Gospel Story Finder

But are we not to bring a certain proper reverence to prayer? And if we are not in that mode should we not repent and wait? Listen to Heber C. Kimball. He is praying with his family and in the midst of the prayer says, “Father, bless Brother So-and-so.” And then begins a loud laugh. I can imagine the heads of his children popping up and their eyes opening. After a slight pause he said, “Lord, it makes me laugh to pray about some people,” and went on with his prayer (see, Whitney, Kimball, p. 427). I leave it to you, was that light-mindedness or profound intimacy with the Lord who knows we have a funny bone? He gave it to us.

At our multistake youth conference, we all received a Book of Mormon and were invited to give it to someone. I wanted to give mine to my favorite pop singer.
When I found out he was giving a concert in my city, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity. Each of his concerts has a random drawing that selects 15 fans to go backstage and meet him. It’s nearly impossible to be selected, but I entered anyway.
A few weeks before the concert, I wrote my testimony in a Book of Mormon and prayed. I explained to Heavenly Father that the odds were against me and that I needed His help.
As soon as I said “amen,” my cell phone rang with a call from the singer’s office. I had been selected!
Backstage on the day of the concert, I presented the singer with the book. He opened it and read my testimony: “I spent a lot of time thinking of a valuable, useful present for you. I realized that I needed to give you something that was valuable because of what it contained and not because of its price. This is the Book of Mormon; it is the most precious thing I have. It will be for you too if you read it.”
He gave me a hug and said he would read it. I couldn’t hold back my tears!

Claudia Laur, a Mia Maid in the Munich Third Ward, Munich Germany Stake, realized there were many activities in the ward for the young ladies but not many for the elderly sisters. Because she felt that particularly those who lived alone might not be benefiting from the same warmth of fellowship, she gathered the Mia Maids and Beehives together and planned an afternoon for the older sisters in the ward. The Merrie Miss Primary class was also invited to participate.
At a planning meeting, a program was outlined, including a difficult-to-learn round dance, a medley of favorite songs from the 50s, self-composed sketches and pantomimes, question-and-answer games in which the older sisters would participate, comedy, hymns (to add a spiritual side to the activity), and of course, refreshments.
Soon they had polished their routines, choreographed their steps, rehearsed their lines, and prepared their props. On the day of the gathering, decorations transformed the cultural hall into a cozy “Café in the Woods,” a comfortable setting for the older ladies to relax in while they enjoyed the show.
“We had a delightful afternoon,” one of the invited guests said. “They welcomed us warmly and escorted us to our tables, which were decorated with flowers and a nice little personal card. Their happy program put us in a joyful mood. We couldn’t help but feel that they served with love. It helped us to feel the unity that can come to sisters in the Church.”
Beehive Andrea Klein agreed: “It was really nice to see the older sisters so happy about such little things. The preparation and practices took a lot of time and required patience and effort, but it was well worth it.”

Allow me to share a story to demonstrate this. Four missionaries, a senior couple, and two elders serving in Micronesia walked into the only attorney’s office on the tiny island on which they were serving. They had a problem: they needed an amendment to a birth certificate for a membership record of a girl in their branch.

Previously the municipal office had had no sympathy for their request. They had said it would be too hard, and it didn’t matter anyway since “we all know her and know when she was born!” So the city had turned down the missionaries’ request. It was suggested that the missionaries go to the only attorney’s office on the island, where they met a highly educated and deeply respected man.

The missionaries sat across from him at his desk and described their plight, to which he replied that within thirty days he would get an amended birth certificate.

At this point he stood up and walked around his desk, closed the door to his office, walked back around his desk, opened his desk drawer, and placed a worn-out Book of Mormon on his desk. Much to their surprise, he then stated, “I have been reading your book for more than twenty years, and I know it is true. It was given to me by a fellow student when I was studying in the United States.”

He handed the book to the missionaries. They each marveled at the marked-up book.

“I can’t join your church because I smoke two to three packs of cigarettes a day, my family would be devastated, and I would likely lose my job.”

The missionaries replied, “We can help.” And they did. The teaching was easy because he already had a testimony of the Book of Mormon. With some time and help, he overcame his smoking habit, which was much harder for him. And although his family was upset, especially his wife, he was baptized just months later on Christmas Day.

He began to share stories from the Book of Mormon and hymns of the Restoration with his wife. She too gained a testimony, and two months later she was baptized. Since then, most of their children have also been baptized, and this attorney has served as a leader in the branch.

