Gospel Story Finder

President Harold B. Lee told of calling a patriarch. He and the stake president had gone to the man’s home. He had been out with his sons on the welfare farm all day and was tired and weary and covered with grime.
President Lee said, “I made him more weary when I told him what it was I had come for—that he was to be called as the patriarch to that stake.”
After the morning session of conference, where the man had borne a remarkable testimony, they went to a basement office.
The stake president’s wife was present and wrote to President Lee: “As you walked over to put your hands on [his] head, I thought to myself, He is a man with whom we socialize. We have gone on trips with him, to dances. … Now part of his responsibility is to declare the lineage from which each one has come in these blessings. He hasn’t been a student of ancient languages—how is he going to know?
“… You walked over and put your hands on his head, and a light came from behind you and went right through you and into him. And I thought to myself, Isn’t that a strange coincidence that the sunlight has come in just at that moment. And then I realized that there was [no window,] no sunlight. I was witnessing the answer to my question. … That light came from somewhere beyond Brother Lee and went through Brother Lee into this patriarch. Then I knew where he was going to get that information—by the revelations of Almighty God.”
And so it must be. Whenever a patriarch is ordained or pronounces a blessing, that same light, though it may be unseen, is present. It empowers a patriarch to declare lineage and to give a prophetic blessing, notwithstanding that he himself may be a man of very ordinary capacity.

Many of us have had the embarrassing and humility-inducing experience of making a snap judgment about another individual based on physical appearance, only to be completely wrong about our knee-jerk or snap judgment. My young family was stranded on a deserted highway between Green River and Moab, Utah, late one wintry night when we were rescued by a kind, generous, and caring soul who didn’t look quite like the angels we typically envision. This giant of a man, who wore greasy pants and a dirty flannel shirt and had hands that were rough and scarred from a lifetime of hard work and service, literally saved my young family. He allowed us to borrow his car for the evening so that my wife and I, with our three children in car seats, could drive to the next town because there were no tow truck drivers available, and we didn’t have the money to pay for one even if there had been one available.

My brother and I were driving home from work on a long, dark stretch of highway. We hadn’t passed a car for miles. I was exhausted, and in an attempt to stay awake, I began looking at the layout of the road. We were in a hilly area, and there were two lanes going up the side of the hill we were climbing. Only one lane came down in the other direction. The extra lane in our direction was a passing lane because of the steep grade.
I began wondering about the downhill side. Sometimes on a steep incline, I knew, large trucks lose their brakes. I wondered what would happen, with only one lane, if a truck lost its brakes and a car was in front of it. It could be a serious situation. I was glad there was no other traffic on the road that night.
After a few moments I again thought about the situation. I was driving in the passing lane and figured a truck without brakes would have to veer into my lane to pass a slower vehicle. A thought came into my mind that the right lane would be safer, just in case something like that happened. But I rationalized that it was late and there was no traffic, so it didn’t really matter where I drove. The thought came again as I approached the top of the hill. I realized that I couldn’t see the oncoming traffic, and it couldn’t see me either.
Suddenly a sharp voice shouted, “Move!” I was so startled that I jerked the steering wheel abruptly and veered into the right lane. In that instant lights came over the hill and a horn blared. My brother woke up just in time to see the truck pass us in the middle lane. A moment later a station wagon came over the hill in the far lane. I was so shaken I pulled over on the shoulder of the road to steady my nerves. The realization that my brother and I could have been killed was very frightening.
I was amazed; I had heard that the Holy Ghost speaks with a still, small voice, but this voice had shouted. It was several years later when I realized that the Holy Ghost had indeed spoken in a still, small voice. He had spoken to me as He brought to my mind the possibilities of where a large truck might go, and He had spoken again when He suggested I move to the far right lane. I was dismayed when I realized I had not recognized the still, small voice. Finally there was no time left, and the Spirit had to shout.
After that experience I vowed to always live my life so that I am in tune with the Spirit. I decided I would never again question a prompting but would follow the still, small voice immediately.

