Gospel Story Finder

When Saia Paongo served a mission in 1964, he was in charge of six missionaries living on the remote island of Niua Toputapu. Often, they didn’t know where their next meal would come from. On one particular day, they visited and preached in the homes in Falehau while fasting, but then they had no food to break their fast with. As the missionaries walked out of their hut, Elder Paongo felt a distinct impression:
It was as if someone said to me, “Take your missionaries to the beach on the back side of the island.” I told my companion to bring a fishing spear, and we all headed for the rocky coast of Niua Toputapu.
Unfortunately, the ocean was already at full tide when we arrived. There was no way we could do any spear fishing on the reef. Disappointed, we sat down to rest, except for Elder Fonua, who wandered off along the beach.
Suddenly Elder Fonua yelled for us to come and look. We scrambled over to him, and there we saw a wonderful sight: a large, fat menenga, or deep ocean parrot fish, which had almost beached itself. Incredibly, it had swum right up to the sand. Nearly three feet long and a foot thick, it made a wonderful feast for us.
I know that this fish was prepared for us and that Heavenly Father loves hungry young missionaries, even in tiny remote islands.

There had been some minor conflicts with local nonmember youth. A bus was vandalized and a young conference attender was pushed around a bit. What was the reaction of these young Mormons who were learning about service and how to apply gospel teachings in their lives?

“We only have two cheeks to turn,” said one of the youth leaders, “so we’d better solve the problem before it grows.” They discussed it and came to the realization that the troublemakers were probably just feeling left out of all the fun. So an invitation went out, formally and on a one-to-one basis. “Come and join us! There’s enough fun for everyone, and we’d love to have you.”

It was during one of these fishing trips, in late December, that Wilford’s life changed in an unexpected way. Azmon’s wife, Elizabeth, answered a knock on the door of their home. Two missionaries stood on the front step. Wilford and Azmon weren’t home, so the two elders asked Elizabeth to tell the brothers that they would love to have the Woodruffs come that night to the schoolhouse and listen to their message about a newly restored Church and gospel.
When Wilford arrived home and heard about the missionaries, he was eager to hear them preach. He had spent many hours as a boy reading the scriptures and praying, searching for the truth.
Without even waiting for supper, Wilford raced out to his horse and galloped to the schoolhouse. When he arrived, the room was already packed with people. He eased his way through the crowd and finally got a seat at a front desk.
What he saw and heard that night filled his soul with the Spirit of God. “I felt that I had just heard the first true gospel sermon in my life,” he later said. It was exactly what Wilford had been looking for—prophets, apostles, revelation, spiritual gifts. These were things Wilford knew about from studying the Bible, and he knew that they were important. He was so excited that he jumped to his feet at the end of the sermon, turned to the crowd, and said, “Friends and neighbors, I feel to tell you not to oppose these men. They are true servants of God. They have preached to us the pure gospel of Jesus Christ. I witness to you it is true!”

When I was about nine, I wanted to grow a mustache. I thought I could do this by shaving my face every day. For several days I used my father’s razor to shave. One day my father saw me shaving. He warned me not to do it because I could cut myself.
I am sorry to say I disobeyed my dad. The next day I shaved again. As I was shaving, the razor slipped from my soapy fingers. It made a deep gash above my lip. I was pretty scared as I bandaged my lip. But I was even more afraid of what my father would say.
When he came home that night and saw my cut, he was surprised and worried. He asked how it happened.
“Well,” I said, “I was running down the sidewalk, and I fell on my face.”
I had lied! First I had disobeyed, and now I had been dishonest! That night I couldn’t sleep. It was late, but I had to tell Dad the truth. I found him in the living room.
“Dad, I lied to you,” I said. “I didn’t fall down. I cut myself shaving with the razor. I’m sorry.”
My dad was quiet for a moment. Then he gently said, “You did disobey, Son. That is not a good thing. But I’m proud that you decided to tell the truth.”
That lesson—and the actual scar—has stayed with me every day since then.