The Book of Mormon is a miracle, and it brings forth miracles that lead to happiness and lasting joy.

I once saw, at close range, the face of a faithful father who had just learned that his handsome and promising young son had violated the law of chastity and that the boy’s immature young girlfriend was pregnant. I’ll never forget the look in that man’s eyes as it dawned on him that his child of promise had willfully rejected what his parents had taught and what they wanted him to be. The father just sat in stunned silence, staring sadly at the rain outside his window in a grief that knew no comfort. As the tears ran freely down his face, he asked himself out loud: “Why? Why would he turn his back on all he knows to be right?” There came no answer but the gentle sound of the falling rain.

When Wilford and his companion reached the mouth of the river, they had to walk through a swamp. The mud and water were knee deep, and every step was hard. Wilford was worried because his knee hurt a lot.
In the middle of the swamp, Wilford sat down on a log. “I can’t walk anymore,” he said.
“I can’t wait,” Henry said. “The sooner I get through this swamp, the sooner I can get to Memphis and take a steamboat home.”
“Aren’t you going to preach the gospel in Tennessee?” Wilford asked.
“No,” Henry said. “I miss my family, and I am worried about them.”
Henry walked away. Wilford sat on the log and watched his companion disappear into the trees. He was alone in the middle of an alligator-infested swamp, and he could not walk. So he prayed.
Wilford asked the Lord to heal his knee. Then he stood up and began to walk. His knee felt fine. With every step, he rejoiced and thanked Heavenly Father for healing his knee.

The first free-lance article I submitted to the New Era was … well … much like wearing a tuxedo to a pool party. Inappropriate.
Without opening the magazine, I had mailed off a six-page essay on what I had learned being a convert to the Church. The rejection letter arrived in my college dorm mailbox a month later. “How dare they?” I demanded, showing the story to a few young people in my Sunday School class.
“Uh, good spelling,” one said, handing it back without turning the page.
“It’s very neat,” said another, not getting past the first paragraph.
It quickly became obvious there wasn’t a 15-year-old in the Church who would read my dry essay. I hadn’t done my homework, and the rejection letter proved it.
I tried again. This time I dug a stack of New Eras out of my drawer and read. It took a few days, but I got a feel for the style of the magazine—the way the anecdotal leads drew you into more serious topics; the up-tempo, spiritual kids featured in the stories; the faith-building experiences people wrote about.
And, as I read, I learned a few important points—that the New Era is particular about what it prints, and how it is presented.
A few days later, I again found myself in front of my typewriter. I stopped trying to summarize all I had learned since becoming a member of the Church. Instead, I focused on one event that happened while I was growing up in Canada and what I learned from it.
It took a lot of writing and rewriting to make the piece fit the style of the magazine. But a few weeks after I sent the article off, the editors mailed me a nice letter saying they’d like to purchase my story. The New Era wasn’t unreachable after all.