When I was 14, I went camping with some friends. As we sat in a circle talking, one of the guys reached into his pack and pulled out a can of beer. Everyone went silent as he popped the lid and held it high above his head. “If any of you are men,” he bellowed, “you’ll have a drink with me.” Tilting the can to his lips, he took a large swallow.
All the eyes were on the can as the boy next to him received it in his waiting hand. He didn’t hesitate. He took a swig with great bravado in front of us all. The can moved to the next boy in the circle.
As it moved in my direction, my mind searched for a quick solution, a cool response that would rescue me. I knew what was right and wrong. I knew what the Word of Wisdom said. I knew how seven-year-old Joseph Smith refused any liquor to dull the pain of the operation on his leg.
These things raced through my mind as the can found its way to the third boy. He had not come to be tempted. He thought he was just going camping. As he held the can, I could sense the frantic debate going on in his mind. All eyes were upon him, staring, seeming to demand that he drink as the others had. I could almost hear his cries pleading for his mother to come save him, but she was nowhere to be found. Try as he did, he could not handle the pressure. He took a drink and hurriedly passed the can to my friend—my example—Rick.
My heart was pounding as I realized that I was the next one in the circle to receive the can. I didn’t know how I was going to get out of this one. I imagined that if I didn’t take a drink, they would bury me up to my neck in the hills somewhere and let the ants crawl through my nose and ears. “Rick,” I thought to myself, “if you take one sip of that, I’m going to slug you.”
Rick held the can. He looked at me, and I looked at him. We then both looked at the can he was holding and up at the dozen other faces waiting anxiously.
For a moment, Rick just stared at the can. Then he casually put it down, reached into his pack, and fished around until he found what he was looking for. He raised a purple can into the air for all to see.
“If any of you are men,” Rick yelled, “you’ll have a drink of grape soda with me!” Rick popped the lid, brought the can to his lips, and tilted his head back dramatically as he drank from it. Then he passed it back in the direction from which the beer had come.
The kid next to Rick found himself holding the soda now. Everyone was staring at him. He gladly drank some and passed it on. As they were enjoying the grape soda, Rick grabbed the beer can and threw it as far as he could. The can, frothing at one end as it twirled in the air, dropped into the gully below.

My father-in-law, Blaine Twitchell, one of the best men I have ever known, taught me a great lesson. Sister Rasband and I went to visit him when he was nearing the end of his mortal journey. As we entered his room, his bishop was just leaving. As we greeted the bishop, I thought, “What a nice bishop. He’s here doing his ministering to a faithful member of his ward.”
I mentioned to Blaine, “Wasn’t that nice of the bishop to come visit.”
Blaine looked at me and responded, “It was far more than that. I asked for the bishop to come because I wanted my temple recommend interview. I want to go recommended to the Lord.” And he did!
That phrase, “recommended to the Lord,” has stayed with me. It has put a whole new perspective on being interviewed regularly by our Church leaders. So important is a temple recommend that in the early Church, until 1891, each temple recommend was endorsed by the President of the Church.

Not many children serve in a Church calling before they graduate from Primary. But George N.[space]from Uganda was only five years old when he was called to be the chorister in his branch.
The chorister is the person who stands up in front of everybody during sacrament meeting to lead the singing. It’s an important job!
“I used to be very nervous when I was younger,” George says. But even then he always did his best. He improved every week. Before long he was leading the music confidently.
George enjoys serving in his calling. “I feel good,” he says. “I feel like the Spirit is inside the room.”

Peter earned his bachelor’s degree and then married Frances Mary Costello in 1970. The couple moved to Auckland so Peter could gain a diploma from Ardmore Teacher’s College. Shortly after that move, he was approached by two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“I agreed to meet with them because they seemed like nice people,” Peter remembers, “but I wasn’t interested in their religion.” Still, when the missionaries left copies of the Book of Mormon for him and Frances, they read it. “That same Spirit came upon us as when I read the Bible,” Peter says. “We just knew that it was true.
“When the missionaries came back, we said, ‘Well, we believe the Book [of Mormon] is true. What do we do now?’ That is how we came to be baptised.”