After I completed my college education, I became a research scientist. Trained in the scientific method, I accepted only what could be sensed and proven. I lived without God’s influence in my life; I was practically an atheist.
Then one morning I received a call that my son had been in a serious automobile accident. On the way to the hospital, I felt prompted to say the Lord’s Prayer, which I had learned in childhood. I could not remember it, but I felt that I needed to pray anyway.
Even though God had called to me, when the crisis subsided and my son recovered, I continued to live without Him in my life.
Years later I began dating a woman named Rubí. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, though she was not active. We were together for three years when she began to feel the desire to go to church. She would ask me to go with her, but I always refused.
One day the missionaries came to our door. They gave me a Book of Mormon and left me with reading assignments. I read what they requested but felt nothing. I also attended church but was always skeptical. Even so, I felt I needed to keep reading the Book of Mormon. God was calling me again.
As I continued reading, I started to feel that the book was true. My faith was growing. When I reached 3 Nephi 13:9–13 and read the Lord’s Prayer, the Spirit flooded over me. I broke into sobs. God was calling me a third time. This time I listened.
My faith in God grew. I wanted to know more. In a short time, I read all the standard works. I continued attending church, and after Rubí and I married, I was baptized. I will never forget the joy I felt when I was confirmed a member of the Church.
Today I am still a research scientist. But now I see the hand of God in all things. I agree with Alma, who said, “All things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator” (Alma 30:44).

Illustration by Richard Mia
One Sunday following the final session of a general conference, I felt a very specific prompting to sign into my FamilySearch account and do some family history. I was reluctant to work on my family history because I had never had much success with my other attempts. My family is quite vigilant in family history, and I just had a thought in the back of my mind that there was nothing left to do.
I sat back and sighed with frustration as I looked at the dead end I had tried working on for years, hoping that this would finally be the day where I would find some information. I began my regular searches through census, marriage, and birth records, and after an hour I found nothing. Then the Spirit that had been whispering to me all weekend through the conference sessions prompted me to pray and find out who was ready for their work to be done now.
As I finished my prayer, I went back to my own name and moved forward through the line. I distinctly felt the Spirit guide me from one line to another until I ended up on my grandfather’s side of the family. Over the next hour the Spirit flourished in the room, and I came away with six names to take to the temple. As I finished requesting the names for the temple, I glanced down at some of the records I had received information from. My eyes swelled with tears and my heart was full of joy—the information had come from indexers who had volunteered their time to enter records for my ancestors. In gratitude, I indexed names for others for the next hour.
That day my testimony swelled with thankfulness for two reasons. One, that during general conference, the Spirit had led me to do family history work and to know which names to search for. Second, for Church members all over the world who index names so that people like me can find our ancestors clearly and quickly and hasten their work. It was a clear and powerful testimony to me of God’s work spreading forth upon the whole earth.

I had a wakeup call regarding pride as a missionary in Belgium. We were teaching an elderly sister who said on one occasion, “Elder Sabin, I can tell that you have been here longer than Elder Ferguson.”

I thought to myself, “It must be because I speak the language better.” So, I asked her, “Oh? Why is that?”

I was quickly humbled as she replied, “Because your shirts are so much grayer than Elder Ferguson’s.” We didn’t have a washing machine so we washed our shirts in the bathtub and hung them up along the wall trim to dry. They became grayer and grayer over time with the repeated washings.

The irony of pride is that it makes us appear foolish which is the very opposite of the results we’re seeking. There is nothing less impressive than trying to impress. Be honest and genuine. Being ourselves is always the best and most likable course.

Delynn, 24, accepted an internship with the computer division of a major local employer. During her internship she worked on several challenging projects. The established programmers taught her techniques she had not learned through her course work. She worked hard and learned as much as she could. After the internship, she kept in touch. As graduation drew closer, her former supervisor asked if she would be interested in coming back to the firm. She also received several offers from other companies. Delynn chose the company she had interned with, because she knew the environment in which she would be working and enjoyed the challenges she knew she would receive. Since she had already worked for them, the company assigned her to a key project within weeks of starting.

In his general conference address in April 2011, Elder Kent F. Richards relayed the following:
Thirteen-year-old Sherrie underwent a 14-hour operation for a tumor on her spinal cord. As she regained consciousness in the intensive care unit, she said: “Daddy, Aunt Cheryl is here, . . . and . . . Grandpa Norman . . . and Grandma Brown . . . are here. And Daddy, who is that standing beside you? . . . He looks like you, only taller. . . . He says he’s your brother, Jimmy.” Her uncle Jimmy had died at age 13 of cystic fibrosis.
“For nearly an hour, Sherrie . . . described her visitors, all deceased family members. Exhausted, she then fell asleep.”
Later she told her father, “Daddy, all of the children here in the intensive care unit have angels helping them.”