Ever since my Primary teacher gave each of us a picture of the Good Shepherd, I’ve wanted to be a real shepherd with a lamb of my own.
I tacked my picture on the wall by my bed in the loft so that I could look at it by lamplight and think about how it would be and remember to mention it in my prayers.
With leftover chicken wire, I built a sheep pen that I could move from grass spot to grass spot by myself. And I found an old baby bottle that I could use to feed my future lamb until it learned to eat grass. But being all ready to be a shepherd made the waiting to get one that much harder.
The day I sighted the dust drifting across the flat brushland below our farm, I figured that my prayers were going to be answered. I threw a saddle on Old Blue and grabbed the two grain sacks that I’d been saving.
“Mama, Woody is moving his sheep!” I yelled.
Lambing time was over, and Woody Morehouse was moving his sheep herd to the mountains, as he did every spring. He always moved them across the flat and up a nearby canyon to feed during the summer. Sometimes a newborn lamb would be too weak to keep up with the ewes and would be left behind in the brush. Woody usually gave these orphan lambs to the first one there to speak for them. This year I was going to be the first.
Mama came to the door with flour on her hands. But even the thought of warm biscuits couldn’t hold me back any. I slapped the stirrups against Old Blue and leaned over his neck. We went flying through our open gate, with the grain sacks flapping in my face and happiness singing inside me. I hollered at my dog. “Come on, Blackie!”
Blackie could sniff out any lambs left behind. He yipped and barked alongside Old Blue.
Even before I saw Woody, I saw Tim. I felt as if a cow had kicked me in the chest. I just stared at Tim, dumbfounded. Finally I said, “I guess you’ve already spoken for any abandoned lambs.”
He just grinned at me.
Woody rode up, knowing why I had come. “Maybe next year, Amos,” he told me.
Swallowing against the tightness in my throat, I whirled Old Blue toward the farm before I started crying right in front of them. When I heard Tim pounding up behind me on his brown mare, I swiped quickly at my eyes.
“Hey, Amos! Can I use your grain sacks? I didn’t stop to get anything to carry the lambs home in.”
I glared at Tim. “How do you know you’ll find any?” I asked. And I secretly hoped that there wouldn’t be any.
“Oh, I followed Woody’s herd clear from the lambing sheds,” he bragged. “I’ve spotted two.”
I wanted to kick Old Blue and ride away from the sight of Tim’s grinning. But Tim was my friend, and he didn’t know how much I longed for a lamb. I held out my grain sacks.
“Be sure you cut a hole big enough so that their heads can poke out, or else they’ll smother,” I warned. “And tie the two openings together so that a sacked-up lamb can hang down each side of the saddle.”
“I know how to do it,” Tim said. Then he whooped and whirled his horse and galloped back toward the sheep trail.
I could smell the warm biscuits when I rode into our yard, but I hoped Mama hadn’t noticed me ride up. I just wanted to slip up the outside stairs to my loft bedroom.
The picture of the Good Shepherd looked down at me as I lay on my bed. The lamb in the Shepherd’s arms looked soft and woolly and contented. My lamb would have been like that, I thought. And it would have nuzzled my face and followed me, just like Blackie. I turned over and buried my face in the pillow, wondering how Tim could have prayed any harder than I had.
The next morning Woody came down off the mountain and stopped at our farm. The first thing he mentioned was the pen that I had made. Then he said, “Amos, a cougar killed one of my ewes last night. She must have slipped away from the herd yesterday as we hazed the sheep up the canyon. I found her carcass near the trail this morning.”
Before I could open my mouth to say how sorry I was, he went on. “She had a lamb with her.” He paused and looked at me closely. “The cougar may have gotten the lamb too. You may want to hunt around in the bush and rocks along the trail. If it’s still alive, the lamb’s yours.”
My eyes widened, and my heart leaped, and the singing inside me began all over again. “If it’s alive, my dog, Blackie, can find it!” I declared. I was almost to the corral before I remembered to tell Ma.
I had ridden Old Blue halfway up the canyon with Blackie at his heels when I saw the cougar tracks. Right where the trail crisscrossed the little canyon stream, the cougar had left tracks in the wet sand!
Old Blue sensed that a cougar was near. He didn’t much like going up the trail, especially when it narrowed and sheer cliff walls hemmed it in. After Old Blue settled down, I sent Blackie on ahead to sniff out any danger. Blackie found the ewe’s carcass, and when I rode up, I saw that that old cougar had torn off a whole hind quarter and packed it away. Little chills crept along my neck. I had to think about the picture back in my bedroom to keep from hightailing it back down the canyon. I didn’t want to meet up with any old cougar!
“Find the lamb, Blackie,” I said softly. And Blackie set off through the rocks and brush.
I rode Old Blue slowly along behind Blackie. And I prayed. I never wanted anything so much as I wanted that little lamb to still be alive.
Just as the trail left the cliff walls and opened out onto an old rockslide, I heard Blackie bark. I got a glimpse of something woolly and cream-colored breaking out of the brush and running toward the rocks.
I slid out of the saddle, yelling, “Catch it, Blackie!” And I started climbing the rocks and boulders after them. “Don’t hurt it, Blackie. Don’t hurt it!”
I could have hugged that old dog when I saw that he’d driven the lamb into a niche between two big rocks and was just standing there, blocking its escape and wagging his tail. Right then I loved that dog more than I ever had before.
The lamb struggled and began to bleat. Its little sides heaved in and out, and there was wild fear in its eyes. I reached into the niche and pulled it out. It struggled to get out of my arms, and I wondered, What did Jesus do when He found His lost lamb? How did He calm His lost lamb’s pounding heart?
I walked Old Blue to a big rock so that I could hang on to my lamb and still climb into the saddle. Blackie ran ahead on the trail, stopping to sniff at the carcass of the dead ewe. It choked me some when I passed it, thinking about how my lamb had stayed close by, fearing to move yet fearing to stay.
Old Blue seemed anxious to get down out of the canyon, so I let him lope past the sheer cliff walls, past the tracks in the wet sand. And all the time I had my arm tightly about the little woolly body, hoping that it could tell how I meant to care for it. And how I meant to be a real shepherd.