Wanda’s brown eyes stared blankly at the empty loom. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her long black hair danced in the breeze. For weeks Grandmother and twelve-year-old Wanda had planned and prepared for this rug. They had sheared the sheep and then washed and dyed the wool, using native dyes made from roots, berries, nuts, and plants.
Grandmother’s wrinkled hands had showed Wanda how to card the wool and spin it into yarn. Wanda had watched carefully, for this was to be her first rug, her very own creation.
Grandmother’s head peeked out of the nearby hogan, her hands busy patting a piece of fry bread into shape. “You must work, Wanda Kieyoomia. The rug will not weave by itself.”
“But Grandmother, won’t you draw out the design like you have before and just let me weave it?”
“No, Wanda. You cannot become a real Navajo by weaving the designs of others. You must weave your own story into the rug. You must prove yourself worthy of your people.”
Wanda turned back to the empty loom. She picked up a ball of black yarn and stared at it.
What can I weave? she wondered. I have not had a frightful experience of bravery as Kathy Silentman did. I have never met a great person as Elvira Tak did. I have nothing important to weave into my rug.
Wanda threw the ball of black yarn to the ground and walked into the hogan. Mother and Grandmother were just finishing the fry bread.
“We have made fry bread just for you,” Mother smiled. But Wanda did not seem to hear.
Mother’s long skirt rustled and her silver and turquoise jewelry clicked to the rhythm of the crackling fire. Finally she asked, “Have you decided whether you will go to the white man’s school next year, Wanda?”
Wanda shook her head. She did not want to go; she was a Navajo and had no use for white man’s ways. But how could she tell Mother? Why were there so many problems and decisions all at once?
“You must decide soon,” Grandmother reminded her. “The time is growing short.”
Wanda did not want to talk about her decision just yet. After she had finished the dishes, she tried to get away while Mother put the little ones to sleep, but Mother stopped her.
“Wanda,” Mother said as she pulled the covers over two-year-old Roberta. “You cannot delay longer. The man from the placement bureau must be told the day after tomorrow. And there is one other thing, my daughter.”
Mother Kieyoomia walked to the door and motioned for Wanda to follow. They walked to the loom. Mother smoothed her beautiful Navajo skirt around her as she sat down. “Wanda, do you remember cousin Victoria?”
“Yes, she’s been at the white man’s school for three years now.”
“And do you remember how she tells of the many things she has learned? Now she is helping her family by teaching them.”
“I know she has learned many things,” Wanda answered, “but Mother, they are white men’s things. We are Navajos, and I only need to know how to cook and weave and take care of my hogan.”
“That is what I wanted to tell you, Wanda. I am glad that you are proud to be a Navajo, but we must progress with the white man’s world. Your father and I have decided to move to one of the new houses on the reservation.”
Wanda jumped to her feet. “A white man’s house? Move from our hogan?”
“Yes, Wanda. It will be much more comfortable for our large family.”
Wanda stared first at the balls of yarn and then at her mother. Then she turned and ran into the sagebrush-covered hills. Her long skirt wrapped around her ankles as she ran.
Suddenly she fell into the sand, panting hard to catch her breath. Slowly she rolled over and looked at the fluffy white clouds floating through the sky. A white man’s house? How could they do this? We are Navajos. I will always be a Navajo! I will not adopt the white man’s ways.
Her eyes began to fill with tears, but she choked them back. A Navajo does not cry, she reminded herself.
Suddenly she had an idea. I will weave into my rug the story of our people, she decided. I will remind Mother and Father of how our people have been treated. Then they will not want me to go. She jumped up and walked back to the hogan, thinking about the design of the rug.
The news that Wanda had started her rug spread quickly among the women. It is an important event when a girl weaves her first rug all alone. Everyone smiled as they agreed, “Wanda will be an asset to our people just as Victoria has been. We will be proud of her.”
The words stung Wanda’s ears, making her weave faster and faster. But Victoria left our people for three years. How can they compare me to her? I will not go to a white man’s school! I am a Navajo!
Wanda’s fingers ached as she gathered up the balls of yarn for the night. “It will be a beautiful rug,” a voice from behind said. Wanda looked up, startled.
“Hello, Victoria,” she said softly as she went back to her work. “I did not hear you come.”
“I’ve been watching you. Your fingers are nimble and sure. What will your rug tell, Wanda?” Victoria asked. “My first rug was about my grandfather.”
“You wove a story rug?” Wanda questioned.
“Of course. I am a Navajo.” Victoria sat down next to Wanda and ran her fingers through the sand.
Wanda stared at her. “But you have been living with white people and going to white schools!”
“Yes, to help my family and my people. I have learned many things from the white man, but I am a Navajo. I want our people to have the best of both cultures. Then we will have both the good things that the white men have and the good things that our people have always had. Someday you will go to school so you can help too.”
When Victoria left, Wanda’s old thoughts and feelings buzzed through her head as she compared them with what Victoria had just told her. All night she thought of it, tossing and turning as she tried to sleep.
As the delicate half-light of morning was beginning to creep into the valley, Wanda hurried out to her loom.
Her hands worked fast and sure as they had done the day before, but on her face was a smile of peace. By nightfall the rug was completed, and everyone gathered to see Wanda’s work.
Father Kieyoomia was the first to see the small rug. He looked at it a long, long time. Finally he turned to Wanda. “I am proud of you, my daughter,” he said. “Most girls tell of things that have happened. They are past; they cannot be changed. But you have told of the future, a future you will help to make by going to the white man’s school and learning about the world. Then you will bring the good things you learn back to us, your people. You are a real Navajo.”

My father had that quality in his adult life. I can remember a person came to town one day and wanted a handout for a meal. My father wouldn’t give it to him, but he said, “Now, what do you do?”
The fellow said, “Well, I’ve been a painter.”
The poor man’s hands were shaky and the rest of it, but Father said, “Well, we’ve got an old barn that we’d like you to paint, and if you’ll paint that, then we’ll pay you for it and you’ll have something to go on.”
So the fellow went around the corner to England’s paint store and bought some paint. Then he went down and painted our barn.
Mr. England called us after it was over and said, “You know that man you sent up?”
My father said, “Yes.”
He said, “Well, he bought more paint than he needed.” Of course, by then he was gone.
But my father said, a little bit philosophically, “Well, we got our painted barn and we’ve given this man an opportunity to know that somebody had faith in him and trust in him. Hopefully, somewhere down the line that will take effect.”
Some people may have said to my father, “Well, you were taken,” but I look on the situation in a little different way. He had the ability to have faith, to have faith in other people.

