perception of Soweto, South Africa, included images of terror, violence, and rioting. Home to more than four million Blacks, this segregated township southwest of Johannesburg was the scene of great social upheavals that helped bring worldwide attention to—and the eventual abolition of—apartheid, the policy of racial separation in South Africa.
But even during those violent, troubled years, a miraculous transformation was underway in Soweto. The gospel of Jesus Christ was being preached there, a branch of the Church was created, and missionaries and members of various races were working side by side to establish a spirit of tolerance, understanding, unity, and peace.
Now there is a stake in Soweto, and the future is bright. Two young men are deacons in the Soweto Ward and exemplify the dramatic changes that have taken place there.
When you approach the Vilakazi home, you’ll likely hear laughter and the shuffling sounds of a soccer ball being kicked back and forth. When you enter the front gate, identical twin 13-year-old boys are playing an energetic game, teasing each other good-naturedly between kicks of the ball.
The yard is immaculate, the lawn and flower garden have been tended with great care, and the car parked in the driveway is polished. Sister Vilakazi smiles when you compliment her on her home and garden. “The twins help with the work,” she says.
These 13-year-old twin brothers—filled with seemingly boundless energy and enthusiasm—are also best friends and are together practically all the time. They are in the same classes at school and church and have many of the same friends and interests. When Nkosinathi is swimming, playing sports, or sketching elephants, lions, and tigers, Bonginkosi is usually right there doing the same thing. When Bonginkosi is studying the scriptures, passing the sacrament, or bearing his testimony to a friend, Nkosinathi is more than likely right alongside him.
Except at school, where some know them as Allen and Bryan, Nkosinathi and Bonginkosi use their African names. The names reflect their parents’ joy at their birth. In their native Zulu tongue, Nkosinathi’s name means “God be with us.” Bonginkosi’s name means “We thank the Lord.” Both boys take seriously the responsibilities that come with their names.
Their parents and four older brothers and sisters had already joined the Church when the twins, the youngest in the family, were born. The whole family was sealed in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple when Nkosinathi and Bonginkosi were five years old. The twins were baptized at age eight and were ordained deacons at age 12.
Most of their friends at school are not yet members of the Church, and Nkosinathi and Bonginkosi know the importance of representing the Church well and sharing the gospel with friends.
Sometimes people tease the twins because they won’t follow the crowd in doing things they shouldn’t. Does the teasing and name-calling bother them? “Not that much,” says Nkosinathi, “because I know what’s right. So I just walk away.” Both boys admit that at those times, it’s especially nice to have a twin brother close by.
Their courage and example have been rewarded. For example, “our friend Mbuso Yende became interested in the Book of Mormon,” says Bonginkosi, “so we gave him a copy. Then we invited him to church.” The boys invited the full-time missionaries to teach Mbuso in their home. As a result, Mbuso was baptized and is now a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood in the Soweto Ward. And Mbuso’s mother and other family members are listening to the missionary discussions and attending church with the Vilakazi family.
Having tasted the delicious fruit of missionary success, they are more encouraged than ever to continue preparing for their missions.
“I want to go on a mission to teach the gospel to people who don’t know, who aren’t fortunate enough to have learned about the gospel,” says Bonginkosi.
“I also want to share the message of our Church,” says Nkosinathi, “so others may know the truth.”
Although their missions are six years away, both boys are focused on their goal. “We study the scriptures together and in family home evening,” says Nkosinathi, adding that they are looking forward to attending seminary when they’re old enough. “And we pray every day,” says Nkosinathi. As a result, they feel more prepared to answer questions about the Church and to bear their testimonies. It’s not at all uncommon to see one or both of them—in white shirts and ties—helping the full-time missionaries tract and teach.
The twins do chores around the house to earn money and learn skills for their missions. They help their dad, Gideon Ndondo Vilakazi, by washing the car and working in the yard. When their older sister is working, they help care for her baby. They are learning how to cook (Bonginkosi’s specialty is chicken curry) and to iron their own shirts. “They help me with the dishes and the laundry,” says their mom, Lovedalia Thandekile Vilakazi. “And they help me clean the house by sweeping and scrubbing the floors.”
The boys loved their years in Primary. (Their mother is Primary president.) They learned the Articles of Faith and, at a moment’s notice, can still recite or sing all 13 word for word and explain their meanings.
Now they are following their dad’s footsteps in the priesthood. (Brother Vilakazi is high priests group leader.) “Being a deacon means a lot to me,” says Bonginkosi. “I feel I’ve grown a lot by finishing Primary and going into the deacons quorum. I was really excited to pass the sacrament for the first time.”
In addition to passing the sacrament, the twins and the six other deacons in the ward collect the hymnbooks after meetings, clean and wash the sacrament trays, close the windows, and help keep the meetinghouse tidy. And they enjoy participating in activities with other young men and young women in their ward, such as playing soccer, swimming, hiking, giving service, and attending Mutual.
Their heroes are Nephi and Joseph Smith. And they also have modern-day heroes. “I look up to my bishop,” says Bonginkosi, “because he’s a very righteous man.”
“He always assists people with any problem they have,” says Nkosinathi.
Energetic teenagers, faithful bearers of the Aaronic Priesthood, a blessing and support to parents and family, good friends to others, prospective missionaries. These young men—and many others like them—represent Soweto’s bright promise for the future. “God be with us!” “We thank the Lord!”