My family and I moved to Layton, Utah, from Georgia during my senior year in high school. As a black teenager, I hated the thought of moving. I liked it in Georgia where I fit in quite well with my peers. The idea of attending a different school in a very white community didn’t appeal to me, even though I was a member of the Church. When I arrived in Utah, adjusting to life there took a great deal of time, and I only managed to make a few friends.
One night I was paired up with a guy my friend and her boyfriend set up with me. I would have enjoyed the night more if my date hadn’t said his parents would freak if they knew he was out with a black girl. His words hurt, but I hid it well. I’ve hid a lot of my feelings.
After graduation, I began to hang around three girls who weren’t LDS. As our friendship grew, I started smoking. I felt like life had no meaning, so I didn’t care that what I was doing was wrong. I couldn’t understand why I was on the earth, and figured I was probably better off dead. After a while, we went our separate ways and I vowed I would never smoke again. But many of my other feelings didn’t change.
I knew I wanted to marry in the temple and raise a family but wondered if I would get the chance. It was rather annoying when people I knew would become engaged, leaving me to question if I would ever get a date in this lifetime.
I wanted to blame the way I felt on something, so I blamed it on the color of my skin. It was stupid of me, I know. But I figured it was the only reason I didn’t have many friends.
By the time I was 20, I wanted to change. I decided to fix my appearance. I lost a little weight and bought new clothes and glasses. I found it helped me feel better about myself. But the actual change started when I began attending the single-adult ward and decided to go to college. This gave me the confidence that I could do things I had been too shy or scared to do before.
One day in sacrament meeting, my bishop spoke about the importance of attending church, the importance of paying tithing, reading scriptures, and praying. I felt the Spirit so strongly that I had no doubt the Church was true. It was at this time I decided to read the Book of Mormon.
For a month, I read my scriptures every night. Afterward, I would pray. I continued to pay my tithing and attend church, and I received a calling in the ward. My life couldn’t have been happier.
One day I looked in the mirror and stared at my reflection. “I’m pretty,” I said to the image before me. Tears welled up in my eyes that suddenly seemed to be looking at things differently. I saw myself, but it was as if I were looking at the face of a stranger. The fact I saw myself differently filled me with a happiness I can’t describe.
Without warning, the color of my skin no longer mattered to me. I’m Jennifer, a child of God. If God can love me, then I can learn to love myself, I thought. I now understand why they say you have to love yourself before you can show love to others. Today I can say I’m proud to be black. Four years ago I couldn’t even say it, much less mean it.
My promise now is to live the gospel and put my trust in God. After all, he’s given me the thing I needed most—a sense of my own worth.

There was a time in my life when I strayed far from the principles I knew to be true. Because of this, I felt terribly unhappy. Although I believed that the Atonement worked for other people, in my mind I was too far gone for it to apply to me. I thought I wasn’t worth saving.
One Sunday morning I heard the bells of a nearby Christian church sounding the hymn “Did You Think to Pray?” (Hymns, no. 140). The music struck me, and for the first time in many months, I felt the Spirit. I cried as I realized Heavenly Father was using this hymn to let me feel His love and know that He would help me.
The repentance process was not easy, and many times I felt discouraged. But the feelings I felt that Sunday morning stayed with me, and after a time I returned to full activity and received my endowment in the Dallas Texas Temple.
Now when I hear that hymn, I am reminded of that tender moment when the One I thought had forgotten me showed His love in a way He knew I would receive it.
Jessica Blakely, New Mexico, USA