On March 27, 1993, when I was 13 years old, I was baptized. I have been receiving the New Era ever since, but for two years I had never read it all the way through. When my family moved from California to West Virginia, I was happy about the move but sad to leave my friends and ward behind. On my second day in our new home, my parents gave me two issues of the New Era. That night I decided to let the magazine become my friend. When I turned to “Some Friendly Advice” (Mar. 1995), I almost cried because I found the answer to my problem. I thought, Wow, this is perfect. I put the advice to use and I made a lot of friends at school. Since that night, I have faithfully read the New Era cover to cover.
Stephanie AdamsBuckhannon, West Virginia

One of my best friends in high school was a young man named Paul. Often after a basketball game he would have a beer or two, sometimes a six-pack, while I would have a shake or soft drink. “Some 3.2 beer can never hurt you,” he would rationalize. Then one night after a beer or two he hit a gas pump in his sports car in North Salt Lake going 115 miles per hour. It took the police twenty minutes to put him in a sack. That’s what we call a closed-casket funeral.

When I was 17, I was assigned as my father’s home teaching companion. We visited a few families in our ward and gave them a message from the bishop or read an article from a Church magazine. Home teaching was actually not so bad. Some of our families really appreciated our company.
We visited an older couple who always looked forward to our coming. They were talkative and gave us cookies when we were there.
Another of our families was actively involved at church. They were easy to home teach. The TV would be turned off, and the family always gathered around, sitting quietly while my dad and I gave our message.
Our ward was spread out over a large area of farms and small communities outside of Pocatello, Idaho. Many of the people had chosen the semi-country life to escape from the city. They liked being away from the traffic noise. Some simply wanted to get away from society. The Browns, a family newly assigned to us, fit right into that last category. As I look back, I wonder at the patience my father showed.
It was my job to set up our home teaching appointments. Brother Brown answered the phone and told me they were too busy this month and to maybe call back later if I wanted to. The same results occurred four weeks later on my second attempt. My father decided we needed a more direct approach.
The next month came, and after visiting our other families, we drove straight to the Browns’ house. A pickup truck and a car were in the driveway. Our printout showed a family of three: a father, a mother, and a 9-year-old boy. We went up to the door and knocked. No answer.
A month passed and again it was time for home teaching. Visiting our regulars went smoothly, and then it was time for our not-so-regular.
“Do they really want us to come?” I asked.
“We don’t know for sure,” was the answer from my senior companion. “They haven’t told us to go away, and we haven’t done anything they could get mad at, have we? We can’t give up so soon.”
We drove to their house. This time the cars were switched. They had to be home. There were only two drivers. We went up to the door and knocked. Silence.
“Knock again,” said my dad. I heard some noise inside the house, but the door stood still. From the corner of my eye, I saw motion. I turned to the window and, for a split second, locked eye contact with a brown-haired child, who disappeared. We left. It seemed apparent that this family did not want us around. I did not know if I wanted to be around them. I suggested to my father that we report back to the high priests group leader that this family did not want home teachers and call it good.
“Hm.” My dad was not a man of many words, but I knew well the meaning of this. We would be going back.
The next month came all too soon. It was, again, time to do our home teaching. Our visits with the regular families quickly came and went. I then found myself standing in front of the door with the two cars in the driveway. My dad motioned me, and I timidly knocked. No answer. “There, that’s that. They won’t answer, Dad. Let’s go home.” A nod from my senior companion prompted me to knock again. I reluctantly did so, keeping my thoughts to myself. Then it opened; not the door, but a window. A gruff male voice asked what we wanted. A waft of cigarette smoke followed his question. I was ready to bolt. My dad smiled. He told the voice who we were and why we were there. He explained that we wanted to get to know this family and become friends. Then he asked if we could come back next month. That was all he said, nothing more. Hesitating, the faceless voice behind the window agreed and we left.
“He knew exactly who we were,” my dad said as we drove away. “He gets new home teachers every couple of years. He just knows how to get rid of us.”
The next month was much the same—the same voice from the window, the same brief conversation, and the same hesitation to let us come again next month.
Our third month was not the same, however. The pickup was not in the driveway. We went up to the door and knocked. We both looked toward the window in anticipation. To my surprise, the door opened! That same child I had seen earlier poked his head out, glanced down the street, and then at us. “Please, come in,” he said.
A lady was standing in the front room. “Thank you for coming, we only have a few minutes,” she said. “Do you know when Cub Scouts meet?”
“We will find out for you, Sister Brown,” my dad answered.
The child was staring at me. I was in shock now that we were standing in the house and not on the porch. Had he said something? “Can you baptize me?” he repeated, with a sincere ring in his voice.
His smile was contagious, but all I could say was “What?”
“He wants to become a member of the Church like his cousins in town. He has been watching you come to the door each month. I told him you could probably baptize him.”
“Can you baptize me into the Church?” he asked a third time.
I was beginning to recover. “Yes, uh, I think so.”
My dad helped me out. “Let’s talk to the bishop,” he said. “He can tell us what you need to do to get ready. Can both of you and Brother Brown come to church on Sunday?”
That was our whole visit. Then we were gone. I contemplated the entire situation during the quiet drive home. Being a home teacher was something more than cookies and pleasant conversations. Being a home teacher could be seriously important. Why had I suggested we give up on this family? The example my father gave me was beyond my years. I was experiencing guilty exhilaration, guilt because of my murmuring and exhilaration because of the unexpected results of our visit. I glanced at my dad.
“You did good,” he said, reading my mind. “Let’s watch for them on Sunday.”
I have always cherished my memories of home teaching with my father. I can remember some of the families we taught better than others. I will never forget the Browns.
We saw the mom and the boy at church that next Sunday and many other Sundays. We saw the boy at Cub Scouts the next week and many other weeks. I’m sure some deep conversations were held at the Browns’ house, because the door always opened for us, even when Brother Brown was home. He even learned how to smile and shake hands.
Then came the baptism. I felt the smiling eyes of the city cousins looking down on the boy and me. The bishop had let them kneel by the baptismal font, which was recessed into the floor at the stake center. A deep, peaceful feeling swept over me as this wet, glowing boy and I stepped up and out. I almost felt that it was I who had been baptized. The boy’s parents were beaming. I saw Sister Brown brush a tear from her cheek. I looked up at my father; he nodded his approval.
Warmth grew inside me as I realized the wisdom of His patience, His patience for this little family and for me.