The Scouts and their leaders arrived in the town of Green River on a Monday morning and started building the rafts at a state park where a boat ramp provides easy access to the river. It took a little longer than expected to assemble everything. In fact, launching was delayed until the following morning. But once underway it didn’t take long for the fun to begin.

“It was like a moving summer camp,” said Brother Ivie’s 13-year-old son, Brian. “You didn’t have to worry about getting bored. The scenery was always changing.”

The Green River Canyon is a place where the earth gets down to basics. Rock and water, water and sand, sometimes some red rock to add brightness to the land. The Missouri-wide water twists through curve after wandering curve, past side canyons where Indian petroglyphs and explorer’s signatures are etched in the stone of thousand-foot cliffs reaching to a cloudless blue sky.

“It’s such a big place,” said Adam Pitcher, 13. “A massive river, massive canyons, huge rocks. How could there ever be so much rock in one place? It’s strange to imagine a place so big, but so empty.”

“It’s kind of nice to watch the world’s history book open up as you go down the different layers,” said Brother Ivie’s other son, 14-year-old Richard. “Those rocks must be some of the oldest rocks in the world. It makes you think back to the creation. You look from the beginning back up to the tops of the cliffs.”

And then there was always the water. If you got hot or bored you just jumped in the river.

“My dad, my brother Richard, and I would all go floating at the same time,” said Chris Higbee, 12. “At night, Dad and I would sleep next to each other on the deck and Richard would sleep up on the second level. We’d just lie there and talk to each other. It was neat. I’ll tell my kids about it some day.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw my Scoutmaster dive off the second deck,” said Andrew Owens, 12. “I didn’t know he could be crazy like that. But he got right in there and did the same things we did. He likes to have fun, too.”

Jim Oldroyd, 12, told of running across flat places on the bank where silt had accumulated.

“At first it was solid, but then we’d keep running on it and it turned into mud,” he said.

“The mud’s buoyant, so you can’t sink, and it’s a lot warmer than the water, because it’s been out in the sun. A warm mud bath was just the thing to get rid of mosquitoes,” Richard Ivie said. “Of course, when you got out you looked like a chocolate statue.”

Mosquitoes were a constant plague to the adventurers. “They were the worst where there were plants and bushes,” said Scott Hafen, 14. “When we tried to pull in to shore and tie up, they’d mob us. And they’d buzz and bite all night long while we were trying to sleep.”

But despite the whining attacks of buzzbombing mosquitoes, everyone who floated the Green would return home enchanted. They’d tell of visiting Geyser Springs and Anvil Bottom, of renaming Trinity Alcove “Cobra Swamp,” in honor of the shape of a nearby rock formation. They’d brag of their climb up the steep sides of Bowknot Bend, where fast winds snatched some of their hats and tossed them thousands of feet down the canyon. And they’d tell how the river makes a nine-mile elbow to come back within 600 yards of where it started.

Jason Von Zomeren, 16, would remember how he cooled off watermelons by floating them next to him in the river. Scott Hanson, assistant adviser to the teachers quorum in the 27th Ward, would remember demonstrating his black powder rifle, teaching the young men how to load and shoot it. Months later he would still be talking about how the river trip had taught everyone to reach out to others.

“It’s a lot easier to get your boat to shore if there’s someone there to throw a line to,” he said.

Even though the Green River seems to meander, the current at the center is an express lane. At the end of four days, the rafts had traveled 68 miles. It was time for the Friday night campfire, the closing ceremony of the trip.

Each boy’s parents had sent a letter for him to read.

“We read the letters and then just thought for a few minutes. Then we bore our testimonies to each other and said how much we’d grown closer by working together,” said Jeff Barrett, 14. “People don’t always tell you how they feel right at the time, but we all did. You told everybody how you felt.”