We were assigned to a small branch of about sixty members, most of whom were inactive. On our first Sunday there, Ben and the branch president were the only two in priesthood meeting. Fourteen attended Sunday School and sacrament meeting. Nevertheless, it was a thrill to see my husband once again able to bless the sacrament and give an opening prayer.
We began our labors by seeking out all of the members the branch had records for and trying to stimulate a desire in them to become active. This was not easy. They were scattered in many directions living on country roads that had no identifying signs or names. Some of the members had been out of touch with the Church for many years. Each Sunday morning we watched anxiously for those we had contacted, but we were successful in getting only a few out.
The branch president was discouraged and recommended that the branch be closed. We knew that if this happened, all those who were inactive would be lost and the gospel would cease to be spread in that area. The bishop under whose direction the branch was operating called a meeting and announced that there were two alternatives: to close the branch, or to sustain Ben as branch president and give it another try. Ben was sustained and set apart.
This was a most humbling experience for us. With so many obstacles in the way, there was only one course to take: to rely completely on our Heavenly Father for help and guidance and work with all the strength we could muster. Night after night, Ben asked the Lord for strength, wisdom, and direction, often praying in the quiet chapel next to the two rooms where we lived and held classes on Sunday.
One night he came back from the chapel and said, “I think I have the answer. It is through the young people that the branch will grow.”
It was at this point that things began to happen. We taught the gospel to a thirteen-year-old girl whom we baptized. She brought her nonmember friends. I feel sure she was sent to us. We organized the youth programs, and served refreshments at every meeting in a recreation center we set up in the back yard. We used the missionary discussions for lessons.
Then the Lord sent us a family of new converts—an active father and mother with three children—who moved into the area. This gave us another child for Primary and two teenagers to add to the MIA. It also gave me a counselor (I was Relief Society president), and Ben now had a counselor to assist him. The new family’s sixteen-year-old son was unresponsive to the gospel message and hadn’t been baptized, but the young elders worked with him and soon he, too, joined the Church. Then we had a priest to bless the sacrament.
When we organized a genealogy class, particularly for a group of nonmembers in town who were doing genealogy as a hobby, we asked Heavenly Father for help in finding a teacher. He sent us another family; the wife was a genealogy expert. She agreed to teach the class every Tuesday night. She was also an excellent pianist and an expert in arts and crafts, which was a big asset to the branch. Her husband became the Sunday School president, and we had another child for Primary.
Through this family we heard of a young couple who had become curious about the Church. They were teaching a Sunday School class in another church and had heard so much negative commentary about the Mormons that they were curious. We drove the young elders to their home to give them the missionary lessons while we worked with another family. Both families became active members of the branch, giving us a Sunday School teacher, a branch clerk, a teacher for the Relief Society, and another child for Primary.
In our search for families, this story is typical. For several months we had been searching and praying to find a Latter-day Saint family we had heard lived somewhere in our town. One morning my husband had a sudden inspiration to ask a man who worked for the town water supply department if he knew anyone by that name. “Sure, I know him,” the man said, and told us where the “missing” member worked. Ben found the man and learned that he had joined the Church several years before but had been inactive for the past four years. His wife and three children were attending another church. When we invited him to come to church, he was reluctant because he smoked and liked to drink. But Ben did not give up. He contacted him several times at his work and assured him that we would love him even if he did smoke and drink. We visited his family and got the eight-year-old and the thirteen-year-old to join us at church. Soon this man stopped smoking and drinking, and his family attended all our meetings faithfully. His two children were baptized. Several months later he was ordained an elder and became the teacher of the investigator class.
As these experiences continued, the little branch grew. By the end of the year, all the auxiliaries were fully organized and attendance at Sunday School and sacrament meeting averaged about fifty. By the following May, the building was full to the point of overflowing and we were looking for a new place to meet and for land on which to build a chapel.