When I was a Beehive, our stake leaders decided to hold a New Era Bowl. The Mutual groups of each ward and branch were to form teams, and each team was to read the back issues of the New Era for a whole year, then come together for a competition. For weeks at Mutual activities, my team members and I studied the magazine issues and quizzed each other.
One Sunday afternoon, as the competition grew nearer, I took a couple of New Era issues with me to a nearby canal bank to read. It was quiet there, and I could count on not being interrupted. I sat on the bank by the slow, brown water and read article after article. I only remember one article in particular, now. It was an article on Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. The last paragraph challenged every person to ask God if Joseph Smith was a prophet and if the Book of Mormon was true.
“Well, of course I knew it was true,” I thought. “I was baptized, wasn’t I? I went to church, didn’t I? I had borne my testimony in sacrament meeting, hadn’t I? Of course I knew. Surely people like me didn’t have to actually go through the motions of praying about it.”
Then I read the paragraph again. “Every person …”
Well, every person would probably include me, I reasoned. Sure, I could pray—what could it hurt? I set the magazine down, and there in the dirt of the canal bank I got on my knees. This would be simple. I would ask, and God would answer that it was true. I bowed my head, but before I got one word out, fears began to creep in.
I had asked for things in prayers before and had not received the answers I wanted. When I was nine, I prayed to be able to walk on water like the Apostle Peter. I tried it in the bathtub. It hadn’t worked. When I was 10, I prayed that if God could move mountains, could He please move a perfume bottle on my dresser just to let me know He could. Didn’t happen. What if Heavenly Father really didn’t answer prayers? Maybe He just didn’t answer mine.
Yet somehow I couldn’t back away. The article said every person.
Pushing my fears aside, I finally started my prayer and explained the problem to Heavenly Father. I told Him about the article I’d read. I told Him I was pretty sure the Church was true anyway, but the article said every person should pray. Then I said, “Please help me know if the Church is true. I think it is, but would Thou help me know?” Then I ended my prayer.
I never made it to my feet before a warmth that was physical as well as spiritual filled my whole body, mind, and heart. There wasn’t a corner of me that wasn’t filled with confidence, the confidence of knowing—really knowing—the Church was true, Joseph Smith was a prophet, and the Book of Mormon was true.