He remembered one special incident from the trip:

“When we were coming in the last night, there was a storm and it was blowing. We all tried to row against the current and the wind. Our two leaders, the Scoutmaster and my dad, were wearing themselves out trying to get the boat in. We had to take everything down that would prevent us from getting to shore. If we missed the landing, we’d be gone down river for 70 miles more. So we said a prayer for help. After that, the wind died down for a minute and the rain stopped. We made it in before it started up again.”

The next morning, as tubes were deflated and lashings untied, as rafts became mere piles of poles to be loaded onto trucks, Brother Ivie said the journey down the Green could not have been better.

Throughout my life, I have received “golden nuggets” of counsel and inspiration from the people around me. Some of those nuggets came from Primary teachers. I was a rambunctious (lively and somewhat mischievous) child who spent many hours sitting outside the classroom door in the time-out spot. More than a few times, my teachers went to my mother, the stake Primary president, and said, “That Ronnie Rasband is a tough little kid.” But they never gave up on me. They showed me great love and always invited me back into class.
When I was called to the Quorum of the Seventy, Sister Afton Pedigrew, one of my faithful Primary teachers, was at a meeting at which I spoke. She told me, “If someone had told me thirty years ago that Ronnie Rasband would someday be a General Authority, I wouldn’t have believed it.” But tears were flowing from her eyes, and I could hear a quiver in her voice as she complimented me in her sweet way and said as my Primary teacher that she was proud of me. There were tears in my eyes, too.
Those teachers helped me to recognize some of the talents Heavenly Father has blessed me with. For example, they told me that I had a good reading voice. They often chose me to read a scripture or to be a narrator in Primary presentations in sacrament meeting. It was through Primary that I developed my love for the scriptures.
The scripture I best remember reading in a Primary program was 1 Kings 19:10–13, especially verses eleven and twelve: “And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake:
“And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.”
That was where I learned how we should expect to be prompted by Heavenly Father. We may not see a vision as Joseph Smith did. We may not see angels. We may not hear a rushing of great winds or feel an earthquake or see fire. We will hear the still, small voice of the Spirit. From then on, I knew that I would have to listen carefully for the voice of the Spirit and that it would be small and precious. What a wonderful nugget that was.
I grew up in a strong Latter-day Saint home. In my patriarchal blessing, I was counseled to pay particular heed to the advice of my parents and was promised that if I did, I would never be led astray. That promise—another golden nugget—has been fulfilled.
My father drove a bread delivery truck. All during my growing-up years, he got up at three or four o’clock in the morning and came home late at night and collapsed because he was so tired. By example, he taught me the principle of work.
My mother taught me the same principle by insisting that I work hard. She got me out the door, mowing grass, trimming the hedge, and doing other chores around the house. I would gladly have played basketball or football or played army or ridden bikes all day long, but my mother believed that work came first. I didn’t appreciate that at the time. I thought that I was being driven pretty hard. It wasn’t until I reached the mission field that I was grateful to know how to work. I had been given a priceless nugget.
My call to the Eastern States Mission was another golden nugget. My family had little money, and I was never quite part of the “in-crowd” at school. But in the mission field, I realized that it didn’t matter what side of town I came from or what my father’s income was. We were all servants of the Lord and equal. I learned that through the principles of hard work, prayer, and seeking to follow the Spirit of the Lord, everyone could succeed.
I have a golden nugget for you children: Follow the living prophet. Our current prophet loves children. He loves his own grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and he loves you. He cares about the direction of your journey through life. He cares about your family. The Proclamation on the Family was given to your parents to help them be better parents to you. At general conference time, listen to what our dear prophet is saying. And when that small whispering of the Holy Ghost tells you that he is speaking the truth, pay special attention. Follow the promptings that come through listening to the prophet of God. You are not too young to hear the promptings of the Holy Ghost or to follow the living prophet.