There were more baptisms, more new families moved into the area, and more members were activated. In June the branch was made an independent branch, and land had been selected for the chapel. The first man the Lord sent to us those many months before became the branch president.
We stayed in this area for another two months, and then it was time for us to move on to a new location. This was a heartbreaking day. We had found great joy in our service there, and those brothers and sisters and children had become like family to us. The heartwarming telephone calls and letters we still receive from time to time are a constant source of joy to us.
One of the choice blessings we gained from our mission was the ability to love all kinds of people, no matter who they are or how distressing their situation.
One day we got a call from a woman who was an alcoholic. She had joined the Church in her early married years and had been active as a Sunday School teacher. But when we found her she was lying sick in a tiny two-room trailer home.
After we took her to the hospital, we assumed the task of cleaning up the trailer, where she and her two boys, ages eleven and fifteen, had been living in unbelievable conditions. As I stood washing dishes in the midst of empty whisky bottles, beer cans, and dirty clothes, with the sun beating down on the tin roof and sweat running down my face, with roaches crawling on my legs, and with an almost unbearable stench permeating the air—somehow it didn’t seem to matter that much. One of God’s children needed help. Over and over again, the scripture came to me: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.)
We worked with this woman for the next ten months, and the boys started coming to their Church meetings. Each time we would visit, she would put her arms around me and tell me how much she loved me.
In our second location, we were again assigned to work with the many inactive families in the branch. In the remaining four months of our mission, we were able to visit about sixty-five of these families, some of them several times. We were only able to activate about ten families, but we made many friends and had many heartwarming experiences. We hoped to have sown seeds that would eventually sprout and grow.
Three baptisms the night before we left brought our mission to a beautiful close. These were children of part-member families, and teaching them the gospel was one of the greatest spiritual experiences of our mission. During the lessons the children seemed to hang on every word with wide-eyed wonder, and I felt as though we were surrounded by angels. There was a large crowd at the baptism, and again the Spirit was very strong in our midst. Afterwards there was a time of tears, embracing, and good-byes.
It is remarkable and marvelous how the Lord is able to work through human beings as weak and simple as my husband and me to accomplish his purposes. Ben often said to people, “I don’t do much. My wife has to do most of the talking.” But this was not so. In spite of his handicaps, he had very special talents and qualifications that were needed for our work. It was his patience, long-suffering, and persistence, his selflessness and generosity, his faith, his ability to reach the down-and-out and backsliding, that made it possible for the Lord to work through him and pull us through the difficult parts of our mission.
As we reflected on our mission, we came to an important and surprising realization: that every experience of our lives, even the seemingly ordinary things, seemed to have been part of the preparation for our mission. Ben’s many years of experience in working with the youth in Scouting, MIA, and Sunday School paid off greatly. His experience in organizing and directing men at work helped him. His ability as a handyman was also very useful. Little children loved and idolized him because he loved them dearly and could relate to them.
As it was with Ben, so it was with me. Almost every experience I had had in my life seemed to be a preparation for the work I needed to do on my mission. Bits of wisdom tucked away even in childhood, my experience in music and drama, secretarial work, and nursing, my training in psychology and work in a mental hospital, my homemaking skills, my years through the Depression, my seminary work, my experience with raising a large family, my positions in the Church—all proved to be useful. It was amazing how the Spirit of the Lord opened to my use many of my most hidden resources.
All in all, our eighteen months in the mission field was a glorious experience. The blessings we received and the answers to our prayers—both for help in our personal lives and in the lives of those we sought to reach—are too numerous to relate. The Lord was with us every step of the way and every hour of the day. The love and experiences we shared with those kind and loving people gave us some of the most beautiful moments in our lives. The sweet relationship we had with the young elders is also a treasured memory. Our wonderful zone conferences each month, which gave us such spiritual uplift and inspiration, are unforgettable moments.
To those couples who are timid and feel inadequate or incapable of a mission, I would say this: If we could do it, you can too. Don’t be reluctant or afraid. If you are willing, and if you trust in the Lord, he will give you the needed strength.