“There were times of laughter, times of work, times of fun, and times of discouragement. Discouragement! How can one word describe such a total feeling of inadequacy. At times this feeling crept into my mind as I attempted to work with the youth in the Aaronic Priesthood and the Young Women programs. In some villages there were very few young people in church on Sunday, and in other places activity night was the title of a nonexistent function.
“We had only five weeks to try to activate a program that had been dead for months, and in some places for years. My feelings of discouragement mounted. Then at the beginning of my third week, a spark of hope and encouragement came. On Sunday my partner and I met with the 19 youth in the small village of Tezontepec. I sat looking at each one of their eager, questioning faces and thought to myself how each person was important because someday he would emerge as a leader. But I discovered that as yet they had no leaders.
“How do you train leaders? We questioned the young people about what games they liked, but they knew none. Then we noticed that the youth seemed to look to us for guidance, and we looked to them for enthusiasm. The joy of seeing these young people enthusiastic about something excited us. To our amazement, we saw leadership blossoming before our eyes. Once they were directed in the proper path, they seemed able to function as a united force. A youth committee was formed, and even a talent show became an idea that turned into a reality. One young lady who had previously never come to the Aaronic Priesthood and the Young Women activity night became the coordinator for the talent show. A feeling of exhilaration filled me as I saw her turn from an uninterested personality into an exciting and vivacious young girl.”
Francine MuldoonWhittier, California

Evan Stephens was born in Wales in 1854. By the time he was 12 years old, his family had moved to Willard, Utah, where he sang in the town choir. But when Evan learned that President Brigham Young was coming to hear the choir, he had a problem.
Evan looked down at the dusty road and dragged his feet as he walked home from choir practice. Everyone else in the Willard town choir had cheered at the invitation to sing for President Brigham Young. The men clapped each other on the back, while the women whispered excitedly from behind their books and fans. No one noticed the glum look on 12-year-old Evan’s face as he slumped down in his chair. The “Boy Alto,” as he was known, quietly slipped through the church doors and left practice by himself.
The problem wasn’t that Evan didn’t want to sing. He loved music. When his family settled in Willard, a town about 50 miles (80 km) north of Salt Lake City, he had been delighted to learn about the unusually good town choir. As the 10th child in the Stephens family, Evan had found little time between farm chores to learn much about music. In the Willard choir, he could finally learn more about it. He found himself moving in rhythm as he worked and dancing as he herded the cows. He felt music everywhere now.
No, the idea of singing for the prophet didn’t upset Evan. But choir members would need to dress in their best Sunday clothes for the performance, and Evan didn’t have any good clothes. His family didn’t have much money. He had never owned a nice coat or a pair of black Sunday shoes. He was ashamed to sing in front of the prophet while looking so shabby.
Evan looked down at his dusty feet. They were covered with dirt from the trail. He would have to scrub them hard before going to church Sunday morning. Otherwise, his feet would look black. Evan’s heart jumped at this thought. He could get black feet—really black feet—by using polish. Everyone would be looking at the faces of the singers, so no one would notice that Evan had black feet instead of black shoes.
On the day the choir was to sing to the prophet, Evan felt sweat on his forehead and the palms of his hands as he looked down at his black feet. He knew he must go—the choir needed him—but he wanted to hide so the prophet would not see him. With tears racing down his cheeks, he ran toward the bowery where the choir was going to sing.
At the bowery, Evan stopped. What if the prophet did see him? What would he think of a poor farm boy with painted black feet and no coat? Evan couldn’t let the prophet see him. Turning around, he bolted like a frightened colt. He ran right into the very man he had hoped not to see.
President Brigham Young grabbed the frightened boy by the shoulders. “Now, now, what’s this?” he asked. “What’s the matter? Why are you running away?”
Tears filled Evan’s eyes as he bowed his head and whispered, “I have no coat for the program and no shoes.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, he continued, “I painted my feet black with polish.”
The grip on Evan’s shoulders relaxed, and he felt the prophet pat him on the head. Looking up, he was surprised to see a kind look on President Young’s face and tears in his eyes too. “Never mind that,” he told Evan. “Don’t you hesitate a moment. Go right on in.”
Relief wrapped around Evan like a soft, warm blanket. He blinked away the tears and returned the prophet’s smile with one of his own. He hurried to take his place with the choir. Happy to be accepted by the prophet, Evan sang his part perfectly.
President Young gave Evan an encouraging word and courage to do his part. This kindness influenced Evan long after the choir performance. He continued to study music and taught himself new skills.
When Evan grew up, he became director of the Tabernacle Choir. He served in that position from 1889 to 1916. Evan also wrote many sacred hymns and patriotic songs. He remained humble and always remembered the lesson he had learned from the prophet. Evan treated people like he did his music—with love. And like President Young, he listened with his heart.
Evan Stephens later wrote a hymn about courage, including the words, “Courage, for the Lord is on our side” (“Let Us All Press On,” Hymns, no. 243).

Let me share one other example. A friend of mine went to school with a boy who did not have much home life and for whom the gospel did not mean as much as it later would. He drank a little and caroused a little; but later, after moving away from his home town, he became very active in the Church. His one dream was to return to his home town and start a business, which he tried to do. But unfortunately, as with the other man, the people in the community insisted on treating him as he had been, not as what he had become. He finally moved away and is doing remarkably well in business and in the Church. He recently expressed to my friend how deeply disappointed he was that his former friends and townspeople had not let him “come home,” even in a gospel sense.