When I was 17, my oldest brother, John, passed away. He was only 27 and left behind a wife and young son. I could not have endured through this tragedy without the scriptures to lead and guide my life.
If you have ever had anyone close to you pass away, then you know the pain that strikes in every part of your being. It hurts for a long time. Even though we learn to be happy again and move on, no matter how much time passes, there’s still a pain.
When my brother passed away, I learned that it was OK to let myself hurt. It was OK to be sad. I didn’t need to be so strong all of the time. Sometimes there are challenges where we have to rely on others. And I learned I had to rely on the Lord.
About nine months before my brother passed away, I had prayed to my Heavenly Father to find a scripture I could use as a theme in my life that year. I was reading my scriptures and came across Proverbs 3:5: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”
This scripture struck me with such force that I knew this was supposed to be my theme scripture for that year. For the next nine months, I tried to “trust in the Lord.” In every experience I went through, those words would echo in my mind.
About a week after John’s death, the words in Proverbs echoed in my mind again, and I realized why the Lord wanted me to practice trusting in Him. When my brother passed away, I could have asked my Heavenly Father, “Why? Why did this have to happen to us?” But that question never crossed my mind, because for nine months the Lord had been preparing me to trust in Him. Instead, I was ready to bring comfort to other family members around me who needed it. I felt the peace that comes from the knowledge that family is eternal, and I knew that I hadn’t seen John for the last time. Although at times I feel that pain that comes from losing someone you love, I know that my family can be together again after this life. This scripture in Proverbs brought me hope, peace, and guidance in a time of great need.

One winter day six-year-old Heber J. Grant sneaked onto the back runner of President Brigham Young’s sleigh. He wanted to ride for only one block. But he didn’t dare leap off until the sleigh slowed down. When it did, he had ridden quite a way. He tried to run without President Young seeing him.
President Young: Stop! That little boy is almost frozen! Put him under the buffalo robe.
President Young: What’s your name?
Heber: Heber Grant, sir.
President Young: You must be Jedediah’s son. I loved your father very much. He was my Second Counselor.
President Young told Heber he would like to interview him in six months. Heber obeyed. He and President Young were friends from then on.
Heber spent almost as much time at Brigham Young’s home as at his own.

I remember one particular day in the San Diego Mission Home, when my husband was the mission president. It was time to bid one group of missionaries good-bye and welcome and train new ones. The zone leaders were in for training. Food had to be prepared. Linens needed to be changed and laundry done. The home was crowded, full to overflowing; I was supposed to give the missionaries an encouraging, inspirational talk. I felt pressured, even desperate.
I found a quiet corner among the crowd and prayed almost out loud to Heavenly Father, asking, “What am I to do about all these responsibilities that come so fast? There is no time to prepare. Please help me.” I suppose I expected the sympathetic words of a parent to come to me, “You poor, dear child.” But instead I heard a voice saying, “This is not your time, but my time.” The voice was firm and strong, and from that I knew I should rely on the Lord and I would find help from Him.
I began my scripture study in earnest, first priority. I am so grateful now for that inspiration. I received great solace and comfort as I read the Book of Mormon. A guide came to me when I read Alma 37:35–37.