During the next few months, I spent a lot of time at home and had plenty of time to think. I grieved for the loss of the person I thought I would be in my later years. I grieved for the future that my wife and I had previously envisioned. I endured days of discouragement. I prayed a lot as my symptoms grew worse. My need to find positive ways of coping increased.
Then the Lord provided an unexpected source of support. My wife and I were called to be our ward’s welfare and self-reliance specialists. As part of our calling, we facilitated a group meeting on emotional resilience. I had not thought about needing the class personally. However, by the end of the first meeting, I thought, “Wow! This is for me!” We talked about avoiding negative thought patterns, being positive, controlling our feelings. It gave me some practical tools that, over time, helped me—and my wife as well—to develop a healthy attitude toward my disease.

Let me begin with a simple story of a pioneer girl named Agnes Caldwell. Agnes told of her experience in the Willie Handcart Company in 1856. At the time, she was only nine years of age. She related:

Although only tender years of age, I can yet close my eyes and see everything in panoramic precision before me—the ceaseless walking, walking, ever to remain in my memory. Many times I would become so tired and, childlike, would hang on the cart, only to be gently pushed away. Then I would throw myself by the side of the road and cry. Then realizing they were all passing me by, I would jump to my feet and make an extra run to catch up.

She goes on to share:

Just before we crossed the mountains, relief wagons reached us, and it certainly was a relief. The infirm and aged were allowed to ride, all able-bodied continuing to walk. When the wagons started out, a number of us children decided to see how long we could keep up with the wagons, in hopes of being asked to ride. At least that is what my great hope was. One by one they all fell out, until I was the last one remaining, so determined was I that I should get a ride. After what seemed the longest run I ever made before or since, the driver . . . called to me, “Say, sissy, would you like a ride?” I answered in my very best manner, “Yes sir.” At this he reached over, taking my hand, clucking to his horses to make me run, with legs that seemed to me could run no farther. On we went, to what to me seemed miles. What went through my head at that time was that he was the meanest man that ever lived. . . . Just at what seemed the breaking point, he stopped. Taking a blanket, he wrapped me up and lay me in the bottom of the wagon, warm and comfortable. Here I had time to change my mind, as I surely did, knowing full well by doing this he saved me from freezing when taken into the wagon.3

Agnes Caldwell and her family arrived safely in the Great Salt Lake Valley November 9, 1856. They settled in Brigham City, Utah, where Agnes met and married Chester Southworth. They became the parents of thirteen children [and] helped settle an LDS colony in Cardston, Alberta, Canada.4

Had the driver of that wagon taken Agnes into the wagon without making her run, she would have surely succumbed to the bitter cold. And had Agnes chosen to give up and fall behind, her story may have ended much differently. However, for Agnes this became her defining moment, and though the decision to run did not make perfect sense at the time, she ran anyway.

When Peter returned from his mission, he quickly fell into the routine of work and visits to the hospital as he continued with corrective surgery. Soon he was called to serve a stake mission. In this capacity he met the secretary to the stake mission president, Marjorie Clegg of Tooele. They became good friends, and Peter started lining her up with his friends. Finally, after being lined up one too many times, Marjorie asked him to please not arrange any more dates for her. Peter asked her out himself. Based on a foundation of friendship, the relationship grew into love, and they were married.
Except for the very first time Marjorie met me, she never seemed to notice my burns. I’m very much aware of people noticing that I’m different. I’ve never noticed that Marj ever thought me any different on the outside than she found me on the inside. She makes me feel very handsome. I love her not only because she’s my sweetheart, but because she’s my very best friend. She is the girl I prayed for who would take me for what I am on the inside. That’s what I needed because I couldn’t get very far using the outside.

On May 18, 1843, the Prophet dined with Judge Stephen A. Douglas who was presiding at the court in Carthage, Hancock County. The Prophet's scribe on this occasion recorded that "After dinner Judge Douglas requested President Joseph to give him a history of the Missouri persecution, which he did in a very minute manner, for about three hours. . ."
Joseph Smith then pronounced the following prophecy upon Stephen A. Douglas:
"Judge, you will aspire to the presidency of the United States; and if ever you turn your hand against me or the Latter-day Saints, you will feel the weight of the hand of the Almighty upon you; and you will live to see and know that I have testified the truth to you; for the conversation of this day will stick to you through life.
He [Judge Douglas] appeared very friendly, and acknowledged the truth and propriety of President Smith's remarks."[10]
In 1843 Stephen A. Douglas was a young man thirty years of age and was not nationally well known. However, in 1857 he delivered a speech in Springfield, Illinois regarding the rumors, which had been circulated throughout the United States concerning crimes, treason, and rebellion among the Mormons in the Utah territory. The crux of his message was:
"Should such a state of things actually exist as we are led to infer from the reports . . . the knife must be applied to this pestiferous, disgusting cancer which is gnawing into the very vitals of the body politic."[11]
Three years later in June of 1860 at the National Democratic Convention held in Charleston, South Carolina Stephen A. Douglas was nominated for the presidency of the United States, just as Joseph Smith had prophesied seventeen years previously. In the general election later that year Abraham Lincoln carried 18 states; Mr. Breckinridge 11; Mr. Bell 3; and Stephen A. Douglas one. Within a year, with his political aspirations dashed and unfulfilled, Stephen A. Douglas died at his home in Chicago "a disappointed, not to say heart-broken man."[12]