Paint buckets and plundering. Our lives are busy, and it was difficult to read every day. We finally decided that we would read no matter what, and we found ourselves reading in some rather unusual places—sitting on paint buckets as we worked on our remodeling project or around a campfire in our backyard. We wondered if our four-year-old was even listening at times, but then one day when asked why his room was so messy, he replied, “Someone has been plundering in there!” Buxton family, West Point, Utah, USA

The hollow feeling in my stomach slowly spread through my chest, and my throat tightened until I could no longer speak. The early winter drizzle even made the sky seem to weep as Amanda crept toward the car, her steps painful and faltering.
“I’ll get that,” I blurted, my mind jolted from numbness by her fumbling with the door handle. I opened the car door and watched in embarrassed silence as she maneuvered her body into the car. I shut the door after making sure her brace was completely inside. She looked at me through the rain-spattered window. “Thanks, Sara,” she mouthed. I nodded my reply and got in the other side.
My thoughts drifted back to another day. Summer sunlight had washed over the neighborhood that morning, soaking its warmth into our shoulders and the tops of our heads as Amanda and I rode our horses to the shopping center by our apartment. Well, they weren’t real horses. At least, they weren’t alive and you couldn’t see them. But they were real to us, and we rode them everywhere, always careful to tie them up before going inside. If we rode in a car, we tied them to the bumper and they followed behind. We even named them after our favorite ice-cream dishes at Gabby’s Ice-Cream Parlor: Starlight and Anastasia.
Amanda’s dad had picked us up later that afternoon in his car and dropped me off at home. It was the next morning before I learned that they had been in an accident and that Amanda had been severely burned.
The car jostled as it turned into the parking lot of Gabby’s Ice-Cream Parlor, bringing me back to the present. I had promised Amanda while she was still in the hospital that we would go to Gabby’s to celebrate her recovery. Now I wondered if I’d made the right decision.
Mom let us out in front of the plate-glass window that framed a row of booths. Amanda emerged from the car slowly. There were still some bandages on her arms, and one leg was encased in a metal brace. The spattering of freckles I had been jealous of was gone. In its place was whitish skin that stretched and pulled, as if there wasn’t enough to cover her face.
Heads turned and peered around the huge yellow and blue letters painted on the window. One little girl pointed at us. Her mouth moved in silent conversation. The woman beside her looked embarrassed and moved her away from the window. I squared my shoulders and returned their stares for Amanda’s sake. Defiance turned to surprise as I saw that their sad-eyed looks were directed at me too. I walked a few steps ahead of Amanda, my arms and legs swinging in exaggerated rhythm. Can’t you see there’s nothing wrong with me, I thought, my surprise turning to anger.
Finally we were inside and seated at a table. I studied the menu intently, as if it were directions to unearthing a million dollars in gold. I just about had everything memorized by the time our waitress got there. “I’ll have the Starlight Sundae,” I said, without looking up.
“I’ll have the Anastasia,” Amanda said quietly.
The waitress collected the menus. I counted the flowers in the pink flocked wallpaper and traced the marbled pattern in the tabletop with my finger until the sundaes arrived.
I usually lingered over every bite, enjoying the contrast of the smooth mint ice cream against the sharp bits of chocolate on my tongue. But today I only wanted to finish as quickly as possible. As soon as Amanda had taken her last bite, I wadded up my paper napkin and tossed it on the table.
“We’d better go,” I announced and added lamely, “I’m sure Mom’s outside by now.” Amanda offered no resistance.
I walked ahead to get the door. Amanda shuffled through, but instead of turning to the left, where Mom was waiting, she turned to the right and raised her burned hand slightly. I heard the familiar soft clicking noise that we used to call our horses.
“Come on, Anastasia,” she said softly. “Let’s go, girl”—her whisper was punctuated by a great, deep sob—“far away from here.” Her shoulders shook; her breath came in gasps. Tears dropped from her nose and chin onto the scarred hands she clasped tightly in front of her.
The hollow feeling in my stomach returned, and my throat tightened again. I felt helpless. I wanted to make people stop staring. I wanted to smooth her lumpy skin and give her back her freckles. I wanted to go back and change what happened that summer day and erase her pain.
I looked long into Amanda’s eyes for the first time since her accident. They shared the pain her physical body had endured. But there was more. Behind the pain were the eyes of the friend I had always known. Burned and scarred skin may have changed the outside, but Amanda would always be Amanda on the inside.
I put my arm around her shoulder. The rain had stopped. Despite the chilly air, the sunshine warmed the tops of our heads and our shoulders as we walked side by side to the car, oblivious to anyone else. Things would be different—and yet the same. I held on to Amanda’s hands and gently helped her onto the car seat. Then I picked up her leg by the steel bars that supported it and helped her position it in the car.
A smile appeared through her tears. “Thanks,” she said.
Our eyes met again, and I returned her smile. “Sure,” I replied. Then I added quietly so that only Amanda could hear, “I’ll tie the horses’ reins to the bumper so we can ride them when we get home.”