With a new gold-engraved and personally inscribed copy of the Book of Mormon in hand, the members of the Oakton-Vienna-Wakefield wards seminary class of the Oakton Virginia Stake presented 20 hardbound books to Washington Temple president Wendell G. Eames. The books were given to the temple to replace the soft-bound copies that had become noticeably “well-used” over the past five years.
The presentation was part of the seminary’s “Zion Temple Project.” That same evening, after meeting with President Eames, the class did baptisms for the dead, had dinner in the temple cafeteria, and then went to the visitors’ center for a special presentation and refreshments. “This was one of the most exciting activities we’ve ever had!” said class pianist Karen Dodson.
The goal of the class throughout the year was to establish a Zion seminary class, and then expand to include their homes, other Church classes, and their schools. Other Zion activities have included projects to improve the appearance of the stake center, living without contention for 24 hours, and reading the Old Testament. In reflecting on the Zion attitude, their teacher Charles Dahlquist said, “I’ve never seen a group of youth more committed to living the gospel and becoming a Zion people. They represent a grand generation of excellence, determination, and spiritual strength.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I really love my mom. And I know that she loves me. But she does things differently than other moms.
My friends Ben and Cory think that she’s cool, but they don’t know what it’s like to have a mom like mine. She does a lot of normal mom stuff, like baking oatmeal cookies and mending my pants if I slide too hard into second base. But sometimes she’s not normal at all.
See, she doesn’t ever get mad at me. Well, hardly ever. Even when I do something wrong or bad, she doesn’t often get angry with me. That’s why the guys say that I’m lucky.
But I didn’t feel so lucky last week. Now that it’s summer vacation, the guys and I go to the park almost every day. Thursday morning, just as I was eating a banana for breakfast, Mom said, “Jamie, I’d like you to clean up your room before you leave. And don’t forget to put your dirty clothes into the hamper.”
I could tell by her “I’m-serious-about-this” look that I wouldn’t be able to change her mind, so I slam-dunked the banana peel into the garbage pail and took the stairs two at a time to my room.
I could see out my window that the sun was shining and that it was already a great day outside. It was too nice a day to be inside cleaning my room. So I quickly made my bed, sort of, and put away most of my books and almost all the pieces of the model that I was building. There were some clothes on the floor under my nightstand, but I figured that Mom wouldn’t notice if I left them there just this once.
I raced down the stairs and called, “All done, Mom. I’ll be at the park.” And before I could hear her answer, I was out the door.
Mom didn’t say anything about my room when I came home for lunch, and she didn’t say anything on Friday, either. At soccer practice I asked Cory what his mom would do if he didn’t clean his room when she told him to.
“Oh, my mom likes things really neat,” Cory replied. “She’d probably finish cleaning it up and tell me later what I did wrong.”
“My mom’s always worried about my room being clean,” Ben put in. “I don’t know what the big deal is about being neat.”
I told the guys how Mom hadn’t even said anything about my leaving my room a little messy, and Cory said, “You sure are lucky, Jamie!”
But Saturday morning when I woke up early to get ready for the big soccer game, I couldn’t find my uniform. I went to the kitchen where Mom was making pancakes and said, “Mom, where’s my uniform?”
I knew that I was in trouble when she smiled at me and feigned innocence.
“What uniform?” she asked.
“My soccer uniform,” I said. “The game starts in thirty minutes!”
“Oh, could that be the dirty outfit crumpled up by your bed?”
I ran upstairs, and sure enough, there was my uniform. It was wrinkled and muddy and had ketchup stains from a messy hot dog on the front. I took it down to Mom.
“Why didn’t you wash it, Mom?” I demanded. “You knew I had a game today!”
“Well, I asked you to put your dirty clothes into the hamper,” she answered. “If your uniform had been there, it would be ready to wear.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I put on a T-shirt and jeans and left for the game. I sure felt dumb being the only player without a uniform, and the guys teased me about it too.
On the way home, I realized that it really was my fault that my uniform wasn’t washed. I guess it is important to put things away so they’ll be ready when you need them. And I guess I’m old enough to take care of my own things.
When I got home, Mom was folding clothes in the basement and asked me how the game went.
“We won,” I said. “I’m sorry that I didn’t pick up my clothes.”
“I know you are,” she said, giving me a hug. “A lesson lived is a lesson learned.”
See, that’s the kind of thing my mom says all the time. I still think it’d be easier if my mom was a normal mom, but I guess the guys are right. I am pretty lucky.

A patriarch received a call one afternoon from a concerned mother of a young daughter who was physically challenged from birth. This dear mother asked if her daughter could possibly receive a patriarchal blessing. The patriarch informed her that if her daughter could obtain a recommend from the bishop, he was sure the Lord had a blessing for her. A short time later the patriarch was informed that the bishop had given this sweet young girl a recommend to receive a patriarchal blessing.

An appointment was made. The blessing was given and gratefully received. Her lineage was given. She received a blessing suited to her needs and unique situation. Lives, focus, and attitudes were changed. She was told that through her cheerful acceptance of the efforts and sacrifices of those who loved and cared for her, she would be blessing their lives, and to accept their offerings graciously and willingly.