Allie looked around Grandfather Snow’s office in the Salt Lake Temple. “It’s late! We’re the only ones here.”
“Sorry, my dear,” her grandpa said with a smile. “I’ve been telling you too many stories.”
“Please don’t apologize. I’ve always loved your stories.” Allie hugged her grandfather, Lorenzo Snow, the fifth President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“I’ll walk you to the front entrance and let you out,” he said. “The night watchmen haven’t arrived yet, and the doors are all locked.” They walked out of his office into the hall.
Allie had married Noah Pond in a nearby room in the temple just three years ago. Now Noah was away in Sweden serving a mission. Allie missed him. But she knew he was serving the Lord, just as she and her family had done in Hawaii.
“Wait a moment, Allie,” Grandpa said. “I want to tell you something. Do you remember when President Wilford Woodruff died?”
Allie remembered well. It had only been a year ago, and Grandpa Snow had been worried about the responsibility of being the next President of the Church. He had prayed that President Woodruff would not die. When President Woodruff passed away, Grandpa had come to the Salt Lake Temple as soon as he heard the news.
To succeed means to be the next in line to fill a position. Ever since the deaths of the Prophet Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, the Lord has chosen the man who has been an Apostle for the longest time to become the next President of the Church.
“It was right here that the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to me. He told me to go right ahead and reorganize the First Presidency at once and not wait as had been done after the death of the previous presidents, and that I was to succeed President Woodruff,” Grandpa said.
Grandpa held out his hand. “He stood right here, about three feet above the floor. It looked as though He stood on a plate of solid gold.”
Allie stood very still as she felt the Spirit confirm the truth of these words. The Savior had appeared in this very spot in the temple and told her grandpa about his calling as President of the Church! Grandpa continued to describe the Savior’s hands, feet, face, and beautiful white robes. He said they were so white and bright that he could hardly look at the Savior.
Then Grandpa put his hand on her head. “Now, Granddaughter, I want you to remember that this is the testimony of your grandfather, that he told you with his own lips that he actually saw the Savior, here in the temple, and talked with Him face to face.”
Allie hugged Grandpa at the door and quietly made her way home. Her heart felt warm, and she knew that Jesus Christ really had appeared to Grandpa. The Savior lived, and He was the head of His Church. This was truly a night to remember.

President Nelson shared the story of a young man who had to give up his smartphone for a bit. At first, he panicked. (Can you relate?) But then, he was grateful. He felt “free for the first time in a long time” and loved being “free from the fake life that social media creates” and had much more time and energy to be outside, serve others, listen in church, and prepare for his mission. And he was so much happier.

My friend is sometimes very bossy and does not play nicely with the other children in our neighborhood. She is sometimes mean to me too. Once I wanted to say something to her but was scared, so I talked it over with my mom. She gave me some ideas of what to say and practiced it with me a few times. Now I am able to handle this situation by myself. I remind my friend to be nice when she forgets.
Bela T., age 7, North Carolina

Shula’s talent has put her in great demand with several different groups, so Shula has to make a lot of tough decisions about how she will spend her time. At these times, Shula relies on guidance from both her earthly parents and her Heavenly Father to make the best choices.

For example, Shula recently auditioned for the renowned National Youth Music Theater. She was offered a part in Pendragon, which will tour Scotland and be presented at the Edinburgh Festival—an event frequented by talent scouts and televised throughout Britain.

Unfortunately, rehearsals will coincide with school G.C.S.E. exams, so she declined. The director even phoned her personally to try to change her mind, informing her she’d been chosen for outstanding musicality.

A dilemma. Education versus opportunity. Education won.

“Sometimes things feel like a sacrifice,” Shula agrees, “but I enjoy what I’m doing so much that it really isn’t. It’s all worthwhile.”

Walter and Ann settled down in the small town of Payson, Utah. Lots of other Church members lived there, and Walter and Ann were excited to raise their family there. They built a home and started a shop to build machines and furniture.
Walter took care of the shop. Ann took care of their home and a flock of ducks. She was very proud of her ducks. One day, when she went out to hang some clothes out to dry, she saw something very shocking. Her ducks were all lying still on the ground.
The poor ducks! Ann was so sad that her precious ducks had died. She sat down to think about what to do. Then she went to find a large flour sack. She knew that the ducks’ feathers would be good for making beds, pillows, and quilts. Ann sadly plucked the feathers off the ducks. Then she took the big bag of feathers inside, leaving the ducks lying peacefully on the ground.
That evening Walter came home from his shop. He looked confused. “What happened to the ducks?” he asked. “Why are they running around without their feathers?”
Ann rushed outside. She was so surprised to see her featherless ducks running about in confusion. Looking around, Ann noticed a large patch of brightly colored wildflowers nearby. The ducks had eaten the flowers, and the flowers had made the ducks go to sleep. They had slept peacefully while Ann had plucked out their feathers.
Ann didn’t want her ducks to get cold. So she went right to work knitting a sweater for each one of them. The ducks’ sweaters kept them warm until their feathers grew back. But until then, they were finest and best-dressed ducks in town!