I had never struggled with my faith in the gospel of Jesus Christ until my older sister started telling me about how her views had changed. She had always had strong faith, so as I heard her words and saw that other friends were also leaving, I started wondering if the gospel really was true.
For the first time, I started to doubt what I had always believed in, and I was scared. I wasn’t sure where to turn. I would pray, read my scriptures, and seek guidance, but my faith truly felt shaken.
Soon, I had let myself drift away from the Spirit. I felt so far away from the Savior.
But seemingly out of nowhere, I was asked to organize a YSA conference for eastern European young adults and to serve as a counselor for FSY.
I was certain my stake president had chosen the wrong person—I was feeling so spiritually low. How could I uplift others when I was barely keeping myself afloat?
I didn’t want to, but I begrudgingly accepted the calling.
I learned a lot as I organized these faith-building events. What I loved most was reconnecting with young adult friends who helped me remember the faith I had before I was struggling to believe.
So many friends listened to my concerns and questions with compassion. They also shared their faith with me and kept reminding me how much my testimony had strengthened them in the past. They reminded me of how I once felt about the gospel, and I recalled profound spiritual experiences throughout my life.
I realized that while I had questions, I did want to have faith in Jesus Christ. I wanted to live the commandments, to attend the temple, to go to church, and to build and share my testimony.
When I was struggling, I had started believing that I didn’t need God. But my burdens have become lighter, and my path is much brighter as I’ve relied on Him and invited Him into my life again.
Accepting this calling was a blessing because I realized how much I had missed the Spirit in my life.

I thought then my mother cared more for that house than for anything else, including me. I was wrong, and it didn’t take me long to find out what was really important to her. That winter we lost the house.
Early in March my father called from work and told my mother he wanted to hold a family council that night.
My mother had built a fire in the fireplace and made us hot chocolate. When my father got home, he walked quietly into the living room and looked at us for awhile. Something was wrong. He sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands. They were shaking. The room was dead silent except for the cracking sounds of burning wood. The room glowed with the flickering orange light.
“Papa, what’s wrong?” my mother asked.
He looked up slowly. His eyes were red. It was a shock to us to see him that way. He’d always been unmovably strong before. I’d thought there was nothing he was afraid of or couldn’t handle. The light from the fire that only a second before had seemed so warm was now dark and ominous.
“I’ve failed you,” he said.
He ran his finger through his hair slowly leaving his hand on his forehead.
“The business—I’ve lost everything.” He took a deep breath and looked directly at my mother. He looked old and defeated.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t true.”
He looked at her for a long time and then nodded his head.
“It’s true.” He stood and walked from the room.
The next day my mother sent me and my brothers down to see if we could help my father at work. We found out his business owed a large amount of money that would take him years to pay off. My father told us it would be hard just to make ends meet, and he didn’t know if we would make it, even with the money we’d get from the house. He seemed very depressed.
When we walked into the house that night, it was filled with incredibly delicious smells. We went into the dining room. The table was spread with a banquet. There was a roast goose, my father’s favorite, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, fresh baked bread, rolls, all of it steaming hot.
My father stood in the doorway. His face went red.
“Mama,” he shouted. “What is this? Have you gone crazy? Do you think Thanksgiving comes in March now?”
She smiled calmly.
“It’s a celebration.”
“What’s to celebrate? The world is going crazy, and we’ve lost everything.”
Mama smiled again.
“Papa, we’ve lost nothing.”
My father shook his head.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house. I found a buyer. He wants to move in next week! I don’t know where we’re going to go or how we’re going to live.”
Mama wasn’t smiling now. She had the determined look she gets on her face when she wants someone to know she means business.
“We’ve lost nothing,” she said. She was glaring at my father. “Nothing that matters. This celebration is to remind us what is most important to us. The food’s getting cold, so shut up and eat.”
For the first time in weeks my father relaxed. The pain he felt faded. He looked around the table at us and then back to my mother. He smiled.
“I married a hard, crazy woman,” he said. “And since Thanksgiving comes in March this year, I think we should give thanks for it.”
He sat at the head of the table and took my mother’s hands.
“Even if the food does get a little cold,” he said and then started a Thanksgiving prayer more eloquent and longer than any we’d ever heard on Thanksgiving Day.
A week later when my mother first saw the run-down house we rented she said, “I think it needs a little paint.” That summer the royal order of the paintbrush went to work again.