When I was a newly called counselor in our stake presidency, one of my assignments were the youth. One of the first major activities I helped organize and execute was the Stake Youth Camp. It was held in a campground in Mt. Makiling Los Baños, Laguna in October 2012.
At that time, I have only been a member of the Church for 4 years. Prior to the activity, I never had any experience in camping much more lead a 3-day youth camping activity. On day 1, we were welcomed by unexpected heavy rains.
I was the only member of the stake presidency present that morning. All youth were drenched in rain while setting up their tents. Their lips were purple from the cold when we started our opening exercise. The bishops and youth leaders approached me and with a deep sense of concern for the welfare of the youth asked me what we were to do. I did not have an answer.
I tried my best to call the other members of the stake presidency to counsel with them, but the spotty signal and the heavy rains made it difficult for me to reach them. I was afraid of being judged as an inconsiderate church leader.
I felt the need to seek guidance from the Lord Jesus Christ through prayer. As I was walking around and thinking of possible solutions, I turned my thoughts to Him and asked for guidance and inspiration. I also pleaded for strength for myself and for all the participants of the Youth Camp so we won’t get sick from the rain.
I was impressed to seek the assistance of the campground officer. He said he completely understood our situation and he would allow us to transfer to a covered hall with minimal additional charges. It was an answered prayer.
But challenges were not yet over. All day one plans were scrapped. The entire day was spent moving all of our camping gear from under the rain into the hall. We tried our best to dry all the wet items.
Now, the next question was what were we going to do the following day if the rain did not stop? That evening, all members of the stake presidency were already there. Our stake president decided that if the rain continues, we will cancel the camp and just go back to our homes.
Despite all the difficulty in day one, which we consider as character building experiences, most of the young men and young women still had a lot of fun and wanted to continue the camp. This desire prompted them to kneel down in groups and pray for better weather the following day.
Next day, everyone rose to a very beautiful sunny morning in Mt. Makiling. We were astonished by the power of faithful prayer. We were excited to continue with the activities!
The day two activity for young men was river trekking. They were asked to wear white shirts and neckerchiefs. Since there was a very recent downpour, the river was filled with ankle to knee-high deep water. Young Men leaders were situated in front, in the middle, and at the back of the pack. We were having a great time appreciating the Lord’s creation in the company of fellow priesthood holders.
We began feeling the heat of the sun as proceeded with the trek. Most young men took their neckerchiefs off. Many of them dropped their neckerchiefs just about anywhere. I was prompted to pick up every neckerchief I saw along the riverbank.
After about two hours of trekking, our stake president instructed the leaders in front to start our way out of the riverbanks. Thirty minutes have passed, and we still could not find a safe exit.
Finally, the leaders found an opening, but the climb was quite steep. We tried the suggested route but found out that it was too slippery and that it was almost impossible for us to climb up and out of the riverbank. We figured we needed to hold on to something to pull ourselves up the hill and out. Going back or finding another route was too tedious and was going to take longer. We each said a prayer in our hearts for a miracle to happen.
I was reminded of the neckerchiefs I collected. We tied each end together until we were able to create a strong enough rope where the young men could hold on to and pull themselves out. With everyone helping each other, we were all able to get out safely. That was the miracle of the neckerchief!

But in the palm of my hand I hold another indelible reminder, a glaring scar, one which resulted from a different motive, an act not so pleasant to remember.
I recall—though not in exact detail—that when I was nine years of age my mother sent me with a glass bottle to a nearby store for some milk. She cautioned me, along with other instructions, “Please do not run, because it is dangerous while carrying a glass bottle in your hands.”
Now, what do you suppose I did? I did exactly what my mother told me not to do. I ran, and when I was almost home I stumbled. As I fell my hand landed on the bulk of the broken bottle, leaving a large gash. As a result, today I have a scar on my right hand, and each time I see it or touch it, it reminds me of the experience of a disobedient child.