On 20 April 1935, after five years as stake president, Brother Lee was called to the office of the First Presidency and was asked to take charge of a new Church welfare plan. He felt very humble and inadequate in this huge assignment. So, as was his pattern, he went to the Lord in prayer.

“As I kneeled down, my petition was, ‘What kind of organization should be set up in order to accomplish what the Presidency has assigned?’ And there came to me that glorious morning one of the most heavenly realizations of the power of the priesthood of God. It was as though something were saying to me, ‘There is no new organization necessary to take care of the needs of this people. All that is necessary is to put the priesthood of God to work. There is nothing else that you need as a substitute.’”

He resigned from the city commission and began a life of full-time service to the kingdom of God, never wavering in his assurance that God would guide him and that within the priesthood organization were the answers to all the challenges that lay ahead of the growing church.

When I was young, I had an experience that helped me relate to the blind man described in John 9. The man was blind from birth. The disciples asked Jesus, “Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?
“Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him” (John 9:2–3; emphasis added).
Jesus anointed the blind man’s eyes with clay and instructed him to wash in the pool of Siloam. The man did as instructed and “came seeing” (John 9:7).
There were witnesses to this miracle who could not comprehend it. They took the man to the Pharisees, who questioned him about it repeatedly. The man finally told the Pharisees, “If this man were not of God, he could do nothing” (John 9:33). For this statement, he was cast out.
Then a great blessing occurred—an even greater blessing than having his sight restored. Jesus, having heard that they had cast the man out, found him and allowed him to declare his belief: “He said, Lord, I believe. And he worshipped him” (John 9:38).
I was 11 years old when the “works of God were made manifest” in me. In the fifth grade, I developed warts on my hands. Both hands were covered with the ugly virus sufficiently enough to earn me the nickname “warthog” among my classmates. Needless to say, it affected my self-esteem and social life.
When my family moved from Utah to Idaho the following summer, I dreaded the thought of going to a new school. In my old class, I took plenty of teasing, but I also had two good friends who stood by me. This new place offered no such assurance.
I began to search for ways to rid myself of my burden. With my mother’s help, we tried over-the-counter remedies and even some home remedies, but the warts remained. Money was limited, so seeing the doctor for such a nonemergency was out of the question. I began feeling like there would be no end to this malady.
Towards the end of summer, it occurred to me to ask Heavenly Father for help. My family had been active in the Church for about two years, and I had been taught about the power of fasting accompanied by prayer, but I had never before taken the opportunity to do this.
Over two weeks I fasted every few days. I remember how hard it was to pass up my mom’s homemade cherry pie, but I believed the outcome of my fast would be equal to my faith and sacrifice. I prayed earnestly in our backyard, where I could speak aloud and not be interrupted. At the end of the two-week period, my warts were gone. Every one of them had shrunk away.
When school started a couple of weeks later, I felt a new confidence. This confidence came, in part, from having healed hands that I did not have to hide, but more so from an internal seed that had sprouted to life.
I had gained personal knowledge of a great truth—that I was a daughter of Heavenly Father, the true and living God. I knew that He loved me and that He heard and answered my prayers. Just as the man in the scriptures, the works of God had been made manifest in me, on a physical and a spiritual level.
A few years later, when I was a senior in high school, my philosophy teacher asked each of us to justify our belief in God. He asked us to “prove” God’s existence. I shared this experience with my class and testified not only of God’s existence but of His love for us. After the bell rang, my teacher pulled me aside and asked me to consider that perhaps it was the power of positive thinking, rather than God, that had caused my warts to disappear. I did not hesitate in my response to him that I knew of a surety the source of this miracle.
Perhaps someday I too will be allowed the blessing of kneeling before my Healer and proclaiming, “Lord, I believe.”

One day, when Sister Gurney and Sister Sasaki came to teach a lesson to Andrea, they told her that Theresa was going to be baptized and asked her if she would also want to get baptized. Andrea told the sisters that she would pray about it. She had experienced the influence of the Holy Spirit in the past and said that if she had that same feeling when she prayed about joining the Church, then she would be baptized. If not, then the answer was “No.”
She later shared her experience, “When I prayed about baptism, I had this eagerness; I became so anxious to do it. I discussed it with my husband because he was waiting for me to be ready, so we could get baptized together. I said, ‘Let’s continue to pray.’ So, we did, and I kept having the eagerness.”
Andrea’s husband, Wusu, was going to be leaving in two months, so when they attended Theresa’s baptism, they told the missionaries that they wanted to be baptized right away. The whole family spent the next three weeks learning about the gospel, and on June 4, Wusu, Andrea, and Patricia, their oldest daughter, were all baptized, and then confirmed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.