As the stagecoach lumbered through the dark night, Mama mumbled fretfully in her sleep. Eleven-year-old Elsie was too worried to even doze. Nervously she tucked the quilts tighter around her mother. Here on the high plains of Utah Territory it was cold.
The stagecoach lurched through a large chuckhole, rousing Mama. She said clearly, “John, just put the water by the stove.”
Alarm surged through Elsie. John was Papa’s name, but he was thousands of miles away on a mission in London. Touching Mama’s forehead, Elsie found it burning with fever. There was no water, nothing to help her. How she wished she’d never listened to that doctor. He’d advised her to take Mama to St. George, where it was warmer in the winter. But traveling seemed to make Mama worse.
“I’m Sister Reed,” a kind-faced woman across from her said. “Your mother is very sick, isn’t she?”
Elsie nodded.
“She needs rest and a comfortable bed.”
Sister Reed was right, but where would they find that in this sagebrush desert? Elsie turned to the man next to her. “Sir, when will we reach the next town?”
“There’s no town between here and Fillmore. The next stop is Cove Fort.” He looked kindly at the sick woman. “The Hinckleys run the fort for the Church. They’re real good folks. You could let your mother rest there. They have good food and clean rooms and only charge twenty-five cents a night.”
Elsie’s heart sank. Where would she get twenty-five cents?
Sister Reed saw the look on her face. “I’ve heard of Ira Hinckley and his sweet wife. She’ll take one look at your mama and put her to bed—won’t charge you a penny for it, either.”
Elsie stared at the woman in disbelief. “You mean they’d help us, and they don’t even know us?”
The woman smiled tiredly. “They’ll help you and be happy to do it. I plan to stay there for a day or two myself. All this bouncing around is hard on old bones.”
Just then Mama moaned and sat up. “John, could you bring me that pail of water. I’m so thirsty!”
Gently pushing her back, Elsie replaced the covers. All through that long, bumpy night she watched over her mother and prayed that they would find help at Cove Fort.
When the sun peeked up over the foothills, the man nudged her. Pointing to a dark spot off through the sagebrush, he said, “See that? That’s Cove Fort. We’ll get there about breakfast time. So hang on, little lady. We’ll have your ma in good hands real soon.”
Her heart hammering, Elsie prayed that what they told her was true. She prayed that the Hinckleys would take them in. She prayed that her mother would soon have a place to rest and get well.
As the stagecoach pulled up in front of the fort, Elsie’s heart sank. Built of limestone blocks with thick wooden doors, it looked solid, but rough. How could a sick woman find comfort in there?
Brother Hinckley swung open the doors as the stagecoach bumped to a stop. He greeted the driver as several young men hurried out of a bunkhouse next door and helped hitch fresh horses to the coach.
Sister Reed stepped out of the coach and spoke softly to Brother Hinckley. Soon Mama was carried from the coach through those heavy doors. Elsie followed close behind.
She saw that the fort was actually a big square. Though the outside of the fort was solid rock, inside, it was divided into rooms with doors and windows. Her mother was carried into one of the rooms and tucked into a soft straw bed on a rope mattress. Homemade quilts piled on the shivering woman comforted her.
Elsie heard Sister Reed whispering to Sister Hinckley. She caught the words “… husband just left … mission … baby.” Elsie listened fearfully. Was her mother going to have a baby? Was that why she was so sick?
Elsie thought of the two baby brothers who hadn’t lived more than a few days. Would that happen again?
While she was worrying, she noticed several young girls bustling around the fort. She counted seven Hinckley girls in all. One of them came and showed her into the dining room. There they served her fresh milk and warm bread, but the food stuck in her throat.
Sister Reed came and sat beside her. “Sister Hinckley’s taking care of your mama now. She thinks a good long rest will help her get well. You’re to stay here until your ma can travel again.”
“But I don’t have any money,” Elsie moaned. “What will I do?”
Sister Reed put her arm around Elsie. “Now don’t you worry about that. Just eat your meal.” She thanked the young woman who set a plate of food before her. “That gives me an idea,” she said, looking at the girl bustling around. “You could help the Hinckleys for your room and board.”
Elsie’s heart began to lighten. Could she really do that? “What could I do?”
Pointing to a girl about thirteen years old, Sister Reed said, “That young lady takes care of the milk from thirty cows. That’s a lot of work for one person.”
“I’d love to help! Before Papa left, we had lots of cows. Mama says that I make better cheese than most grown women.”
Sister Reed smiled at her. “Then offer your help. There’s much to be done in this world. If able, no one has the right to just sit around and let others do for them.”
Gladly Elsie helped wash the dishes. Then she asked where the milk was cared for and offered her help. Soon she and the young girl were chatting happily. With such cheerful company, it seemed to take just minutes to care for the milk.
Then Elsie crossed over to her mother’s room. Mama was sleeping quietly. Gently touching her forehead, Elsie found it cool. Laying her head down beside Mama, she gave thanks.
How tired she was, but how grateful! She knew that her prayers were being answered by good people willing to help a couple of strangers. How thankful she was to Heavenly Father for these good people.